Butterfly in the Typewriter (37 page)

Thelma was now alone in the house on Hampson Street. She had a modest income from investments, life insurance, and her husband's veteran's benefits. She had stayed busy all her life, taking on project after project. But her days of directing variety shows were long gone, and her decreased mobility made teaching classes difficult. One day she opened the box on top of the cedar armoire that contained her son's manuscript. It occurred to her that there might be hope for him, yet. She held in her hand the testimony of his genius. He had submitted it to only one publisher. Certainly someone else out there would recognize the brilliance of her son's novel.

In the spring of 1973 she gathered the names and addresses of editors at New York publishing houses and started submitting the only copy of the manuscript she had. She typically attached a cover letter explaining Toole's many accomplishments. In essence, she became her son's post-mortem literary agent.

In March of 1973 she sent the manuscript to Knopf, perhaps unaware that Gottlieb, whom she blamed for her son's death, presided as editor-in-chief there. She would find Knopf's seeming indifference toward
Confederacy
just as intolerable as Simon and Schuster's response years prior. Indignant when they failed to acknowledge receipt of the manuscript or respond with a decision after a month had passed, she wrote Knopf requesting that they send the manuscript back if they had no intention of publishing it. By May she still had received no word. Who knew where the manuscript was sitting or if anyone had read it? So Thelma tried another angle. She contacted literary agents M. P. Matson and Harold Matson to act on her behalf and inquire if Knopf would publish the novel. She requested the agency provide her an account of how much such a service would cost. Rarely do literary agencies have an à la carte menu of services, not to mention they had no idea if this novel was worth representing. A week later she wrote to Knopf again expressing frustration that they had not even the decency to send her a receipt of the manuscript. She informed them of their responsibilities:

A week later Knopf expressed no desire to publish the novel and returned it to Thelma.

She then sent the manuscript to W. W. Norton. They acknowledged the merits of the novel, but declined in straightforward language. Norton's response burned into Thelma's memory, words she would frequently recall years later. “It has literary style, but comic novels don't sell.” It struck Thelma as odd. She could name many comic novels that had sold very well. But the comment rang true to some of the remarks Gottlieb articulated to Toole in 1965, regarding the difficulty of placing his novel.

Perhaps feeling rebuffed from the New York publishing world, she turned to Pelican Publishing, based in Louisiana, which also declined. In July she sent it back to New York to Harcourt Brace Jovanovich.
They were kind enough to send an acknowledgment, explaining the industry standard of six to eight weeks for a reply (a standard that Knopf had upheld). They ultimately declined the novel.

Thelma grew frustrated. It seemed the novel's prospect of publication had worsened over the years. In 1964 her son was revising it for a New York editor, and in 1973 she could barely find a publisher with an interest in it. “Each time I sent it off first class and it came back bulk rate,” she remembered bitterly. From New York to Louisiana, it seemed to her the whole publishing industry was populated by dunces set on muting her son's last letter to the world. When asked why she thought so many publishers rejected it, she answered, “Stupidity.”

To make matters worse, her health started to decline, forcing her to take a break from submitting the manuscript. Her weakened state rendered her situation in Uptown impossible. Reluctantly, she made the decision to move back to Elysian Fields with her brother, Arthur. They had a strained relationship at times, although he seems to have been the closest uncle to her son. She referred to him as “the poet laureate of the Standard Fruit Company,” a sneering chide for the poor verse he would occasionally write for coworkers and friends. But there was nowhere else for her to go. Thelma and Arthur were the only living Ducoing siblings, and he was alone in his house. She packed up her belongings, all the memorabilia of her son and family history—from his birth certificate to his high school math homework—and left behind their Uptown home. By August of 1975 Thelma was living with her meager but devoted brother in the small house on Elysian Fields, the same house in which her brother George went certifiably insane. It was a few doors down from the much larger house in which she grew up.

She spent much of her time indoors, claiming in 1976 that she was a “shut-in” with “failing health.” Her brother did her errands around town and helped her with her finances. And despite health complications, she became determined to go through another round of submissions. She made an odd choice in sending it to the Third Press, a small house in New York that primarily published books with a specific African American interest, although in 1971 the owner of the press declared he had no “ideological axe to grind.” The Third Press released a few titles that veered from its original focus on racial issues, but they
were popularly billed as a black publisher. Perhaps Thelma thought the justice that
Confederacy
offers Burma Jones might be attractive to them. They declined.

Thelma sent the manuscript to eight publishers; she received eight rejections. And like her son, she took the responses to heart. With each rejection, she “died a little,” she said. But she showed initiative and endurance in submitting the manuscript. From Thelma's perspective she offered a publisher a rare gem. From a publisher's perspective, Thelma was trying to sell a one-hit wonder. She presented a high-risk investment from a publishing standpoint. First novels that reach only moderate success could usually be followed up by a second novel. She chose not to tell them about his other novel that she had found,
The Neon Bible
. And then there was the question of how to edit such a manuscript, especially if it needed substantial revision. In addition to all of these challenges, Thelma's posturing and outright demands likely deterred publishers. In New Orleans her vibrato might be heard, but through letters sent to New York she was easily dismissed, drowned out by the thousands of other represented writers vying for publication.

Regardless, Thelma was not one to take “no” for an answer. One day in the fall of 1976 she read in the
Times Picayune
that Walker Percy, whose first novel, the
Moviegoer
, which had won the National Book Award, was teaching a writing seminar at Loyola University. Thelma saw an opportunity. If letters and a manuscript could not entice publishers, then perhaps she could gain a champion with connections in the publishing world. She first reached out to Percy by phone, making calls to his office at Loyola. Percy resisted her with gentlemanly manners, which was more than what some editors offered her. So she decided the days of patient letter writing and polite phone calls were over. With sixteen years of training in the dramatic arts, certainly she could persuade a fellow artist to consider her son's novel. It was time for some theater.

She told Arthur to prepare himself for a drive to Loyola. He obediently put on his suit and cap. Thelma dressed in her finest attire, dousing herself in talcum powder as a finishing touch. She grabbed the box containing the manuscript, determined this would be the day her son would be recognized. As the elderly brother and sister made their way
Uptown, Walker Percy had no idea that he would stand as an audience to Thelma Ducoing Toole.

Percy's class concluded around five o'clock, after which he would make his drive out of New Orleans, across Lake Pontchartrain, to Covington, where he and his family lived. As he left his office one fall day, an old woman in a fine dress, a pillbox hat, and lace with white gloves holding a white box tied with a string approached him. Clearly this was some aged daisy of an old Southern line, somehow still benefitting from profits made in the family business of cotton or coffee or some other commodity traded at the port of New Orleans. Her driver in the suit and cap maintained a respectful distance. The old lady told Percy of her son, how he had committed suicide but left behind a novel. She wanted him to read it. “But you are biased,” he said. She explained that she was an avid reader, and what she offered him was a great novel. As a Southern gentleman, he could not in good conscience reject the pleas of a mother who endured the grief of her son's suicide. He was cornered. He took the box from her and offered his condolences.

Driving across the twenty-three-mile bridge to the Northshore, the skyline of New Orleans silently sank into the horizon behind him. The manuscript that Toole had labored over for months in Puerto Rico and sent back and forth to New York City, lay in the passenger seat of Walker Percy's car. Like most novelists, the idea of peddling a manuscript not his own, in essence becoming a
pro bono
literary agent, was the farthest thing from his mind. He had a class to teach and his own writing to do. He walked into his home holding the white box in his hand and greeted his wife, Bunt Percy. He told her of the Uptown lady with the driver and the tragic story. But he was hungry and tired and had no energy to read a questionable manuscript unfairly thrust upon him. He said to Bunt, “You read it. Tell me what to do with it.” She agreed to take a look at it later, and the two sat down for a late dinner.

Originally from a small town in Mississippi and now living in a small town in Louisiana, Bunt was intrigued by the ways of New Orleans. That city across the lake that rises out of the water like an island metropolis held a mysterious lore, a place and people of vast eccentricities. She was “eager to hear how they talked” and eager to understand their customs. So the next day she untied the string, removed the loose leaf, unedited manuscript and entered into Toole's New Orleans, which
some would argue is the most accurate portrayal of the Crescent City ever cast into fiction.

A few days later, Walker asked Bunt what she thought of the novel. She understood the fate of the book largely lay in her hands. If she deemed it unworthy, then he could simply return the manuscript and be relieved of the burden of an unpublished novel from a dead writer. “It's ready for you,” Bunt replied. “I think you should read it.” He knew that she approved of the book. Holding respect for her judgment, he was obliged to give Toole a chance.

Walker sat down to read the tattered pages. He prided himself on being able to determine the quality of writing after reading only the first paragraph. Immediately, he recognized Toole's keen talent for observation. In a single paragraph through setting, character, and description, he masterfully captured that ineffable texture of New Orleans. Walker was hooked. In December of 1976 he wrote to Thelma with a positive response, but he also saw some problems in the novel. He suggested the dialogue was too long in places. But it was too early to discuss editorial decisions in detail. Percy was unsure if a publisher would accept it. So he began asking people around town to read it. They came back with mixed reviews. Some people liked it; others did not. He lent a copy to Garic Barranger, who was enthusiastic, but also felt the manuscript needed to be trimmed. Percy read a few chapters to his class at Loyola, and they recognized Toole's unprecedented and accurate portrayal of New Orleans. But when he asked his own publisher, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, to consider the manuscript, they declined. The
Chicago Tribune
later reported they “seemed to applaud its quality but turned it down nonetheless because its author being deceased could neither help to promote it or help to follow it up with another book.” At the very least, Percy knew he had a work that elicited response. No one seemed indifferent to the novel.

It just needed some traction, a way for publishers to see the vision of its publication and readers' reactions. Percy sent the manuscript to Marcus Smith, a professor of English at Loyola and editor of the
New Orleans Review
. In spring of 1978 the first two chapters of
Confederacy
were published in the review, followed by several favorable critiques that acknowledged the brilliance of the book and Thelma's challenges in getting the novel published.

Although the
New Orleans Review
was far from Simon and Schuster or Random House, Thelma was pleased. In March she requested several copies of the periodical be sent to select faculty members at University of Southwestern Louisiana, including Pat Rickels. And she instructed one copy should be sent to John Wieler, her son's helpful professor at Columbia and department chair at Hunter College. The
New Orleans Review
was the first step in garnering public recognition, providing the footholds to capture the interest of a publisher.

Percy was determined to see the manuscript through to full publication, even as he worked on his novel
The Second Coming
. He recognized the humor and the tragedy in
Confederacy
. And as someone who suffered with depression throughout his life, Percy must have sympathized with Toole as a writer. In one of his last notes to Thelma, he referred to himself as an “admirer” of her son. But Thelma, for all her admirable tenacity, could be a nuisance. He wanted the novel to succeed, but after two years of promoting it, Percy was eager to put the project to rest. He saw an opportunity in Rhoda Faust, a family friend who owned Maple Street Books, a small bookstore in Uptown.

After being in the bookselling business for years, and at the encouragement of several local writers, Faust aimed to establish a publishing house in New Orleans. One afternoon she called Percy to ask if he had any unpublished writings lying around that she could use to jumpstart her company. He suggested she read the recent edition of the
New Orleans Review
to see what she thought about the beginning of
Confederacy
. After acquiring a copy and reading the chapters, Faust found it breathtakingly brilliant. She immediately contacted Thelma to meet with her. Thelma, of course, was thrilled to have someone interested in the novel and more so when Faust told her she wanted to publish the book. Even the daunting pragmatic details of starting a publishing house could not quell the excitement Faust and Thelma felt about the future of Toole's novel.