J. F. Halibut's Last Novel

The day I received the call to write J. F. Halibut’s next novel, I was minutes away from telling my wife it was time to own up and call my dreams and aspirations nothing but pipe dreams. I’d dragged her all the way to New York from South Carolina – moved her out here before our marriage, which God knows why she’s been so good and patient with me – just to give my foolish heart an honest shot at writing.

We’d talked about children, and now we have two. We had two at the time I got the call, we’re ready for a third, but at the time of the call we had two too many. Savannah knows me all too well to be straight forward and upfront about my flaws. I hate how sensitive I can be about those sorts of things. She’s wonderful about it; she’ll ask me what she can change, I’ll tell her nothing because I find her perfect, but when push comes to shove I’ll admit the truth and find out she’s willing to agree. But this isn’t supposed to be a love story between me and my wife. This is about the time I wrote J. F. Halibut’s final novel.

No one knew he was on his deathbed. It was good reason to figure if his iconic novel The Broken Eagle Heart has been in the pockets of Americans and school libraries for decades, he’s probably a few bucks older than it himself. But no one knew just by how much. I remember reading his book the first time in grade school. I hated it. I thought reading was the biggest waste of time – no pictures, no spectacles or sports I could watch, no siree; I had to do all the work, make it all up in my head with only the inked page to guide my imagination. It wasn’t until halfway through college I saw the beauty in that very notion: I made it all up in my head with only the inked page to guide my imagination. It was sort of a revelation when I discovered the art and power of storytelling.

So in my eager attempt to resurrect the fallen novels of my youth, I stopped by the tomb of J. F. Halibut’s The Broken Eagle Heart. I made a promise to myself to finish it no matter what, at least for the practice of discipline. That promise turned out to be a redundant and simple goal, almost too easy to fulfill. I couldn’t put it down! I mean, this book was a page turner. The story was layered gorgeously, telling the honesty of what America wants to be deep down, despite the flaws and tainted history; I mean, he really paints a beautiful picture of our country’s potential, all through his allegory—well, I don’t need to tell you, I’m sure you’ve read it. Who hasn’t? I think his legacy stands as it does mostly by the fact it’s the only book he ever wrote. Until I came.

On March 7th, 1975 I received that call. I couldn’t tell you how I found myself in that position. If there’s a stronger more magical word than something as common as luck, that’d be how I described my circumstances. Through a convoluted string of connections, I was asked to meet with J. F. Hailbut. I packed up my bags and headed even more North than Albany – Caribou, Maine. I hadn’t heard of it either, but it was kitschy and quaint; reminded me of Dandridge, Tennessee, where my grandparents on my dad’s side lived.

I followed the directions to a surprisingly dull home – I never pictured J. F. Halibut to live in single story house at the end of a gravel driveway, but then it made perfect sense as I thought of his lead character Arthur Fink. It was like I had stepped into a movie set about The Broken Eagle Heart as I crossed the threshold of Halibut’s home. It reminded me of the Founding Father’s homes that could be toured in D.C. and throughout Virginia, with picture frames and plaques mounted on every square inch. He was a collector of American roots.

A nurse greeted me when I entered his home. She was his caretaker, which led itself to the conversation about his health and his eventual death – which, once I agreed, made me write work faster than I ever had before. She lead me to his bedroom, where I saw a sickly man propped upright with stacks of large, square pillows. Quilts and blankets amassed the bed, and somewhere under all those fabrics were his legs. But when I approached him and introduced myself, I saw strong eyes in J. F. Halibut. His heart and mind were fresh and active, it was just the sad truth that every man’s time comes to an end. And he knew it.

Halibut asked for a transcriber, someone with an artist’s intellect, as he phrased it, to write his story for him. I spent the next hour trying to understand why he chose me, but the conversation led nowhere. In the end, he said I just felt right to him. One day I’ll make up a word that means “greater than luck.”

His reason for me to transcribe his book was because he wanted to reserve all the energy he could save to solely imagine the plot and leave all the trivial chores of writing, like misspellings and grammar, to an assistant. I’m no Grammar Nazi myself — hell, I’ll throw in semicolons and hyphens to spice up the flow of an otherwise plain sentence! — so this wasn’t exactly my forte. But I told myself if anything I’d take it back to my room, about two miles west of Halibut’s home where I stayed with old friends from college kind enough to offer their guest bedroom to me.

These old friends of mine, Sly and Melissa, were going together when I first met them junior year. They’d been going steady and finally tied the knot just a few years back, I think only in ‘72 or ‘73. They hadn’t met Savannah yet — I didn’t start seeing her until well after college. But we shared good conversations and dinners together during my extraordinary opportunity. We shared one special thing in common, aside from the married life. We treasured The Broken Eagle Heart.

Sly, Melissa, and I all resonated with its promise of hope. On the surface, this story read like a tragedy — with all the beat downs Arthur wades through — but the endurance to get back up to recognize the flaws of society as well as his own, to admit his wrongs... we all feel like Arthur Fink. We all wish we were more like Arthur Fink. And it’s no surprise that Arthur Fink has become cultural icon and symbol in American literature. He’s not just an American, but he represents the faith of a better tomorrow in The Land of the Free.

I’ll spare you the details of each day with Halibut. I’m sure you might find it exciting, knowing his reverence, but it was mostly repetitive; remarkable to witness the conjuration of his last work — knowing it was the last thing he’d ever write, after spending our lives thinking he was a prodigious author of a single, life-altering novel — but nonetheless the same routine every day. I’d arrive at 7:30am, we wouldn’t start until roughly 10:15am, and then I’d sit there and let the master speak poetry.

I will tell you of three instances as we wrote together, the three I find are most important. There are fond memories between us that I cherish, but I’d like to keep those private. These other events, I believe the world ought to know.

The first instance was the first day. I wasn’t as comfortable yet as I’d eventually become in his presence, but in hearing him explain the general plot of his idea, it was startling. I didn’t think it was any good. In fact, I wondered if it was his idea to hire me or perhaps his caretakers, her idea to edit his novel to make it half-decent. Naturally, I doubted myself, thinking he knew something I didn’t. And, boy, was that ever the case.

When he dictated that first paragraph, that famous first line of the first paragraph that has become synonymous with his work — “For a man such as myself I am astonished how little I like myself, seeing I spend so long with myself and thinking about him” — I wondered if he had turned a new leaf; looking to perhaps tell a story that didn’t end with hope. I learned from him how purposefully he uses darkness and sin in order to value the good in his own stories. In life itself. I learned more about life in those two months than I had in the 37 years prior.

The second instance was around the seventh chapter of the novel. Charlie Cromwell had already begun contemplating fatherhood in the book when Halibut asked me a question. He wanted my opinion on whether Charlie Cromwell should have the self-awareness as to why he was afraid to raise his son. I thought about it, mostly because I couldn’t believe he wanted my artistic preference in a book that, by this point, had reached public word was in the works. I never felt my voice weighed as much as it had in that moment. I gathered myself and told him that it makes the most sense if he does, as he should have a reason to leave or the audience won’t understand. He nodded his head and considered what I spoke. It felt like a test, just without the usual rebuke. Then he said this. If we knew why we were afraid of anything, we’d understand why we should most likely do it instead, as fear has no legs to stand on. It rocked me. We talked further about what fear is and how fear is the enemy of life. The conversation was too profound for me to even document honestly in this memoir, so I’ll save that for another time. Needless to say, Charlie Cromwell wasn’t fully aware why he was afraid to raise his son.

The third and final instance was J. F. Halibut’s death. He knew. I think I knew, too. I came over for the last time, which wasn’t supposed to be. We were more than halfway finished, but only with the first draft — his only draft. He had already paid me for six months of my time, with an agreement to go month to month if need be. But after two months, he knew his clock was about to stop ticking.

He had me sit in my usual olive green chair and proceeded to tell me the rest of the plot to our novel. It’s funny, I’ve never called it “ours” before. But I guess that it means more to me than I understood before. He wanted me to know the whole story in case something happened before we finished. We then hugged. We had never hugged before, as I did my best to keep our relationship professional, boss to employee. But I couldn’t refuse. He meant so much to, as he did to so many. I knew in that moment that he had passed the torch into my hands. I was asked to finish his book.

When he died a week later, we told the press he had already finished the book, it just needed to be proof read. But I slaved over the story to make it as masterful as I could, to match his genius. I wouldn’t have thought I could had he not had treated me so equal. The magnitude of his cultural impact seemed second to his character. He humbled himself, almost to the point where I had forgotten his prestige. It was only when Sly and Melissa talked about him I remembered the sheer privilege I had. Divine. That’s the word. Great than luck. It was of a divine purpose.

When his book was published, I made sure I took no credit. This was to be his praise alone. The reception was immaculate. I remember when the debates sparked as to which book was better. It was truly an honor to have served J. F. Halibut’s craft.

J. F. Halibut had one goal in life: to offer hope to the common people. He showed his scars and weaknesses in vulnerable art, a craft meant to commune over our flaws with the pursuit towards growth and love. He offered himself fully to just two novels, and they were truly novel. J. F. Halibut not only goes down as one of the most remarkable American authors but as a patriot; a symbol of hope and resilience embodied in his fictional character Arthur Fink and the reflection of self-love through Charlie Cromwell. Both were mere imitations of the man he was.