Thomas
September 20, 1888.
DEAR AVERY —
I am truly sorry. I know how hard you worked and accept full responsibility for Harpers retracting their offer. There is no way to hide my disappointment. If you can muster any more faith in me, perhaps you can send it to another publisher. In the morning I leave for Newport where I will plunge into my next book and nothing else.
With sincere apologies,
Thomas
September 20, 1888.
MARY —
Father collapsed. The doctor is here and Mother just sent for Father’s attorney. I will write as soon as I can.
Love,
Thomas
September 25, 1888.
MY DARLING —
A man who once interrogated Ulysses S. Grant is unable to lift his head to sip from a glass of water. Doctor Stanton has eased some of Father's pain, yet over the past five days the good doctor has twice stayed all night and suggests we confirm Father’s burial wishes.
My father suffered a heart attack during a small dinner party, collapsing just as the men gathered in his study to smoke dog rockets and tell bawdy jokes. He was so condescending at dinner, scoffing at my work and theorizing how I spent my time in Newport, that when he called out I finished setting up the ladies’ loom before going to the study. I was not one of the men who carried him to the bed where he now lies so motionless and puny.
Mother is extraordinary. She is composed and compassionate as she presses cold cloths to his forehead and changes his damp shirts. Though every Saturday my father set a white rose on Mother’s breakfast plate, until I watched her kiss his brow I never thought of my parents as lovers.
Mother calls, so I must leave you here. Please pray for my father and that you and I may someday share such a strong bond. On such grim days it is difficult to imagine what will become of our future.
Thomas
September 27, 1888.
GOOD HENRY —
Do you remember the day I walked into your Beginning Fiction seminar and tripped over a chair? I suppose that would be hard to forget. Yours was my first class in anything other than law, and I had been tripping for days before I tore open my knee that morning.
After my stylish entrance, I headed to the back of Thayer Hall. You watched me, or at least it felt that way, and once I sat down you scribbled in a notebook. I imagined you were writing something horrible about how obvious it was that I had stumbled into the wrong lecture. Before I could scramble out of that class, you cleared your throat.
You pointed to me and demanded I stand and tell the class about my interest in creative writing. My limbs quivered so violently I feared everyone could see my terror through the hole in the knee of my trousers. As I stammered about a newfound creative passion, you yawned.
It would be most gratifying for both of us if I could remember your first lecture. I do recall the way your deep voice reverberated between the oak beams in the peaked ceiling, like a preacher in a well-built hall. The room smelled of mold and stale overcoats; the classmate behind me tapped his suede boot against my chair; and if anyone dropped a pencil you stopped and grumbled.
When for the next six classes you called on me to explain my literary pursuits, you must have noticed my confusion. I thought you were doddering. By the seventh class I had prepared notes for your inevitable question, but when you said my name I tossed them aside. My voice sounded coarse.
“You still want me to tell you why I’m here? I thought it was because I like to write, but that’s obviously not what you want me to say. So here’s something else. I had an internship at a South End law office where my job was to dig through stacks of files in a dusty back room looking for anything to absolve the back-stabbing, corporate swine known as the defendant. Well, I did just that. My discovery of an erroneous deed led to a dismissal. And what did I get for my diligent research? The defendant went on demoralizing his workers and I was handed a new pile of papers. I thought anything would be better, so I picked your class because of your fashionable pantaloons. Who knew suffering your lectures could be worse.”
Remorse struck the instant I had finished, yet you responded by leading the class in a round of applause. Energized by my triumph, I cornered you after class. I still believe you only agreed to join me for coffee because you feared a crush of eager students if you stood in the hallway too long. Tell me, Henry, was I correct?
It seems comical now, but I strutted on the way to that overcrowded bistro with the stale muffins. It was cold outside and you hurried with your head toward the cement and your hands in your pockets. I had hoped to begin our discussion during that walk, but you never broke stride.
The drab eatery smelled of pickles and fried onions, and we were shown to a table that needed place settings and clean glasses. As soon as we sat down you rocked the table back and forth, grunted, then pulled a silver dollar from your pocket and stuck it under the short leg. Unlike professors who compared surnames with gold placards on the university’s libraries, you looked me straight in the eye and asked what I wanted. I had such admiration for your writing I found your approach refreshing. Now that I consider you my friend, I know that you just wanted to get back to work without suffering soggy hash or a soggy student. That, however, was not part of my agenda.
I desperately wanted to know if I had made the right decision, if my skills and motivation were sufficient for a literary career. Nevertheless, I had trouble finding the vocabulary for such a personal question and stammered like a lad facing the belt. You grumbled about the stupidity of convention then at last spoke. Your words still rattle in my head all these years later.
“I don’t have answers that fit in a cigar box. I don’t know if you’ll succeed as a writer, and frankly I don’t care. What you do with your life is up to you, not your father. It’s your pine box.” You plucked your silver dollar from under the table leg and walked out before I could even clear my throat.
If not for the invitation to Professor Reed’s annual poker tournament where your losses paid for a month of rounds at the pub, I would never have overcome my awe to speak with you without frothy adulation and a facial tick. We are true friends, are we not? But it seems your role as mentor has yet to fade. Though I write this knowing there is little time for your guidance, Henry, I must again ask for your wisdom.
You once admitted you were unable to write even a brief note after your father died. Years later, do you still believe your work was silenced by what was left unresolved? Was it best you let him die without condemnation for the pain he caused you, or do you regret not airing your grievances?
My father is sallow beneath flushed cheeks and his breathing is labored. Last night I offered him laudanum for the pain, but he was overcome by a lifetime of regrets and pushed my hand away with surprising vigor. I begged him to wait for the reverend so we could preserve the fragments of our affection. Confessions are for clergymen ordained to cradle a troubled soul. Instead he forced me into a situation not meant for any son.
Along with a litany of business dealings Jay Gould would applaud, my father told me that he was mixed up in the ’79 Worcester bank fraud. He admitted destroying evidence to help keep a friend of mine out of prison. I pressed him for a name, but his voice became too weak. Now I am left with the knowledge that my father is a criminal, as is one of my friends. What does one do with such knowledge, and how can a boy listen to his father’s transgressions without passing judgment?
All I could think was that his admissions were insincere laced with the stench of death. Is it just that my anger is raw and consuming? Now I am saddled with keeping his lies and deceit, treacheries that involved a friend. My father is nothing more than the pretense of morality, and I was not the son of his prayers. As he withers and waits for his time on this earth to end, I pray God grants me the capacity to forgive him his weakness. As his righteous lectures ignite in my head like flash powder, this seems an impossible task.
Thomas
October 12, 1888.
SWEETHEART —
Your compassionate words of encouragement and faith have kept me from cursing God during these endless, sleepless nights. A few evenings ago Father gasped for breath and his prominent chin slacked against his chest in a look of permanent resignation. Doctor Stanton left at sundown, packing away all of his vials and needles. After three weeks of prayer, we feared the worst.
Just before daybreak I left his side to fetch more water when Mother shouted for my return. Though I longed to slip away in the morning shadows, Mother needed my strength. I picked up the Bible and prepared to meet death.
I found Mother standing over him with her head bowed. Father lay still but his blanket was tousled so his bare feet were exposed to the brisk air. It seemed a dying man should have wool socks, thick black ones that rose above the calf. His feet looked just as they did when he padded across the dining room shouting for his slippers. I suppose I expected a dead man’s toes to shrivel like dried blueberries. It was strange how his feet held my fascination, like a bystander gazing from the threshold. Just as I was about to cover them with the quilt, he wiggled his big toe.
We sent for the doctor at first light. Doctor Stanton took the liberty of bringing the reverend, so you can imagine his shock to find my father’s heartbeat improved. Over the next two days Father’s pulse strengthened. Several times he opened his eyes and winked at my mother before collapsing into a deep sleep. The cautious doctor attributed this to hallucinations. Yet, this morning Father woke with the sun and asked for broth—a good sign if ever I heard one.
Doctor Stanton warned of a long recovery, but despite his caveat Mother is optimistic and insists I go to Newport. She has assumed full responsibility for Father’s care and will not even discuss my continued help. So, my darling, I leave in the morning and shall get right to work even if my enthusiasm is a bit tempered by concern.
You are a most accommodating woman, Miss Harting, and your effort to raise my spirits in such a difficult time is appreciated. I adore the nickname, as Mr. Kennard does resemble a muskrat. That the Muskrat has dined with you several times and accompanied your family to the opera, however, gives me pause. Your finding him “dull as weeds” does not negate that another man watched candlelight dance across your soft complexion as he enjoyed your witty tales, and unless a complete idiot, is now smitten. The continued personal interaction with an employee is baffling and unsettling. Has your father given any reason for his interest in the Muskrat?
Your loving,
Thomas
October 12, 1888.
MR. GAYLORD, ESQUIRE —
Before you worry, Father is mending and there is no call to revise his will. I write with my own legal question of importance and urgency. My need is for a covert investigation into a man’s reputation and past activities. Is this part of your repertoire?
