The Writing Lesson
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Doctor's pushing me to get help. "Call a friend," he says. The ankle will cause the most trouble. Red mud splatters from this rural suburb of Atlanta cover my tan slacks, slit past the knee. The doctor's slapping on wet plaster strips and talking about a walking cast after some weeks. His voice bounces off me in the harsh light of the examining room. "There has to be some one you can call," he says. But there isn't. The nurse pushes a name and number in front of me, hands me the phone. How has it happened that I have come this far with so few true friends? You'll tell me it has to do with trust and my fear of trust betrayed. You'd be right. I didn't start out to live a lie, but once I started spinning sticky webs I became caught fast as any prey. There's only Susan. Susan Ladona is a cherished friend, but a long distance one I've seen just twice in twenty years. We write letters, occasionally phone. Susan and I don't talk about that summer we met, in the writing class, in 1958. I was doing graduate work. She was an early entry freshman. It was a tough summer for her. Anyway, she didn't kill the professor. Just watched him depart, so to speak. "Mrs. Henrietta Elmers? This is Vivian Titch. My doctor recommended you. Dr. Swain. I'm calling from his office. Going to be needing help for at least eight weeks, he says." "Must've broken something then." "Right ankle and my left wrist." "Lordy. How'd you do that?" "Well, I, I was wading in the creek, if you must know." "Creek? Down here we say branch." I'm trying to understand the tone. Is this someone I want taking care of me? I'd like some sympathy and I'm not hearing any. "Of course, if you're busy --" "Where do you live? Any pets? Can't abide furry things in the house. Dog or cat hair rolling along the floor, everywhere, getting into the food." I cover the phone, turn to the nurse and mouth, "There's got to be someone else." She waves me off with a pooh pooh smile and mouths back, "She's the best." "Ah, no pets. I don't have a pet." I'd been thinking of getting a calm dog or cat from the pound, though, for company. Maybe I live too far out of town. "Do you drive, Henrietta? I live at the end of Plumnelly Road. I've rented the Tyler place, little brick house with a screened porch, creek runs along one side down to the pond."
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About the Book
The Writing Lesson
-Ann Elliott
Lake of the Pines Book Club
Write? Rite? Right? Here’s a story of self-discovery, empowerment, and healing.
-Wallis Leslie
Foothill/DeAnza College District
Henrietta brings a strong personality and intellect to a lifetime of drudgery and prejudice. Those who know her feel her presence, her goodness, yet she has a terrible secret.
When Susan goes to college determined to become a writer, she confronts sexual assault along with other demons -- her mother's suicide, her fear of crowds, and her misplaced trust in teachers.
Vivian has only her work and the friendship of Susan and Henrietta to sustain her. Having lived her life as a lie, she tries to begin again and fails. Can she live without lies?
About the Author
The Writing Lesson draws upon Lanterman’s deep sense of character and place. One of the Sierra Writers, Lanterman divides her time between California’s Sierra Foothills and Hawaii’s Kona Coast. Although she is a fifth generation native Californian, she has lived all over the US and parts of the Pacific. As a Navy junior, she attended high schools in Athens, Georgia, Norfolk, Virginia, and Sasebo, Japan. She is a graduate of the University of California, Berkeley, and holds a Master of Arts degree from the University of Georgia. "Every move was an adventure for our family, an opportunity to learn. Our parents taught my brothers and me how to notice things, to pick up nuances and to challenge stereotypes. Family dinners included animated, vigorous discussions of current events, culture, history, and foreign policy, wonderful training for a writer."