CHAPTER 84. 1959 - 1960
Sometime earlier that year I had sent a manuscript to “Redbook”. “Redbook” had become a leading women’s publication by that time, part of the McCall Corporation line of magazines. The story I sent them was, “Terror and the Librarian”. I placed the story in the Downingtown Library I had loved so when in Junior High. I think my story still holds up today as an example of how terrorism affects lives. It tells about a Librarian nervously alone in the place she loves because a serial killer murdered several women in the county. She can no longer feel the comfort she always felt in the library. Every sound becomes a threat. Every cozy dark corner a place where a killer might hide.
I received a handwritten rejection letter from Robert Stein, editor of Redbook at the time. He wrote they were turning the story down because it wasn’t quite right for their audience. He then went on to praise my tale for its plotting and development of tension. That was very nice of him, very encouraging. Much better than the usual one or two formula kiss-off letter from some lonely college English Major working her weekends at the slush desk.
Still, a rejection is a rejection, is it not? I filed it away with my other rejections. (Silly young neophyte scribbler that I was in those days I did actually keep all my rejections and in some sort of organized manner as well.) In no time at all I had forgotten this, probably burying in under the slew of fresh one-line rejections that overwhelmed my mailbox.
The first murder had occurred three months ago. There had been seven in the county since and now two in Wilmillar. The police had no clue to the killer’s identity. He left no prints and no pattern, only bodies, each a woman with her throat slashed. The newspapers hinted at worse things, but they never said exactly what. A madman was loose and killed without prejudice: young and old, married and single, homely and beautiful. His only requirement was that his victims be women.
Gabrielle shivered.
Outside the rain slashed against the high library windows. She resisted turning toward the sound, certain she would see angry eyes looking in at the light. She stared straight ahead at the open doorway, until the darkness of the hall appeared to spread around her. Her skin rippled with the chill of the rainy night and she shook inside her damp clothing.
She looked toward the window.
The rainwater glistened on the highway beneath the streetlight. The downpour meant no one would come to the library tonight. This was always the case in bad weather. This was a night for staying home in the warmth and reading what was available. Those needing new books would come tomorrow when it was dry and they would not catch colds. There had been many nights like this. Even a twenty-five-cent late fine was preferable to wet feet. She should be use to lonely evenings, and usually was. At other times the library’s books had seemed good company. Tonight they were cold and aloof objects. She looked at the shelves that reared high above her. They were neatly dusted and stacked. There was little work to be done, few chores to close her mind to the tapping raindrops against the windows or the shadows in the hall.
Upon her desk was a package, a sealed cardboard box in which books were mailed. This was all there was to be done. She pulled the box across the wet spot left by the newspaper. The end flap did not open easily and she bent back a fingernail. She sucked on the finger. The tip burned. “Easy open, indeed” she muttered. The end loosened and two volumes slid into her lap. She jumped.
They were reference works, two thin tomes dealing with the science of bee keeping. They were books she knew would go unread. Downingtown was a small town, she knew most of the residents, and all of those who used the library, and not one would be interested in bee keeping, except John Berryborn, a farmer living just outside of town who raised bees. He had raised bees since a boy and he could probably write a book on the subject. Why did the board insist on ordering useless books?
Gabrielle took a marker from her desk and marked the jacket of each with the proper Dewey number. Inside the covers she pasted an envelope and into the envelopes she slid new library cards. She stamped Property of Wilmillar Free Library twice on the page edges and inside the front and back covers. Finally she turned to her typewriter and neatly pecked out the file cards and put them into the card catalogue. That finished that. There was nothing left to do but to place the new books on the shelf of crafts and wait for closing.
The clock, hanging on the wall behind her, chimed once. She flinched and put a hand to her breast until her breath returned. The single chime indicated seven-thirty. She had been at work a half-hour. This gave her some relief, for it hadn’t seemed that long. Perhaps the evening would pass quickly after all. The Wilmillar Library did not keep late hours, only from seven until nine on Monday, Wednesday and Friday nights. She had an hour and half more to wait. She was certain no one would come. Perhaps she could even leave a half hour early.
When she regained an even breath, she took the two new books into the rear room to the shelves where crafts were kept. It was little wonder these books were seldom borrowed. They were hidden in a dim corner behind tall racks of biographies. People who came into this section were after biographies and never even noticed the shelves on basket weaving or bead stringing.
Gabrielle pushed the books into the crowded space and hurried away. This section was terribly musty. The space was too close for air to circulate. The overhead light was burned out and the tight space behind the biography racks was dark. It was a narrow canyon out of sight of the world. A man could drag a woman into this chasm and have a lair where he could do as he wished with her. Shuddering, she scurried back to the main room into the light. “Don’t think so many gruesome thoughts,” she warned herself, then she giggled out loud at her silly fears.
Soon to Be Famous
2003
Analytic Writer
Wilmington, Delaware
Tracey Landmann, Editor
In my collection Currents of the Brandywine and Other Creeks (2003)
But on September 16, 1959 (a date that will take on much significance in my life later) I received a letter from Scott Meredith (pictured left) He was no relation. His name wasn’t even “Meredith”, nor “Scott” for that matter. His real name was Arthur Scott Feldman. His real name didn’t matter, everyone knew him as Scott Meredith, one of the preeminent and influential literary agents of his time. He was handling such clientele as Morris West, Evan Hunter, Gerald Green, Norman Mailer, Arthur C. Clarke, Henry Miller and Meyer Levin among others. This guy had his chops.
He began his letter by saying the editor of Redbook had given him my name and he was soliciting me to join a program his firm offered.
I turned his offer down.
You see, there was a $25 fee involved and I had vowed never to pay anyone to read my stuff. I was the creator, they should pay me.
Scott Meredith continued to solicit me for the next three years and I turned him down every time. I wonder if I threw away a great opportunity over a measly $25?
s came. He barely acknowledged my visitors, sometimes grunting at them. He would lounge on his favorite chair, often without a shirt. This tended to put people off. Worse yet, as I began dating girls and bringing them by, he would say, “Here. You want to see the real Larry,” and he’d hand them THE PHOTO. THE PHOTO was one somebody, probably my mom, had snapped of me when I was a smidgen past one year old. It was snapped from behind as I trotted across the back shed in nothing, totally naked as the day I was born.
I found this a bit embarrassing.
I am only thankful it was taken as I walked away and not of me walking forward.
He delighted in showing my new girlfriends as they came to the house. Their reaction to my dad wasn’t good, but they seemingly paid little attention to the photo. Suzy reacted with her usual smile. Pamela paid it no heed. Jeannette and Carmello never saw saw since neither ever visited my home. Peggy may have blessed a bit, but not as much as I. It bothered me more than anyone.
One morning I was heading out and dad said something to me I didn’t like. I was tired of his jibes. I said something back and he gave me a little shove. He had never laid hands on me before and I don’t think he meant anything by this. He was just fooling about with me. It reminded me of some of those guys back in Downingtown, how they would come up and sort of push you a bit, challenging you to do anything. My dad pushed me again and I said, “Cut it out.”
“What’re you going to do about it?” he said.
The next thing I know my dad and I are wrestling in the living room. Ray Ayres had showed me some tricks. One was a special grip where you link your hands together somewhat like a coupling on a train and then lock your thumbs into your fingers. I managed to get behind dad and put a bear hug on him. I locked my hands as Ray had taught me. Dad struggled, but he couldn’t break my grip and he was a very strong man. He finally had to give up. Dad never tried getting physical with me again after that.
job. There were a lot of ads for TAB Operators, but as I pointed out, I was caught in that old Limbo of new job searchers. One place I’d apply would say I didn’t have enough experience and the next place told me I had too much experience because I had gone to that school.
In November, Snelling & Snelling, the employment agency I had signed with, that was sending me out on many of these job interviews in a willy-nilly manner, sent me out on “yet” another “hot” lead. The job was in the Data Processing Department of a large corporation in Philadelphia called Atlantic Refining. I knew the name for they were long time sponsors of Phillies games on radio and TV. Their headquarters was at 260 South Broad Street and that is where Snelling & Snelling sent me. I took an elevator to the second floor where Personnel was located. The security person in the lobby directed me to the elevator. I had no idea where the stairs were or I would have walked up the one flight.
I introduced myself to the receptionist. She told me to have a seat. In a little while another lady led me to a small room off to the side. They subjected me to a half dozen tests, maybe more. There were aptitude tests and attitude tests. They tested my mental state and my dexterity. They did everything but take a urine sample. Half the tests they gave me would be illegal today. These could subtly show your racial prejudices, sexual orientation and health status.
quarter hour still another lady took me to another small office and interviewed me. She noted I applied for a Level 6 job in their Data Processing area. I conceded this was so. She then explained company policy did not allow for hiring someone off the street at that level. All new hires normally began as Level 3 Mailboys, if they were male. There were no such creatures as Mailgirls at that time. Female new hires would begin as Level 2 Messengers. She said she could offer me a job as a Mailboy; however, since I had done exceeding well in the tests, rather than start in the mailroom, would I be interested in a Junior Clerk position in Sales Accounting.
Indeed, I would and so I became.
I started working at Atlantic Refining on Wednesday, November 25, 1959 at 8:30 AM. My hours were 8:30 Am to 4:45 PM with an hour for lunch, 37.5 hours per week. My starting salary was $56 a week, which was $2,912 a year. This was the equivalent in today’s money of $26,057 a year. It was considered a very high starting salary, well above average. I also got two weeks paid vacation and seven holidays. I received medical insurance and could join a thrift plan. I joined the thrift plan, which turned out to have been a smart decision. I was also given an Atlantic Credit Card, good for gasoline and car services.
operations and resultant infections. He decided to renew his attempt to enlist in the military. His original desire was to join the Navy. He wanted to see the world. He thought the Navy would take him around the globe. He went to the recruitment offices at the Coatesville YMCA building to interview with a Navy recruiter and received all his recruit paperwork to take home and complete. He went back to Coatesville to meet with the Naval recruiter to finalize things, but the recruiter was not there when he arrived. Ronald was cooling his heels waiting when the Army recruiter motioned to him. Ronald walked over and he joined the Army.
When Ronald came back from that encounter and told me this, I asked why did he join the Army when he wanted to go in the Navy. “Better uniforms,” he said.
I said, “Then why didn’t you join the Marines?”
Ronald says he doesn’t remember this, but that is the conversation we had.
He also jacked up his trying to convince me to join with him. “We can go in on what they call the Buddy System,” he told me. “We would go through all the training together.”
Well, he had insisted before if we joined we would get a private
physical. He found out that wasn’t the case when the Doctors had him marching back and forth stark naked in line with other recruits the day they found his hernia.
I did go home and ask my parents, because again, they would have had to sign because of my age. My mom said there was no way her boy was going in the Army.They would not hear of me joining the armed services. Somebody might shoot at me.
Although Ronald was well and insisting I join with him, I gave it scant consideration because this time I had a job paying $56 a week (equivalent to $501 today), considered a top rate starting salary. Why would I give that up. I had no wishes to go someplace and have to climb some log tower.
We were heading toward a New Year that would see many changes in our lives.
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