Dear Wes,
I cannot possibly accept unagented manuscripts, because there are literally thousands of very interested potential writers out there and I do not have time to screen each of their work. What I meant in San Diego is that you have to have an agent in order to try to get EPIPHANY published. I know you met a number of them. The LMP is available in every library and on line and is the phone book of the publishing industry. I wish you the best of luck.
When I told her 'that was a catch 22'. she responded:
This is the chapter the Editor read.
The Box in the Attic
By Wesley Carrington Greayer
Author of The Tornado Struck at Midnight
(ISBN 1-59129-729-x)
(Availble at Amazon, B&N and your local bookstore)
And when the thousand years have expired, Satan
shall be loosed out of his prison, and shall go out to
deceive the nations which are in the four corners of
the earth, Gog and Magog, to gather them to battle:
the number of whom is as the sand of the sea.
(Revelation 20, 6,7)
Chapter I
On Tuesday, 21 May 1935, Adolf Hitler stood, glaring down at members of the German Reichstag. Pounding his fist on the lectern, he raved, "Whoever lights the torch of war in Europe can wish for nothing but chaos." It was the Biblical prophesy come true. From that day, sixteen-million American boys about to enter manhood, put their private lives on hold while the drama on the world stage played out. It would be ten years before the world would find peace again. In the war that followed fifty-five million lives were lost plus another 11 million were exterminated in the gas chambers of Auschwitz and other Nazi concentration camps throughout Europe. (Gypsies, political prisoners, homosexuals, blacks, Jews, mentally and physically disabled, and just about any human that Hitler did not deem worthy of living)
But . . . the true number of casualties were as the sands of the sea.
Halfway round the world, at the exact moment of Hitler's oratory, a rooster crowed, heralding the dawn and awakening Winfred C. Grant from a fitful slumber. The boy reached down to pet his dog, Nip, lying beside him on the bed. Nip, a black and white mutt was a mix of boarder-collie and a half-dozen other breeds. Winfred rolled out of bed and stretched. This day would test his mettle. The scar, where a hunter's misguided bullet grazed his forehead, showed white against his young, sunburned face. Stepping to a window, he looked eastward. Dark clouds on the horizon matched his mood. A low-rumble and bright flashes on the horizon, like distant gunfire, quickened his pulse. He saw nothing to crow about.
Pulling on a pair of cutoff trousers, he slapped Nip on the rump, and said, "Come on, old buddy, I see a storm brewing off Atlantic City; it's time to get moving."He hurried downstairs and out into the warm spring air with Nip by his side. Jogging across a cow pasture and hurdling a stream, he soon reached the top of a small mound that folks in these parts called Molly Pitcher Hill. Blood had spilled upon this soil. Shielding his eyes from the early morning sun, he gazed warily at a hawk swooping low overhead in slow, lazy arcs. The hawk's shadow, like a swastika, sped over the ground and panned across Winfred's face. A shudder ran down his spine as though he had stepped on his own grave. Fear pierced his heart. Winfred's boyhood dreams were full of ghosts and headless horsemen. Though devout Methodists,every week after church his family sat round a table and conducted a seance, and communed with the dead. Last night, before he fell asleep, he saw the Angel of Death standing at the foot of his bed. Terrified of the supernatural he shook off thoughts of witchcraft. He tried desperately to find a rational explanation for his qualms.
There must be a wounded critter hiding nearby.
Issuing a curt command, Winfred said, "Nip, heel."
The eerie feeling persisted.
Perhaps a snake or other wild creature is about to strike.
Withdrawing his knife from its scabbard he tested its edge against the stubble on his chin. A trickle of blood ran down his neck and chest. Grimacing, he pressed two fingers to the wound, wiped the blade on his pants and returned the knife to its sheath on his hip.
Not-yet fifteen he looked every-inch a man, his sunburned torso and legs offering an image of an Indian warrior stalking his foe. Winfred marched grim‑faced down the narrow trail leaving the imprint of his toes and the balls of his feet in the dust. No sound marked his passage, a habit formed from solitary years spent in the woods with Nip as his only companion.
Upstairs, in Winfred's home, his sisters, Ann and Beth lay in bed whimpering. A year and two years younger than Winfred, respectively, they had blue eyes, milk-white skin, and the prim, well-scrubbed look of young girls from a Jane Austin novel. The bright yellow, daisy-covered wallpaper on their bedroom walls contrasted with their mood.
"We may as well stop crying, Beth, there's nothing we can do about it."
Red eyed, Beth said, "But gee, shouldn't Mom and Dad have told us what was happening?"
"Why? So we could worry about it for six months. We've been on Relief for two years, for gosh sakes. If we had half a brain, we could have figured it out for ourselves."
Beth looked puzzled. "Tell me what's going to happen now. I'm not much good at figuring things out."
Ann walked to the window and raised the sash, letting in the spring breeze. "What Mom and Dad said. They have to sell everything at an auction to pay off our creditors."
"What are creditors?"
"Oh Beth! People we owe money, like the grocer who fed us for a year before Mom applied for Relief."
"Why did he do that?"
"Because he's a nice man and knew Dad would pay him someday, . . . I guess. Gee-whiz, how-the-heck do I know?"
"Where will we go?"
Exasperated, Ann said, "We'll move to New York. Mom must have a job, what else? After Dad lost his job in Kalamazoo, it was up to her. She was at Aunt Baby's in New York for over a month. We were so busy playing house, we never wondered why."
"Winfred runs things around here. Didn't he know? "
"Winfred is in a daze half the time. Never know if he's dreaming of playing Tarzan with Nip, or writing one of his poems. I'd like to kick him in the slats to wake him up. Dad's the one acting strange, sitting around every night with his head in his hands, weeping, while we kids clean up and put ourselves to bed."
"Glad I'm not Winfred."
"Yeah, poor guy."
"Why didn't he let Dad do it?"
"Guess he figures he has to be a man."
"Yeah. At least we're girls; we get to cry. "
Downstairs, in the billiard room, a Churchillian head sat atop a blacksmith's shoulders. This was Percy Grant, Winfred's father. The picture of John Bull, it was a picture that did not deceive. Born a Cockney, within the sound of Bow Bells, he had communed with spirits since he was a child. Though only a corn-chandler's son, he had read all the classics in the London library, and by the age of eighteen he was a self-taught engineer determined to become a country gentleman. In London, he debated politicks every Sunday in Hyde Park. Always dressed in a three-piece-suit with coat and vest, he placed a dollar in every pocket, including the four pockets in the vest; said he didn't want to 'disappoint the pickpockets'. Winfred felt his father was serious. His father never passed a beggar without sweetening the pot and in the NY subway his father always used two shoeshine boys; one for each shoe.
In 1925, Percy purchased twenty acres of land halfway between Spotswood and Jamesburg, in New Jersey, containing a small homestead called Bide a Wee Cottage. Then with hand tools and a missionary's zeal he transformed the cottage, brick by brick and joist by joist, into a modest Manor House. Filled with the wonder of creation, Percy never slacked his pace. He sang hymns while he worked and greeted each day with his favorite ballad.
(Author unknown)
Oh me father is a backer and he slaps along with me
Each morning in the wintertime he has to rise at three
And as he stands a'shiverin' a'puttin' his trewsers on
I bobs me head beneath the clothes and I begins to hon
Oh it's nice to get up in the morning,
When the sun is beginning to shine,
At four or five or six o'clock
In the good old summertime.
But, when the dew is dewing
And it's murky overhead,
Oh it's nice to get up in the morning,
But it's better to lie abed.
All this while Percy spoke to the spirits and their guidance made him an irresistible force, possessing the Midas touch. By 1928, when his modest three story mansion was complete, the Gods had smiled on him. He had made a fortune on the stock market and was able to hire servants to care for his estate. Fancying himself The Great Gatsby, he began throwing lavish weekend parties.
His prosperity lasted six-months at most. First the stock market crash in '29 wiped out his fortune. Then, after fifteen-years as Chief Mechanical Engineer of the Diamond Electric Company in Elizabeth NJ, he found himself jobless and penniless. When the electric company shut off their power, they were again reduced to kerosene lanterns, fetching water from a spring, and using an outhouse. Percy tried to carry on, living out of a suitcase for months at a time, and traveling to the far corners of the nation to find work, but, it was his wife, Rose, who delivered the coup de grace. Percy withdrew her letter from his inside coat pocket and read:
4 May 1935
Percy,
You may be happy to sit by the window communing with spirits and remembering your past triumphs while the house falls down around you, but I can wait no longer for you to recover your manhood.
I'm tired of living in the wilderness a mile from the nearest neighbor and three miles from a grocery store.
I'm tired of walking to town to call the doctor when the children are ill or wasting an entire day traveling to the dentist in New Brunswick whenever someone has a toothache.
I'm tired of fetching water from a spring, heating it on a kerosene stove, and hauling it upstairs to fill the tub for each person's bath.
I'm tired of washing clothes in a galvanized tub, drying them on a clothesline, summer and winter, and of ironing them with a flatiron heated on the stove.
I'm tired of making beds, preparing meals, cleaning house, burning trash, and feeding the animals. I'm tired of canning vegetables, of gathering berries, and of baking bread, pies, and cakes.
I'm tired of killing chickens, plucking feathers, and removing their heads, feet, and innards to prepare Sunday's dinner. Sit and mourn if you like, Percy, but I'm tired and I'm moving to New York with the children.
Rose.
Percy blew his nose on a freshly laundered handkerchief. While returning the letter to his pocket, he gazed wistfully out the window, tears leaking from his eyes . The Dukes' brand new 1935 Chevrolet, Mrs. Derby's old Model T, the Walters' 1930 Model A and several horse drawn wagons were parked under the maple trees on the front lawn. Children spilled out onto the Grant estate, followed by their parents, everyone eager to see how far the mighty had fallen.
The vultures are gathering. They've come to pick my bones.
A green-ribboned sunbonnet said, "Mr. engineer ain't so high-and-mighty now, him with his hoity‑toity accent, showin' off buying sodas for all the riffraff hangin' about at Kumka's Creamery."
A chin-high starched collar said, "Came plumb from New York by taxi. They'll not be leavin' that way."
Exhaling a cloud of smoke, Corncob pipe wheezed, "Weren't 'portant enough for their parties or playing on their tennis court. Strictly for their New York City guests."
Corncob junior said, "Looked out back Paw. Cain't find the tennis court now. All covered with weeds."
Sunbonnet huffed, "Those weekend guests with their Pierce Arrows, Stern's Knights, and Essex town cars are just memories now."
Mariner's beard scratched his chin. "Shouldn't gloat, but we farmers can still put vittles on our tables."
Parrot nose said, "His Mrs. never fitted in here. Hear tell she was raised in some South American country with servants and all. Sure got her comeuppance when she applied for Relief."
Sunbonnet said, "What else could she do? Had three young'uns to feed."
Mr. Sunbonnet cleared his throat and said, "Now, give her, her due, Maw. That Mr. of hers was too proud to apply for charity."
"Sunday-school teacher said, "Felt bad seeing that old man with his crooked leg pushing wheelbarrows full of cement on a WPA road gang. Hardly seemed right for such a dignified gentleman."
Handlebar-mustache laughed. "Whatever he gets ain't zactly charity. When all is said and done it's not likely he's earnin' five-cents an hour on the WPA."
High-collar said, "Hold on there. May be slave labor but we're paying for it. My income taxes jumped to twelve-dollars last year."
Mariner's beard said, "Thinks he's a Senator or somethin', always dressed in a three-piece suit and tie, even when he's pushin' that wheelbarrow of cement."
Train-conductor said, "Sakes alive, give the man credit. Only man with book learnin' in these parts. Went door to door getin' signatures for that petition. Stopped Penn Rail cold. Would be no trains in this town a'tall, otherwise. No one could've done it 'ceptin' him."
Black Derby looked pensive. "Felt real sorry for him last Christmas Eve. Was clumping home on that gimpy leg through two foot snow drifts, carrying an axe and dragging a small spruce for their Christmas tree. Looked plumb wore out." Derby took off his hat and wiped the sweat band with his red kerchief. "Gave him a lift. When I dropped him at his front door, he thanked me and asked if I'd give him three nickels for his pocket watch. Wanted his kids to have something Christmas morning besides the string of popcorn his wife decorated the tree with."
Sunday school teacher said, "They're precious chiren. Memorized their catechism like little angels. Earned their Bibles for perfect attendance at Sunday school."
A purple dress with a large brimmed hat placed her hand alongside her mouth and whispered, "Hear tell they're devil worshipers."
Anxious to confirm the rumor, parrot-nose said, "My Ambrose followed them home from church one Sunday. Peeked through a window and saw them sit round a table, join hands, and sing hymns with their eyes closed. The table began a'rockin' and Mr. Grant started speaking to the dead. My Ambrose skedaddled right home, white as a ghost."
Ducking under the limb of an oak tree, Winfred entered a small clearing in the surrounding wilderness. Red faced and dripping with perspiration, Mr. Schmidt was cutting logs into two‑foot lengths with a bucksaw. He said, "Looks like somethin's frettin' you, Winfred."
"Need to borrow your twenty‑two rifle, Sir, if I may?"
Mr. Schmidt placed another ten‑foot log on the sawhorse, and continued his long, easy strokes with the bucksaw. It was May, but menfolk often cut wood over the summer months. It took five cords of oak and a cord of pine to see them through the winter. They worked outdoors from sunup through mid-afternoon. The New Jersey mosquitoes owned twilight.
"You're no hunter, Winfred. Gunter often asks you pheasant huntin'. You always refuse."
Winfred made no response. Nip flushed a rabbit and gave chase. Winfred's sharp whistle brought him back quickly. Reaching down, Winfred grabbed Nip's muzzle playfully, and said, "Good boy."
A newscaster's voice cackled from Mr. Schmidt's huge radio, powered by two six‑volt automobile batteries propped on a sawhorse, nearby. Reaching for the volume knob, he muttered, "Damn noise."
He turned off the voice prattling on about Franklin Delano Roosevelt's latest Fireside Chat. Giving Winfred a knowing look, he said, "Anythin' I can help you with, Winfred?"
Winfred grimaced. "No. He's my friend."
Mr. Schmidt laid his saw aside and unlocked the shed. "Sure you don't need the twelve‑gage?"
"No Sir. Couldn't use a shotgun."
Mr. Schmidt opened a chest filled with ammunition boxes and guns of various sorts. Withdrawing a twenty-two rifle, he ran his palm down the barrel. After checking the magazine, he handed Winfred the empty gun. "How many shells?"
"One, Sir."
Mr. Schmidt reached back, retrieved a shell and handed it to Winfred.
"Thank you, Sir."
Winfred marched off with the gun cradled in the crook of his left arm. Winfred jammed the shell into his hip pocket next to the fifteen cents Mrs. Brush had given him. Yesterday, before sundown, he had earned ten cents for stacking a cord of wood for Mrs. Brush. Mrs. Brush wrote short stories for Collier's and read all Winfred's poetry. She liked Winfred; felt he should be a writer. Always gave him a nickel extra, saying, "Winfred, promise you'll save this for college."
As he entered a cornfield, Winfred recalled the first time he stumbled into that magic place. I was four and we'd just moved to Spotswood. Corn-silk perfume filled the air and a gentle breeze rippled the cornstalks. The swishing blades whispered a song to me. Sunlight filtering through created hypnotic patterns of dancing light and shadow on the undulating hills and furrows of my enchanted land.
Mother had just read us Alice in Wonderland and I felt I had walked through the looking glass. Then I happened upon a group of pumpkins growing among the cornstalks and was sure of it. Can still feel the thrill as I selected the largest pumpkin I could carry and lugged it back home. Couldn't wait to see Mom's face when I gave her my treasure. Mother lauded her brave little man. I was in heaven.
Winfred laughed. Then, God lowered the boom. There was a loud banging on the front door and an irate farmer demanded payment for my thievery. I plunged from heaven straight into purgatory. Felt I'd committed a mortal sin.
He charged a king's ransom for my innocent blunder, too. It was unjust of Mother to make me pay the farmer's demand from my meager hoard. Mom said I was being taught a lesson. Some lesson. She got the pumpkin and I was branded a thief.
Winfred's mother, Rose, sat in the potting shed, gazing vacantly at the broken pots. Her diminutive stature, delicate features, and sleight build belied her strength, stamina, and iron will. She had the proud look of the aristocracy, and her swarthy complexion, dark brown eyes, and black hair reflected her Portugese-Madeiran ancestry.
Rose fretted at how easily duped she was.
When I met Percy, it seemed my dream come true. He took me everywhere by taxi: the museums, the Metropolitan Opera, all the Broadway plays, and Carnegie Hall. We dined at the best restaurants, and he tipped lavishly including the head waiter and the Maitre d'. With his cultured British accent and free spending ways, he charmed me and my entire family. But, after our three children were born, he deposited me here in the wilderness so he could realize his childhood dream. We worked like Coolies. When the hard work finally paid off, we became the envy of Middlesex County. It was wonderful.
Then the Stock-Market crash plunged us from luxury to poverty. Too proud for charity, Percy kept up appearances by going into debt. We lost everything.
I had to go into the city to find work. It was terrifying. I'd been taken care of all my life. Now I know what our servants felt like, kowtowing to our every wish, but I took control. Thank heaven ladies in Trinidad learned to make their own clothes. Ten‑dollars a week isn't much, but we'll get by until Percy gets a job.
Rose sighed as she thought about her predicament. She got up and looked out the window.
Hope the children will be all right. They've never even seen a newspaper, except that one Percy brought home from the city about Lindbergh flying the Atlantic. Winfred still has it tacked to his bedroom wall. Says he'll soar like an eagle, one day. Poor dear, he's such a dreamer.
Rose put her hand to her forehead as she continued to reminisce.
The girls have one-another, but Winfred is on his own. Sometimes I feel we push him too hard. He's so tall and grown up I forget he's just a child. With Percy only coming home on weekends, Winfred has been the man of the house. He's been my little man since he was six. I don't know what I would have done without him. Ann says he's so serious, his classmates call him grandpop. She shook her head. Grandpop, that can't be good. Breaks my heart that he wouldn't allow Percy to do 'it'. Oh well, tomorrow we'll be in New York and he'll get a new start on life.
With Nip at his heels, Winfred bounded through a field of knee‑high, golden, wild rye. Whirling around quickly, he hugged Nip to his chest playfully and rolled about in the hayfield. When Winfred freed Nip, the old dog ran around like a puppy, he was so happy.
Entering a small forest bordering the West side of the pasture, Winfred closed his eyes and breathed in the musky smell of oak and pine and decaying vegetation. This was his favorite wood. He'd grown up among these trees, beside this river. He came here to dream, and to pray. After today he'd never return.
Winfred dug the shell from his pocket and gazed at it. Grimacing, he inserted the shell in the magazine and propped the gun against a tree. He watched Nip rolling about scratching his back. Nip was a wild dog, a dog of the forest. Winfred recalled how he and Nip became friends.
"I chased you many times, boy, but you always vanished, like a ghost."
Winfred scowled. "One day, on this very spot, I found a ball of black fur covered in blood and left for dead by a hunter who had shot you full in the face with a load of buckshot."
He slapped Nip on the rump, playfully. "Nursed you back from dead, didn't I fella."
Nip looked up and licked Winfred's hand.
"No need to thank me, boy, you've repaid me a thousand times. You're my true friend, aren't you, Nip? sitting in the middle of the road every day waiting for me to return from school."
Nip wagged his tail.
"Since that day you've never left my side except to chase every car that happens down our road. Thought I'd lost you that day you got ahead of yourself and let that fool-car run you down. But, you're a tough little bugger. You pulled through."
Winfred got up and brushed the seat of his trousers. "Now just lie there, Nip, and take it easy, I've got work to do."
Winfred was well prepared for his ordeal. His schooling had begun early. He was only three, when he had broken his toy and was on the verge of tears when he heard his father's voice, like the voice of God, booming down from above.
"Winfred, be a man. Men don't cry."
Winfred didn't cry. He was too terrified to cry. He never cried, not even on this day. Winfred withdrew his hunting knife from its scabbard and loosened the soil at the base of the tree. He dug deep, scooping out the soft, loamy earth with his hands. Carefully, he lined the bottom of the pit with twigs and moss, making a soft bed. When he finished, he said, "OK Nip, help me find some rocks."
Winfred picked up an eight‑inch bolder and set it on the ground in front of Nip. "Help me find this kind."
Nip sniffed at the rock. Then they ran along the riverbank, gathering a huge mound of boulders. Winfred carried them back to the tree and piled them alongside the pit. Now he was ready.
Sitting at the base of the tree with Nip on his lap, Winfred poured out his lament to his friend. "Oh, God, will I ever learn to expect nothing but pain in this life? Mom raised us on fairy tales and Bible stories. Filled our heads with sugar and spice: the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow; they lived happily ever after; Santa Claus will come on Christ's birthday and reward all good little children. Nothing seemed too far‑fetched to us kids. If Christ fed the multitude on two fish, surely Santa could zip around the world on Christmas Eve and fill the stockings of all good little girls and boys.
"When I was six, I tried so hard to be good. For months, I got up at dawn and did my chores: hoed weeds in the garden, cleaned the rabbit hutch, left them fresh water and carrot greens, fed the chickens, and checked the outhouse for toilet paper. Then I sat here, by the river, with you, Nip, and the Sears Roebuck catalog, dreaming of baseball bats, outfielders' gloves, and electric trains. Christmas morning I dashed downstairs with my heart full of hope. I got a white handkerchief, . . . an orange, and . . . a nickel.
"I'm sorry, old friend, but the bank has repossessed our home and we're moving to the city. You're a wild dog, Nip, you'd never be happy there." Winfred patted Nip on the head, and said, "This is Christmas morning, Nip, and we have to say goodbye. Our fairy tale is over and I have to set you free."
As Nip looked up with . . . blind, . . . trusting eyes,
Winfred placed the muzzle of the gun on Nip's temple
and sent a 22 caliber bullet crashing through his skull.
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