SF titles already listed in my oversized reference tomes. I dropped him an e-note, and immediately got a response that helped clarify what he’d penned.
And in the course of our several conversations I began to wonder, oh yes I did, ladies and gents, whether or not I could expand my offerings at WP by reprinting fiction by Mr. Maltese—and possibly others. For it seemed to me that the market was ripe for such a revolution. And, wonder of wonders, my prescient publisher did agree.
And then William mentioned several friends of his—all longtime pros in the business—who might also be interested. There was Ms. X. There was Mr. Y. And there was Mr. Z—that damned name again: BANIS! Victor J. Banis!
After thirty years among the dead, the man had resurrected himself. He was living in the wilds of West Virginia (at which point I wondered if he was actually brain-dead, having encountered some of the rougher areas of that lovely state in my many meanderings!).
“No, no, no,” the Maltese falcon chirped back at me, “he’s living in a suburb of D.C. He’d be happy to hear from you. Just mention my name in Atlantis.”
So I did—write him, that is—and did—hear back from him—and did eventually publish him, and did finally talk to him—and found a lovely person and a helluva good writer in the process—and, I hope, a lifelong friend.
You see, gentlefolks—there are writers, and then there are WRITERS. I ran that one in all-caps so that those of you are just dozing will sit up and take notice. Fra Reginaldo is about to make one of his official pronunciamentos: those of us who sling this shit professionally know the difference between the hacks and the hack-nots. We recognize the prose that sings, the words that bite, the verbs that grab. We wish those talents were ours—oh, we do so envy those penmen who make it look that easy. Because it’s not that easy, people. In fact, it’s not easy at all!
Read a passage from one of Victor’s novels. Note the smoothness of the dialogue, the way the story flows, the rhythm of the language, the subtle, special touch of the master wordsmith as he paints his portraits in prose. It doesn’t get much better than this.
So why isn’t Victor Banis a household name?
If life were fair, the many talented writers that I’ve known would all have died rich and championed and well-read. Sadly, that’s not the case, and there isn’t any good reason for it. For every J. K. Rowling, there are ten thousand, a hundred thousand Jerry Bixbys, who at the end of his life was staying alive by selling off pieces of his treasured art book collection.
There’s a lesson in there somewhere, I suppose. The best way to support the writers you like is by buying their books, savoring their books, cherishing their books. The really top-notch writers are rare birds indeed, but their works merit rereading again and again.
Victor Banis is definitely a member of this exclusive club. You need go no further than the first paragraph in this new collection of tales and reminiscences to relish the magic of his pen. He sets the tone, grabs the eye, and rivets the reader right to the page. And he’s funny—ha, ha, I mean, not peculiar—I swear that I’ve eaten at some of the places reviewed by The Underground Diner, including a houseboat restaurant run by a distant cousin of mine in Tennessee.
So, gentle readers, it’s time to praise Caesar and to hail Caesar. He came, he saw, he conquered, but the “Victor”y—hey, it’s all ours! In the words of the immortal Horace, Victor J. Banis has created a monument more enduring than brass—and a much more readable one too!
—Robert Reginald
San Bernardino, California
27 July 2007
PART ONE
LIFE & OTHER PASSING MOMENTS
THE BIRTHDAY BOY
She baked him a wheat cake, because that was his favorite. He’d have been happy with anything, of course, or even with nothing at all. The sweetest boy, everyone said so. Never a moment of trouble, never a word of complaint. What mother could ask for a more perfect son?
She had gotten him a new pair of shoes. It had taken her the entire year to save the money for them, and she had had to forego so much that the money could have provided for them; but this mattered, this was important—that they celebrate these young years of his, that each of the birthdays must be made special. It was all she could do. The poor are limited, but not in love, at least. She would do this, and if her husband thought her foolish, he did not say so, and for that she was grateful.
When the cake was ready, she went to where he was working in the shop with his father. He let the boy come in alone. This was her time, mother and son together. He understood. That was his gift. It was all he could give.
“How he has grown,” the other women said, and did not know that their words were like a knife in her heart when they spoke them. He was a serious child, not given much to play or laughter, but when he smiled, as he did now, it was like the sun bursting through a bank of storm clouds. She could tell that he was delighted with the shoes, and the cake, which he especially loved. They ate it together, each crumb sticking painfully in her throat, but somehow, she managed to smile back at him, and if he guessed her pain, he did not remark on it, and only smiled more sweetly at her.
When the cake was gone, he put on the new shoes, and came to embrace her, and she had to fight the urge to cling to him, to hold him to her, because she knew that was foolish. You could not keep your boy a boy. No matter how tightly you held him, he would grow.
He kissed her brow and went out to show his new shoes, and she sat, the tears running freely now down her cheeks, her heart breaking within her. She did not look up when her husband came in.
He knelt on the dirt floor with her, and took her in his arms. His rough carpenter’s hands were astonishingly gentle. “Ah, Mary,” he said, wishing that he could take the pain away from her. “Don’t cry, my darling.”
“Oh, Joseph, Joseph,” she sobbed against his chest, “Another year gone by.”
He held her, and said nothing. What could he say? It had all been settled when the boy was born—those strange men, the lights—the time passed, and what would be, would be. He could not change any of it.
He could not help his heart aching, though, for the mother, knowing.
WELCOME TO ANTOINETTE’S
“You’ll have to go now, Victor,” the woman behind the counter said. “I’ve got to close up.”
He had been staring at a print on the coffee house wall: a Thomas Kincaid inn, mullioned windows, pink and white flowers lining the walk, and an aproned woman smiling beatifically from the open doorway. “Welcome to Antoinette’s,” the plaque at the bottom said.
“Sure,” he said, and drained the last of the long-cold coffee from the bottom of the paper cup, hoping maybe she would offer a free refill, but without much hope. She hadn’t even charged him for the original fill.
He realized belatedly that she had called him by name. Did he know her? He glanced over to where she was busy filling a paper bag with rolls from the shelves. She looked familiar—but he was too hungry, and too tired. His memory had gone to sleep while he struggled to keep body awake.
“Here.” She came from behind the counter and set the paper bag on the table in front of him. “It’s the old rolls, they’ll
