Promissory Lives

Truman Ward was 19 when he read his first Wallace Henneke short story, “That’s Who We Are,” found in an anthology published in the mid-1970s. Smitten with the story, with Henneke’s style, Truman went looking for more, found some, and eventually discovered Henneke was alive, living little more than an hour away. Ward wrote him a letter — a fan letter — and a few weeks later was elated when he received a handwritten reply.

Your comments are very kind. Thank you. My best.

Below that: Wallace R. Henneke

* * *

Ward’s parents divorced when he was 15. Both were university faculty: father, Business, mother, English. During the divorce, they went to great lengths to explain how the dissolution of their marriage would not affect their love for him. “It’ll be all right,” they both said, too often. At 15, he couldn’t put his feelings into words. He was angry and frightened and his parents wouldn’t stop trying to reassure him. When they remarried a little over a year later, calling the time spent divorced “a year of genuine growth,” they asked, too often, what he was feeling. His reply: “Pretty much the same as when you divorced.”

At 16, a handsome boy, he thought his parents were self-indulgent. Tired of their attempts to comfort him, he waited a couple months after the remarriage and, one evening after dinner, both of them asking, again, how he was doing, said: “Wake up, please. Quit acting like you don’t know how I feel.” Their stunned expressions emboldened him. “Quit acting like you’re surprised by life all the time. Act like adults, for Christ’s sake.” He got up, started to clean the table, and when they tried to help he told them to go for a walk, together. “Here’s an idea,” he said, “talk to each other. Listen to each other. That might work.”

* * *

“That’s Who We Are” chronicled the lives of Benjamin and April Willis. Sweethearts throughout adolescence, Benjamin and April produced two daughters and a son. They fought. They had jobs, pinched pennies, took their kids on vacations, had aspirations and dreams and shared them with each other. They occasionally attended church, paid their bills, fed and clothed their kids, painted the house, mowed the lawn, did the laundry, and demonstrated to their offspring how to live. When they talked to each other — this fascinated Truman Ward — when they talked to each other, their conversations were almost inconsequential. The language — the unadorned language they used, the unadorned language of Wallace Henneke — Truman Ward found it compelling. The story ends: Benjamin and April have died. Their children mourn them and then go on with their lives, and all the while Henneke’s writing has been making it clear that the going-on with their lives has been specified by their parents as what to do. They’ve been taught to do that. Someone passes, life goes on.

* * *

There were six letters, six each way, between Truman and Wallace Henneke before Truman got up the nerve to ask if he might visit. Truman was 22, a senior at Eastern, a business major/English minor. He’d found stories by Henneke in magazines, college quarterlies, and anthologies. A visit with Wallace Henneke reeked of adventure.

Henneke’s reply, written in the same black ink:

I’m retired. Call first. Afternoons are best.

A phone number below the signature.

* * *

“Take a seat,” Henneke said. He pointed to a chair, and was sitting down on the couch when his wife walked into the room, nodded at Truman Ward, leaned toward her husband, and cocked an ear. Henneke pointed to her and said, “My wife, Liz.”

Ward, in the process of sitting, straightened up, stepped over and extended a hand. “Pleased to meet you,” he said. “Thank you for allowing me to visit.”

“My proofreader,” Henneke said, “editor, too.”

She smiled, shrugged, then pointed her chin at her husband. “I’m going,” she said. She tipped her head to Truman Ward, said “nice to meet you,” and departed. Henneke slapped his hands together, sat back and motioned for Truman to make himself comfortable. When Ward was seated Henneke said, “Okay, go. What brings you here? I’m curious. What do we talk about?” Henneke touched his chin, then rubbed it. “It’s the writing, I suppose.”

Truman Ward rolled his shoulders. “Well, yes. The stories, I guess. I suppose I just wanted to meet you and tell you how much I enjoy your writing.” Eyes on Henneke, he mugged, folded his hands together and sat back. “The stories are wonderful.” He paused, one thumbnail digging at the other. “They’re deceptively simple.” Truman had shown Henneke’s stories around campus, shared them with students and faculty. Not a single person had heard of him. His English-professor mother had never heard of him. “Is that okay to say?”

“They’re literal,” Truman continued, and he almost laughed, not out of embarrassment but because the idea of simple stories being so intriguing, he couldn’t find words for that. “I think this is right …” He paused, leaned over and scratched at an ear. “They’re almost whimsical.” He’d been worried he’d be embarrassed, but felt no embarrassment at all. He smiled, then, “They are whimsical and …,” he searched for a word. Charming? Not charming. Not enchanting, not magical, not delightful. Henneke’s prose — sans formal rigor — it was …

“So, do you write?”

Truman was surprised by the question and shouldn’t have been. He’d made attempts. He’d piddled with poetry since high school, results mortifying. He’d never shared a word with anyone. Prose, the same. He’d write something, think it impressive, then watch it wither away. “I don’t think I have what it takes,” he said.

Henneke didn’t respond and it went quiet, Truman feeling, for the first time, discomfort. Henneke, lips slightly parted, leaned forward, put a hand down on the couch, and said, “If you came to find out what it takes, I can’t help. But advice? Here’s some: Don’t think so much.” A wry grin. “Do you think about eating when you’re eating?”

Truman laughed. “Well …”

Henneke held up a hand, eased back into the couch. “Just write,” he said. “It’s only typing, or scribbling. Really. Typing or scribbling with a purpose.” He paused. “Most of my stories have not been published … they were rejected. I knew that, but submitted them anyway, hoping for luck. Then, there are some stories — stories I worried over — I never submitted. Writing them was just me putting in my time. I didn’t know it when I was writing them, but afterwards, I’d wait a couple days and read them again and see that they weren’t much more than exercises. So, after all my years, I guess around 40 of my stories made it into print, and I imagine I was paid for — I don’t know — maybe half.” Henneke rubbed his forearm, eyes down, thinking, then laughed. “I’m submitting stories and I’m thinking, ‘What’s with these editors?’ I’m wondering what they’re after. I read all the time and tell myself, ‘Hey, I’m as good as that.’ And I keep sending stuff out and telling myself I’m good. I’m serious. I mean it. My stuff was good, okay?” Henneke paused, nodding to himself. “At least my good stuff was good.” Another pause. “But I knew all along, publishing is a business. Anything with dollars involved is business. Editors and publishers, they have a bottom line, right? They have to know their business. There’s always somebody they have to keep happy, and it’s probably not writers.” Henneke paused, lowered his eyes and puffed his cheeks. “When a story got published, that meant something to me. Some editor must have figured my story was right for the market.”

Truman smiled. He was thrilled just sitting there, listening to Henneke make sense.

“I felt vindicated,” Henneke said. “That’s the truth. I felt like I belonged, like I’d achieved something, and I needed that.” He paused, a finger to his lips, then laughed again and looked at Truman as if he’d been sharing secrets, which, in fact, he had.

They were in Henneke’s living room: a TV set, a couch, a chair with an ottoman (where Truman was perched), a chair without an ottoman, an end table, and a coffee table. Framed photographs. A couple lamps. Hardwood floors and a rug. Light from a bay window. Not a book in sight. They talked two hours plus, and then Truman Ward stood, thanked Henneke, and told him he had to be on his way. He’d gone in with jitters and came out beaming. He’d met Wallace Henneke and his wife, and sat in their living room. Wasn’t that something?

Henneke revealed he’d made a living in printing his entire life — a union printer — and he swore he loved every single day of it. When Ward asked if he’d ever been interested in writing as a profession, Henneke laughed. “Oh, come on … try to make a living as a writer? Sounded impossible. I was around real writers a couple times. Teachers and writers, academics and so forth. I was invited to some events and went. University campuses, usually. I enjoyed those but was never sure why I was invited or where I stood. I didn’t have the background. The conversations were above my head, everybody talking about literature … I should have known that going in. Truth is, I was lost in most conversations. I wanted to talk about printing but nobody seemed interested.”

The day they met, Wallace Henneke was 72 years old. His wife was 73.

* * *

The next day, the day after he’d visited Henneke, Truman Ward dialed the Henneke phone, listened to it ring too long — thought about hanging up — should he do that? Hearing Henneke answer, he said “Mr. Henneke, this is Truman Ward again. We met yesterday. I’m sorry to bother you, I hope I’m not imposing but …”

“You’re not,” Henneke said, then a pause. “Not at all.”

“Well, I wanted to ask you something yesterday and I forgot about it and I hope I’m not bothering you …”

“It’s okay,” Henneke said, “you’re not.”

Ward paused, took a deep breath. “I’m curious. Are you still writing?” Hearing it, Truman thought the question undiplomatic. Invasive. Stupid, even.

“Sure,” Henneke said. Another slight pause, then: “Not every day. That’s what I should be doing, I know, but yeah, I’m still trying.”

Silence at both ends.

“I was just curious,” Ward said.

“Well …”

“Mr. Henneke, I want you to know …”

“Wallace,” Henneke said. “Call me Wallace. Everybody does.”

“Okay.” Truman ran a tongue over his teeth. “I’m sorry for bothering you. You’ve been very generous.”

“You’re not bothering me,” Henneke said. “Time I got plenty of. Let me tell you something. I haven’t talked about my writing with anybody in a decade. My wife, she looks at the stuff and we talk about it. I get her opinion. Besides her, nobody. So now there’s you. Call whenever, but early afternoon’s best for me.”

* * *

“Roscoe’s Catapult,” published in 1983, was one of Truman Ward’s favorite Henneke stories, a quasi-fable about a junkyard owner and the machines he invented; some large, some larger, some small. They buzzed, whirred, rattled, chugged, backfired, and smoked. Henneke told Truman he’d modeled it on stories from the golden age of science fiction, referring to that stuff as “whiz-bam” science fiction. Roscoe’s machines were powerful. Some were handheld, some anchored, some on wheels, and some hung from wires and frames. They’d drag, push, lift, tear, claw and crush, all smelling of oil and rust. In Roscoe’s eyes — in Wallace Henneke’s words — everything in the yard, everything dubbed “junk,” everything was in transition, on its way to becoming something else. Maybe something important.

Roscoe’s catapult, anchored in the rear, pitched heavy items around the yard, half for Roscoe’s amusement, half because it beat dragging or pushing. A local constable passing the junkyard sees something in his peripheral vision, something flying through the air and landing with a crash. He stops, turns around, and drives back into the yard, discovering the catapult. He watches Roscoe load it and hurl one more mass of something through the air and, being somewhere between annoyed and angry, the constable spends the better part of an hour in Roscoe’s cramped office, lecturing the junkyard owner on public safety. He is stern, sanctimonious, and while he rambles on, Roscoe remains standing, head nodding, dressed in stained coveralls, boots unlaced, cap on his head, listening as if he were a child who’s ridden a bicycle through the neighbor’s flowers. When the constable finishes, Roscoe thanks him for stopping and promises to be more restrained in the future.

In the future he is not more restrained. He builds a smaller catapult and employs it, too. The constable never returns.

“Our Diner,” from 1991, centers on a husband and wife who run a diner in a rundown neighborhood in a large city. Living in a trailer behind their Morning Star Diner, Possum and Martina (no surname given) are generous to a fault, allow the less fortunate to run a tab, help some with a job and, when pressed, offer laconic advice. The diner has strict rules: no foul language, no loud talking, use “please,” “thank you,” “pardon me,” and “excuse me.” Wash your hands, sit up straight, chew with mouth closed. Cash preferred, no checks. Credit cards accepted reluctantly. Take a mint as you leave. The diner is spotless, no stains on menus, no dried catsup or mustard on dispensers, no spilled sugar, salt, or pepper. Behind the counter — all that moving around, handing off plates, silverware, coffee mugs, cups, glasses, ice — that goes on without incident, as if choreographed.

Not much happens in “Our Diner.” A pair of motorcycle riders are asked to apologize to the other customers for their bad language. They do. A drunk is primed with coffee and offered a free meal. He takes it. A storefront preacher worries about the lack of attendance at Our Lord Will Return chapel, which in better times was a shoe store. The story ends with a conversation between Martina and a neighborhood girl, unmarried, pregnant and afraid.

“Honey,” Martina says, “you’d be crazy not to be afraid.” The girl leaks tears. “Here, stand up for a second,” Martina says, and she gets the girl to stand up.

“Go on, feel your tummy,” Martina says.

The girl puts hands on her abdomen, inhales and shivers.

There are two women at the far end of the diner, ears cocked. Martina touches the girl’s arm, motions for her to follow and walks down to where the women sit. When the women look up, Martina says, “How many children you two got?” She already knows. Mrs. Bradley has four, one dead from drugs. Mrs. Henry has two daughters and is a grandma three times. Mrs. Henry stands up, reaches for the girl’s hand, and pats it. “You Miss Irene’s granddaughter?”

The girl nods.

Mrs. Henry looks at Mrs. Bradley, looks at Martina, then raises a hand to the pregnant girl’s shoulder. “You staying with your grandmama?”

Whispered: “Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Henry stands up straighter, pulls her shoulders back and shakes her head. “You tell Miss Irene that you need anything, Mrs. Henry and Mrs. Bradley need to know … hear me? Right away, understand me?”

Mrs. Henry looks to Martina and smiles. “This baby just one more mouth to feed,” she says. “Ain’t that what you all want?” She bursts out laughing, and Mrs. Bradley laughs and Martina puts her head back and laughs, and the pregnant girl feels her swelling belly and smiles.

Truman Ward’s mother read “Our Diner” — her son insisted — and found it “simplistic.” Her son didn’t argue. He agreed. “Whatever do you see in this?” his mother asked him.

He shrugged, and a day later he thought about it and came up with his response, never delivered: “Well, it was a half-hour or so, well spent.”

* * *

“My son is — well — he’s just starting,” Beth Ward said, glancing at Truman as she was speaking. “He admires your writing, I’m sure you know that, and I suspect he’s wanting to develop something that is his own.” She paused.

At the table were Truman, his mother, and Wallace and Liz Henneke. They were in Charleston, off campus at a small restaurant/bar where Truman worked a few evenings a week. The Henneke’s hadn’t known Beth Ward would be in attendance when they accepted Truman’s invitation to celebrate his first publication, two poems in the campus literary magazine.

Wallace Henneke smiled, his wife raised her eyebrows.

“I remember the first story I had accepted,” Henneke said.

His wife lifted her fork, pointed it at him, finished chewing and said, “Lemonade.”

“That’s it,” Henneke said.

“Where?” Beth Ward asked.

Henneke shrugged. “God, I don’t know. Lost to time, I’d say.” He paused and looked at his wife. “Do we have a copy?”

She shrugged.

“You didn’t keep a copy?” Beth Ward, on the offensive.

Her son dropped his hands into his lap, looked at his mother, and frowned.

She turned to him. “What?” she said.

Truman turned to Henneke, lowered his chin, and said, “I know this is putting you on the spot, but can I ask you what you think?”

Henneke looked at his wife, rubbed his nose, looked at Truman. “You can.”

Beth Ward straightened herself, chin up a bit.

“First,” Henneke said, “I liked the poems because they were written by you, and don’t consider that faint praise before I finish, okay? I like them because you worked on them and it shows. They’re economical. That’s what I think. They were finished. They had a finish. And …” He paused. “They were metrical. And they were reasoned. Does that make sense?”

Beth Ward was listening intently. She’d given her son a line-by-line review of the two poems, an academic review; he’d known it was coming. It was neither helpful nor unhelpful, basic classroom jargon.

“Secondly — we do have some knowledge of each other — so you know where this is coming from: I like convention. Rhyme. Meter. Metaphor. I know we’ve not talked about poetry that much, but I do read poetry on occasion and I find a lot of what I read — I don’t know — lacking.”

Beth Ward blinked. Did he say what she thought he said? What was he reading?

“You used an onomatopoeia.” Henneke smiled and watched Truman Ward smile. “I liked that a lot. Sounds engage, don’t they? At least that’s what I think. And this nice phrase: ‘pathological pronouns.’ I laughed out loud at that. I did. And I agree with you — all this ‘I’ ‘you’ ‘me’ stuff? We’ve talked about that, right? Can’t stand it. Pronoun salad.” Henneke watched Truman, waited, then said, “Be happy, that’s what I think. Be satisfied. The writing was clear, I was engaged, I understood. That’s the deal, isn’t it?”

Truman Ward nodded. “Yes,” he said, “that’s the deal.”

Beth Ward chimed in. “It’s too early,” she said. “It’s way too early to say where this is going.”

Liz Henneke looked over at Wallace Henneke and Wallace blinked at her, looked at Truman Ward and shrugged. Was there more to say?

“I’m happy,” Truman said. “Thank you all. And if you want to know what I think about the poems — this is me, having rewritten them any number of times — here’s what I think.” He looked at Henneke, his wife, then turned to his mother. “There were no blunders, nothing weirdly out of place. Nothing clumsy.”

Truman’s mother was leaning back, face screwed up, trying to understand. Wallace Henneke leaned out over his plate, raised a finger to point it at Truman. “Exactly,” he said. “We’ve talked about that, I know we have.”

“We have,” Truman said. Henneke laughed out loud and slapped the table.

“Wait a minute,” his mother said.

“You know,” Truman said, “every time I worked on one of those, it mutated. Everything was in play. The words and the ideas. It wasn’t starting over, it was a reset. I was chipping away at something.”

His mother had come up the day before, late afternoon, and they’d gone to dinner, where she graded his first published poems — at length — and he listened carefully. When he walked her back to her hotel, her telling him on the way that she and his father were having problems again, she got to the edge of being weepy. He walked her into her room, let her go on a bit, and finally asked, “Do you love Dad?”

The hurt look she gave him pissed him off.

“Do you tell him? Say it out loud?” Her eyes widened. “Do you think he’s always sure of himself?”

She waved her hands at nothing, scrunched up her face. “Mom,” he said, “how can you be so smart and yet …”

“You don’t listen to me,” she said. She looked old when she said that.

“Look,” he said, “say what’s on your mind. I’ll listen. Tell me. I want to know.” She tightened her jaw and glared at him.

“Whatever it is, say it so somebody can hear it,” he said. “That’s how it works.” She looked away. “I love you, you know,” he said. “Dad does, too. That’s the good news. The bad news is you act like that’s not enough. That’s how I read it. I imagine that’s how Dad reads it, too. So, if it’s not enough, what’s missing?” He turned and opened the door, speaking over his shoulder. “You know, I’ve inherited some of your tastes, some of your drive and your ambition, and I’m glad of that. Really, I am.”

She looked startled, then hurt.

“I’m not going to be a writer,” he said. “I know that. I don’t have the motivation.”

* * *

By the time he was 30, Truman Ward had married, finished his MBA, and was working in publishing. If he’d ever written another poem, no one had seen it. Now he negotiated, wrote, and reviewed contracts, sat in meetings centered on money, marketing, production timelines — what was selling and what wasn’t. The writers he met were intelligent, engaging, and, for the most part, easy to work with. He wrote Wallace Henneke on occasion and usually received a reply. After his daughter was born he wrote, telling the Hennekes he’d become a father, inquired about their health, and when he finally received a letter back from Elizabeth Henneke, she said her husband was not doing well, was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and was still trying to write, hoping that would hold the disease at bay. Truman wrote back, sending condolences to Elizabeth and a note to Wallace, asking if he might visit. It was months before he received a reply, written in Wallace’s shaky hand, thanking him for his note. No mention of a visit.

He let more time go by and finally he called. There was a waver in Elizabeth’s voice when she answered, and it took a moment for her to connect Truman’s voice and name with someone from her past. When she made the connection she sounded winded. “Oh my God, yes, Truman, yes, how are you?” When he asked if he might visit, she hesitated, then, “Oh, maybe that would be all right.” Spoken like she was unsure about just what she was agreeing to.

He mentioned a date, two weeks away, a Saturday.

“Yes,” she said. “That would be wonderful. And…” She paused and he could hear her breathing, imagined her concentrating. “I’ll write it down and remember,” she said. He pictured her blinking, hoping she was getting everything right. “Wallace has some problems, you see. His memory.” He could hear her breathing. “He’s trying,” she said

“Well,” he said, “I’ll see you in two weeks, okay? I’ll be there and I’ll phone before I arrive. Will that work?”

“Oh, fine, yes,” she said. A pause, then: “I’ll let Wallace know. He might — I don’t know — he has good days. Let’s hope for that, shall we?”

* * *

He was greeted by an old man with drooping eyes, a few days’ growth of stubble, wearing khakis, house slippers and a sweater over a sweatshirt. Wallace Henneke stepped out onto the porch, holding the screen door open behind him. “Hello there,” he said. He cocked his head, looked over Truman Ward’s shoulder, then shifted his gaze and studied Truman’s face. Truman said nothing. Henneke coughed and lowered his eyes. He’d lost weight. He licked his lips and took one step, adjusting his balance, and then, without making eye contact said, “I’m okay.” He was shaking his head, as if admitting a mistake.

Truman Ward felt an urge to touch Wallace Henneke, put a hand on his shoulder or on his arm. Were they friends? They’d only ever shaken hands. “Mr. Henneke — Wallace — it’s Truman Ward. Remember me?”

Henneke inhaled, turned, and stared back into the house, turned back to look over Truman Ward’s shoulder, then made eye contact with him again. His gaze held little effort and little intent. Truman waited to speak.

“Okay,” Henneke said, “I think I remember,” and right then his wife came to the door and reached up and touched her husband’s hand, still holding that door open, and he looked at her and beamed. “It’s him,” he told her. “He’s come about the story.” She touched her husband’s shoulder and brought him back into the house. When she got him on the couch, she sat beside him and he looked at his wife, turned his entire frame to her, smiling, then slowly turned to Truman Ward, still standing. “Your story was very interesting,” Wallace Henneke said.

* * *

The drive home seemed long. Beside him, a folder Elizabeth Henneke had thrust into his hands as he was leaving. “Most days he just sits at his computer,” she said. “He turns it on and sits.”

The visit was hardly a half hour — an uncomfortable half hour — before Henneke looked at his wife and said, “I’d like to lay down now.” She helped him from the room, and when she returned she seemed penitent, like there was something to explain and she didn’t know where to start. “We’ve got someone coming in now,” she said, and she looked down at hands clasped in her lap, thumb rubbing thumb. “A nurse comes mornings and some afternoons.” She swallowed, avoided looking at Truman Ward, and when she finally did she said, “I’m afraid.” That brought a lonely smile to her face. “I know how this is going to go and I’m lonely already.” She huffed, inhaled, raised her chin in an attempt to hold something back. “I’m mad at him,” she said. She leaned forward, toward Truman Ward. “Isn’t that awful?” Brow furrowed, rubbing her hands, she said, “It is, I know it is. It’s just awful. But I can’t help it, I am just so mad at him.”

* * *

In the folder was what Truman assumed was Henneke’s last attempt to write a story. Three versions, three attempts, three different titles, each with Elizabeth’s red ink circling and underlining, with questions and comments in the margins.

In “A Promissory Life,” a young boy writes notes in lieu of speaking, and grows to be a man who does the same. What’s in those notes? That’s never revealed, and when “A Promissory Life” dead-ends, Liz writes: is this it? circled in red.

“Dear Serendipity” focuses on the notes again, content still not revealed, and a boy grows up to be a man, and throughout his life, boyhood to manhood, he writes notes, drops them in random places, tapes them to light poles, hides them in library books, staples them to community billboards, leaves them on church steps. People discover these notes. Some discard them, some are amused, some are curious and one becomes obsessed. Liz Henneke’s running comment: What do these notes say? Wallace, what do they mean?

In “I’m Ashamed to Admit This,” the notes are confessions written by an old man who mails them to names picked at random from a phone book. Much of the story is combing through the phone book, the old man, pencil at his lips, addressing his unrevealed messages.

In red, over and over: Why? Wallace, why is he doing this?

* * *

When Wallace Henneke finally died at 83, his wife boxed up all his manuscripts — finished and unfinished, published and unpublished — and put them in the basement, and that is where their son found them after his mother passed.

The Henneke boy, his two sisters, they worked their way through those boxes, marveling not so much at their father’s stories but at the red ink their mother spread across them, flagging typos and grammatical errors, making comments on content and leaving messages in the margins: I love this, Wallace or This makes no sense!

The eldest daughter took those boxes home, stored them in a closet, promising herself she’d get to them some day. Nothing like that happened. The two boxes held something their parents did, that’s all. She didn’t actually forget, she intended to get around to it; she said that to her brother and sister and that was good enough for them. The intending was plenty enough. Then her brother died early; he was single, and his sisters wept and said it wasn’t fair. The sisters clung to each other until the youngest moved to Florida. It was the weather, she said. The eldest stayed just outside Rantoul, never forgetting, always intending, promising herself she’d go through the boxes in her closet … if for no other reason than she’d see her mother’s handwriting, read her father’s words, and she’d promised herself.