A Special Gift

Nelle stepped out of the airport, through the revolving doors, and out into the icy blasts of a New York winter. A cold gust of wind stunned her eyes and stung her cheeks. If she’d have had a free hand, she would have shielded her eyes, but she clung on tightly to her luggage, as she made her way along the side-walk. 

A familiar voice called out to her. Crossing from the parking lot was her friend Michael, his wife Joy at his side. The couple were prepared for and used to the weather, clad in big coats, gloves and scarves. 

‘Welcome to New York.’ Michael said, giving her a hug. 

Joy offered Nelle a hand with her baggage. She pointed to a small case with a handle. 

‘Is that a typewriter?’ Joy asked.

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Michael said you were a writer.’ 

Nelle simply shrugged, and followed her friends to the car. For her, writing had always been a very personal, private thing. To Nelle, her writing was sacred. To her, regardless of how good her stories were, writing was her raft on life’s stormy waters. She had loved books and stories ever since she was a child. After dropping out of the University of Alabama, Nelle was here to try her luck in New York. She hoped that here in the Big Apple, she would be able to make a go of her writing. Ideally, she would earn enough to get by from her stories and articles, and eventually, that would lead to her being able to publish a novel. Mind you, she would have to write the novel first. In the meantime, she would just have to try and survive in the big city, while staying with friends. 

Back at their apartment, Michael and Joy showed Nelle the room she would be staying in. It was a small, box-ish room, with single bed, and a desk under the window. Michael pointed to the desk.

‘I thought the desk would help with your writing. You can sit here, and look out at the city, and be inspired. The hustle and bustle of 1950’s New York, right there in front of you.’

Nelle nodded, saying it was wonderful. She have moved to New York, but her thoughts and her writing were firmly rooted in her native South. 

For the next two months, Nelle, trudged the streets of the city looking for work. She started with publishing houses and the big magazines. Some firms said they would get back to her, but never did. The phone in the apartment never rang with a job offer, the daily post never came with a letter offering her employment. She decided to lower her sights. Maybe the city’s bookstores were the way to go. Perhaps from there, she could work and claw and crawl, her way up into the literary world. It was a long shot, but what option did she have?

The book shops were not interested in employing her either. Maybe she was over-qualified, maybe they sensed she was more interested in writing books, than selling them. Every bookstore she approached rejected her. They would smile politely and say, sorry, no. Would this be the way it would be when she completed the novel? Would the world ever be ready for her and her writing? Once she had a job to pay her way, then, around her work, she could see about writing in her spare time. 

Nelle eventually landed a job a world away from books and literature. It was the first job she had been offered in the city, and she took it. She didn’t really have an option. Nelle would be working on the reservation desk at Idlewild airport. The airport would later be renamed after John F. Kennedy, but back then it was plain old Idlewild, and Nelle was just Nelle. 

Nelle worked long hours, behind the desk at the airport. After long days helping customers and directing them with their enquiries, she would arrive back at the apartment exhausted and drained. She would grab a quick bite to eat, before retreating to her room. Under the glow of the desk-lamp, she would work on her latest stories and pieces, going through her notes from the note-pad she carried with her everywhere she went. 

One evening, Michael and Joy asked her to join them in the lounge for a glass of wine. Michael was surprised at how tired Nelle looked. She looked absolutely shattered. As he handed her a glass, he asked how she was getting on. 

‘I’m okay. I’m doing okay.’ Nelle managed.

‘How’s the writing going?’

‘I mean, it’s hard. Trying to juggle working all these hours, and getting my writing done. It just feels like there aren’t enough hours in the day. And I have to try and have something of a life, and get enough sleep so I’m ready to do it all again the next day.’ 

Joy placed a hand on hers, softly.

‘Michael was the same when he was trying to get a break in the theatre, weren’t you?’ 

‘You’ll get there, hun. I believe in you. From what I’ve read of your work, it’s only a matter of time before the world sits up and takes notice.’ Michael said.

Nelle finished her glass of wine.

‘I hope you’re right. I hope it’s not too long, though.’ She laughed.

She didn’t want to admit it, but she wasn’t sure how much longer she could continue like this. Working long days, and writing late into the night, before snatching a few hours’ sleep and repeating it all over again. It was taking its toll. 

Leaving her friends on the sofa, she headed to her nightshift at the typewriter. She rubbed her tired eyes, and slid a fresh sheet of paper into the machine. 

One evening, Nelle arrived home from work. She found Michael and Joy in the lounge listening to the radio. Joy shot her husband a worried look. Nelle looked even more worn-out than usual.

‘How’s the writing going?’ Michael asked.

Joy was more concerned about Nelle’s well-being than her artistic endeavours, but said nothing. 

‘It’s going okay.’ Nelle said. ‘I managed to get a bit done at break-time today. Everyone else grabs their cigarettes and matches, I reach for my pencil and paper. I’ve got a few ideas and characters that I’m working with.’

Despite the exhaustion on her face, there was a fire burning in her eyes when she spoke of her writing. Joy was amazed that no matter how drained and run-down Nelle was, she still had this compulsion to write. The desire was always there, always writing, always getting ideas, always on the go.  

In the weeks running up to Christmas 1956, Michael received a substantial bonus from a recent successful run on Broadway. When he told his wife about the windfall, over a cup of coffee, in their apartment, he suggested they use the bonus to take a holiday in the New Year. It would be nice to get away from the freezing winters. The cold got into your bones. It did you good to thaw out once in a while. Joy nodded. A holiday sounded good, but she had another idea of what they could do with the money.

Christmas 1956. 

Standing in front of the tall Christmas tree, and with festive tunes on the radio, Michael handed Nelle an envelope. As the couple looked on, she opened it and examined the contents.

‘Money. A lot of money. I don’t understand.’

‘Read the card.’ Joy said.

You have one year off from your job to write whatever you please. Merry Christmas.

 ‘I don’t know what to say. I mean, you can’t do that.’ Nelle said. 

‘We insist.’ Joy said. ‘There is a book in you, Nelle. You just need the opportunity. This is your chance.’ 

Nelle was just stunned. They were giving her such a special gift, a precious gift, the time to write. This was the stuff dreams were made of. There was nothing she wanted more in the world, than to have the time at the typewriter, to get this story, this book down on paper. Even if nothing came of it, even if nobody read it, she just had to write this book. And now she had the opportunity, thanks to friends that were giving her this wonderful gift. 

Tears streamed down her face as they hugged her. She thanked them over and over. There were simply no words to express the gratitude she felt. 

Nelle handed her notice in the very next day. She hoped that this new chapter for her, would be a new chapter, and a completed novel, for her writing. 

Nelle would go on to write her novel. She would pour everything she had into the work. After being tweaked and polished and working closely with her publisher, the book would be published using only Nelle’s last names, Harper Lee. 

The book was To Kill A Mockingbird.

By Chris Platt