Mark Twain and the Year 2010
Posted by Stephen Hines on June 25th, 2009 filed in Uncategorized1 Comment »
April 21, 2010, ushers in the 100th anniversary of the death of America’s greatest humorist, Mark Twain. Born in Florida, Missouri, November 30, 1835, Samuel Langhorne Clemens–Twain’s real name–saw the arrival of Hailey’s Comet as a harbinger of his demise. He noted that he had come into this world when the comet appeared in 1835 and that he would go out with it when it returned in 1910. His prophecy came true.
So, 2010 seems like a good year to bring out a Mark Twain book, though a publisher seeking to do this would need to act within the next three months to have it in a spring catalog.
I’ve given up. I thought at least a couple of academic publishers might be interested in The Boy’s Life of Mark Twain by Twain’s official biographer, Albert Bigelow Paine. But the academic process of making a decision is a long one, and I’ve decided to put this project idea out there for anyone. There is a $14.95 paperback listed from Amazon, but I think this title deserves hardback treatment. The Boy’s Life contains unique material on Twain from Horace Bixby, the river pilot, and other acquaintances of Twain about his personal characteristics and antics. Twain started being funny long before he became known for it.
This book is probably the only source for reminiscences from some of the more obscure observers of Twain’s long and adventure-filled life. First published in 1916, The Boy’s Life was issued when many of his friends were still around to tell their tales.
I can’t help but believe that one of our greatest writers will be acknowledged in the anniversary year of his death, so to anyone out there who wants to give it a shot: have at it.
Experiences with Publishers: Putnam Penguin, Thomas Nelson, Bantam Doubleday Dell and Others
Posted by Stephen Hines on June 4th, 2009 filed in Uncategorized1 Comment »
All publishers operate differently depending on their personnel, although they all have at least one goal that is the same: to make enough money to keep on going.
I first worked with Thomas Nelson back in the 1980s and ended up being managing editor there through the administrations of Larry Stone, Robert Wolgemuth, Mike Hyatt, Bruce Nygren, and, finally, Bruce Barbour. Turnover, turnover–it’s the same wherever you go–for many different reasons. Finally, I turned over. I’ve never experienced a time when the trade book industry has been stable.
I would have to say that Thomas Nelson stands out for having done some of the best work on my product. The cover they designed for Little House in the Ozarks (”Little House” is a registered trademark of HarperCollins) made it stand out on any shelf. Lori Quinn and the marketing department made that book stunning.
But I’ve had good experiences with others. Putnam Penguin published The True Crime Files of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, which I did with Edgar-winning mystery writer Steven Womack. Steven and I had truly high hopes for this volume, but it was one of those can’t miss books that missed. We don’t know what happened. The cover was good; it just didn’t go. For mystery fans, it’s a winner. Go to Amazon.com to find a used copy.
Bantam Doubleday Dell publishsed Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Fairy Poems, and the artwork by Richard Hull was terrific. Distribution was good, but, again, sales were disappointing. Basically, if you can have three good-selling books out of sixteen (my total) you’re doing good. I’ve been fortunate.
One of my best experiences with a publisher is ongoing: Cook Communications, a company out of Colorado Springs, Colorado. Cook revived what I though was a hopelessly vanished book, Louisa May Alcott’s Christmas Treasury. Some unknown marvel in their sales department revived sales on this title by selling it to cataloger Starcrest and then to Anderson Merchandising. Honor Books orginally did the cover, and that seems to be the thing that makes it sell at Christmastime. The book is so beautiful you can use it for decorating. My thanks to Mark Gilroy and Dave Borden of that company, which, unfortunately, had to fold, as so many companies have of late.
Still, I believe there is a market for attractive books, so I keep on searching and researching.
Thoughts on Platforms After Reading Michael Hyatt and Emailing with Robert Wolgemuth
Posted by Stephen Hines on May 20th, 2009 filed in UncategorizedComment now »
Simply put: Platforms are the marketing device with which today’s large publishers are obessed–and the situation is not much different for small publishers either.
But what is a platform?
Well, it can be several things, but in the main it turns out to be the primary reason why anyone should want to read your particular book, largely regardless of how well or ill it is written. Thus, a platform can be, and often is, your celebrity status. You’re Jessica Simpson’s boyfriend and you’re going to do a tell-all book abut how she lost, or gained, all that weight and what she is going, or not going, to do about it.
So your connection to Jessica turns out to be a platform; you’re not a celebrity, but you’re near a celebrity. That is enough. No Jessica, no book. Your real girl friend, Lorilee Mavis, may have gained, and or lost, more weight than Jessica, but she has not yet been on American Idol and sung her way to fame and fortune. (Oh, that was Carrie Underwood. I wonder when she will do a book?)
Now platforms can be of many varieties, but not all are of equal value when it comes to raising the interest of a publisher.
Let’s say it turns out you are the world’s greatest expert on widgets. Frankly, you still need Jessica Simpson, or Brad Pitt, or Angelina Jolie, or, better, Oprah–because widgets are nothing to the general public without some reason to read up on them. If Oprah Winfrey has the largest collection of widgets in the world, that’s what the publisher is going to be interested in, not the fact that you are the world’s greatest expert on them.
At this point, you may well ask (so why don’t you?), is there any other platform than that of celebrity? The answer is, of course, there is more to platform than celebrity. There is “weird experience,” “timeless wisdom and knowledge,” “the answer to everything,” “the easy to way to do anything hard,” “how to make a fortune while not really working.” The list could be endless and is endless.
The Reverend Don Piper didn’t have a platform until he had his weird experience with death, but his experience was so weird some publisher was willing to take a chance on 90 Minutes in Heaven anyway. Still, if he had been Jessica Simpson and had a weird experience with death, it would have been all so much simpler to get that book contract.
Look. Even the quality of your writing does count as a kind of platform, but it took about 100 years for the world to discover the greatness of Moby Dick (I can’t stand this book, but that’s my problem). Herman Melville was long dead before he discovered that his name was worth anything on the cover of a novel about a whale. But at least he didn’t have to share honors with Jessic Simpson.
Happy platforming to you.
Hills & Hamlets Limerick Winner
Posted by Stephen Hines on May 15th, 2009 filed in UncategorizedComment now »
The following limerick is in the copyrighted Hills & Hamlets magazine which circulates throughout the Williamson County, Tennessee, area, and particularly in Leiper’s Fork, Tennessee, a fabulously attractive village full of arts and crafts folk.
My poems took second place, but then I write second-place type poetry.
There once was a Knight of the Round
Who was a perfect incurable hound.
He chased women all night
And set dragons alight,
And said that his reason was sound!
If ever a time needed its humor, it is now; and Eugene Fields, Edgar Guest, and Ogden Nash made considerable contributions to their times by dwelling on the lighthearted aspects of life. No one, at the moment, really knows where the activity of Twittering is going. I find most of it incredibly boring and banal, especially banal, but perhaps Twittered poetry might improve the tone of things–or not.
Thoughts on Trade Publishing After Reading Mike Hyatt
Posted by Stephen Hines on May 8th, 2009 filed in UncategorizedComment now »
A recent blog of Mike Hyatt’s, CEO at Thomas Nelson Publishers, led me to formulate some of my own thoughts about trade publishing in general and about platforms from which to publish in particular. Mike stressed that, though it was difficult, it was possible to build a following through such devices as the Internet from which to enter the field of published authors.
I certainly agree with the thrust of what he said, but I also think writers should keep in mind that book publishers are having an extremely difficult time of it. So, keep your expectations realistic. These are tough times for everybody.
Here are some things to keep in mind as you seek to minister to your audience and to publish useful literature.
- It might be better to help someone who is already established than to start from scratch and build your own audience. Example: I once approached a publisher about bringing into print those books that had been most influential in the spiritual development of C. S. Lewis. These books would have been the books that Lewis himself had endorsed in his letters to various correspondents who wrote seeking advice. Reaction: rejection: you are the wrong person to be pursuing this. You aren’t recognized as a C. S. Lewis authority. True! Now if Dallas Willard had approached the publisher, I suggest the reaction would have been quite different. So, maybe the best approach would have been to help Dallas Willard build further on his already existing platform. That way the publisher might have been more receptive. It never hurts to at least try a different approach.
- Partner with someone who has real marketing talent. Oh, of course, you have real marketing talent too! You can certainly build your own platform, but you are also a writer and need to be spending your time creating your product; and, frankly, that is a full-time job! Trying to do two full-time jobs will just make you miserable and frustrated. Seek help.
- Try to produce literature that will sell through multiple distribution outlets. It certainly seems to me that the regular book store is dying. I almost hate to go into a book store these days for fear that I will only find toys, gift items, paper weights–all types of sundries, but no books! As for the chain stores, they are pitifully few, and I wouldn’t buy stock in any of them. My current bestselling item, Louisa May Alcott’s Christmas Treasury, sells almost exclusively through Starcrest and Anderson Merchandising. Yes, being in the Miles Kimball catalog can be a terrific revenue source.
- Finally, you’ll have a better chance at publishing success if you think in terms of the series concept of writing. You develop a following because people have come to look for the next book in your series about the Amish, about the wild frontier, about how to find a job (What Color Is Your Parachute?), about developing your prayer life. Become identified either with a topic or a cause and let your platform develop from that.
Now, what are your own thoughts on these matters?
Are You Going Bald? Try This!
Posted by Stephen Hines on March 4th, 2009 filed in UncategorizedComment now »
Years ago when I was searching for material on Laura Ingalls Wilder, I found a reference in a very old copy of the De Smet, South Dakota, newspaper about a local resident who had a surefire remedy for baldness. I am going bald. I admit I was curious. There it was: the cure; but no other information was forthcoming.
Undoubtedly this woman, for the alchemist was a woman, had missed her opportunity for a fortune. While I would in no way encourage useless speculation, yet I do encourage useful speculation: and speculating on the market for a volume of natural home remedies for baldness seems like worthwhile speculation to me.
Let me go further. I boldly assert that no matter how many good and bad books there are on curing male pattern baldness, there is always room for twenty or thirty more, particularly if they take a natural or holistic approach to the problem. I certainly know there is medicine on the market that helps to grow a little hair, but what is a little hair when a lot is what we want: we want a return to the luxurious growth of our youth! Do we not?
But where to find this valuable material? Well, it seems obvious to me that if one did a search of books and magazines from the late nineteenth to the early twentieth century one would find heaps of interesting and worthwhile information–and more important–testimonials to the marvelous success these concoctions produced.
Now that would be a fun project to get involved in.
Happy prospecting!
Ring Lardner and Erma Bombeck
Posted by Stephen Hines on March 4th, 2009 filed in UncategorizedComment now »
In these days when extra income does have its appeal, one might do well to turn to popular writers who started their careers in uncopyrighted newspapers. Ring Lardner and Erma Bombeck are just two examples of people who went on to be popular columnists who at one time toiled under journalistic deadlines for papers that weren’t copyrighted (so I believe, but then everything at this site must be checked out). Lardner wrote for The Chicago Sun-Times and did the daily column “Linotype or Two.” This was a thousand word column written seven days a week! Well, much of what Lardner had to say is dated by now, but for fans of journalistic history this is the treasure trove of literature where Lardner developed his skills before becoming a famous short story writer (See the classic “Haircut”.) Bombeck wrote for a department story in-house paper and then worked for many years at the Dayton Daily News. I believe that the family do not think these pieces represent Erma at her best, but as a Bombeck fan, I often find these writings hilarious. Nonetheless, it is well to keep in mind that where there are living relatives involved, it is always best to go by their wishes. The point is, there are plenty of writers who got their starts in journalism, and much of this material lies in uncopyrighted newspapers. It could well be worth your time to do a little investigating. Generally speaking, a copyright notice, if it is there, should be displayed either on the paper’s masthead or perhaps on its editorial page, if it is not with the column itself. Of course, checking with the copyright office of the Library of Congress is a must. This can be easily done at their Website WWW.Copyright.Gov. The researcher must also not forget that many authors wrote classic, short novelettes for the holidays. Such works have been brought back from time to time, some with great success. See for example Max Beerbohm’s A Christmas Garland and Louisa May Alcott’s “Patty’s Place.” Happy hunting!
Searching for Star Farmer
Posted by Stephen Hines on November 1st, 2008 filed in UncategorizedComment now »
On July 1, 1922, The Missouri Ruralist ran the following item:
“Mrs. A.J. Wilder [Laura Ingalls Wilder, author] of Rocky Ridge Farm, Mansfield, Mo. is the oldest member of The Missouri Ruralist editorial staff. She began work as a contributor to the Star Farmer some 15 years ago. Mrs. Wilder is curious to know if there still are friends reading the Ruralist who remember her contributions to the Star Farmer and would be glad to hear from them. Write her a friendly letter at Mansfield.”
These lost writings of popular children’s author Laura Ingalls Wilder have never been found. I’ve looked, I can’t find them. But if anyone can find these writings, I feel sure her many fans would be grateful for the service, and, who knows, there might be enough writing for a collection similar to what is in my Laura Ingalls Wilder, Farm Journalist from the University of Missouri Press.
Good hunting to you hopeful prospectors!
The Poet C.S. Lewis Loved–Ruth Pitter
Posted by Stephen Hines on October 9th, 2008 filed in UncategorizedComment now »
Well, love may be a strong word for it. Lewis kept a discrete distance from women, at least until he married his wife Joy Davidman. But he is said to have remarked to a friend–before meeting Joy–that if he were the marrying kind, Ruth Pitter would have been a good choice.
Lewis admired Pitter for many things but especially for her poetry. Pitter eventually won the Queen’s Gold Medal for poetry, the Hawthornden Prize and was named a Commander of the British Empire. She was also a member of the Royal Society of Literature.
Lewis came to know her through letters. She wrote to him first shortly after she experienced conversion by listening to Lewis’s war-time talks that later became the book Mere Christianity, astonishingly still a best-selling title today.
So far as I know, Pitter is utterly out of print in the United States, and it is very hard to find any of her poetry except for a couple of early pieces that are online. Lewis praised her highly.
What a service it would be to bring her back into print in the States! Harold Shaw Publishers would have been my nomination to bring her out, if they were still doing that kind of thing.
What do you say? Is there someone out there who is interested? Best of luck to you.
Love’s Passion Alight
Posted by Stephen Hines on July 19th, 2008 filed in UncategorizedComment now »
Ah, Bloggites, this is a copyrighted story from 1981, but if I am ever going to turn it into the comic novel I have always wanted it to be, I would like to find a writing partner with a wacko sense of humor who will work with me and will push me actually to complete it. Published author familiar with the romance genre strongly preferred.
Love’s Passion Alight
Sarah Samuels peered reflectively into her jewelry box. She was searching for earrings. —Where had she put them? It was hard to concentrate. She shook her head impatiently.
—I’ll be late if I don’t find them. —Why am I so nervous? These were not the first questions she had asked herself since coming to know Ransom Chutney, Chief of Surgery at General Hospital. But at last it looked as though she was going to get to the bottom of their very puzzling relationship. Almost from the time they had met, Dr. Chutney had seemed as though he were under a dark cloud, as though he could see some threatening storm on the horizon – a storm that threatened their growing affection for each other. How had this all come about? As she sat looking into the opacity of her fingernails, Sarah went back in her mind over the last few years of her brief, turbulent life.
A scene became vivid to her. It was her first day at General Hospital. She remembered how she had stood before the green baize door of her first clinical experience, considering in fear whether or not to run while there was still time or to stay. But even as she hesitated, Resolve entered her soul. No, she could not throw away the sacrifice of her youth on the altar of cowardice! In her epiphany of self-abasement, she realized she had nothing to fear but suffering, and, if that was to be her lot, why, she was ready. She knew the path to the top was not strewn with rose petals.
* * *
Sarah began to drift further in reverie. She recalled how she had been born to simple, brilliant, devout parents who had sacrificed to send her through college and nursing school so that she might fulfill her life-long ambition to become a nurse, meet a rich, handsome, mysterious, frightening doctor – and marry him. Sarah thought of how her mother had worked long hours as a dishwasher during the day, and how she had worked as a cleaning lady during the night to make Sarah’s career possible. Nurse Samuels reflected on the fact that the hardly knew her mother and wished there had been time to become better acquainted.
—Oh, the curse of poverty! She thought bitterly (if it were possible for bitter thoughts to cross this sweet woman’s pure mind).
Poverty had forced her father to supplement his meager income as a concert violinist by tuning pianos from early in the morning to late in the evening. At night he worked at a loathsome job, stuffing sausages in a local packing plant. Sarah’s cheeks flushed with shame as she remembered the coarsening effect this job had had on her father’s language. Then, too, because of her father’s work, there was the aroma of Stravinsky and the stockyard about him; it was an odor that pervaded the home. She remembered how it had embarrassed her to introduce Mom and Dad to her friends: very often her parents fell asleep during the introductions.
As one might guess, Sarah had been persecuted for coming from the wrong side of the tracks. High school had been a nightmare for her. So she had redoubled her scholastic efforts and decided on a career in nursing because it was a truly noble profession where one could serve others – and show creeps and snobs like her schoolmates what real, deserving virtue and humility was.
Of course, she never made less than an A in any of her courses in high school or college. She joined many organizations to show she was a joiner and did much church volunteer work to show that she was a volunteer. She made all of her own clothes and became an excellent gardener to supplement her meager diet with fresh vegetables. Sometimes she gave her folks left-over produce. She even learned how to raise chickens in the attic so they could enjoy fresh meat and eggs.
And her privations had not been in vain. They had won her a full-paid scholarship to State University. All she had to do to keep her scholarship was work from eight to five in the dorm cafeteria; then she could knock-off for half-an-hour before doing light, miscellaneous research from 5:30 to 10:00; then she could knock-off until midnight, when she went to work as a guard in the computer center.
Yes, all the years of privation and starvation had paid off. She had won her coveted cap and degree–with honors–and now stood before the green baize doors of General Hospital, wondering, wondering what she would find waiting for her behind them.
* * *
Sarah got up from the bed and stretched a bit. —What had she been looking for? What had she been looking for at General Hospital when she had first come to work several months ago?
She sat back down on the bed and let her mind wander, which it readily did.
—Yes, there had been adjustments to make, but she had been ready and willing to make them. She knew what to expect from the real world of nursing – her high school and college reading had prepared her for that. Still, there had been some surprises. For one thing, General Hospital had been so large. It was impossible to get acquainted with very many people. Everything was so efficient and functional.
Sarah’s thoughts flew to the one who had become her best friend. What a support she had been! From the very first day she had been taken under wing and shown the ropes by Darla Dunn. She couldn’t imagine how she could have survived otherwise. The two nurses had had an impressive mélange of experiences.
There had been that confrontation with head nurse Borden who had ordered Sarah to give enemas to everyone in intensive care. That had been the first time that she had stood up for what she thought was a preferable course of treatment: laxatives.
There had been the hospital itself to learn, with its multiple floors, dead ends, and corridors leading to who knows where. Where were the restrooms? It had all been so confusing.
Especially upsetting had been the strain of meeting all of those people! There was the peculiar fellow in Room 405 who kept proposing to her, and the funny old woman in 406 who kept tearing her bed sheets up and setting them on fire.
Then there were the doctors. They were the most perplexing group of all. Some were curt and dismissed you with a slap on the head, while others were just as nice as could be. Many of them seemed preoccupied with their specialties and somehow out of touch with reality. Doctor Adams in particular seemed a zombie until someone would mention yachting.
Most troubling of all had been her intense but confusing relationship with Dr. Ransom Chutney, Chief of Surgery. She remembered well (or was about to remember well) her first meeting with him. It had been, in fact, during her first day. . . .
Darla Dunn had set off at a break-neck pace, and they had covered floor after floor and mile after mile, stopping to greet a myriad of faces. There had been nurse Pursely and nurse Hanon, Drs. Wheately, Morris, and Joeblonowski. She had been told that she would work in each section of the hospital for a week to familiarize herself with procedures before being turned loose on her own. She would work a week in the surgery, a week in pediatrics, a week in dietetics, and a week in splenetics; she would also work a week in the kitchen and the laundry. No stone would be left unturned in her education.
For instance, there was this Borden woman.
When Darla first took Sarah to meet the head nurse, they found her sandpapering a hypodermic. She seemed perturbed at being interrupted. Darla had put on her cheeriest smile and made the introductions. “Nurse pig – I mean nurse Borden. I would like you to meet our new nurse, Sarah Samuels. Sarah, this is Elsie Borden. She is the head of nursing here. We couldn’t – uh – get along without her.”
Sarah looked at nurse Borden uncomfortably. In fact, she noticed the head nurse had taken out a magnifying glass and was looking at her through it.
“I think I see a bit of dust on your uniform, Miss Samuels. What have you been doing? Playing in the mud? We must do better than that around here. Ours is a life-and-death struggle against disease and despair. A person who brings dust into the hospital will, the next thing you know, be spreading infection to the patients. See that you are always clean, neatly attired, and wearing you cap. Now, where is it you’re supposed to be stationed after we teach you something? Speak child! Cat got your tongue?”
“I’ll be in p-pediatrics, sir. I just—I love children and–”
“Come, come, nurse Samuels. Surely you can use a better word than that. I hope we will not continue to hear such sentimental simpering from one of our own. We are professionals here. Our highest duty is to give every patient the kick in the rear he needs to get him out of here. Don’t talk to me of love. The little brats grow up, don’t they? No doubt we’ll whip you into shape in no time. They all come out of school muttering like you at first, but we set them straight. Now wipe those tears off your face and stop trembling; you’ll get used to me after a while and find me gruff, but kindly, with a heart of gold. Now beat it, the both of you.”
But before Sarah could leave General for the day, go home, and throw herself on her bed in anguish, they still had to visit the surgery. Darla and Sarah soon arrived at a green baize door marked “Surgery – Off Limits” and went in.
“This is surgery, Sarah, Darla began. Over there, sharpening a scalpel, is Dr. Lance Buboes, and there are Drs. Smithe and Wayne, (pointing) and nurse Murphy and nurse Simpson. Am I going too fast for you?”
As Sarah dried her eyes and tried to clear her head, she began to pay attention to what Darla was saying, and she noticed one of the surgeons had his back to them. “Who is that standing over in the corner with his back to us?”
“Oh, I’m glad you noticed him. That’s Dr. Chutney. Maybe you’ve heard of him – Dr. Ransom Chutney. He’s the strong, silent type. He often uses his eyebrows to browbeat the nurses. A real terror. Some of us think he is suffering from a secret sorrow. Let me introduce you to him. You’ll find him fascinating – if I can get him to open up.”
“Dr. Chutney, could you speak with us for a minute? I would like to introduce you to our new nurse.”
Dr. Chutney, who had not seen them approach, started as though shot, but regained his composure quickly and turned around.
“Dr. Chutney, this is Sarah Samuels, who will be in pediatrics. Sarah, this is Dr. Chutney, our Chief of Surgery.”
As Sarah gazed upon Dr. Chutney’s full visage, bells went off. She was utterly stunned by his dark, handsome masculinity. He was the spitting image of Mel Gibson, Hugh Grant, and Brad Pitt, depending on which mood he chose to be in. His mood changed several times while he stood there with them. It was as though he were Mt. Rushmore being swept by the seasons.
“How do you do, nurse Samuels? I hope you will like it here at General.”
Sarah regained her voice. “Yippee! I think I’ll like this place just – that is, I hope – I’m sure I will have a satisfactory adjustment here, Dr. Chutney. Nurse Dunn has been showing me around. I’m so excited that I shall at last be able to put the noble ideals I learned at school to work for the betterment of humankind.”
She noticed a sudden change sweep over the noble young doctor (for so she sensed him to be). He darkened visibly. “Yes. Noble ideals, noble ideals . . .” he murmured for several minutes.
Suddenly he came to himself. “Yes, nurse Samuels, noble ideals. Never forget them. Always live by them. I’m sure they will serve you in good stead.” He spoke with an odd intensity, as if his own ideals not only guided but also hounded him in some way. It was all such a mystery.
They bid each other goodbye, but as Sarah left, words could not express the strange, almost wonderful, emotions that coursed though her veins. Who was this man who had suddenly made her heart to pitty-pat in a drum solo? What did she know about him? What had he murmured about ideals? Why did he give the impression of being a driven, almost desperate, man? She could not say.
And so the mystery had become ever more of a preoccupation as the months gone by. She simply could not fathom Dr. Chutney’s behavior. At times he seemed almost suicidal. Once she caught him actually holding a scalpel to his throat, but he had gotten out of the situation by saying he was shaving. Another time she found him floating face down in the whirlpool. When she had revived him, he had said that he had “slipped.” And so it went, until the day she found a note in her mailbox. It read: Dear Sarah, I can’t stand it anymore. If you will come to a little informal gathering I’m having this evening, I will tell you all. I need your help. Desperately yours, Ransom Chutney, MD.
Her eyes bulged. So at last she was to know. She felt like flying, or at least like leaping a tall building with a single bound. He was going to take her into his confidence! She literally floated through the rest of that day. And now she lay on her bed, reflecting over the recent past. What would she find tonight? Would it be love? Or only More Mystery?
* * *
With the song “Tonight, Tonight” from West Side Story running though her head, Sarah rang Dr. Chutney’s doorbell. She had never seen his place before. —Not a bad looking pad, she thought, as she stepped back to admire the Greco-roman terra cotta frieze that bordered the driveway.
A butler opened the door. “Please come in, Miss Samuels. Dr. Chutney is expecting you. You will find the party on the patio, drinking. My name is Mackintosh. Could I get you something?”
Sarah hesitated. —How could she let him know she didn’t drink? “Why no, thank you, I don’t drink while I’m off-duty.”
She found the guests all cozily ensconced on the patio. There was an air of festivity about the gathering, but there was a note of uneasiness, too. She wondered if the others sensed the meaning of Dr. Chutney’s troubles. Was he going to confide in them, also? She decided to mingle with the gaily-strewn, Chinese lanterns and see if she could find out more of what was going on.
She had not mingled more than a moment when she realized there was something strange, all right. Where was Dr. Chutney? He was not on the patio. She sidled over to the patio doors and looked into the house itself.
At first, she couldn’t see anything. Then as her eyes become adjusted to the light, she noticed the solitary figure of the Chief of Surgery standing by the fireplace. She went in and stood beside him in a moment of silent vitality. Their eyes met, and for several sacred seconds they stared at one another – until their eyes watered. Finally, they averted their gaze and stared at the fireplace, which was unlit but interesting.
Sarah agonized in Dr. Chutney’s presence. He seemed so near, yet so far away. What she could do to break the spell she didn’t know. Then the phone rang.
Mackintosh answered it, and as he did so, his countenance changed. He hurried to his master’s side, and as he whispered in the doctor’s ear, she saw Ransom’s face go white. As she glanced down to be sure she wasn’t standing on his foot, she heard him croak in a whisper, “Yes, tell him to come over. It can’t be avoided any longer. His condition has reached a crisis. Tell him – midnight.”
As the butler returned to the phone, Sarah saw Dr. Chutney pass both hands over his face. He was dripping wet and trembling. She could stand it no longer. Deciding that the direct approach was best, she took both of his hands in her own and in her tenderest voice said, “Dr. Chutney, dear, sweet, Dr. Chutney, won’t you tell me what is the matter? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
Dr. Chutney allowed himself to be drawn away from the view of the patio doors, and they sat down together on a Love Seat. After a moment’s struggle, during which Dr. Chutney seemed to throw caution to the wind, he said, “I have seen a ghost, Sarah. My own! It is the ghost of a dreadful mistake I made that has haunted me relentlessly for some time now. I have committed a blunder, a surgical blunder, Miss Samuels. Yes – and now it has come back to haunt me! But before I go further with my confession, dear little one – for it is a confession I’m making – you must promise to help me.”
His voice rose. “You must promise to redeem me and my career from utter ruin!”
“But how can I do that, Rance? I don’t see–”
“It’s this way, Sarah – such a lovely name – such a dear, adorable name – that was Everett Buncombe on the phone. He was a former patient of mine and is soon to be again, although he doesn’t know it yet. Because the fact is, the truth is, he has never been quite well since I operated on him some months ago. Indeed, he’s been quite ill since that time, and it’s been puzzling him very much. He comes to me regularly with complaints, but I’ve been putting him off. You see, the truth is, Sarah, I know perfectly well what his problem is, but I can’t do anything about it. It’s been maddening. Now something simply must be done!”
Sarah’s head swirled with confusion. What could he be talking about?
But without giving her a chance to gather her thoughts, Dr. Chutney rushed on. His next words came almost as a convulsion: “Buncombe is not getting well because– because I–I left his stomach stapled shut when I operated on his ulcer. He’s got a backlog of food debris that is awful. Sarah – don’t look at me that way. Sarah–!”
Sarah was visibly shaken. She had always thought she could stand up to anything, but to find out that surgeons ever made such humdingers was almost too much. She looked into Dr. Chutney’s pleading eyes. As she did she did so, she nearly panicked, for she saw both love and torment there. Her heart went out to the young idiot.
Dr. Chutney was down on his knees as he burst forth again, “You’ve got to help me. I must operate again, before it is too late. Tonight! Will you help me? Say you will!”
Sarah thought feverishly. Could she return the love of this man? Wasn’t he an incompetent? She wondered. And then she wondered that she wondered; for after all, he was so compelling, so helpless, so handsome, so solemn, and so vulnerable. “Oh, Dr. Chutney – Rance. Don’t look at me that way! You’ll break my heart!”
“Sarah, don’t turn your face away!” he said commandingly, a new note of resolve in his voice. “Look at me. You can see that I love you, that I need you. Can you forgive a poor, but modestly wealthy, fool? I ask you again. Will you help me tonight?”
Sarah got up off of the Love Seat and stood for a moment in silent agony. Finally, she responded to his pleading. Her reserve collapsed like the melting of a great iceberg. “God help me!” she breathed. “I will!”
After the guests had all departed – ushered out by the butler well before midnight – all was in preparation. Then midnight came. As Mackintosh took old Buncombe’s coat and hat, the butler slugged the old man with a lead paperweight, rendering him senseless. Then the conspirators all gathered around and carried him to the kitchen, where the operation began immediately.
Sometime toward morning it was all over. Sarah asked breathlessly, “Will he be all right? Will he live? He’s lost so much blood, Rance.”
“Yes, he’ll be all right. His hematoma count is rising; that’s a good sign. And now with this new wonder drug I’m going to give him, he’ll never remember this happened at all – in fact, he might lose his memory altogether.” Dr. Chutney’s eyes brightened at the thought.
“But won’t he notice he’s been reoperated on? I don’t understand. How can we get away with this? The paring knives–ugh! It’s madness!”
“No, it isn’t. Listen! While he is under the influence of P-202, I will give him a postoperative suggestion – and he won’t remember anything that’s happened. Sarah, oh Sarah, you’ve been such a brick through all of this. Let’s get married and have three kids; two boys and a girl, and settle down.”
“Yes, Rance, I accept. Two girls and a boy would be fine, if we could have maybe a small dog and a canary.”
They clung to each other in a shy but vigorous embrace while Dr. Chutney, with his free arm, continued to pump the supine, insensible Everett Buncombe ever more full of P-202. Imagine the scene–dear reader!–and join with me in an earnest prayer for their happiness. May all of their dreams come true!