by Daniel Smith
“This is crazy, Dr. Fenton! Can you even do this?” Gillian asks, panic in her voice, as we walk to the history department. “Sir, are you having some sort of health crisis? I don’t mean to pry but—”
“I’m fine, Gillian. And you’ll be fine. I’ve made a decision about my future and it doesn’t involve staying on here at Eastern.”
“But the semester isn’t even over, Sir,” she observes as we enter our building.
“Sometimes you just have to act on instinct, you know?” She follows me to my office where I open a big filing cabinet and hand her the lecture notes for the rest of the semester. “This ought to work fine for you. Of course, write your own lectures if you like.”
“I just can’t believe this. So, so you’re accepting the—what do you call it—the ‘buy-out’ from the university?”
“Nope.”
“So what the hell are you going to do?”
I almost chuckle at hearing Gillian curse in front of me like this. “I’ve got a book to write.”
“That’s great, but couldn’t you do that from here?”
“I suppose. But it wouldn’t be much of an adventure that way. Look, I’ve really got to get going.”
She starts to leave, then at the door, her arms bulging with all the lecture notes and folders I handed over, she stops. “Your dad . . . think you can figure him out?”
“I don’t know. But I gotta try.” She nods and turns to go. “Hey, Gillian.” She stops. “Be good. Be you. The world will adjust.”
After gathering up Dad’s letters and notebooks, some pictures and a few other items from my desk and stuffing them into my backpack, I stop before leaving and look around my office—all the hundreds of books, papers, file folders, maps, and grade books—shake my head with a smile, and then for the very last time slowly walk out the door.
acknowledgments
Having worked exclusively as a writer of non-fiction (works of history), I thought long and hard about the hubris that’s required to now declare myself a novelist. It’s not as if I have a large fan base desperately waiting for me to hurry up and write a novel. So I began writing this story not as fiction but as a memoir. And, as is often the case, my wife, a fellow author and historian, Lorri Glover, urged me on here, suggesting I use some of my own life story as a starting point. But in leaning on the memories, relationships, and anecdotes of my own experiences, I quickly found myself inventing conflicts, concocting fictional characters, and telling tales that had little or no connection to my actual, mostly humdrum, life. What began as mostly an autobiographical enterprise, soon turned into a piece of fiction.
I hope that was a good choice. Lorri read these pages with a keen eye for storytelling and emotional truth. Likewise, I received thoughtful readings of the book in its various stages from Richard Bailey, Mike Everman, Nick Feild, Jeff Norrell, Tim O’Neill, Bruce Smith, and Jeff Smith. Anything that’s good in these pages can be traced to their helpful advice. I think you know where the blame for all the bad stuff belongs.
But I should concede that while Mr. Wonderful draws on a mostly made-up story, the actual memories and relationship I have with my real father who, sadly, recently passed—who was in fact a doctor in a small Texas town—and my stepmother profoundly shaped parts of the story I tell here. If the flaws and weaknesses I gave to Robert Fenton seem reminiscent of those associated with my father, Emerson Smith, they pale in comparison to the positive, long-lasting virtues he embodied and attempted to convey to his children and grandchildren. To those who knew him, this book will hopefully feel like a love letter to my father.
I’d like to thank graphic artist and writer, Christopher Moyer, for an elegant, provocative cover design. As a debut novelist, I assume (and, quite frankly, hope) that you picked up this book because of its cover.
