The Worlds of Harry Logan: A Novel

By Michael W. Burns

Harry Logan, the author of a successful first novel finds himself living in chaos of expectations and relationships gone awry. He cannot find the words to begin his next book, and his friends and lovers cannot hear his silent screams for help through the bombast of his public personality. He begins to write in earnest again when he reacquaints himself with the gentle quiet Harry he left somewhere in his youth, and he forms and unlikely luncheon friendship with a fragile, funny, beautiful, and enigmatic librarian. As the book goes forward so does their unique friendship now well on its way to something more than that. Harry now must face the hard decisions to reconcile a private life with her and his public passion to become a force in the world of literature. They are the most difficult of his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468556766

Michael W. Burns

Michael W. Burns served as a Naval Aviator after graduation from Saint Michael’s College in Vermont. He worked in a variety of staff capacities for Committees and Members of the United States Senate for 12 years before joining the Veteran’s Administration Healthcare System in San Diego, California, as an Administrative Assistant to the Director and then to the Chief Medical Officer. Since 2001, he has traveled and written extensively about the United States and Canada. Michael has authored four previous books. His first book was a non-fiction account of the first of his more than 250,000 miles of solo trips in a recreational vehicle across the United States and Canada, He has created three works of fiction. Into the Blue Far Distance, published in 2002, chronicled his trip. Sunset House, his first work of fiction was published in 2010, the second, The Two Worlds of Harry Logan in 2013, and the sequel, The Transformation of Harry Logan in 2014.

Book preview

Contents

Acknowledgements

Author’s Note

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Acknowledgements

Always others help make a novel whatever it turns out to be. Most particularly, Harry Logan owes much to the talented editing of Elaine Hamlin who was kind enough to read it, read it, and read it until it became something more than I could have made it. I am grateful to her for her knowledge of grammar and syntax. Thanks to her thoughtful nature, Harry and his friends are likely much better understood.

To Joanne, who gave me the time it took to bring the people here to life. Her patience is appreciated and apparently boundless. Thanks too to the people at Author House who made the excruciating process of production easier.

Author’s Note

It is never clear where characters come from in a novel. I found these somewhere in that vast place called my imagination and have done my best to share them with you albeit for a short part of their lives. One cannot have expectations of characters because in the writing they often take you places you never expected. When done, I put them between these covers in the hope that others find the same pleasure in them as I have.

If it is a good story without moral or message, then I have succeeded in doing as I hoped. I very much hope you enjoy the lives of Harry Logan and those in it.

Michael W. Burns

February 2012

Chapter One

Harry Logan woke to the sound of breaking glass. He left his bed and hurried down the dark stairway. The noise came from the kitchen. When he reached it he was appalled at the sight. Agnes Roberts, the woman he lived with for more than a year was leaning against the counter sipping coffee. At her feet was a broken bowl. Shards of glass and a gelatinous mass of oatmeal covered the floor. Harry, in his bare feet, stopped abruptly.

Agnes, are you all right? What happened here? There was a touch of concern in his voice.

Dropped it. I was getting it from the microwave. Oh well, I’ll eat when I get to Bridgeville.

Did you cut yourself? Are you hurt?

No, but I’m late, so I’ll clean it up when I get home. Just sweep it into the corner.

Sweep—? You mean you aren’t going to clean this up now? I might step on it or worse, I could cut my hands picking that up.

I didn’t ask you to pick it up, Harry, just sweep it over there, Agnes said in irritation and pointed to the corner near the refrigerator, Use a broom. You can do that can’t you? You’ve used a broom, right?

Don’t be absurd. However, I’m not going to use one now. Harry replied, his voice rising, You broke the bowl, and are responsible for the mess all over the floor, so clean it up. You won’t be missed by those quacks you work with for the ten minutes it will take. This is appalling. How did you manage to drop it? My God, Agnes, here, Harry held a broom out to her.

She stared at him, her eyes narrowing as he proffered it. She took another sip of her coffee, put the mug on the table, and walked slowly to the back door, her heavy soled nursing shoes grinding the shards to even smaller pieces as she crossed the room. She slammed the door once out and the car was moving down the drive before Harry fully realized she was gone. He stood statute like, the broom still dangling from his outstretched hand. For a moment he thought there must be some mistake.

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He placed the last of the glass in the garbage can near the door an hour later, and threw the broom against the wall. Harry was as angry as he could remember ever being with Agnes. This was inexcusable. Nothing like this happened before. She never defied him that way. He was confused. Why was she treating him like this? He pulled himself up to his full height, sniffed the still very early morning air, and went back in the house. He surveyed the kitchen. He had done nothing more than remove most of the glass from the floor and pushed the rest out of the mess out of his way. The sight still appalled him. The carpet that should be at the back door was across the room, there were dirty dishes in the sink, and the table full of crumbs. How could Agnes leave this place in such a mess? What was wrong with her? He sniffed again. He wanted nothing more to do with this women’s work. She could clean when she got home. He would speak to her then about her slovenliness.

He went out to find the newspaper which he was sure was still somewhere in the driveway. Agnes would never be as kind as to throw it up on the front porch to save him the trip no matter how many times he urged it. He turned and mounted the front steps and entered the living room of his small Craftsman house. He took his windbreaker from the peg inside. If she wanted a filthy kitchen Harry thought, she could have one, but there was no reason why he should have to eat in it. He left for the Coffee Time Café three blocks away. He would eat there and read the paper. He was far too upset now to write this morning.

It was quiet. Bill Downs had no doubt been in and gone off to work by now. Harry and Bill went to Prep School together and fortuitously reunited when Harry moved here. He enjoyed Bill. He was a roommate for two years, a basketball teammate, and as good a friend as Harry had in school. Bill had come west to Stanford while Harry attended Yale where he stayed long enough to get his Masters degree. They were fierce competitors on the court even now. They both enjoyed the exercise. Bill played at Stanford while Harry was reduced to gym rat status playing intramurals after high school, or finding a game where he could. Besides his late father, Bill was one of the few males Harry ever enjoyed. There was no particular reason. He just never cultivated others or very much enjoyed the locker room antics of his peers.

Harry’s perusal of the newspaper kept his mind off the task at hand. He should be working on his book. As on so many other days when he lacked motivation, however, he found a reason for not starting. Today he laid it at the feet of Agnes and her behavior. He was about to go home when Amanda Quince came up the steps. She was a very tall, elegant woman, Harry’s age, with very long blond hair and impeccable taste in clothes. They became friends in Harry’s first days in town. Her quick wit and nimble mind kept Harry amused. She was a fine attorney, specializing in litigation Bill had told him, and while that may be true, Amanda was a fine boned beauty as well that he often lusted after when his mind was between engagements. They never dated, he knew little of her private life, but her company in the morning always cheered him. Soon her shadow fell across the table and he rose to greet her,

My dear Amanda, how lovely of you to stop by. Harry offered.

It’s always a pleasure to see you Harry. My day is so much more pleasurable when you are part of it. Amanda replied with a throaty chuckle.

There is that isn’t there? Harry said with a laugh of his own, Are you the only regular around this morning?

No, or I mean now, yes. Bill was entertaining Susan Elton and some others earlier when I stopped for my first cup, but they were so busy talking about children, I’m glad I had to run off.

Well, we both know that Susan thinks the world revolves around her little flock. Come to that, you always seemed interested in the little creatures.

"I am, but the voluminous account of their success being enumerated today seemed excruciating. It bored me to tears."

Amanda’s flair for the dramatic was charming. She could match him in vocabulary, verbosity, and dramatic effect if not bombast and had a rapier-like wit Harry found both funny and challenging. He was sure most were needs she acquired for the courtroom. After all, wasn’t it just a performance? Harry knew all about being on stage. As they knew each other better it became more a contest, an amusement for them both.

Well, Harry said, it is always that, isn’t it. Why did it bother you so today? We’ve both sat numbly through ten minutes of her children’s latest victories before, have we not?

Yes, we have, and more is the pity. You and I should be ashamed of ourselves that we don’t spend more time discussing things that matter. I mean, how much does the behavioral attributes of pre-teen children, or the number of soccer trophies they have won affect the world? Don’t try to answer that Harry, it was meant to be rhetorical.

It seems to have brought you to a near depressive state, Amanda. I do agree with you, but there isn’t much we can do to stop Susan is there?

Well, surely you have to admit there are far more interesting things we could discuss, aren’t there? Amanda said raising her eyes and clasping his wrist as she said it. Harry knew by the gesture that it was time to engage in their faux mating dance that occurred now and again when they were here and Amanda was moved to initiate it.

I would certainly hope so, my dear. Do you have something in mind?

To talk about? No not really, just a quiet conversation with an adult will do. It will, I know, be brief because of your writing schedule. I suppose I’ll have to live with that. Amanda sighed as she gripped his arm a bit tighter, still smiling brightly.

He felt a twinge at the mention of his schedule. He wished he had one. Since he used those words as a reason to leave so many banal conversations with people in town, she had no way of knowing it was artifice.

Amanda, he said in a sincere tone, I will stay longer if you want me.

Could you?

I could.

Oh but Harry, I may want you all morning, and perhaps even at lunch. Can you accommodate that?

I could, but such a commitment would require some reward.

Yes, a reward. What would that be Harry? A day without writing, or would there be something more, perhaps something you would want me to provide?

I would leave that to you, Harry said with his most winning smile.

It would be my choice then? Amanda asked sweetly, I would want reciprocity, of course.

Indeed and I’m certain it could be arranged. Harry replied. She seemed so serious about this today. He was enjoying it as always and not for the first time wondered if she was sincere. He was sure Amanda never wanted a physical relationship with him. God knows they had ample opportunity to pursue one before Agnes came into his life. She wanted him to believe she did, and he went along because it flattered him and it was fun.

Oh, Harry, you know I could just squeeze you to death for the rest of the day, but I have to go to the courthouse. It was wonderful to see you, though. I’ll be around sometime later this week. See you then?

I’m not sure, he said in a dismissive tone and a wave of his hand. There is much editing, so I may not be here. Do go along now to whatever it is that is more important than my happiness. I wouldn’t want to keep you.

Why Harry, you’re disappointed, she said mockingly.

I am. You always fail my expectations, Amanda. This is one more of your arrows that has pierced my heart.

Is it?

Sadly, yes. Harry said with a sigh, waving his hand again to dismiss her. He raised his cup, and began to pick up the paper.

Amanda laughed. He knew she was searching for something pithy to say,

Ah well, my dear Harry, she said in that throaty half whisper she used to such great effect, We’ll just have to leave it for another day, won’t we? She waved as she swayed slowly off to the parking lot, taunting him with her walk as she had with her voice. Whenever they played this game, he would appear aggrieved by her abrupt departures despite knowing they were inevitable.

Harry finished his coffee and left presently to walk slowly home. Amanda could have easily have led him right down that garden path today he thought. He was more interested in her entendre this morning for no other reason than because Agnes was such an irritation. Amanda had been toying with him, holding out an expectation. Harry had no trouble recognizing it because he seen it before. He wanted her to be interested in him and in her way she was, just not the way Harry wanted her to be today. He dismissed it as he came up the drive and thought about the mess in the house. By the time he reached his office in the building at the rear of his property, he vowed to try the new plot line today, but his agitation kept him returning to the subject of Agnes and he was unable to concentrate. He sat at his computer playing chess, hoping a creative thought might sweep into his brain.

Chapter Two

The loud, bombastic, impervious, and articulate Harry Logan was fully developed by the time he reached high school. He found his gift for vocabulary and argumentative nature to be an advantage over his peers. Harry was amazed at how mere words could cow his schoolmates into silence. He found the persona he learned from his father so useful he wore it in public whenever possible.

He was the only child of one of the first woman captains in the New York City Police Department, who perished in the line of duty at the age of thirty-five, and an English professor at Columbia University, a strong willed, imperious, yet caring man who was passionately and demonstratively in love with his work and his wife. She was some twenty years younger than he and one of his students at Columbia when they met. Despite her profession she was a charming and vivacious woman, the most beautiful Harry could ever remember. They both worshipped her. Harry’s father treated her as an equal. His loud voice and cavalier manner never entered the house or was part of his private life before her death. Harry saw it then as something his father wore to work but never at home. Harry was much like his mother then: quiet, shy, and gentle. She was always reasonable and solicitous of them both. His father took full charge of educating the shy boy after his mother’s death with weekend trips to the Museum of Modern Art, the Natural History Museum, the Symphony, Opera, and the Public Library. He changed, too, now bringing the loud imperious man he was in the lecture hall home with him and Harry found it easy to adopt the same style. He encouraged him to join the Drama Club as his showy articulate public personality began to emerge. While Harry had taken on the public persona of his father the shy, insecure boy remained. His mother, had she met the Harry she bore by the time he was ready for high school, would not have recognized him as the boy she was raising when she died. He was the same Harry, but his father taught him that the world did not reward one for acting kind and generous. The more time they were together, the more he became the public Harry who craved a fawning audience and appeared, as his father, to care very little for the feelings of those around him.

His mother’s insurance and father’s salary allowed Harry to attend St. Paul’s Preparatory School in Connecticut. He grew to over six feet two inches and was an excellent basketball player. His sandy hair, solid build and piercing blue eyes, athletic ability, assertive nature, and orator’s skills made him a favorite of the faculty there. He was given lead roles in several plays. His favorites included Willie Lohman in Death of a Salesman. He saw beyond the fear and sadness in Willie that a man with a gift for words, a shine on his shoes and a smile on his face could do anything. As Harold Hill in the Music Man he saw someone that could fool many of the people most of the time. He saw some of himself in both. He went on to Yale where he became a debater of some skill. After earning his Master’s degree he took a teaching position at a Midwestern liberal arts college. He was bored and ill suited to the didactic classroom work expected of him there. Two years later he was offered a job in Southern California at a small women’s college at a lesser salary where he also taught drama. He took it too so he might try for movie roles while he awaited his cherished tenure. The parts, given his verbal skills, turned out to be mostly as commercial voice over announcing, or the voices of animated cartoon characters. He made a great deal of money at it but it bored him. While he struggled with writing at Yale because he found all deadlines randomly imposed and difficult to meet, he enjoyed writing without pressure and turned to it as a creative outlet.

His first attempt at a novel came easily as he did it in his own time. It flowed out of his head and into the keys of his laptop. He was one of the lucky few who wrote a successful first book. He found an agent in Elspeth Henson through a faculty friend. She sold it and the rights to his next two books to a large publishing house. There was a tour to promote it and it rose to a modest height on the New York Times Best Seller List. He found it amusing that his mostly women interviewers were so taken with his looks, glibness, and public persona. The public Harry loved the doting attention. Only the death of his father during the tour marred it. Harry lost his best friend and model and perhaps the only person who fully understood the two worlds he occupied. He grieved, but he knew his father would want him to go on and that his best testimonial to him would be to become someone of substance in the literary community.

He moved to Hamilton, to a house his father’s sister left him. Elspeth was based in the city a few hours away as was his publishing house. His plan was to become an eccentric and somewhat reclusive author who would produce his new book in these bucolic surroundings. He would emerge to do interviews about his upcoming work and the work of others so his light in the literary world would not be wholly extinguished. Unlike many first authors, he had no failed manuscripts he could produce, polish, and sell after his first success. He needed to sell himself instead as an expert on fiction using all the magnificent glibness and charm he had shown in his interviews. It worked. He turned up on radio and television both locally and nationally whenever a commentator was needed. He found it easy and a good way to stay in touch with the literary world he so enjoyed. Hamilton had two television stations and a public radio affiliate so he was able to do much of it from there as well. Meanwhile, he worked at finding a subject for the second book.

That was two years ago and now he was frightened. He didn’t have a coherent plot, a main character, or a chapter written. The private Harry frayed at the edges and receded to the background while the public Harry panicked. Whenever adversity entered his life, Harry brought his public self into his private life. The shy boy of his youth who had courted, consoled, and fell in love with Agnes disappeared in the blue smoke of the public, imperial Harry, who found fault with the world and most things in it. His fear was escalating as he desperately tried to keep the idea that there might not be another book out of his mind. The more the cold fear of failure seized him, the more obnoxious and difficult he became. The public Harry took control. He was helpless to stop it. While those like Amanda who saw him only in public never noticed much of a difference in his demeanor around them, Agnes was different. She knew his problems. She watched him change from the man she met and cared for to the one he was now. His very urgent need to make progress on a second book was destroying their relationship and he was helpless to stop it.

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Agnes Roberts, nee Quinn, a native of Hamilton was bright and very beautiful. She was a large woman in every sense, nearly five feet ten yet graceful and athletic. She was in her youth what her mother once referred to charitably as big boned. As she came out of her teens she grew into her flesh and became the tall, vivacious woman she was now. Her size was part of her attraction. Her long auburn hair was worn below her shoulders and it habitually fell forward into her face. She swept it back with a unique, almost sensual shake of her head. Her face was expressive, her wide set green eyes and perfect nose complemented her full and nearly perpetually smiling lips. She rarely raised her deep well modulated voice. She drew stares for her beauty in her twenties and nothing changed now as she neared her mid-thirties. She had met her husband Sid while he, Bill, and Martha, were at Stanford.

Harry was introduced to her when he first came to Hamilton at a social function with her mother and was immediately taken with her intelligence and quick wit. Her mother lived near his aunt for years and was a close friend. Agnes was back in Hamilton after a ten year absence. Sid, in the Army Reserve, was mobilized for Operation Iraqi Freedom. She was to stay with her mother until Sid came home. She volunteered, at her mother’s urging, to help Harry with his redecorating as he renovated his house. She and Harry enjoyed their work together and he found she was very good at it. He insisted she be paid for her work. Soon her life came apart when Sid was killed and her mother had a stroke the following month and died five months later.

The private Harry came forward and was most solicitous of her grief and patient with the pain of this lovely woman who had seen her life destroyed in so many ways in a mere six months. They shared meals and talked a great deal after her mother’s death. A nurse before she married, she took refresher courses, renewed her license, and went to work in a physician practice in Bridgeville, a half hour away.

Harry was