Free Mitla Pass by Leon Uris Page A

up my credits as soon as we have Penny in kindergarten. Between the two of us, we can become comfortable in time.”
    Mom grew uncharacteristically quiet and managed a sad smile.
    “What’s on your mind, Mom?”
    “Somewhere along the line, we all give up the dream, I suppose. The Admiral didn’t, but on the other hand he didn’t try to take a trip to the moon alone. Somehow I thought Gideon was going to make it.”
    “We’re still very much in love. Sooner or later he’ll get his job situation squared away. Maybe he’ll try again.”
    “The longer he waits, the tougher it becomes. And what if he realizes he’ll never be a writer?”
    “Maybe Gideon got in over his head. Anyone who goes into writing has to find out somewhere along the line, he’s either naive or insane. It’s not going to be the end of our life.”
    O NE MORE San Francisco winter and Gideon changed. A lot of his cockiness and bravado had turned into sulkiness. The fire in him was dying out and he was trying to find the way to cope with his defeat and still keep going.
    One night he was packed home between a couple of his buddies, pissy-assed drunk, too crocked to drive the car. Was this a new phase of our marriage, or was the old Marine just bidding fond adieu to writing?
    We did not communicate for a week, except through the girls. On his day off, he came into the kitchen sheepishly lugging his typewriter.
    “I want a new typewriter,” he said. “How much can we swing?”
    Pencil went to paper. Jesus, there was a dress I wanted so badly—I’d saved thirty dollars in hidden nickels and dimes. We were still paying off the washing machine.
    “Three dollars,” I said.
    Gideon got six dollars a week allowance. He’d cut it to five. The same day he took the Underwood to an office supply store in San Rafael. It was so old it had a right-hand carriage throw.
    “This is the down payment. I can afford five bucks a month. Can I get a new machine?”
    “I’ve got some real nice reconditioned models ...”
    “I need a new typewriter. I’ve got a long book to write. I’ll throw in an autographed copy when it’s finished.”
    “I don’t get rich from these kind of deals, buddy.”
    “Yes or no?”
    “You’re serious about this writing. I never sold a machine to a writer before.”
    “You’re fucking A I’m serious. Marine’s honor.”
    Gideon had said the magic words. The store owner was an ex-Marine. They stick together like Jews. Gideon came home with a Smith-Corona, unlocked the manuscript drawer, and took out the first pages of Of Men in Battle.
    W HAT HAPPENED to my man in the next three years, I wouldn’t have wished on a dog. Gideon arrived home about eight at night and he wrote in a little attic alcove until two or three in the morning. The alcove held a card table and the typewriter. It was situated next to a small bedroom belonging to the girls. His typing became their lullaby.
    He was usually so exhausted he couldn’t speak coherently or walk down the steps alone. I had to undress him. On his day off, he’d work at the typewriter for seventeen or eighteen straight hours.
    And so it came to pass that one night he wrote THE END and then he dedicated the manuscript to his “long-suffering wife” and the two of us got stiffed and agonized through a monumental hangover.
    Next came the prelude to hell. Writer’s death. Rejection. Every trip to the post office box, you enter with fear in the throat, in the chest. Days and weeks and months go by and then—POW! ... that terrible little half sheet mimeographed form arrives saying “This doesn’t meet our current publishing needs.” Most of the time the signature is so blurred you can’t decipher it, other times there is no signature at all, just the form. No word of encouragement, no compliment, no hope. No explanation. Writing a personal letter apparently would mean no time for an editor to enjoy a martini. The publishing term for unsolicited manuscripts like Gideon’s was