Chapter One: Birdy

William Wharton

The table conversation is easy, and not atypical for literary people. Anthony Doerr is humble and approachable, and takes special care when talking with Helen, waiting for her reaction before continuing to ask questions and by not ignoring her. Shauna is lovely and brings up the  couple’s twins who are  now in college, one in Seattle at the Cornish College of Arts and the other at the University of Pennsylvania, far from Boise, where they've lived most of their lives. Their kindness contrasts with the grandeur of the event, making Ted feel unexpectedly at ease.

Ted feels comfortable at his table. His dinner companions have researched his book and bio. He knows that he isn’t the oldest person present at the ceremony; the emcee for the evening, comedian Steve Martin, is a year his senior and is seated at a table near the podium. Ted knows for certain that he’s the least well known, but isn’t overly conscious of any age prejudice at this venue, despite experiencing enough of it to know that it exists in most places. With the decline of Helen’s mental state, he understands why he is also perceived as diminished. He wears hearing aids, and walks less straight and fluid than he once did. His voice is raspy, and he needs to pee frequently. He remembers how he viewed older relatives when he was 40. 

Coffee’s served and Steve Martin takes the stage with his signature arrow-through-the-head gag, pausing dramatically before breaking into a lively rendition of ‘Daddy Played the Banjo,’ earning laughter and applause from the audience. A violin and guitar join in on the harmony  from behind the curtain, and then, one by one, the Steep Canyon Rangers appear on stage to accompany Martin. There’s a whoop from those familiar with the group as the original  lead singer, Woody Platt, who left the group in 2022, joins in on the vocals, with the musicians, Platt and Martin, playing the song to its conclusion before bowing to applause and leaving Martin alone on the stage to size up the crowd. The applause is reduced to snickers as Martin looks at his watch and then back at the crowd before waving his arms wildly and screaming, “Excuuuuze me!”

During the laughter that follows, Martin puts his banjo behind the podium and announces to the crowd his reason for being at the ceremony: he is the host. 

Then Martin begins to speak. “As you may know, I’m a serious author and winner of the Mark Twain Prize for Humor as well as having the distinction of being ranked by IMDb as the sixth-greatest comic of all time, one place behind Chris Rock,” then pauses, “considering I’ve never been slapped by anyone on stage except my first wife.” The audience laughs.

“And as you can see and hear from my performance with the Steep Canyon Rangers, I’m a Grammy-winning banjo player... songwriter...producer....yada yada yada, and yes, an Emmy Award winner.” He smiles, smugly glancing from left to right. “You get the gist of where I’m going,” he says, snickering as he clasps his hands in front of his stomach and rocks on his heels.

Getting serious, Martin pulls his glasses from his tux jacket and walks behind the podium.

“We’re here tonight to honor the finalists of the National Book Awards for 2027 and to announce the winner in each of five categories as judged by a panel of distinguished novelists, poets, editors, educators and young people’s authors, each having been given the task of reading as many as 500 recommended books from which to select their top book for 2027. Will the judges please stand?”

The judges rise from their seats to polite applause as Martin continues,

“Will the nominees please stand to be recognized?” He pauses as the honorees stand. “Although there are 25 who’ve been nominated, I’ve been informed that only 23 are here tonight. The others, no doubt, are ungrateful bastards.” The audience laughs.

“Russell Britt, nominated in the category of Young People’s Literature, and Senzui Braldi in the category of Translated Literature both apologize for their absence. Mr. Britt remains quarantined with an undisclosed illness. Is Covid back?” he asks, quizzically addressing the audience. “And Mr. Braldi reportedly is in the middle of a production of his film being made of his work in Osaka, Japan. Hmmmm, sounds fishy to me.

“If there’s a theme for this evening, we might surmise from our program that it would be an acknowledgment of the contribution to the craft of writers who began their careers after the age of 50.

“I was lucky. I’d been developing my skills since I was 14 years old, doing magic tricks, twisting balloons and juggling for tips at Disneyland.

“Then I studied philosophy at Cal State, and had the good fortune to have dated Mitzi Trumbo, the cute and clever daughter of the screenwriter Dalton Trumbo, who wrote the movies Roman Holiday, Sparticus and Exodus. Trumbo was noted as much for being one of the members of the Hollywood Ten, blacklisted by Hollywood, as he was as a writer. I originally planned to become a professor of philosophy, but my direction changed after reading a treatise on comedy, and asking myself, ‘What if there were no punchlines in life?’ and spoofing my philosophic studies by comparing philosophy with geology: If you're studying geology, which is all facts — as soon as you get out of school you’ll forget them all, but with philosophy, you remember just enough to screw you up for the rest of your life.

“Tonight the selection committee of the National Book Awards is honoring the American artist/writer Albert William DuAime, better known as William Wharton, with the National Book Award Lifetime Achievement Award.

Martin continues, “Wharton grew up in the Philadelphia suburb of Upper Darby, and at the age of 53 published his first novel, Birdy, earning him The National Book Award in the First Novel category. His book also was a Pulitzer Prize finalist, but Wharton lost the award to Norman Mailer, who won the prize in 1980 for The Executioner’s Song. 

“Between the writing of Birdy and his death in 2008, Wharton wrote 17 books, most of which were novels, and two others which were also adapted for the screen, A Midnight Clear and Dad.

But Wharton always considered himself a painter first, and over his lifetime created a massive body of artwork, much of which has been stored in a vault with his ashes since his death. His book sales in the 1980s enabled him to paint what he wanted and never again worry about money earned from his work.

“Drew Saunders, a respected Philadelphia Main Line art dealer who owned, along with his partner, Teddi Newman, the prestigious Newman Saunders Galleries in Wayne, is with us tonight to present the award posthumously to two of Wharton’s children, Matt and Camille.

“But before I introduce Drew, I have an intriguing tale of another writer with us here tonight who was also represented by the Newman Saunders Galleries and, like Wharton, was a graduate of Upper Darby High School a generation later. That man is one of our 2027 nominees for Fiction, Ted Arundson. Ted, will you please stand.” There is light applause.

“Ted’s written and published several novels, a memoir, a children’s book and a play since turning 72, and shows no signs of stopping now at the age of 80. Until last year his self-published books were, for the most part, little read and reviewed only by his closest friends. After being ignored for years by agents and publishing houses there are now bidding wars, fighting for a chance to republish his earlier works under their brand, and a musical play is scheduled for production at the Orpheum, here in New York, in 2030.

“Ted’s wish to be published professionally was granted when Emily Forland, a freelance literary agent, was introduced to the author and his latest novel, Predictions, a story of a time in the near future when humanity reasserts its dominance over computers after being viewed by AI as inept and the management of the Earth was taken over by machines. For many readers, Predictions has reaffirmed their belief in God or, at a minimum, the concept of a universal God.

“For those of you who haven’t read Ted’s book, it’s full of surprises, and has scholars of many disciplines scratching their heads in wonder, since he not only writes about artificial intelligence and humanity’s future but also seems to have a knack for predicting NASA’s next big move. ​I mean, mushroom bricks on Mars? ​ Who knew?

“With that being said, it’s time for me to turn the podium over to Drew Saunders, who will provide more insights into the writing and art of the 2027 Medalist William Wharton. Please give a round of applause for Drew.”

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Ted, who’s had two Manhattans at dinner and a glass of water, has desperately needed to urinate since before Martin began speaking. He excuses himself and heads out the rear of the auditorium, although he feels like he’s deserted Drew, while realizing that his only alternative was dribbling on the floor beneath the table. He reaches the men’s room in the nick of time, unzipping with a sigh and enjoying the pleasure of release, greater than sex has felt for him in recent years. As he zips up, making sure that his shirt hasn’t sneaked out of his zipper, the door flies open and Steve Martin rushes in to the urinal beside him. 

“How'd you make it here so fast?” quips Martin.

“Had to. No options,” answers Ted. “By the way, I loved your act and introduction, but it could have been shorter.”

“My thoughts exactly... I think I left a trail of urine.”

As Ted leaves the men’s room and finds his way back to the table, he notes that he hasn’t missed much of Drew’s story about meeting Wharton in France. As he seats himself, he links eyes with Drew, who, only one year Ted’s junior, understands the difficulty of managing an aging bladder and how it functions, or, more accurately said, dysfunctions. Drew has just watched as Steve Martin exited the podium in a hurry, asking a question of an aide who points in the direction of the men’s room.

Age is the great equalizer, Ted thinks, as he tunes into the story Drew has told many times before, but never remembering who he’s told it to, or whether it’s the first or twentieth time he’s told it.