A Black Border for McGee. That’s the title of the famed, lost, almost mythical final Travis McGee novel in which John D. MacDonald kills his hero. I understand the avid interest. For one thing, we don’t want the ride to be over. If we like something, we want more--even if it’s just one more. And then there’s the color. Black, the color most associated with death; it would be easiest of colors to work into a series needing a different color for each title. There must be some reason MacDonald hadn’t used it. Maybe he was saving it for last. And then there’s the time factor. Three years passed between the penultimate novel and McGee’s final appearance. Maybe MacDonald had produced another manuscript. Well, he did; and it was called One More Sunday. But there was certainly time in there to produce another.
A Black Border for McGee is the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. It is also a unicorn. And Santa Claus. In other words, it doesn’t exist.
There are nuggets of truth in the above fantasy. MacDonald did plan a 22nd McGee novel, had intended it to end the series, had even, according to some, started on it. Those four chapters have never been recovered. My personal contention? Scheduled for a heart operation in which survival was in no way guaranteed (and which ultimately claimed his life), MacDonald destroyed those pages himself. My first and only piece of evidence: The Lonely Silver Rain.
The story is about mortality. Not the plot. The story. The plot is almost irrelevant. It’s an excuse to force McGee at every turn to look at his own extinction, now close enough to feel and still slowly, steadily getting closer. He had just brought back to Ft. Lauderdale a sailboat from a Caribbean island and he’s in the best shape he’s seen in years. In the past when “the human machinery” was humming, McGee’s attitude toward life was at its highest. Here he is apathetic. It permeates his existence. Apparently only work can temporarily abate his lethargy. Asked by a friend to recover his stolen cruiser, in the small cluster of islands where he finds it hidden McGee also discovers three brutally murdered young people--a male and two girls. When one of the girls is identified as the daughter of a high-ranking member of a Peruvian drug cartel, McGee and everyone associated with the affair are ordered to be killed.
When he fighting for his life or is in the process of searching for a way of extricating himself from this predicament, McGee is alive and aware. When forced to await answers or a course of action, when forced to settle back into his life, the apathy returns. Surliness surfaces or he brings it out in others. He feels appropriately grubby after sleeping with the widow of the recently-murdered friend whose favor had instigated the current problem, but he also actively avoids sleeping with a different friend who wants to celebrate the good turn her life had suddenly taken. This is the “genuine affection but with no strings attached” kind of encounter McGee has partaken of his whole life. Now it’s as if he feared even touching the lady would infect her with his malaise.
And there is Willy Nucci, his old underworld contact, newly retired only to discover he has cancer. By the time McGee gets around to seeing him, he is a shrunken figure barely able to move. And he is having the time of his life, buoyed by the presence of a buxom California-blonde nurse sent to him by some old associates. Willy only learned to live once he knew he was dying. It’s a lesson McGee acknowledges but doesn’t learn.
But there is hope for Travis McGee. In the form of what starts as a minor subplot, the actual point of the novel can be found. In the dead of night, without pattern or warning, someone is conspicuously leaving about his houseboat pipe cleaners bent into the shape of a cat. In finally deciding to put a stop to the annoyance, McGee is forced to relive a heartbreak from the past, but in doing so is awaken to the possibility that the end might not be the end. It is simultaneously gut-wrenching and uplifting.
Mortality is no longer a weight to be carried. For the hero. For a fictional character. But for the author? Can John D. MacDonald dig this deep, come face-to-face with this abyss, and not see the traces of his own mortality? Each time I reread The Lonely Silver Rain I have no doubt that, whether MacDonald consciously knew it or not, this was meant to be the final Travis McGee novel--if he was rendered unable to write the final Travis McGee novel. And that’s what came to pass.