One Book Wonder

New York City: 1955

Lonnie White pulled up his collar at a Fifth Avenue bookstore window against the cold. Black patches from lack of sleep lay under his eyes. Snowflakes, each an unkindly tiny angel to his mind, descended in the night. But it wasn’t the crystals scurrying down his back that gave him the shudders. Nor was it the ice melting in the hollow of his back. It was the overwhelming thought the snow crystals gathered together purposely, of one mind, a sentient being. This is not possible, he told himself. But it feels, all the same, like crystals of death prescient in their condemnation. He laughed at the poetic twist, coming out of his throat like a choking hack, the absurdity of his mind. The existence of hell is ridiculous.

Well-dressed Manhattanites strolled by: ankle-length dresses, pillbox hats, fedoras, and double-breasted suits. Lights flashed and horns blared from hulking post war automobiles as if crying out to him alone, as if they knew him, were accusing him. Lost in thought, he stared unblinking at the best-selling novel on display, Scarlett Streets. A photo of the author, Julia Christenson, was poised on the back cover, a beautiful blond. Her soft brown eyes radiated an undeniable sexual allure. If a passerby were to listen, which they never did, they might hear Lonnie mumbling at the window as they skirted around him. “A best seller,” he would announce quietly, shaking his head ever so slowly, “a best seller.”

A young man, Lonnie was as plain as plain could be. He wore jeans under a green military jacket, though he had never been in the service. Neither handsome nor ugly, he was a man no one noticed. And yet he preferred it that way, a ghost to the world. Anyone who bothered to look closely could see he was deranged in his loneliness, but no one bothered to look at all, much less closely. His only unique quality was that he lived alone in a thirty room Washington Heights castle, north of Manhattan. The medieval structure was inherited when his parents died. The trust paid the taxes and bills, providing him a stipend to live on. He had no family, no need for a job, no need for friends.

Occasionally, like now, he would visit what he thought of as his storefront and think back to Julia, his one and only lover. “I loved her,” he said to the glass. “I truly did. I’m not a bad person.” They had met randomly when they had shared a park bench the previous summer. He had guessed she was an actress and she had responded with a shy smile as if he had guessed correctly. For some reason, he had mentioned Shakespeare was an actor and a writer. She, of course, had asked if he was a writer. He had admitted this was true, letting his ego lead the way as men will do when impressing young woman. But he felt he was not an authentic writer by any stretch. For this, he had to publish. He simply tapped away on his Smith-Corona Clipper within his castle tower, his garret, overlooking the Hudson River. Sweating, smoking endless unfiltered Chesterfields, he pursued his ‘great American novel’ from a place where his dire imaginings could flow. 

Julia’s eyes had glowed a special admiring look, and he let the inner warmth of another human being bath him. Much to his surprise, they struck a friendship which began with meeting for coffee in the Village and eventually moved on to lovemaking in her apartment. One thing he knew for sure was to never, never, bring her to his castle. For then she would know he had risen no higher in life than an unemployed trust fund recipient and was not a successful writer. This was wrong of him he knew, but what could he do? This beautiful woman gave him the kind of attention he had never had. Is there any actual harm in letting her think better of me than you really are? Is it so bad to go out and embellish your wardrobe with fine suits to be the man you want to be? What if this IS your only and last chance to feel a love and sexual embrace you had known only others to have?

And so the deception went on until Julia, as any curious woman would, wanted to see what Lonnie had written. The book he had been tinkering away at did exist in a high stack of typed out white paper, cross-outs, and scribbles. Nobody had ever read it. The book was just the tapping on typewriter keys to burn his time. But as proof he was a writer, he gathered up the stacks of pages, three-hundred or more, and took them to Julia. He lay them before her as an offering. And so, as the days went on, he would sprawl on her apartment couch while she read through his novel, page by page, hour by hour. “Don’t stare at me while I’m reading silly,” Julia would say, never offering her opinion. Each day he returned panic-stricken to his castle, for his greatest hope, his desperate passion, was that Julia would like the novel. One word from her could save or crush any last vestiges of self-esteem remaining in his lonely life. He paced and paced into the night in his cavernous dining room biting his nails. My God, what will she think of my novel? he thought. What if she doesn’t like it?

But she did like it. And more than just liking it, she had a friend who she thought could publish the work with the oldest publisher in New York, a specialist in suspense, and murder. To Lonnie, this seemed beyond comprehension, beyond any imaginings of success he could think of or even dream. “Yes, yes, yes,” he pleaded. “Anything your friend can do, do.” And so he released the pile of pages with Julia to take to her friend.

In just two short weeks, Julia had word back from Bill. Could Lonnie meet her at her apartment?

But it was only later when she was across from Lonnie in a red leather booth sipping her gin martini, fresh from their lovemaking, a pink glow glistening on her cheeks, that she said, “I have some news about your book.”

Lonnie was speechless. He stared, transfixed on her siren’s face, her blond hair cascading in Lonnie’s imagination, just the hint of a rise and fall of her breasts under her white blouse.

“The manuscript is accepted for publication,” she said.

This was beyond happiness for Lonnie to hear. The novel, and only from Julia’s connections, would become a success. Life was truly grand.

“But there is one thing,” Julia said, her delicate nails holding a martini glass. “Bill says the marketing of the book is crucial. He won’t back it unless we have the right, how did he put it, image. That’s it. The right image.”

Julia laid out the requirements. “The author needs to be a woman, me actually. You have to understand how important this is. Bill says books sell with sexy authors, and you Lonnie, well… as much as I love you. Do you want the book to be successful? It could make a lot of money.”

At first Lonnie thought, no way will I let my book go to a publishing house unless under my name, but then he also thought about what he would walk away from. Lonnie was simply a hobbyist writer. Sure, now that he knew a publisher was interested, he could send it out to multiple publishers and maybe find someone else. But with Julia as the author, he had something else. He had Julia. He had the last and only pleasure he would ever find in a woman, a woman who would likely be offended if he didn’t do things her way, a woman who he didn’t want to risk losing. It was decided. Julia Christenson would be the author, Lonnie the ghost writer.

“Do you think it would be a good idea to send it out to other publishers? Lonnie asked.

Julia bristled, her eyes staring down. “Maybe. If you don’t trust me.” This, of course, settled it.

The book came to market and at first went nowhere, but slowly gained traction as a sleeper with a growing readership, a tragic murder mystery with a twist. ‘Heart rending’ the New York Post book summaries said. And so in six months the book climbed into the best sellers and became, by all appearances, a blockbuster. At least it was successful from Lonnie’s view, reading the trades, and watching Julia Christenson on the talk shows.

“The book is a hit, a tremendous hit,” Julia said, after dragging her upper teeth against her lower lip. Lonnie stared, mesmerized. They were perched on Julia’s new kitchen island. She had explained she needed a nicer apartment in case news people were to follow her home. “Image,” she explained, “was everything.”

Lonnie fidgeted in his chair. “It seems like we should get an advance or something?”

Julia flipped her right hand as if swiping a bothersome mosquito. “All the money went to marketing, dear.”

Lonnie took in the marble kitchen island, the lavish oriental rugs, the view of Manhattan.

Hesitating like she had remembered something, Julia said, “You’ll see. The truth is I wouldn’t even have taken this apartment if Bill hadn’t insisted.”

“I’ve never met Bill.”

“Soon, honey, soon. You’ll like him.”

Within a few months Lonnie was leaving messages for Julia and she wasn’t calling back. What could be wrong? True, it might offend her, but he decided to stop by. How else could he see her, set things right? He knew she was busy, but this was only fair.

A man Lonnie had never met answered the apartment door. “My good man. You must be Lonnie,” he said. Lonnie could smell greasy hair tonic. The man was lanky tall and Lonnie had never seen a human being whose eyes smiled less.

“Julia?”

“Lonnie!” Wearing a white robe, loose enough for Lonnie to realize this was all she wore, Julia leaned through the doorway of the kitchen. “I would have called you. Finally, you meet Bill. Bill, introduce yourself.”

But Bill didn’t have time as Lonnie swept past him to Julia who was poking cubes of raw steak and vegetables with a skewer, chopped potatoes, onions, a cucumber. Something rose up in Lonnie, an anger in his chest that grabbed his heart, prevented him from taking a breath as he choked down a venomous, dark taste.

Julia could see the anguish in Lonnie’s eyes, the naïve awareness widening in a little boy’s innocence. “What? You think I’d tie up with a loser. A one book wonder. You’ve got nothing Lonnie, not even your book. Now get lost.”

“But… but…”

“We stole it, Lonnie. Your book, yes, but more than that, we stole your creative energy, your mind.”

It wasn’t the words she said that ripped through Lonnie’s mind. No. It was recognizing the flush on Julia’s face that Lonnie so cherished that set him off, causing him to lose himself in an inner roar rising into the front of his brain, a blinding white.

Lonnie grabbed the shish-ka-bob skewer and held the back of Julia’s head by grabbing her hair with his left hand. He plunged the steel point into Julia’s right eye, then slowly thrust the length forward, his head slightly tilting in curiosity at the ease of the pointed steel scrunching through to the rear of her skull. She screamed and fell with her hands gripping her face. Lonnie yanked out the skewer and he was no longer slow, or curious. He punched the steel again and again into her chest, blood splattering on her white robe. With each thrust he felt the emptiness of his life, the never having the authentic love of even one woman, it was so ruthlessly unfair. He ignored Bill as he turned to leave. Bill, near catatonic, remained riveted on Julia’s crumpled body.

Within weeks Lonnie picked up the New York Post. A sordid murder affair was splashed on the front page: ‘Author Christenson Murder Solved! Kennedy Gets the Chair!' The story described a Mr. William Kennedy, who pimped for this ‘lady of the evening’, Julia Christenson, until she hit it big with her book. The ‘whore who wrote a bestseller’ the article said. Just a pimp and his whore it turned out, a common story on the streets of New York.

Lonnie continued to live in his drafty Washington Heights monstrosity. Sure, he had committed a murder, he thought. But fully justified, pushed beyond his limit, and betrayed on so many levels. Who wouldn’t? He often found himself on Fifth Avenue at the window of his bookstore as the winter diminished, spring ended, and summer began. In the window, Scarlett Streets taunted him. The book bragged to him how it was an even greater smash since the prostitute author was murdered.

Lonnie paced his castle tower well into the night. He couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t eat. He now knew he had written a best seller, but he couldn’t claim it. He also had writer’s block, but knew why. Julia had taken his creative mind and died with it, stolen it as she had said. She had taken who he was somehow, his talent. But no worries, he knew how to get his creativity back. This only made sense. He grinned to himself. That’s it. What greater power than talent? And I'll have plenty.

The woman lying in front of Lonnie had published not one, but four novels. He had followed her down the dark streets of Brooklyn, and it wasn’t difficult, with a little chloroform, to get her back to his castle. She was now tucked safely away within the basement crypt. His parent’s bodies lay resting near her in the grey stones. Their mouths aghast, eyes open, they lay in graves covered with a clear glass-like resin. Tossing notepaper to the girl, he demanded she write. Later he would take the notes to his garret tower and plink away on his Smith Corona. Plink… plink, plink.

But this wasn’t enough. Only by piercing his eyes into the depth of her creative mind, fusing his eyes with hers in an inexorable transformation, could the process work. He strapped her down on her back and lay prone against the top of her, her soft warmth compressed against him. He sensed her terror. Don’t blink, he begged, digging into her pupils with his own. The windows are your soul, he pleaded. I must meet you at exactly the right moment, the moment your eyes go dead. He tightened his hands ever so slowly on her throat, saving the moment, perfecting, staring. As the girl’s eyes died, he could feel her talent moving to his own mind, exquisitely. The tiny angels of a sentient being joined him, the ice crystals, the snow.

Once completed, he could feel his creativity soaring, he couldn’t wait to go to his garret, couldn’t wait to join his Smith Corona. But first some business. This was only right, a respect. He honored her with her own place, and lay her carefully, lovingly he felt, in an open grave, the row his parents lay in. Covering her with clear resin, she formed a sanctuary of her own, her face aghast, mouth open, eyes seemingly aware. But even while doing so, he tried not to dwell on the acid in his stomach. The burst of talent she’d given him would play out. When the time came, he knew there was only one way to re-fill his creativity. The snow talked to him, beckoned him on, the crystal angels.