matter. Before this—this thing, this mystery, this new, or was it renewed, life of his—Travis hadn’t given much thought to writers. Books had been books, things unto themselves. Even the photos of writers on their books seemed almost fake somehow, like the generic photos in department store picture frames. The writer didn’t seem to Travis any more important to the existence of a book than the threads that sewed the pages together or the glue that fastened them to the spine. The one writer he had always had a clear idea of—before all this—was Steinbeck, and that idea was based on a bronze statue, not a living, breathing person.
The phone just sat there. Travis punched in Oster’s number, but without lifting the receiver. A practice run.
Travis knew precisely three things about Oster: He published his first book in 1972; he was living in Salinas at the time the book was published; he currently lived in the small town of Spreckels a few miles outside of Salinas.
There sat the phone, dull black plastic around a bunch of wires and chips. Just sitting there. Travis wished the phone could make the call for him.
Okay, four facts. Miss Babb talked about Oster as if he were a spy or something. But what else did Travis know? It was the unknowing that made the call so hard to place. Oh, he also had no idea what he would say.
He picked up the phone and punched the numbers.
“Hello,” a man’s voice said softly, a little surprised.
“Hello,” Travis said. “May I speak with Ernest Oster, please?” Suddenly he was so polite. His parents would be glad to know that.
“Speaking.” The voice was wary, as if asking a question.
“
The
Ernest Oster,” Travis asked, “author of
Corral de Tierra
?” Nothing was coming out right. Travis knew he sounded like a bad actor playing a lawyer on TV.
“Ye-es?” The voice drew the word out, put a great big question mark on it. Travis could almost hear Oster moving away from the phone.
“Hi, I love your book and my name’s Travis Williams and I live in Salinas and I was, well, we were, I mean, the committee, the Save Our Library committee, I mean, I was wondering …” And the words kept pouring forth, and Travis had no idea what he was saying. But he was afraid to stop talking.
When he paused at a double um—“um, um”—Oster jumped in.
“Travis, is it? I’ve heard about the library. Terrible shame, truly. But I’m not sure how I can be of help.”
“Well, the thing is,” Travis said, “we thought that because your book is all about Steinbeck and the library’s named after him, well, we thought you could help. See, we’re putting together this benefit reading. And I was wondering if you would be one of the readers? It’d be great. Everyone loves your book.”
“Well, I’m not sure everyone loves it,” Oster said. “But it’s kind of you to say that. However, I really don’t think so. The book never did very well, you see, not even around here. I haven’t been a writer for a very long time. But thanks for thinking of me.”
No, no, Travis had to say something. If Oster hung up the phone, that was the end of it, Travis just knew. What did he mean, he wasn’t a writer anymore? That was crazy. Travis had read his book and knew Oster was a writer. You couldn’t just quit being a writer, could you?
“Oh, please, Mr. Oster,” Travis said. He couldn’t decide if he should turn up the whine in his voice or turn it down. You could never tell how adults would react to one’s whine- level. He turned it down, just to be safe. “See, the thing is, the library’s so important to our community. And as a writer, you know how important the library can be.” There was a tiny silence that needed to be bridged, so Travis jumped. “Maybe I could come out there and talk to you about it in person? Paint the big picture?”
Travis said this before he knew what he was doing. Good thing, too. What was he thinking? He waited for his answer.
Oster started a
The phone just sat there. Travis punched in Oster’s number, but without lifting the receiver. A practice run.
Travis knew precisely three things about Oster: He published his first book in 1972; he was living in Salinas at the time the book was published; he currently lived in the small town of Spreckels a few miles outside of Salinas.
There sat the phone, dull black plastic around a bunch of wires and chips. Just sitting there. Travis wished the phone could make the call for him.
Okay, four facts. Miss Babb talked about Oster as if he were a spy or something. But what else did Travis know? It was the unknowing that made the call so hard to place. Oh, he also had no idea what he would say.
He picked up the phone and punched the numbers.
“Hello,” a man’s voice said softly, a little surprised.
“Hello,” Travis said. “May I speak with Ernest Oster, please?” Suddenly he was so polite. His parents would be glad to know that.
“Speaking.” The voice was wary, as if asking a question.
“
The
Ernest Oster,” Travis asked, “author of
Corral de Tierra
?” Nothing was coming out right. Travis knew he sounded like a bad actor playing a lawyer on TV.
“Ye-es?” The voice drew the word out, put a great big question mark on it. Travis could almost hear Oster moving away from the phone.
“Hi, I love your book and my name’s Travis Williams and I live in Salinas and I was, well, we were, I mean, the committee, the Save Our Library committee, I mean, I was wondering …” And the words kept pouring forth, and Travis had no idea what he was saying. But he was afraid to stop talking.
When he paused at a double um—“um, um”—Oster jumped in.
“Travis, is it? I’ve heard about the library. Terrible shame, truly. But I’m not sure how I can be of help.”
“Well, the thing is,” Travis said, “we thought that because your book is all about Steinbeck and the library’s named after him, well, we thought you could help. See, we’re putting together this benefit reading. And I was wondering if you would be one of the readers? It’d be great. Everyone loves your book.”
“Well, I’m not sure everyone loves it,” Oster said. “But it’s kind of you to say that. However, I really don’t think so. The book never did very well, you see, not even around here. I haven’t been a writer for a very long time. But thanks for thinking of me.”
No, no, Travis had to say something. If Oster hung up the phone, that was the end of it, Travis just knew. What did he mean, he wasn’t a writer anymore? That was crazy. Travis had read his book and knew Oster was a writer. You couldn’t just quit being a writer, could you?
“Oh, please, Mr. Oster,” Travis said. He couldn’t decide if he should turn up the whine in his voice or turn it down. You could never tell how adults would react to one’s whine- level. He turned it down, just to be safe. “See, the thing is, the library’s so important to our community. And as a writer, you know how important the library can be.” There was a tiny silence that needed to be bridged, so Travis jumped. “Maybe I could come out there and talk to you about it in person? Paint the big picture?”
Travis said this before he knew what he was doing. Good thing, too. What was he thinking? He waited for his answer.
Oster started a
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