By Mary Ann Webber The flames returned each time the old man leaned close to the fire with a letter. When he allowed the yellowed papers to drop from his fingers, one sheet at a time onto the ashes, they sniffed the pages like dogs exploring an unexpected treat. Finally, he would see the stretch of their red tongues, and he would watch as they consumed another page. After a while, nothing was left of his stack of old letters, and the man moved away from the heat of the fire. He kicked three or four empty whiskey bottles out of his way as he walked. They rolled around on the bare wooden floor and clanked together. Slumping low in his worn chair, he thought about Agnes's reaction the next morning. She would gather the bottles without a word and, before she added them to the trash, she would note the unusual quantity of empties. The irony was that he was out of whiskey. Hours earlier, he searched through all his hiding places, digging for anything he might have stashed in an odd moment. He located six bottles, most of which rewarded him with only a sip. After draining every bottle, he sat in his soberness, watching his surroundings grow colder and dimmer with the evening, just as his world had done. He did not know what reminded him that night of her letters, but he knew at once they would dull his pain. The burning was cleansing. It both calmed and exhilarated him, and he tried to think of something else he could burn. On a night such as this, when he was out of whiskey, he could have burned all her things. He regretted giving her clothes away after he lost her. The inhospitable world that no longer provided her with a home did not deserve to be graced by her clothing, certainly not on the backs of others. Burning her letters had felt like the performance of some biblical sacrifice, and he wanted to offer that same respect to all her belongings. He spoke aloud to her. "What do you say, Nan? Think I should make a habit of this? Should I stay sober at night and burn things?" After that he dozed. His awareness of time was gone. A seamless transition seemed to occur between the depths of night and the wan light of morning. A new day arrived, a day with the good grace to remain dreary. Instead of stirring from the deep chair, he tried to focus his eyes on the faint patterns of light falling across the parted curtain. A low rumble of thunder rippled somewhere far away and he liked the sound. "I agree with what you say," he told the thunder. "But perhaps you should rephrase that, put it into stronger language." He laughed then and thought about standing up and walking toward the bathroom. His mood brightened. Maybe I'll walk to town. I'll drink coffee all day, eat something, and tonight I'll burn my papers. I'll fire up mountains of my manuscripts. Voices came to him through his window on the back porch. Agnes Cole had arrived with her bale of jingling keys and someone had joined her. He could not identify the other voice, but he knew it was one he had heard recently. "Good morning, Mrs. Cole," it said. He groaned as the voice reached him, louder than before. Whoever that woman was, she was cheerful, a chirping abomination. Hazy images played through his mind. He recalled that at some time he had heard the voice all around him, even close to his face, while he tried to rouse himself from his chair. How dare this stranger, this interloper, enter his house and take liberties while he tried to have a simple drunken stupor? "How is our famous man this morning?" asked the stranger. Agnes rattled her keys in the cranky lock. "I haven't been inside, yet," she said. You tell her, Agnes, he thought. You've always been a pip. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. I'll just pretend to be drunk, he thought, and ignore them. I'll fake my own drunkenness, and the cheerful people will leave me alone. The voice chirped again, so clearly that his window may as well have been open. "I was up early this morning. I've been baking bread, and I have two loaves here, warm from the oven. He won't be able to resist them." Agnes was stalling the woman. "Just put them down on the porch table and I'll get them when I |
come back out for the paper," she said. "Oh, no!" the voice cooed. "I want to bring them inside so this delicious aroma can fill the house while the loaves cool. I've also brought fresh ground coffee. It's going to smell irresistible." With those words, they were inside. "He does not care for strong smells early in the morning," Agnes told the woman. "And he wants the house quiet." "Mrs. Cole, I'm just trying to help pull him out of this. The whole world is waiting for him to come out of this seclusion. I don't think you understand the great renown of this man you work for, what a celebrity he is." "I understand he likes it here and he will come out of seclusion when it suits him. And he does not want a new Mrs. Celebrity." "Well, we'll see about that. He doesn't really know what he wants these days, does he? Now, I'm just going to run into his study and tuck a little something onto his typewriter." "No," Agnes said. "I've told you. You can't do that." Nan was suddenly there. She whispered in his ear. "Why are you allowing that person to walk all over Agnes Cole? Why are you making Agnes responsible for everything around here?" The voice of the intruder persisted and moved down the hall, coming closer to him. "It's just a darling little poem that I wrote last night. It's about all the pictures on his walls that show him with the different presidents, while here he is, living out here in this tiny cottage. It all just inspired me." "Stop," Agnes said. "I've told you before that you can't go in there." Nan was disgusted with him. "You're not that feeble, are you? What has become of you? Show some compassion for poor Agnes." He stood and found that he was stronger on his feet than he expected to be. He walked across the room to his desk, and circled around it to his typewriter. Facing the door, he located a pair of his glasses, perched them on his nose, and inserted a sheet of paper into the Underwood. The two women reached the door while he adjusted the carriage of the ancient typewriter. The stunned look on their faces was ample reward for his efforts. He was delighted by the way he had shocked them. Mrs. Annoying Voice looked like that phrase he kept hearing, something about an animal caught in headlights. She was transfixed, speechless. "Good morning, Agnes." He stood up tall, the way he had carried himself while he was on the lecture circuit. He spoke as if the last year had never happened. "Good morning, Mr. Peck." Agnes seemed uncertain of what to say to him. "You are looking well today, Sir." "Never mind, Agnes," he said. "Where's my coffee?" He glared at the intruder and addressed his next remarks to her. "Madame, guests are not allowed in this house during the morning, and visitors are never allowed. Kindly leave." "That's my curmudgeon!" Nan whispered to him. The women stood paralyzed in the doorway. He decided he would have to carry things further in order to get rid of her. He turned to Agnes. "You know, Agnes, you are right. Even out here on the island, we need a security system. Maybe even a guard." "Yes, Mr. Peck," Agnes said. "I'll call someone about that today." The visitor drew in her breath and disappeared down the hall to the kitchen. He and Agnes looked at each other as they listened to the back door slam. In seconds, they heard a car spin in the gravel driveway as it rounded the house and headed for the road. Before turning away from him, Agnes said, "I'll get your coffee, Mr. Peck." Nan spoke into his ear again. "What is this before you?" she asked. "Look at it." As her voice continued, he looked down and saw the blank paper waiting in his Underwood. "You don't need to drink or to burn things. This will ease the pain. You know what to do." He sat down and his fingers moved to the keys. "Make me proud of you, again," Nan said. Then she left him to his writing, as she always did. |