by Suzanne Nielsen

“'There had been something hateful about their very first meeting,' is how you start your novel?” I flip to the end in search for an epiphany, a resolution, or a hint of remorse. He grabs the book out of my hands and says, “You want Pollyanna, write your own goddamn novel.” This is the gracious courtesy I get upon completion of his book. The book I co-wrote.

Ernest always wanted me to pretend I knew less than I let on. Truth be told, the hate started long before our very first meeting upon reading his first novel. The night he came to White Bear Lake under the guise of research I knew the town was in for a drought. I knew his pen would spill over into the waters and leave its poisonous stains on all those who had worked so hard to establish ritual and reputation. A writer can do that to a township. I know. I’ve been afflicted.

So when he came, wearing his two-ton ego and carrying his tap-dancing typewriter, I got busy. I warned the mayor. From there, I went to Myra, the easy mark widow, and told her to charge him double for her rooming house.

I lived secluded on Manitou Island, editing The Town Crier, our local daily paper. Some say I was a busybody. I just reported the news, tried to keep the “ill-informed” interested in precautionary measures. Most people never read what I had to say, or, if they did, their insidious complaints flowed in like fan mail to my P.O. box and I posted them on my wall as dart targets.

Ernest resided in the house on the hill with Myra for 18 weeks, until he drafted, revised and sent off his novel to Manor Books for publication. During that time he made three trips to Manitou Island to visit me. Once was for an interview for the Crier. The other two times were personal. I wasn’t Pollyanna, or he Mr. Pendleton. To say there was energy between us is an understatement -- more like fireworks that ended in explosion. I fed him every last detail for that book, created the plot, developed the characters and thought of the title. He bellowed the beginning and harbored the ending.

I yank the book out of his arthritic hands and turn to the last page. “'The heart knoweth its own bitterness and all the days of the afflicted are evil…' Ha! You copy Rossetti who copies the Proverbs?” I am beside myself. He is full of Christ and thinks Christ is full of him. I make a crown of thorns out of the roses he’s given me gone dead in the vase still on my desk and slip them on his head. “If you quote, quote this: 'The heart knows its own bitterness and joy; he will not share these with a stranger.'”

“Write your own novel,” he says.

“I did,” I tell him. “But it’s got your goddamn name on the cover.”

<<>>