The power of imagination is most curious, my love. If we replay this scenario again and again it will become as real as any memory. I intend to do just that.
Mary, we must endure and wait for your father’s blessing. Until then, I will make a quick visit to Boston then head to Newport to start my third novel while your gracious friend, Miss Ross, delivers our words of life and love. Keep busy with your family and volunteer work. And above all else, my dearest, be careful.
With all my heart,
Thomas
September 17, 1888.
AVERY —
The train pulled into Boston a little past ten o’clock last evening yet you denied me the pleasure of watching you streak across the window in your wool nightshirt and cap. Where were you? As my father is in rare form, we must meet right away. I plan to leave again without even a plate of pig’s knuckles at Jake Wirth’s.
T.G.
September 17, 1888.
DEAR BEAU —
Thank you for the unique evasion techniques and passionate warning about fish glue. Did you really have a yarn mustache stuck to your lips for three days? Now that I am back in Boston, I suspect I am unworthy of a shadow and will not need to “borrow” a barrel organ and monkey. I hope you gave them back to the organ grinder. Should I worry about you on foreign soil? Sometimes your antics get a little close to crossing the line of decorum.
Thomas
September 17, 1888.
DARLING —
The hall table is empty. I expected a letter with the afternoon post telling me how much you already miss my rambling tales. Have you forgotten me already?
Though my train arrived late, first thing this morning Father called me into his study to battle the merit of the Chinese Exclusion Treaty. Declaring my need for poached eggs and a good shave was insufficient. Since childhood I have despised everything about our infinite debates. It would be cleaner to draw pistols and have it done.
The torment begins when my father bellows for me from the base of the staircase. He has never found my company worthy of climbing the stairs. This is followed by loud, quick footsteps in the back hall. He wants to be sure I know he is waiting but he will not call for me again. The one time I ignored him I was sent to bed without supper. I have never thought to ignore him as an adult. I suppose I would have to dine out.
As usual, Father waited for me in the doorway. My greeting met with his low grunt, followed by his pointing to the window. That was his way of saying it was time to take our positions.
My father propped himself against the corner of his Partners’ desk with his arms folded and his face taut. The study smelled of the penny cigars he chews but never lights; newspapers he will not allow our girl to toss; leather bindings and withered parchment; and dust from the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that line the room. As we inspected each other like ladies across a buffet table, I moved to the window and rested against the sill.
My usual manner is to pick up a glass bottle from father’s apothecary collection, something I can roll about in my hands to give the illusion of disinterest when I need time to formulate a rebuttal, but Father had cleared the display case. In defiance, I plucked my father’s letter opener from his desk, held it before him with a grin, and waited for him to begin pacing. Unlike the rigidness of our dispositions, the mode of our debate depends on the time of year.
In the chill we remain motionless, resting upon the marble fireplace while holding cups of steaming tea. When the weather is stifling, we open all of the windows and strut back and forth across the chintz rug searching for the right spot to declare our poignancy encouraged by a cooling breeze. In twenty-two years we have never once availed ourselves of the leather chairs.
Our chat began with his usual rancor and belittling of my progressive ideas. Then as he rationalized how forced labor does not violate civil liberties, I forgot myself and pulled a copy of Surveying America from the shelf. He stopped mid-sentence, huffed, and handed me a sterling silver marker the size of a berry fork. The library is littered with shiny reminders that one of their own is missing.
I took the marker and held it for a moment. “Please continue, Father. It’s such fun to hear you degrade an entire class and dismiss common sense.”
“That’s not what … I … was … Thomas, just use the marker already. I don’t want another book misplaced.”
“For land’s sake, I was seven years old.”
We continued in this manner until my father checked his watch, stubbed his unlit cigar in the copper tin on the mantel, and walked out of the room indicating he was either hungry or tired. My dismissal, however, has never meant our discussion is over. Our vicious cycle shall repeat soon enough.
My father and this house were so distant when you and I were together, but I apologize for evading your questions. Not every family sings carols and plays The Checkered Game of Life. Now that I am submerged I suppose it is easier to address your curiosity about my home life. Still, is it best you learn what else goes on behind velvet curtains?
Our residence at 84 Chestnut Street is a sturdy, four-story Second Empire with a boxy mansard roof, rounded cornices, and dormer windows that look like eyebrows. The front bay window is used to display Mother’s needlepoint to the neighbors, and though my mother is fond of wishing it was as large as the Carnegie Mansion, our ten thousand square feet has all of the required rooms Mother has never decorated to her satisfaction.
We entertain with polished silver and china, ring our bell when ready for supper, and have the drapes aired each spring. When blue trellis wallpaper was stylish, we had blue trellis wallpaper in the front hall and receiving room, and my mother loves cherry wood and ivory trinkets. An attractive house, and yet I have not described our home.
In the summertime we ate fried chicken on an old red blanket in the backyard and my mother always hummed unrecognizable tunes as she went up and down the staircase. I was never allowed to play in the guest rooms, and our cook, Lilly, loved to make chocolate bread pudding. The whole house smelled of chocolate—except, of course, on Sundays.
On Sunday evenings we always had a light supper then gathered in the family room. Father sat on the settee, his thick legs crushing the delicate rose pattern, and Mother put away her needle. From my spot on the floor, I watched Father stroke his mustache with a devious grin that made me laugh and shiver at the same time.
Father told stories. Sometimes he even acted out scenes and spoke in character voices like a performer in a company show. I never knew if his tales were original or borrowed from one of his many books, but it never mattered. We all looked forward to Sunday stories. Father even taunted us with cryptic hints during the week. But like the blue trellis wallpaper, story time was replaced, and Sunday nights were never the same.
Father had endless business meetings and missed church. He became hostile without provocation and began slamming his study door. He never discussed what happened with me, though Mother remembers the exact night when everything changed.
All the same, my childhood was not spent in misery. Lest I cast aspersions on a family you have yet to even meet, I shall move on to more pertinent information. It seems my few days in Boston are filled.
Upon my nightstand is an invitation to a garden party and Mother’s sewing circle wants gossip from the West. However, speculating when and how we shall see each other again will occupy most of my time. I know you are eager to change your father’s opinion of me, and your courage is admirable. But, Mary, you were so enthusiastic before I left. Please proceed with caution. Convincing your father to alter his judgment means he must first admit he is wrong. As this seems out of character, I fear the outcome of pressuring him.
Your loving,
Thomas
September 18, 1888.
MY FRIEND MALCOLM —
It must be at least a year since our last letters, and yet I recently told a special friend about our grand fort. Coincidence is indeed striking.
