Fourmile (18 page)

Our new house was only a few blocks from Carlisle Middle School and the public park where we had our games. I impressed the coach enough to start most of the time and usually played next to Cory in the outfield. I also pitched relief if Blake, our first-string pitcher, wasn’t there.

Grandmother passed away that winter and Granddaddy moved in with us. He came to all of my games and sat in the stands and studied our plays. He knew a lot more about baseball than he did about farming. As we walked home he’d give me a recap of the game and his encouragement and advice as to how we could improve.

In May we made the city playoffs and lost by just one run. We were all disappointed, but for the first time in years I felt a part of something bigger than me. The health of that feeling was stronger than any disappointment.

School let out for summer and I joined Cory and Blake and the other kids for daily baseball at the park. The first day I stood in the outfield, backed up close to the edge of the woods. The smell of cut grass sat heavy in the mid-morning heat and the sound of cicadas rose and fell behind me. The combination of these things took me back to Fourmile, painting the fence next to the blacktop, watching Gary walking toward me through the vapory air.

That night I wrote what would be my last letter to him. It was longer than usual. I told him about the playoff game and how close we’d come. I told him about the campout I’d had with the church youth group. Finally, I told him that he’d been right. Mother and I were happy in Montgomery. I sealed the letter and got up from the kitchen table and placed it on the counter. Kabo stood and got next to me and I reached down and scratched him behind the ears.

“Come on, boy,” I said.

*   *   *

I never heard from Gary again and I was thankful for it. As much as he meant to me at Fourmile, he was the tail end of something terrible and beautiful that was too hurtful to parse out.

One day I’ll drive past Fourmile to see if it looks as I remember it. To see the giant pecan tree standing alone at the edge of the orchard. To run my eyes over the pasture and search for that same thing Granddaddy was searching for in the old beach house. It doesn’t scare me now. I know I’ll see what he saw. I’ll see nothing. I figured that out on my own. It had never really been about Fourmile at all. It was never about the place, it was about the memories. And I owned those memories and they never got left anywhere.

GOFISH

questions for the author

WATT KEY

When did you realize you wanted to be a writer?

I wrote my first story when I was ten. It was about a collie surviving a tornado. I was into Jim Kjelgaard, a writer of dog books, then, and I wanted to try and make stories like his. I kept writing short stories for fun throughout the rest of my prep school days. My high school creative writing teacher convinced me that I had talent as an author and this gave me the idea that maybe I was meant to be a writer. It wasn’t until my sophomore year in college that I knew this for certain. I was running the outdoor skills department at a boys’ camp in Texas. I was alone and far away from home, with lots of free time in a little cabin by the Guadalupe River. I wrote my first novel there. Although it was a terrible book that will never be published, it was the most satisfying thing I’d ever done. After that summer, I continued to write a novel a year without regard to whether it would be published or not. I’d written ten novels by the time
Alabama Moon
sold.

What was your worst subject in school?

I remember making an 88 out of 100 on just about every test I took in high school, regardless of the subject. So I wasn’t an outstanding student, but neither was I a poor one. At my school, 88 was about average. Before I went to college, my parents took me to see a psychologist in New Orleans. I went through a series of aptitude tests that were supposed to help us decide what profession I was best suited for. Basically, I scored an 88 on everything. The conclusion was that I would always have a hard time deciding what I wanted to be because none of my abilities seemed to stand out above the rest. This didn’t help me directly, but ever since then, I’ve been conscious of the fact that I need to specialize in one thing to be outstanding at anything. For example, as much as I would like to play a musical instrument, I don’t. I shun it like a bad vice. I know I would enjoy it too much and it would take away from my focus on being the best writer I can be.

What was your first job?

My brothers and sisters and I always had chores assigned to us that we didn’t get paid for. My first duties were emptying the wastebaskets around the house, feeding various pets (we had lots of animals), and raking and mowing the lawn. I landed my first paying job when I was about eight years old. I was the fly killer for the snack bar at a resort not far from my home. I killed them with a washcloth, stored them in a paper cup, and received ten cents per fly. As soon as I would get enough dimes, I would cash in my pay for a drink to quench my thirst.

How did you celebrate publishing your first book?

My wife and I went to the Mexican restaurant up the street. It was a fairly low-key celebration. It took a while for me to accept that I’d gotten a legitimate book deal. You may have seen the episode of
The Waltons
when John-Boy gets scammed by the vanity publisher. He told all of his friends and family that he’d gotten a book deal and they had a big celebration for him. Then he got a letter from the publisher asking him how many of his books he wanted to pay them to print. It was a scam. This exact thing happened to me years before I sold
Alabama Moon
and it was very embarrassing and eye-opening.

Where do you write your books?

After college, I built a small camp several miles into the swamp that you can only get to by boat. I made it from lumber that washed up on the beach after a hurricane. It took me nearly every weekend for a year to complete it. I develop and outline most of my ideas up there. The bulk of my actual writing is done at home in a spare bedroom that doubles as my study.

Where do you find inspiration for your writing?

I’m not always inspired to write. Fortunately, I have a backlog of stories in my head that I feel have to be written whether I’m in the mood for it or not. I often tell people that writing is like an addiction to me. I liken this addiction to people who jog every day. I don’t feel good about myself unless I’m doing it. Most of the time, it’s a very enjoyable process. Sometimes, it’s not. But I decided long ago that I was supposed to be a writer, so that’s what I do.

What sparked your imagination for
Fourmile
?

I’ve always admired the simple tightness and structure of classic Western novels. I wanted to create a story structured the same way, yet in a contemporary setting.

As a kid, did you grow up with a dog in the family?

I had two dogs as a kid, both of them strays that I adopted. The one closest to me, I named Joe. He was very similar to Foster’s dog in
Fourmile
. I found him in a giant swamp across the highway from our house and he became my friend for several years. He kept me company while I made tree forts and traps in the woods. I fed Joe at the house, but he lived outside and roamed freely. He usually appeared next to me somewhere between my back door and the swamp. One day, I crossed the highway alone and a few minutes later, he came after me. I heard tires squealing and ran back to find a car pulled into the ditch and Joe lying dead on the roadside. At first, I was very emotional and didn’t want to touch him. I ran back home to tell my father. My younger siblings were also very attached to Joe, so Dad told me to bury him before they saw him lying there. This made me feel very much a man of the family and helped me through the ordeal. I grew up a lot through that episode. Joe is buried in the swamp where I found him.

Gary serves as a sort of father figure for Foster, but in the end, he isn’t the person that Foster thinks he is. Despite that, do you think Gary was a positive influence on him?

We see in the story that Gary had a lot of potential to be a good man and father. But he made some decisions in life that were either bad or unfortunate, and he’s on a path of self-destruction. During his time at Fourmile, Gary mentors Foster as he would have done his own son. In the end, Foster learns that his hero is flawed, but their time together has had an overwhelmingly positive impact on his life. And these flaws help Foster understand why this man can’t ultimately be the person he needs.

What was the most difficult scene to write?

Certainly the shootout at the end of the novel. With so much violence in entertainment these days, it’s tricky to impress people without an overload of it. I find myself thinking of ways to do these scenes so that the violence is not gratuitous, yet still done in an original way that is interesting to the reader and adds to the story.

Did any particular Westerns have an effect on your writing style for
Fourmile
?

Fourmile
was modeled after
Shane
, my favorite Western.

Foster and Gary part ways at the end of
Fourmile
. Do you think that they’d ever cross paths again?

I don’t think so. I see Gary as an emotional and mental time bomb. He was able to hide that from Foster and do some good while he was at Fourmile farm. At the end of the story, Gary has “fixed” Foster, but he hasn’t fixed himself. My instincts tell me that it’s too late for Gary to ever become the man he wanted to be and that Foster and Linda need.

When you finish a book, who reads it first?

My wife, Katie, reads my first drafts most of the time. I’ve learned that if I don’t want her to read it, it’s probably not ready. Then my agent reads it, and finally my editor.

Are you a morning person or a night owl?

I’m a night owl. But to feel good and productive, I have to have eight hours of sleep, no more, no less. I usually write from about eight until eleven at night and get up at seven in the morning.

What’s your idea of the best meal ever?

Rib eye steak. Egg noodles with real butter and garlic. Real mashed potatoes without gravy. Cream cheese spinach. Brewed iced tea with lemon, real sugar, and mint. Lemon pie without the meringue for dessert.

Where do you go for peace and quiet?

My swamp camp.

What makes you laugh out loud?

Mark Twain.

What do you value most in your friends?

Honesty. Originality.

What is your favorite TV show?

I don’t recommend television. One day I was driving through Mississippi and came across a folk artist with a yard full of his scrap iron creations. Out front was a sign that read “Look what I did while you were watching TV.” I like his attitude.

What’s the best advice you have ever received about writing?

Continue to write even when you don’t feel like it. If you’re a real writer, that’s what you have to do. I knew this on an instinctive level for many years, but never heard it described as well as what a painter friend of mine told me. I was watching him create an oil painting of an outdoor scene. He was doing his work in a small, rocking boat, crouched beneath an umbrella in the pouring rain. I remarked that he was the most dedicated artist I’d ever met. He responded by telling me that he wasn’t an artist, he was a professional painter.

Read on for Hal’s story in

DIRT ROAD HOME

1

Late Sunday morning Officer Pete delivered me in chains to the Hellenweiler Boys’ Home in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. I was officially “property of the state” and sentenced to live there until I was eighteen. This place would be hard time, especially since I was considered a problem case and an escape risk. But I figured I could handle it. I’d already done two years in the Pinson Boys’ Home. Besides, I didn’t plan on sticking around long.