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

A few tiles were colorful but she turned them face down before I could see their design and slid them on the smooth oak. As she mixed the pieces, she closed her eyes and swayed back and forth. It appeared as if her head was ready to fall off and roll to where we had just carved the turkey. Then without warning, her eyes popped open and she said, “Pick three to reveal your future.”

I shrugged and reached for the closest, but she slapped my hand and cried, “You dare to touch the tiles!” Her voice was so shrill Theo spilled wine on Jarrod’s jacket.

“The spirits are close. I can feel them,” she continued. “You must think of what you most desire, what you want deeply.” She grabbed my hands and pulled me forward until our noses almost touched. “But you must think of only one desire,” she whispered. “If you choose more than one you will curse your entire family.”

As she breathed on me I realized the spirits were indeed close.

I pointed to three tiles because it would have been rude to laugh and ask for a second piece of pumpkin pie. She nodded and turned them over. Mrs. Winchester gasped, but I found their design rather intricate and smiled as Mrs. Winchester bit her index finger.

Darling, have you ever seen Asian tiles? They were a new experience for me. What I saw looked like a mix of Mahjong and domino tiles accented with common eastern images. Madam Rousseau was silent as she studied the tiles, and I later overheard Mrs. Winchester tell Jarrod that ghosts required silence to communicate. I believe Madam Rousseau needed time to invent what she was going to say and was jealous at the speed with which she composed a gripping story.

Mary, I hope you are not alarmed by her fortune. Though Madam Rousseau may have hunches like my mother, the idea she can see the future is as silly as her necklace.

“You’re in love,” she declared. “You’re the prowling tiger and the red dots symbolize a strong, fertile heart.”

“Thomas, you devilish boy,” Mrs. Winchester blurted.

Madam Rousseau ignored the interruption. “But you are torn between two loves. The tiger sits between two ladies, pulled in opposite directions. See the cherry blossoms. They mean you will soon face a dilemma that will cause great misery. We must see what will become of this.”

She paused and looked at me as if I was to do something but I waited, not wanting my hand slapped again. She turned over a fourth tile—a green dragon.

“Death,” she shouted.

This time Jarrod spilled wine on my jacket.

“You must choose one love or both will perish. Do it quickly, or you will lose everything.”

She slumped into her chair and claimed the spirits were gone and she was exhausted. Recovering from such strenuous activity required a large glass of bourbon and several pieces of Belgian chocolates.

Mrs. Winchester was delighted and thought the best way to uncover my deep secret was to pester me until I broke like a wild colt. Of course I repeated that I did not have two loves and that the Madam was just excited after a large meal. To this Madam Rousseau called out poppycock and fell asleep on the settee.

The evening concluded well into the morning hours, but as I made my retreat down the front steps Theo tapped my shoulder and mumbled something about my writing. Before I could beg off to go home, his eyes rolled up and he slumped to the ground. I shouted for help, to which Jarrod and Mrs. Winchester strolled from the house. Mrs. Winchester poked Theo’s bottom with the flat front of her pilgrim boot and pronounced he was asleep. This was when I heard snoring. I left to Mrs. Winchester and Jarrod singing “I Know a Youth Who Loves a Maid” as they dragged Theo into the house.

Mrs. Winchester insists I make time for tea and has extended an open invitation to visit. Although she is quite sturdy for a woman in her seventies, it is imprudent to keep such a large home open during months of unpredictable weather. I shall keep an eye on her.

Seems fodder abounds even in the most implausible setting. Lest you worry about my validity, I spoke the truth when I said I am not torn between two loves. I am in love with one extraordinary woman, and that is enough for any man. Hopefully we can soon flaunt our affection in front of witnesses. Until that glorious time, my concerns are more tangible than idiotic predictions.

Your father’s actions are suspicious. Has he ever before demanded you accompany him on a business trip? I must wonder if his desire for your company is to keep you under his watchful eye. Mary, I am concerned he knows about our letters.

Your devoted,

Thomas

 

P.S. — Before this letter was sealed I received your telegram. Staying with your sister for Christmas is a wonderful change of plans. But why is it imperative you return home for New Year’s?

December 18, 1888.

FOWLER —

Cigarette wrappers have collected by the stable door. Father may tolerate your idleness, but I expect a property caretaker to care for the entire property. This includes dusting the guest rooms and sweeping out the stables. Must I again remind you of your duties? And when did you take up smoking?

Thomas

January 1, 1889.

DEAR AVERY —

The new year brings promise and redemption. My resolution is that you will not be disappointed in me, nor me in myself. While I imagine you indulged in the usual festivities, I spent my New Year's curled up with what I hope you will soon agree is a good book.

Thomas

January 4, 1889.

DEAR HENRY —

Do you love writing your first drafts as much as I? All of my rough drafts are masterpieces until I read them. However, based on the short story you enclosed, your drafts really are works of genius. Did I like it? That you are asking my opinion reminds me how far we have come since you christened my early prose. I am pleased you no longer consider my writing drivel and am honored to reply as a colleague, a friend. Your story is stunning. It is the highpoint of the collection. Your brilliance also underscores the inadequacy of my antagonist, though my excuse is undeniably colorful. Since opening a fresh calendar, my reality is more like your fiction.

For starters, Mary’s father wants to drag her to a city once called the “bloodiest town in the West.” This is more than unorthodox, Henry, it could be dangerous. Even a bookish fellow like you must have heard of the infamous Abilene, Kansas.

I remember sitting with my mates passing around sketches of Abilene saloon girls. Even as a boy I understood Abilene was a lawless, drunken sprawl ruled by armed cowboys and the cattle trade. We, of course, wanted to visit. But why in the world would a loving father risk taking his daughter to such a place? And what sort of dealings require that Mr. Harting trek to Abilene in the worst of winter? As I start to unravel this new development, another is in knots.

My father’s solicitor was insulted by my request and would not provide a reference for a detective. Fortunately, I met a woman with the splendid combination of eccentricity and affiliations; however, I have yet to decide if Mrs. Winchester is a whimsical gentlewoman or offbeat harridan. After full exposure to her collection of dead spiders in specimen jars, she believed my rather chilling story about searching for a lost friend last seen in the opium dens of San Diego and provided a reliable referral.

I have hired a Mr. Everett to handle the delicate research of Mr. Lowell Kennard, the antagonist in my plot. Thus far I have been encouraged and shocked by Mr. Everett’s enthusiasm. Tidbits of interesting information are in my custody, and some are quite suspicious for a man looking for suspects.

As I studied the preliminary dossier last night, a full glass of cognac warming in my palm, I was ill at ease. I have no claim against Kennard so great I should know the amount of his income (impressive) or that he saw a physician for a purple rash. My ego is certainly robust. Nevertheless, I was unable to stop reading.

Mr. Kennard started at Harting Railways as a junior payroll clerk. After just two years, Mr. Harting promoted Kennard to Vice President of Development. Why would he promote an inexperienced man to such a high rank? Also, Kennard made a big show of telling Mary about his philanthropic work for the downtrodden. He even spoke of organizing a charity ball with a guest list to rival Carnegie’s annual Memorial Day picnic. It might interest Mary to know the bilker has considerable investments in dilapidated tenements and makes a considerable profit on inflated rents.

Mr. Everett has not yet ascertained Mr. Kennard’s birthplace or childhood records but is confident his roots are not in the state of New York. Kennard never made any specific claims; still, he led me to believe he was a native. Does he want everyone to suppose he hails from New York because his background is less than desirable? Of course, I am reading more than what is written on the page but shall continue with vim. At least I was relieved Kennard’s rash was not typhus.

Mr. Everett’s next report is expected soon, and a criminal profile is also available provided I am interested and generous. This begs the question why Kennard has a criminal profile. Maybe he is just a kleptomaniac caught pinching carnations for his lapel, or maybe he is involved in something more dangerous. I am ill at ease, my friend, ill at ease.

Thomas

January 5, 1889.

HENRY —

Amazing what can change in just one day. Yesterday I had one worry. Today my distress is doubled. It feels like one more turn of the screw.

This morning I trotted into town for something other than rotting potatoes and canned corn. Mrs. Potter, owner of Pelican’s Cove, gave me her annual bear hug then led me to a seat by the window. My mind was on cakes and eggs, so when Mrs. Potter leaned against the table and began asking questions, I was a little confused. Once I sorted it out, I was dumfounded.

She was most curious to know if I enjoyed visiting with my old college roommate. His coming to see me was a secret, she said, and she was dying to know if I was surprised. Henry, you may remember Beauregard was my roommate. Beau is in Greece.

Mrs. Potter left to fetch salt for the corner booth, so I looked around the room trying to imagine where my mystery “pal” sat and if he ordered the clam chowder or lobster bisque. I jumped when Mrs. Potter returned with a plate of buckwheat cakes and scrambled eggs.

“So how come you never told me you spent a year in Europe and played lacrosse in college? And I didn’t know your mother’s from Albany. I have a cousin in Albany,” Mrs. Potter paused to wipe her forehead with her apron. “So is your friend one of those animal doctors? He knew a pot full about trolleys and horses. Told me most hackneys are in better shape than private carriages.”

A shiver ran down my spine, and I pushed my plate aside.

The questioning continued in this manner, to which I created an occupation, heritage, and political affiliation for my friend. Then I learned Mrs. Potter and her fourteen-year-old daughter