The first time the story came back Ed's feet
were covered with liquid laundry detergent. If he had ever learned to
lift with his legs this situation might have been avoided, but he hadn't,
so he'd strained his back Sunday afternoon carrying around giant sacks
of planting mix, and when his father forgot to tighten the cap on the
detergent Ed couldn't bend down and was reduced to dropping paper towels
on the floor and swirling them around with his feet.
When the doorbell rang Monday around noon, interrupting
his cleanup ordeal, Ed tiptoed to the front door, trying to leave the
smallest possible blue spots on the carpet. His letter carrier Rose
was at the door, needing a signature for a registered package containing
some Bahamian proof coins Ed had ordered. He signed, received the package
and the rest of the mail, and pushed the door shut with his foot, leaving
a lovely blue toeprint on the door panel. He put the mail down and went
to the laundry closet to finish cleaning up the mess.
Ed had always managed to live at least a thousand
miles from his parents. When they had retired to Florida a couple of
years previously, they said he could live in the house he had grown
up in. He had been wanting to move back to his hometown but had been
discouraged from doing so by his parents' proximity, so this worked
out perfectly. But a few weeks ago Ed's father had gotten on a plane
and shown up on Ed's doorstep, saying he had become a burden to Ed's
mother. Ed's mother concurred. Initially dubious about his father's
return, Ed quickly discovered he got some sort of weird kick out of
living with him. It was like occupying a dormitory with a peculiar but
lovable roommate. He truly enjoyed having his father around, even when
the old man did stuff like forget to tighten the top of the detergent.
It took a whole roll of paper towels, but finally
the mess was gone. The floor in the laundry closet was still vaguely
slick, but Ed decided it could wait until he was able to bend at the
waist. He managed to run some water in the bathtub and rinse his feet,
then shuffled back out to the living room and picked up the mail. The
front door opened. Ed's father came in from his afternoon walk.
"We had a mess, Dad. You forgot to tighten the
cap on the laundry stuff," Ed said.
"Hah?" his father said. Ed repeated himself.
"So we'll clean it up. It's just soap," his father
said. "It's not food. You won't die." These six words were his father's
stock answer when a problem arose, well-honed after years in the furniture
business calming down customers whose sofas were late.
Satisfied with his contribution to the conversation,
Ed's father dropped into his vinyl recliner and turned on his soap opera.
Ed returned to the mail. An envelope addressed in his own handwriting
came to the top, and for a moment he couldn't figure out why this should
be. Then he remembered the story.
Ed had taken a creative writing class at the
University and had come up with a short story called "The Leaves of
Winter" he thought might be worthy of publication. He had sent it to
something called The Eastbridge Review. Rather than include an
oversized envelope for them to return the manuscript he assumed would
be rejected, he had taken advantage of a tip he'd gotten in class, and
enclosed a business size stamped, self-addressed envelope and marked
his manuscript as disposable. That envelope had finally made its way
back to him.
He tore it open and withdrew the single sheet
within. It was a form letter saying that they were sorry, but the story
did not meet their needs at the current time, and to please view this
as a rejection of his story, not him. The story had been gone so long
he had almost forgotten about it, and Ed went into his bedroom to see
when he had sent the manuscript off. The Eastbridge Review had
had "The Leaves of Winter" for three months or so.
That night Ed reread the story, rewrote a section
and made a few other improvements, and prepared it to go out to a publication
called Arcadian Letters. He was unsure why he felt compelled
to do all this work when he couldn't even sit, but he managed to get
it done standing up by placing his computer keyboard on top of an empty
cardboard carton and tilting the monitor. He put the nine by twelve
envelope by the door so he would remember to mail it on his way to work
in the morning. One day of sick time was all he could afford to take.
The next morning the submission was gone. "Dad,"
he said, "did you see a big manila envelope by the door?"
"I took it."
"You took it where?"
"I took it with me."
"You took it with you where?"
"I took it with me on my morning walk."
"And now where is it?"
"Gone."
"Gone where?"
"Gone to whoever it was going to. I mailed it.
Wasn't I supposed to?"
"Yes, Dad, you were supposed to. Thanks."
"And, anyway," Ed's father said, "it's not food."
"I won't die," Ed said.
Ed stood on an empty bus that morning, then managed
to get most of his work done standing up by using the top of a file
cabinet as a work surface. The next morning his back felt a little better,
it continued to improve daily, and by Saturday he felt up to a little
work in the garden. When he walked into the back yard, he discovered
someone had finished the planting that had been so rudely interrupted
the previous Sunday, and had done a fine job of it.
"Did I do okay?" his father asked from inside
the house.
While Ed was growing up he had never seen his
father do the smallest bit of gardening. But everything looked perfect.
"You did great, Dad," Ed said.
Over the next month or so, Ed's back returned
to full strength, and together with his father he continued the springtime
yard rejuvenation. He fiddled around with a couple of other stories,
but nothing seemed to flow the way "The Leaves of Winter" had. He was
eager to see what Arcadian Letters thought of his story, but
they promised a three to four month response, so he didn't expect to
see anything for quite some time.
But he was wrong. He got home from work one afternoon
and nearly knocked down his father, who was standing right inside the
door. "You got a letter from Maine. Who do you know in Maine?" his father
asked.
Ed didn't think he knew anyone in Maine, but
he made the connection when his father handed him the envelope. "That
was fast," he muttered as he ripped the envelope open. Inside was a
form rejection from Arcadian Letters, but written on the bottom
were the words "Very nice. Please try us again," and then the signature,
"E.J. Davenport, Editor."
Ed's initial reaction was indignation. If it
was "very nice," why had they rejected it? But then he realized there
were dozens of reasons why E.J. Davenport could have liked it but been
unable to publish it. It would have been nice if good old E.J. had mentioned
which one applied, but it was academic at this point. Ed felt "The Leaves
of Winter" was a good story and could get published somewhere. That
belief was reinforced by a rereading. After checking and finding the
story had been returned in about six weeks, he made a few small changes,
printed a new copy, and decided to send it to Alberta Literary Magazine.
Since that was a Canadian publication, he enclosed a self-addressed
envelope and an international reply coupon left over from some proof
coin inquiries. Ed and his father walked down to the post office and
mailed the story. Total time from rejection to next submission: one
hour and twenty minutes.
Suddenly excited by his literary endeavors, Ed
decided to splurge and take his father out to dinner. Ed asked him where
he wanted to go, and fifteen minutes later they were at the Steak Factory.
At the salad bar, Ed's father told him the plastic shield was called
a sneeze guard. He did this every time they were at a salad bar. Ed's
father ordered his steak medium but it arrived very rare. He sent it
back; when it returned it was only slightly less pink. Ed feared some
sort of a scene, but his father calmly began eating. Seeing the questioning
look on his son's face, he said, "It's just food. I won't die."
Ed and his father got along famously in the weeks
that followed. Ed briefly thought about somehow effecting a similar
reconciliation with his mother, than realized the prospects for that
were dim. His mother was permanently convinced her son was hopeless
because he had changed jobs twice in the fourteen years since he graduated
from college. She felt this failure to "grow up and settle down" was
due to her husband's influence, even though Ed's father had only had
two jobs between his military service and his retirement.
One afternoon Ed got a call from his father.
"Who do you know in Canada?" his father asked.
In Canada? He didn't know anyone in Canada. He
ordered proof coins from Canada, but he had already gotten that year's
set. He shouldn't be getting any mail from Canada, unless . .
.
"Open it, Dad. Read it to me."
Ed tapped his pencil on his desk while listening
to the envelope being opened by his father's slightly arthritic fingers.
It took longer than Ed thought it should have, but eventually his father
said, "At the top, it says 'Alberta Literary Magazine.'"
So soon? It's been less than three
weeks. "And then what?"
"'Dear Contributor,'" his father continued. "'Thank
you for sending your story to us.' You sure you don't want to read it
yourself when you get home?"
"Yes, Dad, I'm sure. Please go on." A few months
ago he would have yelled at his father for delaying. He listened to
the recitation, tossing the pencil on his desk when he heard the words
"unable to use." Finally his father said, "And then there's a signature.
Mary something."
"And that's it?"
"That's the end of the letter."
"Oh."
"Do you want me to read the stuff at the bottom?"
"What stuff at the bottom?"
"The stuff at the bottom of the letter. They
wrote it by hand. I don't think it's part of the letter, because the
letter is typed and the stuff isn't."
"Dad, how do you figure that? Never mind. Please
read me the stuff that's not part of the letter."
"Okay, here goes. 'Mr. Cartwright. This is really
quite a lovely story. Unfortunately, we have decided to feature only
Canadian writers from now on, and so I have to return it. Best of luck
-- I'm sure you'll get it placed somewhere soon.' Then there's an M
and another letter I can't make out."
Ed thanked his father and hung up. Mary something
had used the word "lovely" in conjunction with the story. And she sure
had sent it back quickly. When he got home he checked and found "The
Leaves of Winter" had been out nineteen days. He reread it and could
find only a few words here and there to improve. He printed a new copy
and sent it to a magazine called Contingent.
The next morning Ed's father announced he was
going to fly to Florida to visit Ed's mother. Two days later the shuttle
took him to the airport. Over the next several days Ed realized he missed
having the old man around, and felt guilty for hoping his parents wouldn't
reconcile.
Late Monday morning his father called him at
work. "Come pick me up," he said.
"Pick you up where?"
"Pick me up at the airport."
"The airport here?"
"Of course the airport here."
"Why are you at the airport here?"
"I can't stand her anymore. She can't stand me
either. She can't stand you either. You can stand me, right?"
"Of course I can stand you, Dad."
"Good. Come pick me up then."
"I don't have a car, Dad, remember?"
"So borrow one."
"From who?"
"Do I know?"
"Take the shuttle, Dad."
"Are you sure you can stand me? Sounds like you
can't stand me."
Ed borrowed a car and picked his father up. When
they got home, there was an envelope in the mailbox. In the upper left
corner the word CONTINGENT and an address were rubber-stamped. With
his father looking over his shoulder, Ed ripped the envelope open and
read the hand-written note within:
Dear Mr. Cartwright,
The good news is that I think "The Leaves of
Winter" is a wonderful story. I seldom see pieces with as much depth
and clarity. I would absolutely love to print it.
The bad news is that due to circumstances beyond
my control Contingent will no longer be published. I suggest
you try Avery Journal. I attended graduate school with Mark
Trent, the editor there, and I know his taste is quite similar to
mine.
Best of luck.
Sincerely yours,
Cecilia Shoemaker
That evening, Ed rushed to prepare his submission
to Avery Journal. This time he didn't change a word. Before he
ran out to the post office, he checked and discovered it had only been
nine days since he had sent the story to Contingent. With the
response times getting shorter and shorter and the reactions better
and better, he felt very confident of soon placing his tale. Once again
he took his father to the Steak Factory and once again he learned about
the sneeze guard. Again they screwed up his father's steak order and
again the old man took it good-naturedly.
On Wednesday Ed came home and found his father
had gone out to the nursery, bought a miniature lemon tree, and planted
it in the yard. He had found Ed's old red wagon in the garage and pulled
the tree home in it.
On Thursday Ed's father added an orange tree
and a tangerine tree. He had to make two trips with the wagon.
On Friday Ed's phone rang. "Marketing, Cartwright,"
Ed said.
"Eddie?"
"Oh, hi, Dad. Need some help picking out another
tree?"
"You got another skinny envelope. You want me
to open it?"
"Yes." Ed waited slightly impatiently while his
father slowly did so. When he heard his father pick up the phone again,
Ed said, "Dad, I appreciate your calling me about these envelopes, and
it's okay if you want to open them before you call."
"Okay, Eddie, if you say so. Do you want me to
read the letter?"
"Please, Dad."
"Okay, I'm starting now. It's just a little sheet
of paper. At the top is printed 'From the desk of Susan Trent' and then
the rest is handwriting. 'Mr. Cartwright -- Thanks for sending your
story. My husband Mark had a skiing accident and broke both arms and
a leg' -- the poor guy -- 'and he has to put Avery Journal on
hiatus for a while. I am going through his stack of submissions to let
people know what's happened to their stories.' Sounds like a nice lady.
Too bad she's married already."
"Is there any more?"
"Yes. It says, 'I just want you to know that
I read your story and it made me cry.' Then it says 'S.T.' Again with
the initials?"
Ed promised to explain later and hung up. He
puzzled over the swiftness of the reply. If this woman was dealing with
a husband with three broken limbs, as well as a huge pile of submissions,
how had she gotten his reply back to him in four days, including transit
time both ways?
But the story had made her cry. He hadn't even
dreamed of moving people like that with his writing. He had to get the
story out again, but he was running out of places to send it. His next
best choice was something called Pages. He sent the story to
them on Saturday morning, and he and his father spent the afternoon
sprucing up the orchard in the back yard.
On Monday, Ed was sitting at his desk eating
lunch when the phone rang. He said, "Marketing, Cartwright," and his
father said, "Mailroom, also Cartwright."
"Very funny, Dad. What's up?"
"It came back again."
"What came back again?"
"Your story with the leaves."
How could that be? There was no mail delivery
Sunday, so Pages shouldn't have even gotten it yet. Maybe the
post office had returned it.
"Dad? Is it the big envelope I mailed? Or a little
one addressed to me?"
"A little one addressed to you. And it's not
really your story with the leaves, it's a letter from the people you
sent it to. I already opened it like you said and I already read it,
so I'm not going to read it to you, but I'll tell you what it says.
It says it's the best story they ever read and they would really like
to print it but they don't want to because it would make everything
else they have look so bad. And this time the person that wrote the
letter used his whole name. Okay, I have to hang up now because it's
time for my soap. Bye."
"Bye-bye, Dad."
As soon as he got home from work, Ed printed
another copy of the story, stuffed it in a nine by twelve envelope with
a cover letter and a self-addressed stamped envelope, and sent it off
to Somerset Quarterly, whom he vaguely remembered once hearing
about in a semi-positive tone. He dropped it in the mailbox at 6:35,
noting the last pickup had been at 5:15.
The phone rang Tuesday the same time it had on
Monday. Ed picked it up and said, "Hi, Dad."
"Hello, Eddie. Do you want to hear what they
have to say?"
"Why not?"
"They say they know your story is the best they'll
ever get so there's no point in ever looking at more so they're shutting
down their magazine."
"Oh. Thanks, Dad. Isn't it time for your soap?"
"Sure is. Bye."
"Bye-bye, Dad."
When Ed got home, he printed off yet another
copy of "The Leaves of Winter" and sat there wondering what to do with
it. He sat for two hours -- his father brought dinner in to him -- and
then got a brainstorm. He had been too limiting. He had only been considering
small press publications. If the story was as good as everyone said,
why not send it to a commercial magazine? He chose The Monthly,
wherein several famous writers had gotten their starts. By the time
he got his submission together, it was too late to go out to mail it,
not that it really seemed to matter when he did so.
He swung by the post office Wednesday morning,
on his way to the bus stop. Later, his office phone rang at the usual
time. Ed picked it up. "What did they say?"
"They said your story was to die for but they
were bought by some big company and they weren't going to put out fiction
anymore but were turning into a fashion magazine."
"Oh. Makes sense to me. Thanks, Dad. Bye."
Ed was out of markets, but only for a little
while. His copy of Modern Writer had also come in the mail that
day, and while idly leafing through it in bed he found a blurb that
said Fiction, the oldest, most respected magazine in the field,
was for the first time accepting unsolicited submissions from unknown
writers.
He got up early Thursday and got his story ready,
then walked to the post office and mailed it. He was halfway from there
to the bus stop when he realized he'd forgotten his lunch. He went back
to get it and found an envelope in the mailbox. A rejection slip from
Fiction was within. It said:
Dear Mr. Cartwright,
Your piece was most moving and the entire editorial
staff enjoyed it immensely. In fact, it was so realistic that we unanimously
agreed it could not be fiction, but must instead be a memoir of events
that actually happened. True to our name, we only publish fiction,
and therefore must regretfully reject "The Leaves of Winter." May
I suggest you submit it to a publication that features essays?
Sincerely yours,
A. Harwood Wilkie
Senior Editor
That was it as far as Ed was concerned. He couldn't
handle another bizarre rejection. "The Leaves of Winter" was going to
stay in his computer forever.
He took his father to the Steak Factory that
night and went through the sneeze guard routine. This time, however,
they got his father's steak right, and when it arrived his father looked
at his meal, looked at his son and said, "It's just food. But it's good
food."
Still upset about the story the next morning,
Ed decided to treat himself to a rare lunch away from his desk. He put
his brown bag in the company refrigerator and went to the Burritory.
By the time he returned he was about ready to put the whole story thing
behind him. The telephone rang.
"Marketing, Cartwright."
"Hello, Eddie. Guess what."
Well, I know one thing it isn't. "What?"
"You got an envelope."
"I got an envelope."
"Yes. I tried to call you when I always do but
you weren't there. Then I had to watch my soap."
"I went out to lunch, Dad. What's in the envelope?"
"It's about the story with the leaves."
"It is?"
"I just said it was, didn't I? Do you want to
know what it says?"
"Please tell me."
"Up at the top it says 'From the Editor's Desk'
and then it says 'Dear Mr. Cartwright, "The Leaves of Winter" is a fine
story and we would be most honored to publish it in our next issue.
If this is acceptable, please let us know and we will make the necessary
arrangements. Thank you for thinking of us.' Then there's some initials
I can't make out. What's with these people with the initials?"
"Who's it from, Dad?"
"Let me see it doesn't say
on the letter. But their address was on the envelope. Wait, let me get
it out of the garbage."
While his father retrieved the envelope, Ed tried
to figure out who he would have sent his story to next. No one came
to mind. But it didn't matter; the envelope would tell him, and then
he could mail the manuscript off so they could send the response he'd
already gotten. He briefly wondered whether he should include his acceptance
in the same envelope as his story, then figured that would probably
throw things out of whack.
His father got back on the phone. "I threw out
the envelope."
"Dad, I figured that out when you said you were
getting it out of the garbage."
"You're such a smartie. Do you remember that
time I spilled the laundry stuff?"
"I guess so. Dad, what's the return address?"
"That's what I'm trying to tell you. I did it
again. But I cleaned it up myself this time. After I watched my soap."
"Good. What's the return address?"
"I cleaned it up with paper towels. I put the
paper towels in the garbage. On top of the envelope. The whole address
ran."
"Oh."
"The postmark, too."
"Oh."
"I'm sorry, Eddie. I guess I screwed up."
"Dad, nobody screwed up."
"I'm sorry, Eddie. If you'd been there at the
regular time the paper towels wouldn't have been on top of the envelope."
"I know, Dad. Dad?"
"What, Eddie?"
"It's okay," Ed said. "It's just a story. It's
not food. I won't die."
This story appeared in The 1995 SPGA Showcase, an anthology put
out by the Small Press Genre Association. Copyright © 1996 Nathan
Walpow.
