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ARTISAN REVIEW
That's his business look, I thought, the overconfident ambience he loves
to create, as an edge. Without saying a word, I turned my back and
walked into the master bedroom and shut the door. I read my father's
story standing up.
It was in the first person. The narrator in the first three pages was a
boy of ten, and in the last three pages the narrator was now sixty years
older. The voice in both segments was perfectly believable. The piece was
intelligent, carefully blocked out, ironic and well done. I didn't dare sit
down; I read it again.
The young boy was a mischievous bully determined to challenge a
society that needs to be pushed around. "They expect it," the boy de–
cides, as he lies at will, cheats on tests and charms his victims.
The narrator becomes a valued advisor to the President. He tells how
he is honored each year for his intricate skills at lying and deception.
He
may even have once prevented a war.
He claims, "I am the natural result of the American Dream."
And he concludes, "How can someone like me ever be chastised or
jailed or not be absolutely necessary?"
Every word had a weight and meaning. There was passion in the
writing. It owed a lot to Hemingway and Sherwood Anderson. I read it a
third time and was still impressed.
It's for Charles, too, I thought angrily, but he'll never see it.
They all turned to face me when I came back. Margaret was now
loudly chewing gum. Laura rocked back and forth on the couch. Father
was flushed and attempting to judge my decision. He seemed uneasy and
I was glad.
"It's good, it's very good. I was surprised."
Laura clapped her hands softly.
"But you're not happy," father said grimly.
"It's not your story that's making me unhappy."
"But you have a problem, I can tell, damn it! What's wrong with it?"
"I just said it's first-rate."
"Should it be longer?"
"You could tell more. There could be a few more detailed scenes."
"Our teacher said if the voice is good, you believe it
all."
"I do believe."
"Then what do you want?"
"Dialogue, too, more dialogue."
Father stamped his feet on the carpet. He was very frustrated.
"It's probably publishable in a literary magazine," I said.
"Which one?"
