this. Because you’re a gentleman.” He looked at me. I knew I had maybe twelve seconds before he could say anything. So I dashed into the bathroom. I waited there. I heard him pour another glass. Then silence. I saw him passed out on the couch.
Early, very early the next morning, I left a note on his desk saying “Hobs, thanks so much for promising to get me that Reutical.” Then I hid in my room.
For two days I didn’t see Hobart. But I knew how his brain was working. He was thinking, “Pete can’t make rent. He has trouble concentrating. It probably has something to do with never knowing his dad. It’s medicine, to help people.” But above all he was thinking, “I promised him. He called me a gentleman. I am a gentleman. I’m better than Nevin. I made Pete a gentleman’s promise.”
I walked into the living room one morning and found a clear plastic jar holding thirty gray oval pills.
Beneath were eight pages written in his meticulous hand. It was warnings and instructions, with tidy arrows of emphasis, a diagram explaining in basic terms Reutical’s chemical structure, and charts. I skimmed it and got the main point, which was “don’t take Reutical with alcohol.” I gleaned the subtext, which was “please, Pete, don’t screw me on this.”
In short, Hobart was as careful as possible and doesn’t deserve any blame.
8
On this morning, Prudence didn’t stop. She walked right into the shop.
Her father and her brother Josiah and Gideon the apprentice didn’t notice, so busy were they at their planing and awling.
“Good morning!” said Prudence.
“Prudence!” said Father. “What brings you to us this morning? Has Mother sent you with blackberry currants for our midday meal?”
“No,” said Prudence. “I’ve come because I’d like to learn to be a cooper.”
“WHAT?!” cried Gideon. “Why, a girl cooper?”
“Surely you’re joking, Prudence!” declared Josiah. “Why, I could sooner imagine our American colonies separating from Mother England!”
The two boys laughed, quite meanly.
Father put his hard hand on Prudence’s shoulder.
“Prudence,” he said, “such foolishness doesn’t become you. You know as well as I that young girls are made for milking, mending clothes, and baking pies. Let’s be home with you, and hear no more nonsense.”
But Prudence was very brave. She didn’t move a foot.
“Father,” she said, “I would like to be a cooper. And if you teach me, why, I’ll make a barrel as well as might a boy!”
The cruel boys laughed again.
“Look, Gideon,” cried Josiah, “at the barrel made by Prudence!” He was holding up a broken stave.
A tear welled in Prudence’s eye.
“I will be a cooper!” she cried. “You’ll see!”
She turned from the shop, and off she ran.
—excerpt from the unpublished manuscript Prudence Whiddiecomb: The Girl Cooper by Evelyn Ewart and Margaret Wrenshall
The next day I threw my laptop and a handful of underwear into my Camry and drove north, up 93 to Vermont.
An easy way to get credibility as an author is to live someplace rugged. Publishers live in Manhattan, so they consider southern Connecticut to be a hinterland. They’re easily impressed, and it seemed foolish not to exploit that weakness.
Preston Brooks has West Virginia. Upstate New York is a popular choice. That’s cordwood-chopping, run-down mill-town country. West Texas is fertile—cf. Cormac McCarthy, Larry McMurtry. Wyoming and Montana give a writer a lot of seriousness points. Nobody’s gonna call you out when you start throwing around place-names like Bitterroot and Teton and Laramie. The point is to prove that your prose is as natural as a bushel of organic tomatoes or a cut of steak from a free-range longhorn.
Territories are going fast. Before long novelists will have to set up camp in Burkina Faso or Sakhalin Island if they want any credit for being genuine voices.
With a bottle of Reutical in my pocket, it wouldn’t be long until I
Early, very early the next morning, I left a note on his desk saying “Hobs, thanks so much for promising to get me that Reutical.” Then I hid in my room.
For two days I didn’t see Hobart. But I knew how his brain was working. He was thinking, “Pete can’t make rent. He has trouble concentrating. It probably has something to do with never knowing his dad. It’s medicine, to help people.” But above all he was thinking, “I promised him. He called me a gentleman. I am a gentleman. I’m better than Nevin. I made Pete a gentleman’s promise.”
I walked into the living room one morning and found a clear plastic jar holding thirty gray oval pills.
Beneath were eight pages written in his meticulous hand. It was warnings and instructions, with tidy arrows of emphasis, a diagram explaining in basic terms Reutical’s chemical structure, and charts. I skimmed it and got the main point, which was “don’t take Reutical with alcohol.” I gleaned the subtext, which was “please, Pete, don’t screw me on this.”
In short, Hobart was as careful as possible and doesn’t deserve any blame.
8
On this morning, Prudence didn’t stop. She walked right into the shop.
Her father and her brother Josiah and Gideon the apprentice didn’t notice, so busy were they at their planing and awling.
“Good morning!” said Prudence.
“Prudence!” said Father. “What brings you to us this morning? Has Mother sent you with blackberry currants for our midday meal?”
“No,” said Prudence. “I’ve come because I’d like to learn to be a cooper.”
“WHAT?!” cried Gideon. “Why, a girl cooper?”
“Surely you’re joking, Prudence!” declared Josiah. “Why, I could sooner imagine our American colonies separating from Mother England!”
The two boys laughed, quite meanly.
Father put his hard hand on Prudence’s shoulder.
“Prudence,” he said, “such foolishness doesn’t become you. You know as well as I that young girls are made for milking, mending clothes, and baking pies. Let’s be home with you, and hear no more nonsense.”
But Prudence was very brave. She didn’t move a foot.
“Father,” she said, “I would like to be a cooper. And if you teach me, why, I’ll make a barrel as well as might a boy!”
The cruel boys laughed again.
“Look, Gideon,” cried Josiah, “at the barrel made by Prudence!” He was holding up a broken stave.
A tear welled in Prudence’s eye.
“I will be a cooper!” she cried. “You’ll see!”
She turned from the shop, and off she ran.
—excerpt from the unpublished manuscript Prudence Whiddiecomb: The Girl Cooper by Evelyn Ewart and Margaret Wrenshall
The next day I threw my laptop and a handful of underwear into my Camry and drove north, up 93 to Vermont.
An easy way to get credibility as an author is to live someplace rugged. Publishers live in Manhattan, so they consider southern Connecticut to be a hinterland. They’re easily impressed, and it seemed foolish not to exploit that weakness.
Preston Brooks has West Virginia. Upstate New York is a popular choice. That’s cordwood-chopping, run-down mill-town country. West Texas is fertile—cf. Cormac McCarthy, Larry McMurtry. Wyoming and Montana give a writer a lot of seriousness points. Nobody’s gonna call you out when you start throwing around place-names like Bitterroot and Teton and Laramie. The point is to prove that your prose is as natural as a bushel of organic tomatoes or a cut of steak from a free-range longhorn.
Territories are going fast. Before long novelists will have to set up camp in Burkina Faso or Sakhalin Island if they want any credit for being genuine voices.
With a bottle of Reutical in my pocket, it wouldn’t be long until I
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