The Last Breath of August
by MG Allan
Are you the Andy Phelps who wrote The Last Breath of August?
*
Anderson sat at the computer, staring at the strange Facebook message with a frown. The sender, a Michael Hutchinson, was not anyone Anderson was connected with on social media, and in fact unless Anderson accepted the message request, Michael would never even know Anderson had read it.
After looking over the one-sentence message a final time, Anderson shook his head and logged out of Facebook without accepting the message request.
*
Sorry to be a pest, but I just read Last Breath of August and it is my new favorite book. I can’t find much information about the writer, and he never seemed to publish anything else. I found a few other Andy Phelps on here, but you’re the only one who lives in South Carolina which is where the book was set. If I have the wrong person, let me know and I won’t bother you anymore.
*
Anderson was on line at Starbucks when he read this second message on his phone. He put the phone away and ordered his drink and a muffin, trying not to think about the messages but unable to think of anything else. Sitting at a table in the corner, he pulled up Amazon and searched for The Last Breath of August.
The book was released back in 1991 and was long out of print. There were a few used copies going for mere pennies from second-party sellers, and the book had a total of seventeen reviews. Anderson scrolled through them. Most were middle-of-the-road three star reviews, a couple of one-star reviews that complained the book was too boring, one that said it was an evil book and should be burned. The most recent review, posted only a week prior, consisted of a single word: “Brilliant!” The reviewer was listed as MHutch.
*
On the off chance you are the Andy Phelps who wrote The Last Breath of August I just want to share how profoundly the book impacted me. I’m about to start my senior year of high school and I live in a tiny little town in Texas. I’ve never exactly fit in. Not at school, not at home, not anywhere. It may be 2022 in the rest of the world, but my family and my town seem to be lagging a few decades behind. The effeminate bookish kid still stands out in all the wrong ways around here. Anyway, I was in Goodwill last week, just looking at the books they had for fifty cents. If you’ve ever been in a Goodwill, you know their book selection consists mostly of Danielle Steel and Stephen King and Jackie Collins and John Grisham. I’m not sure what made me stop on your book (if it is your book), but when I pulled out the tattered paperback, the cover really caught my eye. It shows two guys, sitting at the end of a pier with their backs to the viewer, leaning toward each other so that their shoulders just slightly touch. Not super suggestive or anything but kind of intimate. I bought it and ended up tearing through it in only a couple of days. I know this may sound silly, but the story made me feel seen. The relationship between the two main characters was romantic without being oversexualized. It was actually kind of sweet and innocent. Mostly what drew me in though was the depiction of a gay kid growing up in a place where everything and everyone around him is telling him he’s wrong, that he’s broken in some way, but even in this environment he finds some self-acceptance and self-love. That is something I’ve struggled with, but even though this is just a book, I feel like it has provided me with some strength and confidence. It makes me feel a little less alone.
*
“Hey.”
Anderson started then quickly minimized Facebook on the computer, bringing back up the spreadsheet full of numbers. “Hey Dave, what’s up?”
Dave Roberts shared the next cubical over and was standing to peer over the partition wall. He did that a lot. Anderson hated it, another reason he wished he had an actual office, but he was too polite to say anything.
“Did you see the email from home office?” Dave asked.
“No, must have missed it.”
“They said they’ve been tracking our lunch punches and the average worker is exceeding the allotted lunch break by five minutes. Can you believe that? I guess Big Brother really is … hey, Andy, you okay?”
Anderson also hated being called Andy, but again he was too polite to say anything. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”
“Your eyes are all red and watery.”
Anderson swiped at his eyes. “Summer allergies, you know. I need to take some Zyrtec.”
“Yeah, for me it’s worse in Spring when the pollen first starts getting so bad.”
Dave went on for a while but Anderson mostly tuned him out, listening peripherally so he could grunt or nod in the right places. When Dave finally ducked back down, Anderson pulled up Facebook again and reread the message.
But he still didn’t accept it.
*
I discovered a blog that focuses on “obscure and undiscovered authors.” A few years ago they did an entry all about Andy Phelps. Actually they had little information about the man himself, but a great deal about The Last Breath of August and its publication. Turns out when the book came out in the early 90s having a book with teenage protagonists that dealt frankly with themes of homosexuality and attraction was an even bigger no-no than it is now. At least now we have things like Heartstopper and Simon vs. the Homosapians and Boy Meets Boy. At the time there was nothing in the YA landscape like that, and people apparently lost their shit. There were protests and threats, the book was banned from libraries and bookstores across the country. The blogger says Phelps and the publisher were almost slapped with pornography charges, even though there were no actual sex scenes in the book. Seems like Phelps just disappeared after that. Not sure if no other publisher would touch him or he simply stopped writing, or both. Anyway, I’m not sure if my messages are getting through or if this is even the write person, but if so, I wanted to say that your book still exists out there and it found its target audience in me. I’ve heard about people saying they read some book that changed their lives, but this is the first time I’ve ever experienced it. So Andy Phelps, wherever you are … thank you.
*
Anderson climbed the ladder into his attic. There wasn’t room to fully stand, so he crouched low and crab-walked to the far corner and the mildewed boxes that held all the detritus of a life that was no longer needed but felt too important somehow to toss out.
He dug through action figures, children’s picture books, photo albums, articles of clothing kept less for style than for significance of when they were worn (the bow-tie he wore to his prom, the shirt he wore the first day of college, the jeans he wore the night he lost his virginity). It was in the third box he opened that he found what he was looking for.
A paperback book. The pages were yellowed with age but the spine intact. An old book, but one that had never been read.
On the cover was the image of the two young men, shoulders touching. Above them in a misty font, the title: The Last Breath of August. Below them: A novel of self-discovery by Andy Phelps.
Anderson let himself fall back onto his butt, heedless of the dust, and cracked open the book to the first page. By the light streaming into the large circular window behind him, he began to read. Words that felt unfamiliar to him, written by a man who now seemed like a stranger.
*
I guess this will be my last message. Either you aren’t the writer of The Last Breath of August, or you aren’t reading these messages at all. Regardless, I’ll always be grateful I found this book in Goodwill. I actually gave it to my mother to read. She came to me last night, telling me she’d finished it and asking if there was anything I wanted to talk about. I didn’t come out to her, I don’t feel like I’m quite ready for that yet, but she opened the door for me. And now I can imagine stepping through it without my world imploding. I may have gotten here eventually all on my own, but this book helped. It helped a lot. Wherever Andy Phelps is out in the world, thank you. You’re a life-saver.
*
Anderson hesitated on the front stoop for a moment then rang the bell. He felt nervous, like a teenager picking up a date for the first time. When the door opened, Anderson tensed. The man who appeared in the doorway wasn’t the one he’d been expecting, but still Anderson knew who it must be.
“Kenny?” Anderson said.
The man looked stunned, as if he’d opened the door to find a leprechaun standing there with a pot of gold. “Um, yeah. AJ?”
“I prefer to go by Anderson.”
“Nice to meet you. Feels strange to say that after all these years, and I’ve heard so much about you I feel like I know you, but … ”
“But we’ve never actually met,” Anderson said. “I know, that’s my fault and I apologize. Is my father home by any chance?”
As if on cue, from somewhere behind Kenny a familiar voice called out, “Who’s at the door? If it’s another of those girls peddling cookies tell her that a dozen boxes is our limit.”
And then Anderson’s father was there in the doorway, standing next to his husband. If Kenny had looked stunned, Anderson’s father looked absolutely gut-punched. “AJ. What are you doing here?”
Before Anderson could answer, a whistling arose deep in the house. Kenny said, “Excuse me, the water is ready for the tea,” then disappeared.
Leaving Anderson and his father staring at each other across the threshold.
“You’ve never just dropped in before,” his father said after a moment. “What brings you to the neighborhood?”
In answer, Anderson held up the paperback in his hand. “I finally read your book. Only took me a couple of decades, but I finally got to it.”
His father took the book and absently flipped it open to the dedication page. “To my son, Andy Jr. I hope someday you can understand.”
“What did you think?” his father asked in a tentative voice, as if bracing himself for a critical assault.
“It was beautiful. Truly, Dad, I thought it was an exceptional story.”
His father’s lips twitched, trying to form a smile but hesitant to commit. “That means a lot coming from you.”
“Look, I know that I haven’t exactly been a good son.”
His father held up a hand and said, “We don’t have to rehash this.”
“No, I need to say this. I didn’t handle it well when you and Mom divorced. Then when you came out and published this book … well, I was a teenager and I found the whole thing so mortifying. All the kids at school knowing I had a gay dad, the guys in the locker room asking if it ran in the family. I felt like you coming out was a personal attack on me. I never thought about what you were going through, what it was like for you. And then I grew up and I still didn’t think about any of that. I held on to this useless sense of betrayal as if it were real. I came by today to let you know I realize now how selfish and stupid I’ve been. I know at this point we don’t really know each other, but after reading your book, I feel like I have gotten to know you a little bit. And I want to get to know you more, you and Kenny. And let you get to know me. If you want.”
At first his father didn’t speak, but the tears in his eyes said it all. He nodded vigorously and stepped aside. “Come in. Have some tea with us.”
As Anderson stepped into his father’s home for the first time, he pulled out his phone. “Hey Dad, I know you aren’t on social media, but there’s something from Facebook I have to show you.”
And then the door shut behind them.
BIO
MG Allan spent his childhood making up stories in his head. Now he spends his adult life writing them down.
