Chapter 1
I stared at the blinking cursor. It flashed on and off as if impatiently tapping its foot waiting for my next sentence. I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate. Tried to imagine. I envisioned a lonely street. No, that wasn’t right. Perhaps a dark beach with crashing waves. This wasn’t working. Although my apartment was dark and empty, the noise in my head was making productive thought impossible. I opened my eyes only to be greeted by the cursor.
On and off, on and off.
The blank page was the beginning of a sign, and I didn’t like it. I didn’t want to admit it, but it was as sure as daylight. It had been exactly two weeks to the day, and not a single word had come forth. Not one solitary sentence of imaginative dialogue, or any type of bone crushing suspense. The characters were in literary limbo, and were clamoring to return.
I closed the notebook and stood, stretching my legs and arms in the process. My agent had called twice in the same week, wondering where I was in my new novel. I had lied the first time, but in the second call, after she had spoken to my editor, I spilled the beans. Not one word. Nothing written for a novel that was due in six weeks. I could blame my stressing schedule. I could blame the fact that the publishing company expected book signings in twelve cities and a book in the process. I could blame my editor, for sending everything I write right back, with more red on it than an accounting sheet. I could even blame my agent, the one who recommended the contract I now had.
Writer’s block however was not anyone’s fault. It happened to the best and most seasoned of writers and usually came accompanied by migraines and lack of sleep. It was bound to happen. I was aware that my lucky streak had to come to an end.
My name is Alan Harbor, but definitely not by choice. I was once told that I was found at the train station terminal, wrapped in blankets with a full bottle of milk. That’s enough to ruin anyone’s life. Although I never knew my biological parents and spent the first few years of my life in an orphanage, growing up had not been so bad. A loving couple that needed a child in their lives adopted me and they became my parents. With them came renewed hope and possibility.
I was still young when the desire to write sparked in me. I had started my writing career right after college, writing an opinion column for a local newspaper. I began attempts at a novel on my third year with the column, and after several failures, finished my first one in about a year. Selling it was another story. Everyone that read it, including myself, thought it was a brilliant story. It was about a midsize family moving to a small town looking for peace, but finding a cult instead. A lot of suspense and filled with witty dialogue. About twelve agents didn’t think so. When the acceptance letter from my current agent arrived, I had all but given up on the idea of writing a novel. My desk at the newspaper began to look like home. After that it all became blurry. After several weeks, I received a proposal to publish the novel, and before I knew it, I was tied to a four book contract, city hopping with book signings and attending more black tie events than I knew occurred.
I wrote two more books in the last year and a half, with both of them hitting the New York Times bestseller list. The fourth was due in six weeks and if I wanted an extension to my contract I had to get it together. Which brought me to my current predicament.
The phone rang and I welcomed the noise.
“Hello?” I asked into the phone, hoping it wasn’t a telemarketer. I had to remember to get caller id.
“Alan. It’s Vada.” My agent. I rolled my eyes.
“Hi Vada. I’ve spoken to you today.”
“No attitudes Alan. They’re counterproductive.” My eyes could see the inside of my skull. “And don’t roll your eyes either.”
“Did you want something Vada, or is this a useless call.” I wanted the exasperation present in my voice. She ignored it.
“I spoke to Jeff from Union this morning, and they are willing to give you an extension.”
“Why?” I wondered what she had offered. My head on a lance, perhaps.
“Because, first of all I’m very persuasive,” I should have said something, but I bit my tongue. “And second no announcements have been made about your upcoming release. So pushing it back for them would not be a problem.”
“The fact that the last two sold well had nothing to do with it.” I could imagine the conversation in my head. Hello? Vada? Alan’s agent? Of course he can have an extension. Let me clear these stacks of money off my desk so I can check my schedule.
“Are you listening to me?” Vada’s voice interrupts.
“Barely”
“This is good news, Alan.” She paused for a response. I felt obligated.
“How long of an extension?”
“Two weeks,” she answered quickly, “but only if, you promise to have half of the manuscript ready by the halfway point.” I laughed. It was all I could think of doing.
“Oh well, they shouldn’t have gone all out like that.”
“Not now, Alan. You are under contract.” Right. Tell that to my inner editor.
“I know.” I rubbed my hair ferociously as she waited patiently on the line. “Thanks,” I mumbled. She was doing her job, I had to give her that. Maybe aggravating her wasn’t a good idea. Besides her pay depended on me keeping this contract. I would be calling me constantly too.
“All right.” She answered a little more cheery. “Back to work.” And she was gone. I wondered if she was that cheery all day. I could only imagine the special lot that worked at her office. I stared at the phone for a while before deciding to go for a run. Running had become therapy during college, when classes and grades got the better of me. I continued the practice for a number of years and only lately started neglecting it.
I changed from my pajama pants and bunny slippers into a pair of old track shorts and a grey pullover, grabbing a bottle of Evian before heading out the door. I stretched and filled my lungs with huge gulps of air. The skies were a lifted misty gray, with a light cool breeze blowing gently from the south. I started my trot going north on 3rd street, away from my building, towards the center of town. Oxford had not changed much in the past 15 years. Miss Sullivan still had her collectibles shop on Main St. The town clock was still sponsored by the local bank. Amish Tuesday still saw Locust Street closed for an outside afternoon market filled with fresh fruit and baked goods. A new shopping center to the north of town showed economic progress, but the beauty of the old town aura was still strong. You could smell it in the air.
The cool morning air hit my warm forehead forcefully, and I drained my mind of all thought. I needed to clear my head of all the deadline business and get down to writing this book. I needed a fresh perspective. A new set of characters. A new plot that would involve everyone it reached, and of course avoided all the known clichés. Before entering town, I turned left onto Hodgson Street and waved at the Porter kids as they played in their yard. Penn Avenue was coming up and even though I would normally avoid it, I instinctively turn right onto it. I slowed for a moment at the front gate, just enough to catch a glimpse of the house on the hill. It was an old Victorian, tall and proud, with a wide entrance and a wraparound porch. The house had been in the family since it was built, and although I owned it now, there it stood unoccupied. A flood of memories poured over me, and I quickened my pace.
They were not bad memories, for my time with Bill and Lori, my adoptive parents, I would never regret. The pain those memories now caused me came from the lack of their company. I can still remember that last night we all had dinner together. I had been back from college for about a year, and had found a place of my own, working locally with my column. Regular dinners with Mom and Dad were customary, and always filled with laughter. The last night I spoke to Dad, we were on the back porch, the same one I had sat in for almost every night in my eight years with them. We were sipping a cold one when he suddenly started laughing.
“What’s so funny?” I turned in my chair. He looked older and tired, the last few years taking a toll on him.
“Do you remember the first time I gave you a beer?” he said between chuckles. I smiled at the memory.
“Yeah.”
“I thought you were going to spit up all over the porch.” He laughed a little longer at the thought.
“Mom never knew about that did she?” I asked easing back into my chair.
“Your mother would have killed me.” He sat back with a satisfied look. He looked at me through the corner of his eye. “And she doesn’t need to know about it.” I smirked at him and raised my bottle to his. Silence filled the next few minutes before he spoke again.
The words that burned into my memory.
“Alan.”
“Hmm.”
“I wanted you to know how proud I am of you.” I turned to him and saw water in his eyes. His voice was low yet comforting, and he spoke in between long pauses, savoring every word, every sentence. “Everyone is put on this earth for a purpose. I’m glad you have found yours through your writing. You have been through so much in your life and yet you have been strong and found yourself. For that you should be proud, as we are proud of you.” He paused and played with the beer bottle in his hand.
“For a while, I didn’t know what my purpose was. But just the other night it came to me as I read your column. For some reason, you were led to us, Alan. Mom and me both know now why. This was our purpose.” I stood and found my shoes. I watched them intently for I couldn’t look at him. He stood and placed his arm around my shoulders.
“You are my purpose, son. I’m proud of you.” His words found the soft spot in me and I reached over for a hug. He was a good man, and I wanted to be just like him.
I caught myself on Locust Street past the center of town and passing 3rd Street into Cemetery Alley. I slowed to a walk and stopped in front of his headstone. It was simple and gray and easily overlooked. It was all that was affordable. William Harbor, purpose fulfilled it read, in his honor. I closed my eyes and re-imagined that night again. He had died later, after I had left. Mom called me at exactly 2:40 in the morning. I remember because all I could do was stare at my clock while she cried on the phone. I spent the night at the hospital by his side, crying like a baby. Regretting the lack of response to his comment earlier. Wanting to have back the opportunity to say goodbye, that had been shrewdly ripped away from me. One never realizes how unprepared you are for a loss, until it happens. We always expect to have a tomorrow. God, what I wouldn’t give to have it back. To have him back.
The run back towards the house included a stop at the post office, with nothing of interest in my box. I trotted up Penn Avenue and found myself standing in front of the gate again, toying with the keys in my pocket. A sign reading ‘Harbor House’ proudly hung above the gate. I had my reasons for not setting foot in the house, let alone live there. The memories hit me again like a semi, and I did an about face and continued up the street. I felt, one day I’ll be ready. Today just wasn’t it.
After the long walk, I arrived at my dark apartment. I showered, shaved and sat again in front of my notebook. After several frustrating minutes, I turned it off and stretched out on my sofa, falling asleep. I don’t remember how long I was out, but I do remember jolting upright at the banging on my front door.
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