John Rechy Remembers His Friend, Writer Henry Turner

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For Henry:

Although I’m not a teacher by profession—I’m a writer—I have for decades conducted writing workshops, including at Occidental College, USC, UCLA.

Recently, when the wife of author Henry Turner, who had begun his professional writing journey years ago as an especially talented writer in my workshop, informed me that Henry’s car had gone out of control at a notorious curve on his way to Ojai, I was in shock. The driver, Henry Turner, was dead.

To be invited into my workshop, applicants were required to submit a sample of work. I avoided noting gender and age; only talent was considered. Once in a while a submission of such refined quality appeared that the choice was immediate. That occurred with Henry Turner.

In the group he instantly defined himself. An impressive presence, he was friendly, intelligent—and highly talented.

After the tragic accident, his wife, Alma—a very pretty young woman in profound grief—brought over Henry’s two young adult novels published: “Ask The Dark” and “Hiding.” The books contain moving acknowledgements to his wife and son, Hugo. One reads: “Alma and Hugo: You are forever the most wonderful and beautiful people in my life.”

I remembered the time Henry had brought Alma to visit the workshop. The two made a wonderful loving couple. That impression was further reinforced when, later, Alma showed me some cherished snapshots. They were taken very recently on a strip of near-deserted beach. It was a bright day—as if the sun and turf were there for them to record their closeness. A slight breeze tossed gentle waves and flirted with their wind-blown hair. Her head leans on his shoulder, his tilts toward her as if to secure the connection. It is a photograph that to me conveys their enduring courtship through their 24- year relationship and marriage. In another picture, there stands Hugo, 16 years old, a proud version of a younger Henry.

There is a tendency to lament the early death of a writer by the fact that he or she will no longer be able to fulfill his or her promise. That is often sadly true. But there is also the rare time when a writer’s remaining work is so impressive that, while not obviating the grave sense of loss, soothes the sad passing.

In addition to his books, Henry’s articles and interviews in Variety, LA Times, and other magazines display his journalistic intellect, wit and humor. A noted film-festival executive, he remained a prolific writer. His haunting Southern gothic autobiographical novel, “Hasten to the Place,” with which he originally entered my workshop, has since grown into a trilogy which awaits publication. It details the dark and mercurial history of an established Jewish family in New Orleans pre Civil War to the present. Henry’s twelve novels, by themselves assert a fulfilled literary legacy.

He has received admiring, rave reviews from many publications of note, including from Publishers Weekly and Kirkus. He was nominated for the prestigious Edgar Award for best Young Adult Mystery by the Mystery Writers of America, and for the Anthony Awards.

Young Adult publications have a wide and honorable reputation. Fine writers make successful careers within the category. Still, by their definition, Young Adult books may circumscribe their audience; and Henry Turner’s books mark the emergence of a notable American writer. There are, in his prose, strains of the early short stories of William Faulkner.

The opening of a novel—the first sentence, the first paragraph—is an author’s invitation to a reader to follow. This is how Henry invites his reader in the brash tone of the 16-year-old narrator, Billy Zeets. Both barter with the reader. Billy will tell us “the truth” if we listen to him. But Billy is not entirely reliable. As I have often told writers: “In life be kind; in your fiction be ruthless with your characters.” They can be wily seducers; they cajole, they hide, and they blatantly lie. Henry does not allow Billy his frequent subterfuges and contradictions. The result is a complex, fully drawn character we willingly follow.

Henry’s prose provides as much pleasure as his narratives.

Here is one example of what Henry can do with description. This is the house that Billy, his ailing father (he has “scars in his heart”), and his defiant sister live in:

“… the whole house would be pretty, too, like something in a carnival—if it was painted bright, but right now it looks like nothing but a big old dead birthday cake, turned all black and gray.”

In that short sentence, the words themselves paint the house, converting it from fantasy (the Carnival) to harsh reality (“the old dead birthday cake”).

Billy sets out to trap a serial killer who is luring boys into the “dark”—and the dark contains violence. Not only will he do that, but he may find a missing boy alive. As Billy moves dangerously into the dark heart of the killer, he pulls the reader in with tantalizing clues and mounting suspense.

Eventually he concludes that he will not “ask the darkness,” and he pulls away from the deepest horror of the murders because “the dark doesn’t answer.”

“Hiding” is a perfect story, where the author’s intent is fully realized. It is an eery story, and the eeriness begins at the onset when the nameless narrator tells us that he is an expert at hiding. “I don’t just mean hide and seek, going in the closet or something. That’s’ just one kind of hiding. Real hiding happens when everybody can see you.”

The eeriness is extended through scattered details. We learn that a teenage boy committed suicide—or was killed—while sliding under a bus. The narrator follows some cars to a funeral. Unreliably we learn that he is not just wandering about the city; he is going to invade the house of the pretty girl who discarded him. Supposedly unintending, he finds himself inside the empty house, and then begins his tracking of the girl’s life through his exploration. Trapped inside, he must remain in the basement until morning, and then remain hiding in various rooms.

In a daring feat of writing, Henry defines the imminent danger of a dog attacking the boy, solely by the sounds the dog makes—closer and closer. Again—without intending to, he tells us–he finds himself in the girl’s bedroom. But why is he there, looking for what, waiting for what?

There are passages that by themselves might be full short stories: In one, the boy and his nerdy friend form a trio with a gawky ordinary girl. When the girl shows signs of maturing, the nerdy friend moves on her, the boy does nothing—and the special friendship is destroyed. “The secrets were revealed and there was no more Mystery.” The end of “Hiding” is as startling as it is inevitable.

Henry creates fascinating characters and locates their strangeness—their mystery, the darkness—even in often-ordinary situations. One of the most thrilling aspects of writing is that the author’s characters—fully created and in all their ventures as they are in Henry’s books—will spring to life each time a reader opens a book and accepts the author’s invitation.

That will occur with Henry’s books.

And, then, Henry Turner, the author, will be there.

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