So, dearest, I have packed our memories alongside the penny postcards and shell-encrusted fruit bowl for my parents and leave tomorrow. I promise my next letters shall be filled with an ingenious scheme for our secret rendezvous. I must also warn that the cognac seems to have had a lasting effect. I plan on spending the train ride to New York dreaming of your tender lips and masterminding how I shall steal a kiss.

Your adoring,

Thomas

FALL 1888

August 5, 1888.

DEAR MARY —

Is it true God speaks to a man with his own rail car? According to the New York World, your private rail car has marble sinks, gold chandeliers, stout fireplaces, and a ne’er-do-well flopped against the bar claiming he never sported an Imperial beard in his youth. The C. P. Huntington is not quite as well appointed; though I believe we too can boast of freeloaders aboard.

I take comfort in my own compartment with a private shower, a full oil lamp, and a quaint bed that would fit quite well if I were three inches shorter. The dining car offers tasty silver cake but has run out of Earl Grey. The linens are a fine blend; the observation car has lush leather club chairs; and the porter gave me a bottle of unbranded hair oil compliments of Union Pacific. Can you smell me from New York? Ladies have taken to walking the passageway with handkerchiefs over their noses. However, my unfortunate choice in men’s furnishings does not explain why your letterbox is empty.

Four days have passed since I last penned your name, yet the delay was not from lacking something to say. By now you know I am seldom without words. I could tell you I desired time for thoughtful reflection, but I admit I needed the train stop in the Utah territory.

I, of course, understand if you no longer wish to consort with a man who, unable to locate a mere scrap, incurred a hefty fine for writing a letter on the tablecloth. I blame my senselessness on what I must stare at all day.

How impassive it is to dismiss the barren flats from the vantage of passing by. But even after a second viewing I find the remote, scorched plains redundant to the point of exhaustion. The rush to settle all thirty-eight states is best left to men more desirous of land ownership than a hot bath. Alas, indifference has left time for wandering thoughts.

It is senseless to ruminate about your father’s rash actions and hostile mood while stuck on this jarring steel box without any way to receive your letters. Still, I keep thinking about his preoccupation with business and the forceful hold on your arm as he pulled you through the lobby. As I admit my apprehension (blackmail you will someday use to enlist my help in choosing lace curtains) it seems the neighbors are again drawing blood.

A young mother and her two boys are in the adjacent sleeper. Through the walls I hear the boys wrestle over marbles while their mother insists they work on their McGuffey Readers. In truth, I enjoy listening to their familiar antics. They give me pause to remember the feeling of rolling down grassy knolls and imagining you as a child.

I envision your leather toecap shoes dangling from the kitchen stool as you gobbled chocolate ice cream and taught your cook to read. You had the face of a cherub with a sharp mind scorned by headmistresses concerned for your proper station. Someday you must further explain how you developed such strong opinions while in the oppressiveness of Port Chester Preparatory School for Girls. Young ladies are depicted dressing dolls and sipping tea with pristine gloved hands. This is absurd. A woman able to throw a rock straight across the sea must have seen many days with dirty gloves.

As for the young lad my good friends called Gads, I was a quiet boy with a talent for mischief behind a credulous, thoughtful gaze. Of course this appearance did not fool a mother ready with punishment even before the offense occurred. The last anyone called me Gads, I avoided my own reader. To now think of the nickname brightens a tiresome ride indeed. Will you indulge me? I cannot explain the actions of senseless boys but do suggest you may learn why you rightfully crossed the street to avoid passing too close.

Like most boys of ten I was fearless and slapdash, and in the endless summer of 1869 I spent all my time with three great friends.

Our leader, Malcolm Weston, stood a solid four inches taller than the rest of us and had a straightforward likeable manner. As neighbors, we played since infancy but my father compared our differences to the Republicans and Greenbacks.

Unlike Malcolm, with his thin frame, unruly blond hair, and deep-set green eyes that girls found alluring when we entered puberty, my smooth dark hair and round features did not suit me until well past puberty. Still, most found me as agreeable as Malcolm. And as the planner, my creative ideas always found an enthusiastic home with my good friend.

Talkative twin brothers, Gregory and William Crawley, moved from Baltimore earlier that year. They finished each other’s sentences and did fantastic tricks like walking on their hands and flips in the air. Malcolm and I could only tell them apart by the way William’s right nostril flared as he spoke. Even then I knew girls considered Gregory and William handsome by the way the girls pushed past me to talk to them. But the brothers preferred frog ponds and flips to the fairer sex, and that suited Malcolm and me quite well.

Early that summer the four of us felt the need for a men’s club, a hamlet where we could discuss such weighty matters as the best kite design. Buckley Pond was no more than a swimming hole and less than a mile from our city homes, but as we spent long afternoons lounging under the sweet gum trees, it seemed fitting to design a tree house with a lakefront view. We drew detailed plans in the mud, and our ambitious sketch included a generous porch, peaked roof, and a swinging saloon door. The James-Younger Gang enthralled us. It turned out our gang was just as ill-fated.

We began our tree house with discarded oak planks and various kindling snuck from Malcolm’s carriage house. After using enough nails to build the White House then sealing the wood with a sticky paste William concocted from tree sap and pond water, the frail limbs of the gum trees would not hold the weight of the wood. This is most obvious now.

After a debate in the form of wrestling, we agreed upon a shoreline cabana and the plans were revised. Because we wanted a sturdy clubhouse, we set our support beams in the pliable mud. Persistence surmounted our architectural prowess.

Construction continued through rain; mosquitoes; the death of one unfortunate frog due to William’s bad aim with a hammer; bleeding fingers; Malcolm’s brainless use of poison ivy as a wood filler; too many splinters to count; and even imprisonment in my father’s study. Two weeks after the second plans were drawn, we had a lopsided box without windows, a door that would not swing, the imagination of a porch because William cut the opening on the wrong side, and space enough for four if one of us sat halfway out the door. That slowest sod, usually Gregory, had to make up new excuses why his knee breeches were so muddy.

Though on occasion a board would splash into the water, I loved our fort; we all did. It was a haven where we dreamt up adventures and laughed at silly jokes. Our young wits could not understand what we had truly built and why it was, and still is, so special. Within those shaky walls we captured our youthful perspectives on life; priceless ideals we are forced or feel ready to toss away then want back when youth is gone. Ours are preserved to recall on days such as these. I would say it was a productive summer indeed.

Like all summer holidays it ended with deep sadness, and the cold weather came on quick and harsh. That was the winter smallpox was discovered in our area. Just after Thanksgiving, Gregory Crawley fell sick. He died the day before Christmas.

Malcolm, William, and I went back to our fortress after Gregory’s funeral for our own sort of memorial, but discovered it too had fallen with the onset of winter. Just a few weeks later Malcolm was shipped off to spend a semester at a German boarding school and William’s father moved the family to Worcester. When Malcolm returned, we continued our friendship, but we never spoke of that summer or of our fort. It was as if the memory, too precious or too painful, was best kept locked in our minds.

I have not thought of Gregory’s death in years. To picture him in his Sunday suit, his arms folded across his chest and his lips puckered, I feel just as overwhelmed by death as I did then. The preacher praised God for Gregory’s new beginning, but my friend lay motionless in a black box while his mother sobbed and his brother sat fixed and vacant.

Perhaps the motion of the train stirs more than the chicken fricassee, as my intent was not so melancholy. Though thinking about one’s passing is a reminder to seize every moment. In five days I intend to do just that.

With love,

Thomas

August 12, 1888.

DEAR AVERY —

My good man, you will never believe what happened. Then again, you once dined with William Hearst so maybe you will. I am in New York on assignment. That I gave myself the assignment is inconsequential and well explains my continued tardiness.

On the train from California I sat right beside Black Bart, the infamous stagecoach robber. Of course he never revealed his identity but he quoted poetry, wore a long linen duster, and carried a blanket roll. Who else could it have been? The mysterious man feigned surprise at my desire to do an interview, but you are the one who stresses tenaciousness. So I am in pursuit. I lost him in Grand Central Station but the trail is warm. Soon you shall not only have the final edits for the second book but a once in a lifetime perspective sure to make front-page headlines. Just think of the publicity.

Thomas

August 14, 1888.

DEAR MOTHER —

Did you know your dear cousin Penelope is enamored with Eastman’s new camera? She snapped photos of me posed on her fainting couch until my vision, and dignity, were quite blurred. All the same, her antics are loveable and I appreciate her graciousness at accepting an unannounced guest. New York City is even livelier than you remember.

Harried shoppers swarm bright, glass-front stores, and the sidewalks are covered with plaster dust from new marble-faced buildings. Policemen in wide straw hats direct a confusion of buggies and pedestrians, and during peak hours the streetcar bells and whistles are deafening. The excitement has no equal, yet the frenzy reminds me of you and Aunt Ruth after a second pot of tea. Fashionable elite do still stroll through the parks swinging jade parasols; however, arduous dinner parties with insufferable guests are most stylish. Last night I returned from such a dismal evening and interrupted Penelope with a suitor.

By the red faces and stammering, I surmise your cousin is quite smitten. Mr. Lancaster is a reputable banker and, like Penelope, lost his spouse before there were any children. He is forthright, polite, and very much in love with your cousin. You need not ask. I will do my best to find out more and, ever the dutiful son, write in generous detail. Until then, I am indebted to an understanding mother who is content to know I am well without badgering to know why I changed my plans.

Your loving son,

Thomas

August 18, 1888.

DEAR HENRY —

Your book tour sounds as flawless as your enthusiasm for London, though your thrashing of Americans’ plebeian use of sugar nippers is objectionable. I hope you do not forgo Boston for the glamour of dining with royalty. As I am in New York, mother forwarded your letter. You are a man of great intelligence and can fit the puzzle together for yourself. Unlike your tour, however, my excursion is so far anything but congenial. In fact, in just twenty-four hours I was thrown to the curb twice.

On the train from California to New York, mother’s indoctrination on the virtues of honor and thank-you notes rattled through my head until any impulse for scheming was supplanted. So with coal still in my hair, I went straight to Mary’s door to inquire on her family’s health and wellbeing. Mary was seated in the parlor. Upon my entrance she jumped to her feet, startled to see me, then gave a polite bow. She looked exquisite in a lavender velvet jacket yet remained distracted and fidgeted with the lace trimming on her sleeves. As usual, my timing was deplorable.

Mrs. Harting was also in the parlor. She was upset about a broken platter and made her disgust of my sudden, unannounced company well-known. After inquiring several times as to the reason and length of my stay, Mrs. Harting rang for a servant to dispatch a messenger to Mr. Harting and escort me to the door. You can understand my surprise and elation to receive an invitation for dinner at the Harting home that evening. I still lament my optimism lasted but a few hours.

My waistcoat pressed and boots shined, I was ready to at last have a fruitful conversation and greeted Mary’s father with a strong handshake and straight back. In return, Mr. Harting introduced me to Mary’s escort for the evening, Mr. Lowell Kennard.

Lowell Kennard is a slight man with black hair and a deep red scar on his cheek that emphasizes his pale skin. His face looks menacing with fresh creases and converging grey circles around dark eyes. I guessed his age nearing forty. Though a Harting Railway employee, Mr. Kennard acted like the biggest toad in the puddle, with a ruffled dinner shirt and pert white carnation tucked in his lapel. His growing wealth and status were impressive; however, my sort (as was referenced with vigor) has little patience for a man with arms long enough to pat himself on the back. After introductions, Kennard ignored the other guests and insisted Mary give him a private tour of the solarium. I had a new objective for the evening.

Seated across from Mary and Kennard during dinner, I watched him brush her hand while reaching for the salt and feign the need to lean close to hear her speak. Fragments of the dinner conversation swarmed around me as I sat like a bronze bust. It took all of my willpower to keep from leaping across the pot roast and seizing Kennard’s scrawny neck. My silence might have gone unnoticed if not for Mr. Harting’s request that I pass the gravy. When I responded with a vacant stare, Mr. Harting reached around the guest beside me, slapped me across the face, and said, “Good God, Gadwell, are you suffering hysterical paralysis from the train?” More fun was still to come.