Alan Heathcock’s fiction has been published in many of
My writing studio is a 1967 Roadrunner
travel trailer, packed with books, trophies, and random oddities. My
favorite piece is a vintage movie poster from the 1955 Charles Laughton
classic, The Night of the Hunter. The picture is of Robert
Mitchum, who plays Harry Powell (a.k.a. The Preacher). In the poster, the
preacher is leaned forward, his eyes locked on the viewer. His right hand
rests atop a porch post, and across his knuckles are the tattooed letters:
L-O-V-E. His left hand is down the railing, held close to his heart—those
knuckles read H-A-T-E.
In a famous scene from the film, the
preacher holds court in a little country diner, telling the patrons the “story
of life”, the eternal battle between the left hand and the right hand.
preacher holds court in a little country diner, telling the patrons the “story
of life”, the eternal battle between the left hand and the right hand.
“H-A-T-E,” the preacher bellows,
holding forth the spread fingers of his left hand. “It was with this left
hand that old brother Cain struck the blow that laid his brother low.”
holding forth the spread fingers of his left hand. “It was with this left
hand that old brother Cain struck the blow that laid his brother low.”
He lifts the right hand.
“L-O-V-E. You see these fingers dear-hearts? These fingers have veins
that run straight to the soul of man. The right hand. The hand of
love.”
“L-O-V-E. You see these fingers dear-hearts? These fingers have veins
that run straight to the soul of man. The right hand. The hand of
love.”
The preacher then interlocks the
fingers of his two hands, twisting them, wrenching them back and forth.
Which hand will claim victory? At first, it looks like the left hand, but
then, “HOT DOG, loves a-winnin’!” The right hand puts ol’ brother
left-hand down for the count.
fingers of his two hands, twisting them, wrenching them back and forth.
Which hand will claim victory? At first, it looks like the left hand, but
then, “HOT DOG, loves a-winnin’!” The right hand puts ol’ brother
left-hand down for the count.
It’s a strange and brilliant scene,
and one that on its own merit tells the story all of us hope is true: love wins
out over hate.
and one that on its own merit tells the story all of us hope is true: love wins
out over hate.
I believe in the right hand. I
live my life, raise my kids, travel about with my wife through the world at
large, all with a fervent, evangelical, belief in the enduring might of
love. My greatest hope is that the preacher’s tale is true.
live my life, raise my kids, travel about with my wife through the world at
large, all with a fervent, evangelical, belief in the enduring might of
love. My greatest hope is that the preacher’s tale is true.
Yet the movie, like life (my
life, at least), is more complex than the parable would have us believe.
The truth of the movie is that the preacher is not a preacher at all.
He’s an ex-con, a thief and murderer masquerading as a preacher to win favor
with a widower and her two children, in the hopes of stealing a large sum of
money he knows they have hidden somewhere on their property. So where
does that leave us? Can we believe the preacher’s pitch, knowing the man
is not, in fact, “good”? Can a message of love be delivered via the left
hand?
life, at least), is more complex than the parable would have us believe.
The truth of the movie is that the preacher is not a preacher at all.
He’s an ex-con, a thief and murderer masquerading as a preacher to win favor
with a widower and her two children, in the hopes of stealing a large sum of
money he knows they have hidden somewhere on their property. So where
does that leave us? Can we believe the preacher’s pitch, knowing the man
is not, in fact, “good”? Can a message of love be delivered via the left
hand?
When I was young, maybe seven or
eight, my Grandpa Heathcock sat me up on his lap and told me a story about a
time he was working as a foreman for Sinclair Oil. He said he was driving
a one-lane road through the oil fields when his truck came nose to nose with
another truck. The road was too narrow, the ditches too steep, for either
truck to turn around. One of them would have to drive in reverse, for
miles, going back the way they came. My grandpa said he got out of his
truck and told the other driver he was trespassing on company land and had to
put his truck in reverse. The man refused. I remember clearly that
my grandpa leaned in, balled a big meaty fist, and told me, “So I went and got
me a tire iron and I hit that man until he went back from where he came.”
eight, my Grandpa Heathcock sat me up on his lap and told me a story about a
time he was working as a foreman for Sinclair Oil. He said he was driving
a one-lane road through the oil fields when his truck came nose to nose with
another truck. The road was too narrow, the ditches too steep, for either
truck to turn around. One of them would have to drive in reverse, for
miles, going back the way they came. My grandpa said he got out of his
truck and told the other driver he was trespassing on company land and had to
put his truck in reverse. The man refused. I remember clearly that
my grandpa leaned in, balled a big meaty fist, and told me, “So I went and got
me a tire iron and I hit that man until he went back from where he came.”
Likewise, while growing up in the
Southland area of southChicago
situations that confounded my sense of moral truth. I knew good people,
people from church, who spoke of hate–racism, sexism, religious intolerance,
homophobia. I knew people who did bad things, terrible things, who were
also generous and loyal, who did tremendous good for the community. I’ve
seen people beaten, stabbed. I’ve seen gun play. I’ve seen people
robbed, been robbed myself. I’ve seen everything you think would reside
neatly in the right or left palm, and yet judgment has often been unclear to
me, like looking in my grandpa’s eyes and not knowing what to feel, like
looking at the palm of a thumbless hand, a hand with four fingers all of equal
lengths.
Southland area of south
situations that confounded my sense of moral truth. I knew good people,
people from church, who spoke of hate–racism, sexism, religious intolerance,
homophobia. I knew people who did bad things, terrible things, who were
also generous and loyal, who did tremendous good for the community. I’ve
seen people beaten, stabbed. I’ve seen gun play. I’ve seen people
robbed, been robbed myself. I’ve seen everything you think would reside
neatly in the right or left palm, and yet judgment has often been unclear to
me, like looking in my grandpa’s eyes and not knowing what to feel, like
looking at the palm of a thumbless hand, a hand with four fingers all of equal
lengths.
Once, a group of friends asked me to
escort a guy out to an old rec. center at the end of a dark road, making him
believe we were going to a party, but knowing I was leading him into a terrible
beating. The guy had done awful things, things I won’t describe here
other than to say I thought he might deserve his fate. Yet what I did
still troubles me, one hand brutally wrenching back the wrist of the
other. But which hand did the wrenching, and which did the hurting?
Was I an instrument of justice? Of right? And what if I didn’t lead
that guy out to the rec. center? What if he went unpunished?
Doesn’t the right hand, sometimes, have to subdue the left? Isn’t that
the very definition of war? But also, in that sheer ferocity with which
the right attacks the left, do they not become the same? In the moment I
decided to take on the task, already knowing its end, did I not take on the
role of Cain?
escort a guy out to an old rec. center at the end of a dark road, making him
believe we were going to a party, but knowing I was leading him into a terrible
beating. The guy had done awful things, things I won’t describe here
other than to say I thought he might deserve his fate. Yet what I did
still troubles me, one hand brutally wrenching back the wrist of the
other. But which hand did the wrenching, and which did the hurting?
Was I an instrument of justice? Of right? And what if I didn’t lead
that guy out to the rec. center? What if he went unpunished?
Doesn’t the right hand, sometimes, have to subdue the left? Isn’t that
the very definition of war? But also, in that sheer ferocity with which
the right attacks the left, do they not become the same? In the moment I
decided to take on the task, already knowing its end, did I not take on the
role of Cain?
I long wondered why my grandfather
told me the story of the oil field and the tire-iron. For a long time, I
thought he was somehow giving me instruction on the true nature of man.
But now that I’m older, I don’t think he was giving instruction at all.
Instead, I believe he was asking a question he couldn’t answer, one he hoped
some day I might understand.
told me the story of the oil field and the tire-iron. For a long time, I
thought he was somehow giving me instruction on the true nature of man.
But now that I’m older, I don’t think he was giving instruction at all.
Instead, I believe he was asking a question he couldn’t answer, one he hoped
some day I might understand.
Every story I’ve ever written ponders
such questions, trying to make sense of the world described to me by my
grandfather, the world I’ve seen with my own eyes, and changed with my actions,
struggling to parse out the left hand from the right. People write for
many different reasons. I write to investigate, to seek out answers, to
calm the hurt, to stroke the troubled mind. Sometimes I’ve found
clarity. Many times I’ve discovered the questions to be
unanswerable. Either way, each morning I take sanctuary in my trailer and
scrawl out new words, words I hope take me deeper into the murky lake of truth,
the preacher glowering down from the wall, challenging me, daring me, to
reveal what’s right and righteous.
such questions, trying to make sense of the world described to me by my
grandfather, the world I’ve seen with my own eyes, and changed with my actions,
struggling to parse out the left hand from the right. People write for
many different reasons. I write to investigate, to seek out answers, to
calm the hurt, to stroke the troubled mind. Sometimes I’ve found
clarity. Many times I’ve discovered the questions to be
unanswerable. Either way, each morning I take sanctuary in my trailer and
scrawl out new words, words I hope take me deeper into the murky lake of truth,
the preacher glowering down from the wall, challenging me, daring me, to
reveal what’s right and righteous.
Alan Heathcock’s Alaska visit includes the following appearances:
- Homer: Wednesday, Jan. 30 at 6:30 pm, hosted by Kachemak Bay Campus
- Fairbanks: Friday, Feb. 1 at 7 pm at the Wood Center Ballroom, UAF, hosted by UAF English Department Midnight Sun Visiting Writers Series
- Barrow: Crosccurrents: A Literary Confluence of Writers and Readers (in partnership with 49 Writers, the Tuzzy Consortium Library and the UAF English Department, and funded by the Alaska Humanities Forum):
- Saturday, February 2, 12-2pm: Five Things You Absolutely Positively Must Do to Write a Great Story, writing workshop
- Saturday, February 2, 2:30-4pm: Writing on the Edge, an on-stage conversation between Alan Heathcock and Debby Dahl Edwardson
- Monday, February 4, 5:30-7pm: Why I Write, Why We Write, a reading and craft talk
beautiful, thanks