A Perfect Day by Richard Paul Evans
“And how do we live in the meantime?”
“Ever since Carson started school full day, I’ve been thinking about getting my old job back at Nordstrom.”
“We can’t live on that.”
“Not like we are, but we can get by. And we have savings.” She knit her fingers with mine. “Rob, you’ve wanted to do this since you were a boy. You’ve got to at least give it a try.”
I looked down at our hands. They were laced together in a tangle of flesh.
“Rob, I don’t want you to hate yourself for what you might have been. But I especially don’t want you to resent Carson and me for keeping you from your dreams. So take some time and finish your book. Maybe you could get a job selling on the side, maybe not. But you have to do this. Without dreams life is a desert.”
After a moment a slim smile broke on my lips. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Yes, you do.” She pushed her lips onto mine and I lost myself in her softness. “Now come to bed. I want my man next to me.”
Chapter 9
New hopes are a fountain of energy. I found my self filled with an exhilaration I hadn’t known since I was fresh out of college and the world looked like the up escalator. I made a trip to a nearby office store and outfitted my den with everything I thought I needed for writing: a dictionary, thesaurus, describer ’s dictionary, notepads, mechanical pencils, Post-it notes, printer ink and reams of printer paper. I purchased several books on writing and the mechanics of getting published and lost myself not only in the craft, but also in the fantasy of being an author. Allyson had done more than throw me a safety line. She had fashioned me wings.
Allyson and I devised a new routine: each morning we would get up together, and I would wake and dress Carson while Ally would make breakfast; then she’d do Carson’s hair. Then I would walk Carson to the bus stop while Allyson left for work. Around nine, with my girls and the commotion gone, I would go down to my den, where I would write in solitude for three to four hours straight—until the words began to back up onto themselves. Then I would emerge from my sanctum to walk for an hour to clear my mind and untangle the knots in my story. Then I would shower and dress, make myself a sandwich, then write some more, until it was time to meet Carson at the bus stop.
Then I would take care of Carson until Allyson came home, either writing while Carson played upstairs or commencing my portion of the domestic duties. My job list included washing, vacuuming and cleaning the bathrooms. On weekdays I would get dinner on. Not surprisingly our meals had become noticeably simpler, and sloppy joes and macaroni and cheese became our mainstays.
Allyson was welcomed back to her old job. She enjoyed the interaction with adults and the chance to dress up. The greatest disadvantage was Allyson’s loss of time with Carson; that and our diminished income. Allyson made little more than half of what I had made at the station. We knew that this deficit would eventually catch up to us, but that was tomorrow’s bridge and I was making better progress on my book than I’d imagined. A hundred and three days into our new life I finished my book. It was a Friday afternoon and I met Allyson at the door holding a stack of paper three inches thick. “Da, da, da daaaah.”
She looked at me. “What?” Then a wide smile broke across her face. “You finished it? Already?”
“Already? I’ve been working on it for four years.” I handed her the bound manuscript and she read its cover.
“A Perfect Day. By Robert Mason Harlan.” She looked up. “I’ve never heard you use your middle name. It makes you sound like an author.”
“Or a serial killer,” I said.
She folded back the cover page. “To Allyson, my soul mate.” She smiled. “I love the title.”
“You should. You named it.”
“How did I name it?”
“That day up on the mountain, when your father told you that he had brought you back home for one last perfect day.”
“What does that have to do with your story?”
“My book’s about a young woman and the last few months she spends with her dying father.”
From her expression I couldn’t tell whether she was pleased or upset.
“You wrote about us?”
I suddenly felt as if I’d been caught stealing. “It’s based on you and your father. That’s where I drew my inspiration. That time I saw you curled up next to your father was the most powerful expression of love I’ve ever seen. I wanted to write about that.”
She again looked at the manuscript, her expression still enigmatic. “Can I read it now?”
“I was planning to take Carson to the zoo tomorrow so that you could just read.”
She fingered through the manuscript then looked back up. “This will be hard for me.”
“I know. I just hope you think it’s worthy of your father.”
She set the manuscript down and gently hugged me. “I’m so proud of you. My husband the author.”
Chapter 10
Saturday morning came blue and promising as a child’s birthday. Carson was excited for our daddy-daughter outing and chattered incessantly as Allyson dressed her and I packed our lunches. For a six-year-old there are few things cooler than the zoo. I was equally excited for the day but for different reasons. Today was my own private Kitty Hawk: my first attempt at literary flight. Then again it could also be the maiden voyage of the Titanic.
I realized that asking Allyson’s opinion on a book I had worked on for four years put her in a difficult position: because either I had to be a good writer or she had to be a good liar. I hoped the former was true. As we left the house, Allyson, still in her robe and furry, pink slippers, had my manuscript in one hand and a cup of herbal tea in the other and was walking into the living room to start my book.
Carson and I were gone for the whole day, much more time than Allyson needed to read the book. I told myself that it was because I didn’t want her to feel rushed. But it’s also possible that I was really just afraid of Allyson’s verdict.
It was dark when we returned. Carson was asleep, worn out from a day of running and laughing and excess cotton candy. I carried her in to her bed then went to our room. Allyson was in bed with her glasses on, watching the news. My manuscript lay at the end of the dresser.
“Carson’s in bed,” I said.
She looked up at me without a trace of emotion and my heart stopped. “Come here,” she said. I climbed onto the bed, my heart in my throat. She took off her glasses then her mouth drew out into a broad smile as if she could no longer contain her excitement. “It was fabulous!”
“Really?”
“It was so good. I haven’t cried that hard for the longest time.”
“Crying is good?”
“Oh yes. Crying is good,” she said happily. “I couldn’t put it down. I read it from cover to cover and didn’t even stop for lunch. It would make the best movie.”
I laughed and plopped myself backward onto the bed. “I’m so relieved.”
Allyson said happily, “You think you’re relieved? I’ve been dreading this day for months. I was terrified that I wouldn’t know what to say if I didn’t like your book. But I loved it. It’s easily the best book I’ve read this year.”
That was saying a lot, because Allyson read a lot. She read everything from soft romances to hard thrillers. “You think so?”
“I know so. I’ve already told Nancy about it and now she’s dying to read it.”
I was grinning like a fool. “Oh, yeah!”
“So what now? Do you send it to a publisher?”
“I’ve been reading up on this. I need to find an agent.”
“How do you do that?”
“There’s a book called the Writer’s Market. It has lists of agents. There’s a copy at the library. I plan to go there on Monday and choose a few agents then send them my manuscript.”
“How long does it take to hear back?”
“Maybe a few months. If I’m lucky. Sometimes people wait years to be discovered.”<
This jolted her back to reality. “Years? So what are we going to do in the meantime?”
“I need to find a job and hope that lightning strikes.”
I slipped off my clothes and got ready for bed. I turned off the lights and Allyson rolled into my arms, but I was far too excited to sleep. Anything seemed possible again. After a half hour I climbed out of bed, picked up my manuscript and went down to my den to read.
Chapter 11
Monday morning I was waiting at the public library as its doors were unlocked. I found the Writer’s Market, a thick book listing hundreds of publishers and literary agents, and began combing through it. There were more agents than I’d expected. I guessed there to be close to a thousand. The book was classified as reference material and couldn’t be checked out, so I skimmed through it, writing down the names and addresses of the first twenty-five agencies that seemed most appropriate for a book like mine.
I went from the library to a copy shop, where I made twenty-five copies of my manuscript. Then I drove to the post office and mailed them all out. I felt a remarkable sense of optimism. I had set the bait and cast my line. Now all there was to do was wait. That and find a job.
I drove around Salt Lake City requesting employment applications from radio stations. Of course every application required work references. This didn’t bode well. I had held the same job at the same station for seven years and Stuart had been my only boss. I regretted calling him stupid.
It was two weeks after I sent my book out that I received my first response from an agent. I had been grocery shopping with Allyson, and as I brought the groceries in from the car, Allyson went through the day’s mail, fanning the bills back like a deck of cards. Suddenly she stopped and lifted one from the pile. “Robert. You got a letter from an agent.”
I laid the sacks I carried down on the counter and took the letter. It had come from a Minnesota literary agency. I looked up at Allyson then I extracted the letter and unfolded it.
Dear Mr. Harlan,
Thank you for sending your manuscript, A Perfect Day. While I found your writing interesting, I’m sorry to say that I don’t think I am the right person to represent this material, especially in today’s crowded market.
I’m sure another agent will feel differently. I’m sorry to disappoint you, and I wish you the best of luck.
All Best Wishes, Howard Guttery
My heart fell. “It’s a rejection letter,” I said. I dropped it on the counter.
Allyson looked at me, frowning. “Now what?”
“It’s nothing,” I said. “No one gets accepted the first time. The Great Gatsby was turned down a dozen times before it was published.”
I’m sure Allyson saw my response for what it was—a coping mechanism—but what I said was also true.
“Don’t worry,” I said, more for myself than Allyson. “There are twenty-four more agents to go.”
Chapter 12
The next weeks passed like torture. The rejections from the agencies continued to arrive. The letters all pretty much said the same thing, kindly worded form letters written by people with vast experience in rejecting. A few of the letters were identical in content.
With each letter my dream seemed farther from my grasp. I stopped picking up the mail. My job hunt was equally fruitless. I had contacted every radio station in the Salt Lake and Provo market, including a few I felt were beneath me. I was turned down by every one of them. Between the literary agencies and the radio stations I faced rejection at every turn, and what my father had planted in me was now being reinforced on a daily basis: that I was, in fact, a failure.
Depression set in, accompanied by its myriad symptoms. I put on weight and didn’t shave for days at a time. I spent hours in my den either on the Internet or playing mindless computer games. I began sleeping in. Even though it required more effort from Allyson, she never said a word. I believe that she was waiting for it to pass like a bout of the flu or something. But it didn’t. One night, after she had put Carson to bed, Allyson came down to my den. I was playing solitaire on my computer.
“Can we talk?”
“Sure,” I said, moving a card across the screen.
She sat down next to me. “I’m worried, Rob.”
“About what?” My eyes were still locked on the screen.
“Would you please look at me?”
I released the mouse and turned around. “About what?”
“I’m worried about you.” She ran her hand across my cheek. “Don’t you shave anymore?”
“Since when do you have a problem with facial hair?”
“Rob, look at you. You haven’t even showered yet. What have you done today?”
I saw where this was going and turned back to my computer. “I made a few calls.”
“Have you paid the bills?”
“No. I’ll do it tomorrow.”
She took a deep breath. I knew that I wasn’t making this easy for her. “Rob. You’re taking this so personally.”
“Taking what personally?”
“The rejection letters.”
“How else should I take them?”
“You’ve written a great book. It’s enough.”
I turned back around. “It’s not enough. If a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it, did it make a sound?”
She looked at me as if I were crazy. “What?”
“If a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it, did it make a sound?”
“I think you’re losing your mind.”
“I am. But my point is, it’s not a book until it’s published.”
“A book is a book. Apparently it takes more than a great book to get published. But you can’t stop living because the breaks aren’t there.”
I shook my head. “You don’t understand.”
“No, I don’t. Who cares what they think about your book?”
“I do. That book was my last hope that I could do something with my life. That I could be somebody.”
This was the first time that I had openly acknowledged my fears. Only now, with the words still ringing in our ears, had either of us realized the extent of my desperation. For a moment Allyson seemed unable to respond. When she did her voice was heartfelt. “But you are somebody. You’re my husband. You’re Carson’s father. Why can’t that be enough?”
“Because that’s not how men are judged in this world. I was raised thinking that all that matters is what you accomplish in life. I had one hope. And now it’s gone.”
Her brown eyes darkened with concern. “Rob, if you don’t start doing something besides sitting around playing computer solitaire or whatever it is you do, you’re just going to get more depressed. Besides, I’m not making enough to keep up with expenses. We’re burning through our savings.”
I reacted defensively. “What do you want me to do? I’ve been to every radio and television station in Salt Lake City. No one wants to hire me. Stuart is seeing to that. One call to him and they won’t even return my calls.”
“But you’ve never liked radio sales anyway. Why don’t you go into a different profession? Like teaching?”
“Teaching? Where?”
“Maybe there’s an opening at the university. Your father would know.”
Her suggestion came as a slap. I replied angrily, “Like I’m going to ask Chuck for help. I haven’t spoken to him for two years.”
“He helped us with the house.”
“Don’t you get it? That was Chuck’s way of proving to me that I’m nothing without him. That’s not a roof above us, it’s a thumb.”
Allyson exhaled. “Robert, I don’t care what you do—as long as you do something. You can’t just sit around the house feeling sorry for yourself.”
Her words stung. “So that’s what I’m doing? Just feeling sorry for myself?” I turned around and shut down the computer. Then I walked out of the room. Allyson followed me, first with her eyes then physically up the stairs to the back door.
“Rob, whe
“To get a job.”
I slammed the door behind me. As I pulled my car out of the driveway, she stood at the window watching. It had been a dramatic exit, but at this hour I really had no idea where I was going.
Chapter 13
I returned home past one in the morning. I stepped into our dark bedroom and undressed, letting my clothes fall in a clump at my feet. Then I climbed into bed. Allyson immediately rolled over. Her voice came soft from the darkness. “I’m sorry that I hurt your feelings.”
“It’s okay. You were right.”
“Where have you been?”
“Looking for work.”
“At one in the morning?”
“I’ve been talking with Stan. I start working with him tomorrow.”
“Installing sprinklers?” Her voice was tainted with incredulity.
“You have a problem with that?”
“No . . .”
“No, but . . . ?”
“No, but I’m afraid that you will.” She put her hand on my chest. “Robert, you have a master ’s degree. You graduated summa cum laude.”
“Then I’ll be the most educated sprinkler installer in Salt Lake.”
Allyson was quiet for a long time. I imagine she was garnering courage for what she wanted to say. “Can’t you at least talk to your dad? Maybe it will make things better between you.”
I bit back my anger. “What makes you think I want to make things better?”
“But, Rob—”
I cut her off. “End of discussion, Al. I’m going to sleep.” I rolled to my side away from her. Allyson turned the opposite direction. Nothing more was said.
Chapter 14
I’ve always been close to my brothers. The sons of Chuck are like war veterans, I suppose, bonded as survivors of the same calamity. I have three brothers, all of them older than me: Stan, Marshall and Phil. Stan is the oldest. He’s thirty-six and runs a successful sprinkler and irrigation company. Marshall is one year younger than Stan. He’s a software designer for a Provo-based software firm. He is my only married brother. Phil is in the Air Force and stationed in Dunkirk. We rarely see each other, but we e-mail each other weekly. Of all of us, Phil is the most like Chuck. I don’t say that to be disparaging; he just fits into the military regimen more naturally than the rest of us. To him Chuck is just a former officer.