Looking Inward
Sean Cooper

Looking Inward was met with the kind of reviews that every publisher dreams of and everybody else quotes. "Fantastic, astounding." "Powerful!" "A great work." "Moving!" Those were the reviews from big papers; The New York Times, Los Angeles Times, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, Honolulu Star Bulletin. All were written by women. The feminist magazines found it and started their own bandwagon. "This book of poetry could catapult Ms. Henshaw into the firmament of great female American writers," wrote one reviewer. "Never has the feminine view been so eloquently and powerfully stated," read the review in Ms. magazine. "A must read for any woman in America today," wrote another reviewer. These too were written by women.

    On the tidal wave of favorable reviews, there were very few unfavorable ones, and those were denounced as sexist by the media, for they were all written by men, Looking Inward topped the best seller list, staying for a record length of time. Within weeks, anyone who was anyone had read it. The mark of a cultured person became the ability to recite lines from Looking Inward with an air of knowledge and understanding. Parties among those "in the know" consisted of people quoting the book, as if by simply pronouncing the words conveyed the understanding necessary to appreciate the work. A "sophisticated" person could relate everything in terms of quotes from Looking Inward. People just looked on in a knowing fashion, nodded when it was appropriate, and responding with their own quotes. Looking Inward and Caroline Henshaw became buzzwords among pop culture and distinguished those with class from those without.

    Within weeks, the small publishing house of Henley and Crenshaw, publishers of Looking Inward, was flooded with requests for interviews, television appearances, endorsements and the like. The only thing they did was to refer the interview-seekers to an address that belonged to a small, run-down house in southern Oregon where her designated spokesperson lived. The shock came when the media discovered that Ms. Henshaw, now being called the foremost feminist of modern times by such illustrious journals as MS. magazine, had a man as her designated spokesperson.

    The outrage was immediate. "This is only another sign that men are still in control of the lives of all American citizens. In a truly just society, a woman would be able to speak for herself instead of having to hide behind the mouthpiece given to her by her publisher," read an article in an obscure feminist journal.

    The fellow in Oregon was said to be Ms. Henshaw's closest friend. He may have been her only friend for all anyone could figure out. Those few who took the time to get to know him found him to be a very decent, unassuming individual. A reclusive artist; he sported a permanent five o'clock shadow upon his face, a shock of unruly black hair and paint-spotted clothes. His name was Arnold and, while he was very happy with his friend's success he was dismayed at the attacks now being directed to his person. "What matters is the book, right...why should I matter or make a difference...she said what she wanted to in the book...let the words speak for themselves...you don't need me to learn about Caroline." However, his words fell mostly on deaf ears and the diatribes continued on the injustice and blatant sexism of having a man representing the "foremost feminist of our time." In one episode of Nightline, Arnold's name was mentioned more often that was the book the panel was supposedly there to discuss. All of the comments about him were of a negative nature. It wasn't surprising given that all three panelists were some of the most liberated women of the times.

    Despite the best efforts of the best investigative reporters in the country, no trace of the Caroline Henshaw could be found. Sure, there was the mother of three in Michigan, but she couldn't have written poetry like this. She married her high school sweetheart and had been a house wife ever since. Definitely not a liberated woman. Then there was the 7-11 clerk in New York, but she was an in-the-closet homosexual who seemed to dally in the S&M scene. She couldn't have written poetry like this. She didn't have the femininity. Besides, neither of them had any ties to Arnold. What the reporters did find was that Arnold was a childhood friend of Mr. Crenshaw.

     "So that's why he's the spokesperson," everyone said with a knowing nod. "Giving a bit of fame to his unknown friend." The humanitarians sighed at the generosity of it; the cynics snickered at it and looked everywhere for money changing hands between Arnold and Mr. Crenshaw; the general public was shocked and refused to believe it. However, no money could be found to have passed between Arnold and Mr. Crenshaw, despite a concerted effort by a number of private investigators. In fact, Arnold and Crenshaw hardly spoke to each other, except for the occasional phone call. The tie between Arnold, Mr. Crenshaw, and the elusive Ms. Henshaw was deeper than anyone suspected.

    Mr. Crenshaw was questioned as well, but, "I've never seen Ms. Henshaw...only talked with the author by phone a few times." He'd received the manuscript by mail with no return address and the author had always contacted him. "I'm very sorry," he say with clasped hands and a pained expression, "but I cannot help you."

    Caroline Henshaw became the media darling every actor dreams of being, with one exception. No one ever saw Caroline Henshaw. She was featured on radio talk shows. Her poetry appeared on national advertisements seemingly overnight. Her book assumed a place in most households second only to the Bible. Some households placed it higher. America's passion for the women of the resembled a cross between Beattlemania and the frenzy that accompanied Cabbage Patch Kids. Yet no one knew who she was.

    Bookstores could not keep the book in stock. Fights broke out between women vying for the last copy in a store. Yet no one knew who or where she was. The search for Caroline Henshaw consumed a nation.

    Soon the search for Caroline Henshaw approached a national manhunt. Time ran a cover with a silhouette of a woman and a giant question mark, captioned by "Who is Caroline Henshaw?" In a twelve page story, Time interviewed anyone who seemed to have any connection with Arnold, the pulishing house of Henley and Creshaw, and even people off the street. An informal poll showed that over three-fourths of the public believed that Caroline Henshaw was real and in hiding, with an error rate of four percentage points. People who knew her or were her kept popping up on a weekly basis, trying to cash in on the money associated with the name.

    Sally Jesse Raphael had a debate among two women and a man, all claiming to be Caroline Henshaw. When the audience was called upon to voice its collective opinion as to who was the most likely candidate for being Caroline Henshaw, things turned ugly. Perhaps it was his decidedly feminine manner. Perhaps it was his constant quoting of the book. The vote went, oddly enough, to the man, Nathaniel by name.

    Perhaps she did it because she was third in the vote. Perhaps she did it because she didn't like gays. Perhaps she did it simply because she was a bitch. Whatever the reason, one woman, Rose, a large woman with three kids, and the hips to prove it, rough hands which gave testament to a rough life, who had been on welfare her whole life, took offense and slapped Nathaniel as he stood and thanked the audience for their vote of confidence.

     "Bitch," came Nathaniel's petulant response, his delicate hand pressed to his delicate face. "Just because they know the real thing and you don't..."

     "The real thing, huh? What do you, you stupid little queer, or you," she turned to the other woman, a housewife of the plainest sort, "What would you know of real?"

     "What do I know of real?" The housewife, who had never had a life outside of whoever the male in her life was, who had always looked to her husband in the audience before speaking, suddenly came alive. Her appearance never changed. She still remained plain. Later, no one would ever remember what she looked like, only that she suddenly earned the respect of every member of the audience that day. "Let me tell you what I know of real. I know how real it is when your husband forces himself onto you after he's been drinking. I know how real it is when you lie there, wishing it would end, smelling the cheap beer on his breath. I know how real it is when he's finished and you have tears in your eyes, but you try to smile so he doesn't hit you so you really have something to cry about. I know how real it is, not being able to go out at times because of the stares you'll get and having to explain about how you fell down the stairs I know what real is."

    Throughout her diatribe, Sally stood at the foot of the stage, her hands pressed to her mouth, her eyes oozing pity.

     "Grow up honey," returned Rose. "Life sucks. Get used to it. You think I don't know about that?" She tossed her head, scoffing at the woman infront of her.

     "Oh. Do either of you know what its like to be mocked by everyone on the streets because of how you look? You have no idea what I go through each day," whined Nathaniel. Jenny, the housewife who had suddenly come into her own, turned and, balling her fist, swung with all her might and connected with Nathaniel's pretty face, before turning and grabbing Rose's hair.

    The show ended with the Nathaniel in tears being consoled by his boyfriend and the women being held apart by security guards, Jenny's husband yelling at her, while Sally pleaded to the camera, her back to the fight on stage, her hands held in a position to show that she was not to blame for the chaos, for everyone to "be nice and couldn't we all just get along and she hoped the real Caroline Henshaw would come forth?"

    Six months after Looking Inward was published, Barbara Walters ran another of her famous specials, dedicated to the hunt for Ms. Caroline Henshaw. As one family, America tuned in to hear her. The sidewalks of major cities were crammed with people staring at televisions in display windows, eager to see this most respected of interviewers shed light on the mystery that had consumed a nation.

    Her featured guest was Arnold, taken from his home in Oregon to New York to answer questions about his friend.

     How long have you known her?
    About fifteen years.
    How did you meet her?
    I don't remember. It seems like she just wandered in one day.
    Can you tell us what she looks like?
    Yes.
    What?
    About my height. Dark brown hair. Light brown eyes. She's beautiful.
    What is your relationship with her?
    Friends. Compatriots.
    Does she have any relatives?
    I don't think so. Although I never thought about it.
    Did you know that she wrote poetry?
    Yes, in fact that was one thing we had in common.
    You write poetry?
    On occaision.
    You also paint, do you not?
    Yes. That is my profession.
    Does she?
    No.
    Did she ever say why she designated you her spokesman?
    She said that I was the only one who understood.
    Understood what?
    Why she wrote.
    Can you tell us?
    No.
    You don't know?
    I won't tell.
    Can you tell us where she is?
    No.
    Why not?
    I don't know where she is.
    You don't know?
    She comes by every so often. I don't know where she goes.
    When did you last see her?
    About two years ago.
    What do you do when you see each other?
    Create.
    What do you mean?
    She inspires me in my painting and I seem to inspire her to write.
    Does she know that everyone wants to talk to her?
    With all the hubbub you all are making, she must.
    She's been called a 'modern-day Emily Dickinson.' Do you think that's accurate?
    Its certainly flattering.
    You don't agree.
    Not really. Her style is much different. Its not nearly so broken.
    But don't you think that she's a great poet?
    Dickinson? She's great. So is Caroline.
A pause and a knowing smile. That's what you wanted, wasn't it?
    Do you know if she will publish another book?
    I don't know.
    Will she to talk to us, ever?
    Maybe.

    With that he sat back with an enigmatic, yet satisfied smile on his face, letting her know that the interview was over. And so the hunt for Caroline Henshaw continued.

    Arnold continued to receive hundreds of requests weekly for interviews with the reclusive Ms. Henshaw. Answering the requests took away time from his one love in life, his painting. But he didn't mind too much. His painting hadn't been going well of late and answering the requests was a welcome diversion from the frustration he found infront of the easel.

    Despite his exposure as the only person who seemed to know Ms. Henshaw, Arnold's paintings garnered very little attention. To some, they seemed to some to be a visual representation of her words. But those who thought that way were not the people who knew art. People who thought like that were hacks and had no taste. They were just common people, unable to appreciate fine art.

    Almost a year after it was published, the publishing houses had their conventions and give plaques for most this thing and most that thing, magazines came out with their awards for best this and that, social groups had banquets to honor this person and that person for doing this and doing that.

    This year, it seemed the name that came up the most was Ms. Caroline Henshaw. The book sold more copies than any book other than the Bible in a single year, and so garnered the house of Henley and Crenshaw award after award. Her writings were an inspiration to all women and those socially minded men and so she was honored by many magazines as their woman/person of the year. For the second time that year, her anonymous silhouette graced the front of Time with the caption "Emily Dickinson meets Susan B. Anthony." Because her writings were the voice of social conscience, numerous funds were established with her name as their endorsement. The Caroline Henshaw Fund for Abandoned Pets in Hawaii. The Caroline Henshaw Foundation: Educating A Feminist America.

    Of course, it fell to Arnold to attend the banquets in her name; accept the plaques, trophies, and checks to the foundations in her name. It fell to him to make the speeches to the corporate big shots who saw nothing but dollar signs when they looked at him; to the women's groups who saw him as a symbol of what they detested when they looked at him; to the social groups in which he saw misguided good intentions when he looked at them.

    He cautioned them not to place too much emphasis on the person when they asked him what she was like. He told them to read the book when asked if she had any advice to them. "Look inward," he told them. "That's what the book's about." They responded that he wasn't being fair to his friend by not talking about her. He replyed that he was being fair by letting her writings speak for her. The said he was jealous of her success. He replyed that he was happy for her success. Then Arnold shrugged, accepted the awards and returned home to his paintings.

    A year and a half after Looking Inward was released, it still topped the best-seller list. High school and college English classes found themselves required to read it. Colleges and universities based entire courses on the book. It seemed as if a whole generation seemed bound to grow up on Looking Inward.

    About this time, Arnold was beginning to show the signs of the strains that his friend's fame had been taking on him. His paintings were beginning to sell, but his painting was suffering worse than before. His house was littered with discarded canvases. The fire was dead. He needed a change.

    Exactly six hundred days from the release of Looking Inward, the publishing house of Henley and Crenshaw announced that the author of Looking Inward would hold a press conference in one week. The week flew by in a media frenzy unlike any ever seen.

REVEALED!
ran one head line.
SHE SPEAKS!
read another. Tabloids ran front page spreads alleging everything from Caroline Henshaw was an alien to Caroline Henshaw was a name for the devil and the book carried subliminal messages. Sally Jesse Raphael dedicated an entire week of shows to the book and people who had been changed by reading it. All anyone could talk about was that the author of Looking Inward would finally talk about the book.

    The room at Henley and Crenshaw was filled with a tension that made the crowd silent. Mr. Crenshaw came out to greet the press, dressed in a dark, conservative suit, his stomach straining at his shirt, squinting at the harsh klieg lights. A few words about how glad he was that everyone was here and how happy he was that he could solve a mystery to many people. And here was the author of the book everyone couldn't stop talking about...

    The crowd was so shocked that Arnold was halfway through his speech before anyone thought to ask a question. After that, they came fast and furious, the room degenerating into a shouting contest. Arnold paused to let the room regain control of itself, finished his speech and walked off stage, leaving Mr. Crenshaw to fill in the details that everyone had missed in their stunned silence, though the tape recorders had been ever vigilant and caught every word of the first part of Arnold's speech about how he had written all the poems over the course of the past fifteen years; about how he simply wanted them published, so he created Ms. Caroline Henshaw to be his author; about how when his painting and writing was flowing, he attributed it to Caroline being around; about how he would now return home to paint in peace, he hoped.

    Doubt was the first emotion to seize many people. He couldn't have written those poems, could he?. Then anger. How dare he do this to us? Finally, a sick curiosity. What kind of guy is he, anyway, people asked with arched eyebrows. Maybe he's a little... But Mr. Crenshaw provided copies of the original manuscripts. The writing was most definitely Arnold's.

    Cynics snickered and said knowingly, "Nothing gold can stay. I knew it had to be something like that." Humanitarians frowned about how dirty a trick that was to play on the hapless public. The general public was outraged for a week and then went on about their lives.

    Time ran a new cover with Arnold as their Woman of the Year. Ms. magazine denounced Arnold as a man both trying to subvert the Women's movement and trying to take credit for some obscure woman's writing. Courses that were intended to study it started looking at the work as a fraud. No one remembered what a good book it had been, only that they had been disillusioned.

    Arnold returned to his home in Oregon to find hate mail and threatening phone calls from disillusioned women. The letters and phone calls from the media came twenty-four hours a day. He changed his address and somehow lost his phone bill for that month. The next month he didn't have to worry about a phone bill. He rebuffed the interview-seekers again and after he met a few with a shotgun, they gave up. Two months after Ms. Caroline Henshaw went public, Arnold settled down to paint. As he sat before his easel, a feeling came over him, almost like a song in his soul. He smiled and began to work. Ms. Caroline Henshaw had decided to stop by again. It was time to paint.