From Across the Room, Gina L. Mulligan [year 7 reading list txt] 📗

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?

Thomas M. Gadwell

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WINTER 1888

 

 

October 15, 1888.

DARLING —

Do you recall your first time playing in the snow? My earliest memory is sitting beside Malcolm on a sled tied to the collar of his overgrown yellow Labrador Retriever. The previous summer the corner of our yard was tiered for mother’s tulips; however, this was of no concern until we rounded the corner and found ourselves flung into the air. Before falling on my head, I remember thinking I might see an angel in the snow.

I still think of that day on mornings such as this. The air has turned; you can smell it, like the freshness of sheets as you slip into a chilled bed. It is the promise of winter, a reliable one to be sure, and like a good lad who has landed on his head too many times I wonder when I will see my angel.

Yesterday I arrived in Newport in fine health, if not spirits, after an arduous night on the steamer. The sea was in a foul mood and a light rain turned into an angry storm. I had wanted to begin outlining my next book but could not steady the gas lamp or my hand. Land was a welcome sight. Unfortunately, the heavy rain soaked my little hideaway.

All but the Newport market was closed when I arrived, though the market’s colorful fruit baskets where I hid toads to frighten unsuspecting shoppers were tucked away. Each winter I am saddened by the island’s drastic conversion from summer frolic—like a vivacious young girl pulling on a gray shawl. Newport is known as a summertime jewel.

In the warm months, fresh villas with vibrant green shutters dot the hillside, and gravel roads lead to marble mansions overlooking the sea. Ladies carry lace parasols and tie colorful ribbons around their necks. They crowd the streets to buy fresh cranberry tarts then eat their snack on benches facing the ocean. Errands are forgotten, and those in carriages stop in the road to gossip until Officer Henderson dispenses the traffic with a warning about strong winds along the cliff. I assure you he was not as polite about the frogs.

The true islanders are hospitable for profit. They have a keen sense of when to stock extra lemon cream for the mosquito season and will give directions to the Old Stone Mill for a modest tip. However, when summer ends the vacationers close up their retreats and the local men leave to take factory jobs in Providence.

The streets are deserted, the cobblestones are slack until the thaw, and the remaining shopkeepers lock their doors by two o’clock. Fog settles on the island like an uninvited houseguest, at times so thick it conceals the ocean, and a walk on the sand sounds like crossing a plank floor. The area is also partial to forceful gusts, sleet, and sudden, dangerous storms. For me the frost means isolation and forced concentration. True, when I sit by the window and watch strips of lightning explode through the clouds I miss the warmth and uncommon fellowship of summertime in Newport. Still, I thrive in the dreariness. I am not here to gossip in the streets.

Tomorrow I shall begin my sojourn into the creative field of roses. At least this is where I hope to end up. It seems I have been lost in many other locations—the Bewildered Forest, the Pond of Stagnation, and from what I believe is too much time on holiday, the Coast of Trite. I can already feel the energy of my novel and am excited to get to work. And though my mother worries for my health, I have yet to find a better place to write than within the walls of Highflier.

Perched on a modest cliff, our family retreat is a grand specimen of a shingle style summer cottage with one of the broadest views of the Atlantic. Repulsed by the island fancy of gauze curtains which provide shelter neither from the sun nor neighbors, Mother spared no expense on sterling umbrella stands and leather upholstery. Nevertheless, I spend most of my time cloistered in one room.

Before long the library will smell of unwashed teacups, crumbs brushed from my desk, and crumpled sheets I pile in the corner. There is no use hiding such repulsive behavior and admit my habits so you can never claim I was a bottom dealer. Lest you worry for my health and hygiene, rest assured I shall encounter at least one person every day.

Mr. Fowler, property caretaker the last ten years, is the only winter staff. He is a curmudgeon who grumbles about housekeeping duties and lets the bushes cover the walk. When I arrived, I found Fowler in front of his bungalow singing “Amazing Grace” into an empty bottle of malt whiskey. His continued employment is a mystery. Nevertheless, unlike Father’s ongoing tirade over luxury tax, discussion of Fowler’s dismissal is taboo.

Though my hands tremble with anticipation to begin what I believe is my best story, Fowler has just brought round my horse. Soon I shall tell you about my idea for an adventure story set in your fair city, my heroine the handsome daughter of a wealthy railroad tycoon. Right now I must beg your pardon and leave to check on the neighboring estate. The mansion at the far end of the sea cliff has been vacant so long it was quite startling to see every room aglow. I shall take the rifle and alert Fowler to my destination. The dock master warned of robbers.

Your love,

Thomas

October 21, 1888.

DEAR MRS. WINCHESTER —

Thank you again for inviting me to stay for tea. After the dubious way our acquaintance began, you were most gracious.

Sincerely,

Thomas M. Gadwell

October 22, 1888.

AVERY —

I am already working. Never fear, my friend, this time the ferry did not drift off course and run aground in Bermuda.

Thomas

October 27, 1888.

MY DEAR MARY —

The book has begun with exhilaration, and I have again found my passion. My enthusiasm casts a long shadow, so I must beg your forgiveness for not writing sooner. You need not worry for me in a quiet house; imagination is fine company. And Mother writes that Father is mending well and she is in good spirits. Mary, I am more concerned about you.

To spend days folding napkins into Prince of Wales feathers deserves a footnote in the Workwoman’s Guide. I have watched my mother oversee preparations for Thanksgiving dinner and often ask why she invites people she finds disagreeable, lazy, ignorant, and gullible. Her response is routine.

“Thomas, it’s a blessing I gave you a passable face, because you’re not at all funny.”

As you said, at least sorting orange cups is more productive than quarreling with your father. Will you at least tell me what brought about such a harsh exchange? You relayed your profound guilt, though the details were so vague I suspect you were arguing about