I strode into his room a man, not the boy I become when we are alone in his study. He looked up but did not put down his newspaper. I motioned toward the chair by the window.
“You can sit as long as we don’t discuss my health. I’m sick of talking about my heart. I’m fine.”
I agreed to his stipulation. I had no intention of discussing his health.
“Thomas, did you hear there’s property for sale in Turtle Bay? It might be an opportunity for residential re-development,” he said.
“I’m not here to discuss the New York housing market. Father, we need to talk about what you confessed. I must know which friend was mixed up in the banking scandal and why you destroyed counterfeiting evidence to help the guilty party escape justice. You’re culpable. We can’t just leave things like this.”
He folded his newspaper and put his hand to his temple. “My head hurts, Thomas. Go get your mother.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I need some of my medication.”
I stood up, the boy returned for that brief moment, but then I sat back down. “Which is it, Father? Are you too ill to admit the truth or do you feel fine? You can’t have it both ways. I won’t allow —”
“You won’t allow?” He crumpled his newspaper. “Who do you think you’re speaking to, young man?”
For the first time I felt indifference to his blazing offense. He could shout if he wanted, but I no longer cared; I needed to understand. I insisted we could not go on as if nothing happened.
He turned until his black eyes settled upon my unwavering stare. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t remember much of anything while I was sick. Doctor Stanton says laudanum clouds the mind. I don’t remember telling you anything about a scandal.”
I pleaded for him to stop but he continued the charade, “Thomas, I really don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s nothing to discuss.”
“Yes, there is. You must tell me who—”
“I said there’s nothing to discuss. Now leave me alone. Go to Newport and pretend to work while I actually —”
“Father, we —”
Through clenched teeth he spat, “I said leave me alone.”
I left the following morning.
Seems reconciliation is improbable. At least while on the lookout for a dodgy henchman, I also have an angry lover. You of course know the latter is the most dangerous.
With reverence,
Thomas
March 9, 1889.
DARLING —
Your apology came before I could finish my own without revealing my foolishness. My pen was driven by irrational, frustrated wrath, and the ugliness of my letter hovers like the California fog that dampened the deck chairs. Can you forgive me? I have read and reread your letter with a heavy heart for all that you are feeling. My talent for candor pales in comparison to yours, but I must at least try.
I still believe my leaving New York was a good decision, but now knowing you felt abandoned makes me ashamed. You feel I left without trying to fight your father for you, and I must agree. Though we based our decision on sound reasoning, there is another important reason why I agreed to our parting with such ease. You should know the truth.
My dear, I left in large part because I needed to begin my book. In truth, I wanted to begin my book. I know I vowed our courtship would continue unfettered, but I was wearing blinders and had forgotten that writing is an endless struggle without a victor. My schedule is odd and self-serving, and until now the consequence has hurt only me and Avery. It was never my intention to neglect you, and still I must acknowledge my preoccupation. The man you met at the hotel wants to stroke your hair and whisper he will change his ways; the writer at this desk will not deny his passion nor regret the time it demands. Perhaps Madam Rousseau was in fact correct about my two loves. Change, however, first requires desire.
My feet are not bound to this island. Yet just as pride prevented you from asking me to stay, ego prevents me from returning. My affection for you has not faltered as you fear. It grows without measure even though a selfish will controls me. Darling, if we are ever to succeed in our attachment you must understand writing is all I have to give this world. There are too many that expect failure and belittle my efforts in hope of breaking my spirit. I will not satisfy them. Can you forgive me my temperament? Men are so different from women. Seems you have learned even a loving father is just a man.
I understand your disappointment and wish there was something I could say to cheer you. Yes, it appears your father took you to Abilene because he never trusted us and wanted you under his watchful eye far away from me. At least his protectiveness has kept you from the Muskrat. This brings me more reassurance than I can explain. However, now that you concede there may be nothing that will change your father’s mind, we must stop and consider this reality.
In the pages of a manuscript the protagonist must reach a point of vulnerable exposure. His destiny rests in that moment of conflict, yet he is brave and resolute. Never in my life have I felt less heroic than right now. This is the most distasteful of anything I have ever had to do; however, the question must be asked and answered. I think we both know the time has come.
My sweetest Mary, are you willing to build a life with me if our union means separation from your family?
With all my heart,
Thomas
March 21, 1889.
HENRY —
The winter frost in Newport is cutting yet I shiver from more than the driving sleet that pelts my chin. I wish my fear was from the finished chapters stacked too close to the fire. But I fear more than my pages are in danger.
After returning from dinner with my neighbor, Mrs. Winchester, I went around to the back porch. My habit is to use the rear entrance closer to the study. This infuriates my mother who writes to remind me that, as a gentleman, I should use my two capable limbs to go to the front. I had just put my key in the lock when I heard footsteps behind me. Before I could turn, a man grabbed me and shoved me against the door.
“Gadwell, I’ve been waiting too long for this,” he said as he pressed his full weight against me. I squirmed, but he was twice my size and he had my right arm pinned to my side while my left was twisted up against my back. He spat the cigarette from his teeth and ashes flicked on my cheek.
“He said you’d struggle. Waste of time.”
“Who said? Mr. Harting?” I asked.
“I don’t know names. What I do know is the boss wants you to stop what you’re doing. He don’t like it.” He pressed harder. It felt as if my arm might snap in two.
