March 31, 1889.
MR. EVERETT —
Your services are no longer required. Immediately cease all activity and post your final accounting. Regardless of our unfinished business, the continued risk and possibility that Mr. Kennard has discovered our dealings is too great a threat for me, and for those around me. It is imperative all records indicate our business has concluded. As your adherence to my wishes has thus far been unstable, I implore you to follow these demands. If not, someone could get hurt.
Thomas M. Gadwell
SPRING 1889
April 10, 1889.
DEAR FATHER —
Weeks have disappeared into dazed memories I will someday confuse with dreams. I have been lost in my head and in my heart, but there is no excuse for leaving your emotional letter upon the kitchen table. I thought you impervious to the sourness of guilt, but as I read your list of regrets I embraced a man awakened by death. You deserve my reply.
Do you recall when I was seventeen and you asked what I would study at Harvard? How we had avoided the topic so long is a testament to our wills. As we sat in your study I thought my whole existence depended on that single dreaded answer. A bound copy of Poe’s poems was in my lap, and I could hear Mother in the kitchen making bread. It was not our cook; Mother was pounding the dough to calm her nerves. I cleared my throat and proclaimed, “Law. My interest is in the law.” Everyone proclaimed happiness for a year.
Mother’s disappointment in my decision to change professions stung. On the other hand, I expected your contempt and considered it part of my artistic angst. My disregard for your opinion was as passionate as yours for mine. We were even, it seemed, until I brought home my first short story.
Mother read it in her sewing room. Her critique was guarded, but I believe she liked at least parts of it. To date, yours has been my most scathing review. Not only did you claim it painful to read, pubescent and trite, you said cavemen conveyed their message with more finesse.
As any son, I wanted your approval. So as your review of my work escalated into the apathy of my generation and the inevitable demise of the morality of our country, I decided I would never again seek your opinion. Though we have debated, argued, reasoned, and hassled, reflect for a moment and you will realize I have not sought your judgment on anything more consequential than need of a coat. I was satisfied with this arrangement until the postman delivered your letter of apology and explanation.
For years I agonized over why you hated my profession when it was you who encouraged me to love literature. That you were driven to give up your own aspirations is heartbreaking, and yet is it ever too late? You have admitted your jealousy, so it is now time to leave it in the past and start writing again. It would be an honor to read your work as a colleague.
As we speak of writing, have you ever wondered why I never asked your opinion of my first book? It was fear, but not that your critique would shame your earlier review. I was more afraid you never bothered to read it at all. Thank you for bothering. That you found it worthy of such high praise is my greatest achievement.
Since Pandora’s Box is open, it seems a fitting time to ask for your guidance. By now Mother must have told you of my interest in a young lady. Mary is on the island acting as a companion to our neighbor, Mrs. Winchester. I have withheld this from Mother for fear she will swoop in to pick names for our unborn children. Though Mary has been here over a week, we are ill at ease and distracted. Granted, we have both been well occupied.
My writing remains involved and Mary runs endless errands for Mrs. Winchester. I have tried to catch Mary alone, but Mrs. Winchester thwarts my every move. Then when yesterday I was allowed a few minutes inside Winchester Manor, I left in relief. Once entranced by Mary’s gentle singing, I found myself out of sorts as Mrs. Winchester encouraged Mary's incessant humming. I fled sporting a tremendous headache and foul mood. Love should eclipse such trivialities. Where are the harps and moonbeams?
In my short, but well-traveled, years I have learned we all seek ways to feel unique yet at the same time want solace in shared experiences. Did you ever encounter the same frustrations and worry? A difficult question for a new day, but I look no further than your love for Mother to know I ask the right man.
Father, we have all said and done that which we pray God will forgive before we can forgive ourselves. The world is grey, and sometimes the righteous linger in the shadows before seeking the light. I accept your apology and believe your remorse for your conspiracy with my friend, William Crawley. I have just a few unanswered questions I hope you concede need answering.
You said that when you ran into William in New York you found him distressed, that he readily confessed his unwitting part in the robbery at the Midland Bank in Worcester. Do you still believe his claim that he was not the counterfeiter? That, as a bank teller, he accidentally saw the phony bills? I find his willingness to accept a bribe to hide the plates instead of going to the police startling. Your involvement also leaves me dazed. His actions were both unscrupulous and illegal, and yet you put yourself in jeopardy to assist my old friend. Yes, indeed, the world is grey. My prayers are now for William’s repentance.
Your loving son,
Thomas
April 19, 1889.
DEAR HENRY —
Your suggestion of a vicious dog is under advisement, despite your exploiting my distress to inspire a book title. A story called The Turn of the Screw? It sounds like a tradesman’s manual. Then again, you might look dashing in shapeless trousers and a sporting cap.
By now you must have received my enthralling but brief letter announcing Mary’s visit to Newport. I have kept a vigilant watch since her arrival, and at least for the time being it appears we are safe. The stress of it, however, is taking a toll. I wish I could convey things here were as chipper as the last stop on your European tour.
To my complete surprise and growing hostility, Mary insists we continue hiding our affections. We are caricatures of lovers drawn by a cheap novice and pretend a pleasant acquaintance in snapshots of placid outings. In fact, the ongoing concealment of our affair began the evening Mary arrived. A strong wind stirred the sea to angry waves, and the relentless rain so soaked the wooden dock it appeared to sag in the middle. It was a treacherous night on Newport Island—a forewarning had I paid attention.
I tried to remain calm as the minutes ticked by with the steamer nowhere in sight. But when Mary’s ship was more than an hour late, I paced in front of an advertisement for salt by the pound and imagined the fiery sinking in such horrible detail I became light-headed and had to sit down. In my torment I never considered the ramifications of such an outward display of concern while in the company of a woman who gossips for sport. It was a tell that revealed my hand to a more experienced, and fiendish, player.
At last the mooring lines were secured and Mary stood on the gangway. The tumultuous ride had ashened her cheeks and her gait was a bit unsteady, but she looked even more ravishing than I remembered. Upon seeing her for the first time in months I grinned like the useless joker card. In response she curtsied and said, “Mr. Gadwell, nice to see you again.”
Once introductions were made, Mary turned her full attention to Mrs. Winchester and had little need for my assistance except for arranging transport of her trunks. I attempted polite conversation while longing to take her in my arms, but Mary was aloof and Mrs. Winchester had other plans.
Over the next few days my attempts to visit Mary were thwarted by Mrs. Winchester’s butler who insisted the ladies were indisposed. At least with Mary tucked away I felt assured of her safety from island intruders and broken wheel clips. Thankfully, there are no new sightings of cigarette butts or reports from Mr. Everett. Then this morning a most implausible messenger delivered a special invitation.
“Thomas, you’re looking well for an ill-tempered artist. I hope that rosy glow is from your writing and not some rare disease that requires two weeks at the spas in Baden Baden.”
My agent stood at the door holding a travel case in one hand and an embossed envelope in the other.
“Avery? You made it after all. A bit disheveled and inconvenient, but here you are.”
“I’m so fond of your quips, T. G., perhaps you should write a comedy.” Avery handed me the envelope, stepped over the threshold, and put down his satchel. With a flourish he took off his raincoat and posed with his hands on his hips.
We chuckled in short bursts that swelled when Avery spun in a circle. I stared at a middle-aged man in round wire glasses wearing a lime-green dinner jacket with purple buttons. When I told him he was a rare vision, he opened his satchel and retrieved a matching hat.
“You found a green Bollinger? I don’t believe it,” I said.
“I brought it for you, T. G. I have exciting news.”
I know his stylish ensemble makes little sense to you, Henry, but Avery and I have always enjoyed a bit of tomfoolery.
As Avery’s updates are sweeter than Swiss bell ringers, I first suggested he warm himself by the fire. I have learned to steel myself for Avery’s good news which is a combination of conjecture and wishful thinking.
We exchanged pleasantries that included the inspirational successes of another client (I was inspired to light a Cuban) and the passionate details of Avery’s latest invention.
