Seemed he hadn’t figured that whole full time thing out himself. At least not then. That was to come later.
I also remember that there were some young writers there, my age, a little older in some cases, or a little younger, who wouldn’t give me the time of day. They treated my like a leper. I’ve never forgotten that. I don’t hate them for it, but somewhere in the back of my mind I made a little mark in a mental book, and that mark is still as darkly blood red and clear in my brain as the first day I made it. They knew not what they did. But I damn sure did.
Neal was different. I’ve never forgotten how kindly he treated a stranger who desperately wanted to make a career as a writer.
Bless you for that, Neal. You have no idea how encouraging that was then.
Neal gave me advice. Most of it simple and direct.
Keep doing it, and keep trying to do it better. This is really the only advice that matters.
It may not sound profound, but it was exactly what I needed at the time. It was nice to meet one of your heroes and find out they were as special as you hoped they would be.
A few years later I met Neal again, at AggieCon, and this time we really hit it off. Maybe it’s because I complimented his work again. Neal enjoys that sort of thing, and, he should.
His work is worth complimenting.
After that meeting, we not only became fast friends, I soon had the privilege of reading some of his works as they came out of his typewriter, via Xerox and mail. That’s how we did it in the old days.
It was a real treat to read stories and books by Neal before they were printed. It was great to spend time on the phone talking. We talked about everything under the sun, but mostly we talked about writing. Of course we met in person as often as possible, but we certainly burned those phone wires down, and faxed each other back and forth. In fact, one time Neal sent me a fax sheet with only a spot on it. It said, “Smell. Indian Food.”
He, who had introduced me to it, knew how much I loved Indian food, so he sent me the fax, called me a few minutes later.
He said, “Did you smell?”
“Yep,” I said. “Even though I knew better.”
“Knew you would,” he said, and hung up.
But the thing that is more important to me, even than the writing, good as it is, is Neal himself. We have been close friends for over thirty years. We’ve had ups and downs over this and that, but never any ups and downs where one of us fell off the seesaw. In the end, we were always there to balance each other out. We love each other as family.
Me and Neal, we’ve had some odd adventures together. We attract weirdness alone, but together, we seem to pull it out of the woodwork.
I adore Neal’s wit. I adore his honesty and loyalty. I adore that he sees curiosity in things other people take for granted, or think of as everyday. He is like a small child when it comes to that. And in many other ways. I think his wife will stand by that statement as well.
Like me, he loves animals. I adore that. I also adore that he adores his wife.
Hell, I love the guy. My whole family does.
And because of that, along with the fact I think he is a worthy recipient of this honor, I write this from the heart: I love you, Neal. I’m glad you are being honored in this way, and I’ve yet to forgive you for giving me a gift of a dollar bill torn in half.
GETTING DARK
Neal Barrett, Jr.
FROM THE AUTHOR: I chose this story for the collection because it came to me in one of those pleasant moments when a writer feels he’s truly done it right this time — that he’s pierced that barrier between the world that seems real, and that other state of being, the one we’ve feared all along.
I was a child growing up where “John-William’s mother” grew up, and during the very same years. I listened to the radio, read the funnies, and was deathly afraid of the dark. For me, that awesome, timeless moment between daylight and dark was, as John-William’s mother recalls, “like sorrow come to stay.” I also heard the same grandmother tales that frightened John-William’s mother, and carried many nightmare memories for years. I can’t say what was real and what wasn’t in John-William’s mother’s life, and very possibly she couldn’t either. But that’s the point here, isn’t it? I sincerely hope you enjoy the story, and thank you for the privilege of having it appear in this volume.
JOHN-WILLIAM’S MOTHER TURNS the water on low and peels carrots in the sink. Wet skins slick-slick quick off the cutter and stick in a huddle where they fall. This is what skins like to do. They like to huddle up, stick with their own kind. Peel a potato and a carrot in the sink, they won’t speak at all, they’ll bunch up with someone they know. Like nigger-folks and whites, thinks John-William’s mother. That’s what Jack used to say. One’s dark and one’s not. One’s that snake in the Garden, would’ve stuck it in Eve, but couldn’t figure how.
John-William’s mother drops carrots in a pot, puts the pot on the stove. Leaves the skins alone, leaves them where they fell. They look like bird tongues to John-William’s mother, cut-cut dagger tongues, curled up at the end. She thinks about birds, big old black birds, harelipped fat birds without any tongues. “
John-William’s mother peers out the screen door. The birds have black ruffle necks and glitter-green eyes. They perch on phone wires just behind the house. Birds in twos now, birds in threes, birds like notes on the music at Mama Sarah’s house. Note birds hop from one wire to the next. Hop down, hop up, up and down again. The birds play “Summit Ridge Drive,” play “Chatanooga Choo Choo,” and “Puttin’ on the Ritz.” When she hears those songs, John-William’s mother gets a tingle where a tingle shouldn’t ought to be.
“Not if you’re a lady,” giggles John-William’s mother, “not ’less you come from the Wilcher branch of the tree.”
The fan on the counter hum-hums to the left, hum-hums to the right, gives a little jerk and starts back again. John-William’s mother smells Camay soap and Lipton iced tea. Smells meatloaf and pepper and water on the stove. Flour and catsup and old coffee grounds. Summer sucks Oklahoma heat through the open screen door, mingles with the smells from inside. John-William’s mother draws damp hair off her neck, pins it up back. Her dress is stuck to her skin. She pulls at her collar, lets the breeze in. Lord God, too hot for underwear in August. Grandmas and aunts in Shawnee and Maud can keep their corsets and their buttons and their snaps. This is Oke City, and a girl can jiggle what she likes down here.
John-William’s mother peeks down for a look. They’re still down there, and still looking fine. You can say what you like about your big old melons, sagging on the vine when you’re still eighteen. There’s not a man living doesn’t have a liking for a grown-up woman’s got a pair of thirty-fours poking right up like happy puppy dogs.
John-William’s mother looks past her pretties, down past her tummy, feels a little shudder, feels a little warm start to grow, thinks, for an instant, why not leave the pot a’bubble, run back to bed and have a little tingle, who’s going to know? Blushes at the image like a movie show flicking in her head, raises the lid off the carrots, which don’t need checking at all…
…stops right there, holds the steamy lid in her hand, stops there and listens, hears it coming, hears it on the way, long before it gets there at all. Sets down the lid, drops her apron on a chair, kicks off her flats, and walks out the screen door. The steps are still warm. She pulls up her skirt, leans back against the door. If some old man gets a peek, well maybe she’ll let him have two.
There’s no wind at all, but it’s better out back than inside.
Still a little light, but the sky’s turning dull pewter-gray, turning dishwater blue, like the bottom of a worn-out
