Joseph Quirk 2/11/24 Joseph Quirk 2/11/24

The Ghost and Mrs. McGrath

Author’s Note: Requests to republish this short story should be sent to the attention of the author via the Contact form on this Barnaby Druthers website. Comments welcome about this story. Please consider sharing your thoughts below.

The following is a work of fiction. Any similarities between any parties or situations are completely coincidental.

Narrator

As the fire crackled before the solitary figure in the wingback chair in the otherwise dark and silent room, the strange apparition emerged from the shadows and whispered…

Ghost

I have a message from the fates beyond, Conor O’Neill.

Narrator

The seated figure sat forward so the light from the fireplace illuminated her features as she said…

Erin McGrath

My name’s Erin McGrath. You have the wrong house.

Ghost

Are…are you certain? This is Holly Lane, isn’t it?

Erin McGrath

There is no Conor here. Be off with you now.

Ghost

Um…Will he be back soon?

Erin McGrath

There has been no one but meself in this house for nigh on two and ten years. Aren’t spirits supposed to be all knowing?

Ghost

I wouldn’t say “all knowing”. I mean, we know quite a lot. A lot more than we knew when we were alive, believe me. The living knows very little.

Erin McGrath

At least we know how to read a map.

Ghost

Those who cross from the terrestrial plane of existence realize how little the boundaries of mortal men truly matters.

Erin McGrath

Hhmpph…Why did you want to visit with Conor O’Neill anyhow?

Ghost

Oh, well, that’s…private.

Erin McGrath

We’re talking about privacy now, are we? Well maybe next time, I’ll wander into your parlor and say something about fate while you’re trying to enjoy a pint and we’ll see how you like it!

Ghost

Those of us in the spirit realm don’t have parlors of our own but…A pint, you say?

Erin McGrath

You’re not in the terrestrial plane. You wouldn’t like it.

Ghost

I wouldn’t say that. There was many a night I held a pint in my hand.

Erin McGrath

And it led you astray, no doubt. That’s why you’re haunting the earth with messages of fate instead of singing with the choir invisible like my Sean. If I should be entertaining any ghostly visitors at all, it should be my Sean.

Ghost

It doesn’t work that way. I wish it did, but it doesn’t. We try not to haunt the virtuous unless it’s very important and the virtuous don’t haunt at all.

Erin McGrath

Well…as long as you’re here, I suppose, you might as well have a pint yourself before you’re on your way.

Ghost

If it’s not too much trouble.

Erin McGrath

Worried about trouble now, are ye? Ha.

Sound; pours a pint.

Ghost

Thanking you kindly. Cheers.

Erin McGrath

Cheers. (beat) So you must have been up to a heap lot of trouble when you were alive to be wandering about now.

Ghost

You might say that, Mrs. McGrath. In life I cared not at all for anyone but meself and I’m paying for it; you can be right about that.

Erin McGrath

A bit of a rascal, eh?

Ghost

Not as much as you’d think. Just not as kind as one should be. It’s the little things that add up on the ledger. Do we give to those in need or visit the lonely, feed the hungry or make peace between those who fight? When we fail to be there for others, that’s another item on the bill and debts come due, you can be sure of that, in this life or the next.

Erin McGrath

Poor Conor O’Neill.

Ghost

Mrs. McGrath, I told you. I can’t discuss his message with anyone else. Besides, it seems to me that you know him. That would make it worse.

Erin McGrath

Well, I knew his Siobhan better, poor dear. Caught the fever and never recovered. I can’t believe Conor would be up to much trouble now to be visited by the likes of you. He keeps to himself except for going to Mass every Sunday and the shop on the first of the month. You should really just leave him be, if you want to know the truth.

Ghost

Why do you say that?

Erin McGrath

Maybe he finally has some peace and quiet. Lord knows Siobhan O’Neill could talk up a storm to raise the dead, if you don’t mind the expression. Nonstop chatter. A mouth that ran longer than a train from Cork to Dublin.

Ghost

Anyone might miss the sound of another voice in the room, wouldn’t you say?

Erin McGrath

That’s still no reason to haunt the poor man. It’s no sin to mind one’s business in private. Why, I’ve been alone for two and ten years and it’s done me no harm.

Ghost

Is that right, now?

Erin McGrath

Sure, it is. Sure, it is. Many is the night I could have gotten myself into trouble, but I stayed put.

When the girls of the parish came a calling, I didn’t even open the door. I knew they were up to some mischief.

Ghost

But…that was some time ago, yes? A decade or more?

Erin McGrath

And what of it? I’ve caused no harm to others… and not too many a man or woman can say the same.

Ghost

That’s true. You’ve caused no harm… to others.

Erin McGrath

(beat) Or to meself…(beat) It’s not wrong to have thoughts, you know. Everyone has thoughts in tough times or good. Sometimes for no reason at all. A bad thought here and there can flash upon a mind. It’s the action that counts and I took no action tonight. None!

Ghost

No. No action happened here tonight.

Erin McGrath

There is still judgement in your voice, and I don’t care for it at all.

Ghost

You would agree there’s a difference between causing no harm and doing “good works”? Believe me, I know the difference…

Erin McGrath

I know. I know, you said in life you didn’t feed the hungry or visit the lonely…

Ghost

In life, I did not…It was too late when I realized when we do something good for others, it does help ourselves, in a way. As long as it’s not rewarded materially; I mean then, we’ve already received payment in full, but let’s not worry about those kind of details for the moment.

Erin McGrath

(beat) I miss him.

Ghost

I know.

Erin McGrath

Sean McGrath was a good man. Not much of a talker. They said I used to talk enough for the both of us. Not as much as Siobhan O’Neill, mind, but enough. (sigh) and now,…before this night, I’d forgotten the sound of me own voice. Isn’t that strange? To me, I find it strange. There used to be so much to talk about. But it was all about what went on out there. (pulling the curtain by the window). Why…why if my eyes don’t deceive me…that’s Mister O’Neill. What is he doing out and about? He…he seems to be heading this way. Why on earth would that be? He’s…why he’s coming to the door. (sound: knock on the door). Of all the…why would he expect an answer? I shouldn’t answer the door. No…I shouldn’t. (beat) but then again, the man…could do with a bit of company every now and again, isn’t that right?

Ghost

Everyone could do with a bit of company every now and again. And you’ve already poured a pint for a guest. There it is, still on the table.

Erin McGrath

I…I suppose I will invite him in. It would do the poor man some good to have a bit of lively conversation. Good for everyone all around, no doubt. (beat) I don’t know if I would have opened the door if you had not come from the shadows tonight.

Ghost

To know that, one would have to be “all knowing” or at least, know a little more than the living.

Erin McGrath

It is fortunate you visited the wrong house.

Ghost

Yes. (beat) The wrong house. (beat) Goodnight, Mrs. McGrath.

End

The audio version Directed by Kurt Boucher Starring Beth Steinberg and Jack Sheedy

Joseph Quirk 1/25/24 Joseph Quirk 1/25/24

Cedric the Optimist

Author’s Note: Written for those who would like some inspiration to get through a dreary January. Requests to republish this short story should be sent to the attention of the author via the Contact form on this Barnaby Druthers website. Comments welcome about this story. Please consider sharing your thoughts below.

The following is a work of fiction. Any similarities between any parties or situations are completely coincidental.

A blanket of charcoal hid the path of Apollo’s chariot as it sped all too quickly across the heavens while below, the once beautiful cover of white soured into a dark wet carpet of dirty snow and ice that clung to the boots of all who tread upon it. The days were cold, the nights were colder, and the happy days of yuletide and the high expectations of a new year gave way to the drudgery of daily toil. The exact cause of the citizens’ general malaise to outright misery was ill-defined and often left unexpressed, but to be certain, a feeling of quiet discontent permeated the souls of all those who felt the promise of Spring was a lifetime away. In short, it was late January, the uncompromising, irredeemable late January.

As he sat with his wife Elizabeth at the dinner table, Cedric Temple announced they would host a party on the night of January 31st.

“Isn’t the 31st a Wednesday? That’s midweek. Our friends will be busy. Surely, we should wait for a weekend.”

Cedric was undeterred. It must be the 31st or not at all and “not at all” was not an option.

“Why? It is not your birthday and not my birthday and not the day of our wedding. Is it any other anniversary?”

“It is the end of January,” he said, “and we must celebrate it’s departure.”

“We don’t have the money for it,” Elizabeth said with kindness.

It was true that crushing debts hovered over the household budget like a guillotine waiting for one false step, but Cedric was resolute to his cause.

“By God, we must have a party. How else can we endure?”

His coworkers were not enthused with the prospect of leaving their homes in the midweek of January.

“I shall have to review my calendar,” lied one clerk.

“I’ll try to be there,” lied another.

The neighbors believed Cedric had gone mad for they knew his tiny home could barely hold the family of three, let alone the entire neighborhood. Still, they reassured him they would bring a dish if they could attend, while quietly preparing to lock their doors and silently retire early for the evening, lest they offend a troubled man who resided in close proximity to their own families.

The weekend before the party, Cedric and Elizabeth scrubbed the floors and dusted the shelves. On Monday, Cedric sent his son Peter to market to purchase the largest goose they could afford, but they could not afford a goose for the goose club to which they belonged had already provided a bird for Christmas and funding would take all year to provide for next year’s feast. Peter settled upon some cheese, watercrests and the smallest pork in the shop which was still burdensome to their finances.

The morning on the last day of January arrived without ceremony. Cedric was required to work and though his employer knew of Cedric’s quixotic quest, there was no accommodation made for his workday. His coworkers were extremely busy and had no time for idle discussions, so the party was not spoken of aloud and Cedric returned home when the evening of January 31st was dark and cold and quiet.

Upon opening his door, he found the parlor illuminated by candlelight and the fire roaring in the fireplace. The table was set for the modest feast while Elizabeth and Peter looked at his expression expectantly.

“Has anyone been by?” he asked.

“Not yet,” she replied. “But it’s early.”

But it was not early, not for a Wednesday evening at least.

“It is a fine cut of pork, father,” said Peter.

“Of that I’m certain,” he said, “but we shall save it for our guests.”

An hour passed without incident or merriment and conversation in the home dwindled into a kind of silence only the dead could recognize. Cedric moved from the window and sat down at the table and refused to eat. When all was lost, he finally broke the silence.

“Open the door, Elizabeth, if you please,” he asked without keeping his head aloft.

“It is far too cold, Cedric. Can’t keep the heat in with the door open,” she advised.

“They don’t know the party has started,” he said. “And they won’t know until the door is open. That must be it. So please, my dear, open the door.”

She nodded to her son and Peter dutifully opened the door and a chilling wind became the first guest to enter the home. Peter could not see any lights on in any of their neighbors’ houses and he decided not to mention it. A half hour came and went while Cedric looked at the table when he found the motivation to raise his eyes above his chin at all.

The Parkers lived three doors down and across the street from Cedric and his family and Mrs. Parker loved to bake. She took every opportunity to make bread or simple pies and on very rare occasions, she made little cakes and on the last day of January, Mrs. Parker chose to bake little cakes in case the Parkers attended the party. Mr. Parker thought the entire concept of a party without purpose was nonsense although he approved of the smell of baking in his home. The little cakes were cooled, and Mr. Parker ate his fill but there were still five little cakes that remained on the counter near the stove.

“I suppose there is no sense letting these few little cakes go to waste,” Mrs. Parker said as she put on her coat.

“If you insist on going out, I will go with you,” Mr. Parker replied.

As the Parkers stepped out of their house with a covered basket and walked toward the open door that was three doors down and across the way, their movement did not escape the eye of Guilford Bennet, the bachelor gentleman who lived next door. Guilford had no intention of attending any celebration, but he had not eaten anything all day and as it just so happened, he had ensured his clothes were presentable and his face and hands were clean and though he had no food to bring to a party, he did have his English fiddle. He waited until the Parkers reached the threshold to Cedric’s home before running across the street with his fiddle so that he stood behind Parkers and they all entered the Temple’s home together.

“I brought my fiddle, if you care for a song,” Guilford offered and the offer was accepted.

The Parkers had no intention of staying at the party but as their basket was warmly received and Guilford Bennet began playing his fiddle, they were handed a plate with some pork, water crests and cheese, so they felt obliged to engage in some conversation and within a few minutes, an unintentional joke by Peter set the Parkers and the Temples to laughter.

The sound of merriment did not go unnoticed by the Temple’s next-door neighbors, Margaret and Ambrose Butterfield, and Ambrose Butterfield loved to dance. They could hear the fiddle, but it was too faint for Ambrose to coax Margaret to join him in a dance.

“I bet they’re dancing next door,” he sulked.

“Go next door, then,” she said.

“Perhaps I will. But only if you come with me,” he pleaded.

“Very well,” she sighed. Before the song ended, the Butterfields were dancing in the Temple’s house.

The children at the Henderson’s house saw the excitement at Temple homoe and believed incorrectly there were presents for children there if they could only convince their parents to take them. At first, they were told it was only party for adults, but the children remained undeterred, vocal, and steadfast in their unwarranted beliefs. To satiate their own curiosity and to satisfy the children’s pleadings, the Hendersons found enough scraps in their pantry to make some semblance of a dish, put on their coats, and walked two doors down to the Temples while their children exclaimed boisterously with delight in the evening air.

The Henderson children thundered down the street with such enthusiasm that every household in their vicinity seemed to come alive as they passed, and lights began to flicker in every window. When the Parkers began to plan their departure, Mrs. Calloway stepped in with little cakes of her own and Mrs. Parker wanted to learn her recipe.

The party grew and grew until some of the neighbors felt obligated to open their own doors. Soon each guest went house to house as the neighborhood came alive. Every friend and acquaintance celebrated the fact that the uncomromising, irredeemable month was coming to an end.

The morning of Thursday, February 1st arrived, and Cedric Temple rose with the hint of the sun behind grey clouds that promised to not overstay their welcome. He surveyed the table, and every shelf he had spent the prior weekend dusting was filled with plates or baskets of food donated to the celebration. Although every guest left the party with full hearts and stomachs, the Temples now possessed more food than they owned just two nights before.

“Are you happy?” Elizabeth asked.

“I think so,” he replied as he readied himself for work. Upon reflection, he added, “I will be.”

“I didn’t expect so many people,” she confessed with a yawn that turned into a smile quickly.

He nodded as he ran a brush through his hair. He knew the workday would be interesting as a few of his coworkers had actually attended the party after all and he would thank them for coming when he saw them. Word would spread through the workplace and no doubt every coworker would ask to come to the party the following year.

As her husband stood at the door, Elizabeth Temple asked, “Why on earth made you think of it?”

He threw the scarf loosely around his neck.

“January tricks us. The cold and the darkness deceives us into believing we experience all of it alone,” he said. “We need to be reminded sometimes that January is not forever, that February goes fast, and soon there’ll be Spring.”

She fixed his scarf so that it was neatly presented and would keep him warm. “We’ll ask the goose club if we can put a deposit in for a goose in January next year,” she said.

They kissed and he smiled as she closed the door behind him.

The charcoal grey still covered the sky in the early days of February, but Cedric didn’t mind it as much as he used to and soon Apollo’s chariot took longer to cross the heavens and the icy mush finally yielded and vanished as green seemed to awake from its slumber and reclaim its domain. When the happy days of March arrived, the long dreary days of January lay distant in his mind, redeemed in memory by the fellowship of friends and neighbors by candlelight with a door open and the sound of an English fiddle playing in the night air.

-Fin

Joseph Quirk 12/25/23 Joseph Quirk 12/25/23

Sir Bedivere’s Gift

Author’s Note: Requests to republish this short story should be sent to the attention of the author via the Contact form on this Barnaby Druthers website. Comments welcome about this story. Please consider sharing your thoughts below.

The following is a work of fiction. Any similarities between any parties or situations are completely coincidental.

When December 24th arrived, Otis Boyd wandered aimlessly through the East End of London. He wished no one a Merry Christmas and received no seasonal greetings in return. His unkempt beard with flecks of white covered the lower half of his wrinkled face but as his balding top half had no cover, he walked as briskly as a man of his girth and condition could muster with a walking stick carrying some of the burden. When he wore his dark shirt, the holes in his long brown overcoat were obscured but at least his pockets were patched and filled with enough coins for a four-penny-coffin for the night.

Just at mid-day, as he strolled among the shoppers, revelers, street vendors and carolers, Otis spied a small package sitting in the snow underneath a streetlamp. He surmised this Christmas present must have fallen from a carriage, for certainly many London cabbies were known to take the turns far too quickly at the corner. He considered that perhaps a shopkeeper had dropped it while making a delivery and would retrace his steps once he was realized what was missing. In any case, Otis felt it was no business of his and began to turn away when he saw a young boy moving furtively towards it. Their eyes met, and he yelled, “Be on your way, boy! Do not think to steal. Not before Christmas!” As the boy ran off, Otis picked up the package to inspect it further. There was no name or address, no card, no writing on it at all, just the colorful holiday images of canes, trees and angels on the paper wrapped around the box with a brown ribbon that was tied in a bow.

He placed the package back in the snow to return to his meandering journey when he stopped and turned to look at it once more. How long had it been there? How long would it remain before an unscrupulous fellow nicked it? Who could be trusted with its protection until the true owner returned? A nicely wrapped gift is not soon forgotten, so whomever lost it would come for it soon enough and Otis decided he would spend a moment as its temporary guardian until the package could be properly recovered.

But as day fell into night and after the lamplighter lit the streetlamp above him, Otis, now sitting next to the package, wondered aloud whether the gift would ever be found. More than once, a policeman asked his business and he replied he was protecting a Christmas gift, and this seemed to satisfy the inquiry. A dusting of snow provided a hint of holiday charm, but it did not please the balding man who could not adjust his own coat above his head without leaving where he sat at the mercy of the snow below.

Big Ben chimed nine when a tall bespeckled gentleman in a fine overcoat peered down at him and smiled.

“Merry Christmas,” he said.

Otis returned the greeting without much thought.

“Is this your package?” asked the man.

“No, it is not,” Otis replied, now interested in the questioner. “Is it yours?”

“That is a very good question. May I see it? Even if it is not mine, I may be able to discern its true owner.”

“There is no name or address on the package, sir,” warned Otis.

“Indeed. All the better to hone the investigatory skills, eh what? It is something in my line, or at least interest, after all. May I?” he asked, motioning to the package and Otis readily lifted it up to him.

“It’s yours, sir. Truly it’s yours,” Otis pleaded. “Say it is yours so I can leave this corner.”

“Why can you not leave this corner all the same? Did someone instruct you to stay here?”

“No, sir. But…,” Otis attempted to explain his motives but in the end all he could muster was the phrase, “… but it’s Christmas.”

“And you wished to protect a Christmas gift for Christmas? I see. I see. Well now, let’s examine the item a little closer, shall we? Yes, yes…I see there is no written name on this package just as you advised, so we must seek other clues. Note how the ribbons are crossed just so. Why, if my eyes do not deceive me, this must be a Sir Bedivere’s Gift.”

“Sir Bedivere’s Gift?”

“I’m sure you know of the grand tradition of the Sir Bedivere’s Gift? Oh, it is very special. You see, every Christmas, somewhere in the world, there is a Sir Bedivere’s gift. You know the story, don’t you?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

“Well, you know the story of King Arthur who, after being mortally wounded at the Battle of Camlann, asked Sir Bedivere to return his sword, Excalibur to the Lake? At first Sir Bedivere said he returned it, but when King Arthur asked what occurred and Sir Bedivere said nothing, the King knew Sir Bedivere had not completed the task. Ashamed, Sir Bedivere went to the Lake a second time and threw the sword to the water, not knowing what would occur. Before his eyes he saw a Lady’s hand reach from the water and catch the sword before bringing it below. And so, the idea of a gift being brought into the elements for its rightful owner to claim is a long and storied one. A Christmas present wrapped in a bow but without a name or address may indeed be a lost item or it may be a Sir Bedivere’s Gift.”

“If it is a Sir Bedivere’s gift, who is the rightful owner? Has it found you?” asked Otis.

“Not necessarily. Let us inspect the clues, for the clues should tell us to whom this Sir Bedivere’s gift belongs. There is a cover of brown ribbon. This indicates to me that the owner would have a brown covering. I, sir, do not have a brown stitch upon me. Let us look closer. There are images of a cane on this package. This is a curious detail and alas, I walk without a cane. Then there is the imagery of a tree. A dark colored tree with bright ornaments upon it. This is the most striking clue to this mystery yet.”

“Am I to look for someone carrying a tree with ornaments before I turn over this present to him and find my rest for the night?” Otis was incredulous.

“Not at all. I think the identity can be discerned quite clearly. For instance, you, sir, wear brown as a cover.”

“My overcoat?”

“And I can not help but notice you carry a cane,” remarked the gentleman.

“I use a walking stick, it is true,” answered Otis.

“And your thick beard is flecked with pure white, which is quite ornamental, is it not? Why indeed, I could mistake your face for a Douglas Fir in the right light!”

Both men laughed heartily until Otis’s face fell. In a somber tone, he pointed to the angel on the wrapping. “But there is one clue unaccounted for. It is an angel. I can assure you, sir, I am not that. No, I am not that. Nor am I a man who could claim to have lived as virtuously one. The gift must be meant for another.”

The gentleman holding the package was taken aback by the confession, then he considered it for the moment and then thoughtfully replied, “I would not be so hasty. I am not certain that an angel depicted on a Christmas present would prevent any person not angelically pure from receiving it. If that were true, then nobody except for the one whose birth is celebrated on Christmas would be perfect and pure enough to receive it. No, I think this angel means something else today. Perhaps it is meant for how one has acted on the day the gift is received. And what have you done today? You have protected something that was not yours, and it was done for the benefit of someone you didn’t know. What knight of the round table would have done more? Tell me, how long have you been sitting here, sir?”

“Since the mid-day, sir.”

“That’s what I thought. You did not steal the present yourself; you did not sell it. So indeed, to my estimation, the man wearing brown, using a cane, with a full beard with flecks of white and whose actions today are noble and virtuous is indeed the true owner of this gift.” Pointedly, the gentleman gave the package back to Otis and said once more, “This is your Sir Bedivere’s gift. Please take it.”

Otis took the gift and asked, “Do I open it?”
“It is Christmas Eve, sir. I think it is right you should do so.”

Otis unwrapped the package he protected all day. From within the confines of the box he found a hard felt hat with a rounded crown.
“A gentleman’s hat!” Otis exclaimed.

“A bowler perhaps from Thomas and William’s shop itself. It suits you,” said the gentleman as Otis placed it upon his head.

“I don’t know what to say,” said Otis, “except thank you, sir.”

“Any expressions of gratitude are not meant for me, sir. But I do believe the intent of Sir Bedivere’s gift has been achieved. Merry Christmas, my good man!”

“And Merry Christmas to you!” Otis cheerily replied.

Now what occurred after that day for Otis Boyd is not entirely known. Some say Otis found work at a hattery, let a room in a reputable boarding house and eventually married the widow who ran it. Some say he made amends to his estranged children and, on his deathbed, bequeathed the bowler hat to his son who wore it with pride. But what is known is that every year hence, an unmarked wrapped gift would sit in the snow below a streetlamp at a corner in the East End of London on Christmas Eve, and wait to be found by its rightful owner in the name of Sir Bedivere.

-Fin

Joseph Quirk 11/12/23 Joseph Quirk 11/12/23

Harper Thorne: But Not Yet (The Short Story)

But Not Yet (the written story)

Author’s Note: Requests to republish this short story should be sent to the attention of the author via the Contact form on this Barnaby Druthers website. Comments welcome about this story. Please consider sharing your thoughts below.

The following is a work of fiction. Any similarities between any parties or situations are completely coincidental.

In the eighth book of the Bishop of Hippo’s confessions, Augustine wrote, loosely translated from Latin, “Give me chastity and continency… but not yet”. He was recognizing the wretchedness of his youth, wishing to satiate rather than extinguish his concupiscence, but as nearly a score of centuries transpired since the phrase entered the lexicon, the context is sometimes obscured, and what remains seems sardonically quaint, a prescription rather than a lament. But there is no prescription or license for gratification before living virtuously because we do not know the hour when our ability to make moral choices will suddenly end. But still, the phrase finds new ears, for in its plea there is an implicit belief that there must be still some time left, time to act impurely and then still time to change. That is at the very heart of the last three words, “But Not Yet!”

Harper Thorne thought of the phrase as she boarded the westbound train, for she was considering a most unusual case. The subject of the inquiry was Merritt Nilsson, a man who by all accounts was intemperate in nature, quick to anger, petulant when he wasn’t utterly thoughtless, a cad whose promises of fidelity in relationships were as worthless as his IOUs and yet in his last forty days, a miraculous and inexorable change of Dickensian proportions altered his behavior. Suddenly generous and patient, there were small acts of kindness unpublicized and unheralded until the wake, when the stories generated a surprising sense of awe and wonder. One persistent question prevailed in the minds of all in attendance: What had changed Merritt Nilsson?

The obvious first consideration was whether Nilsson had a medical reason for his sudden change of heart. There is nothing quite like knowledge of an imminent and inevitable day of judgement for a rekindled interest in living virtuously. But he was a young man, relative to the average lifespan of an adult male at the time, and although it took months of paperwork and legal wrangling to acquire the otherwise private records from the medical professionals, the executor of his estate, her client, had confirmed that Nilsson was documented to be in excellent health, though slightly overweight, which was not uncommon for men of his age and environment. It should be noted that even this was somewhat remarkable as he often ate and drank to excess whenever it suited him. Gluttony was one of the seven deadly sins with whom Nilsson regularly communed and yet, this was not the cause of his death, nor did a recognition of the effects of that communion lead to his remarkable transformation.

The train roared onward to the little community west of the main metropolis. Harper had time to think and consider the strange nature of her assignment. Every private inquiry she conducted over the years involved discovering the hidden evil side of someone’s nature, uncovering who committed a murder, who cheated on a loved one or who acquired ill-gotten gains. This case was different. It was the first inquiry into why someone with a dark nature had seen the light.

Nilsson began his working career for a private health insurance company where he located reasons within a policy and a customer’s past medical history to deny future payments. It was never phrased that way internally within the company, of course, it was always described as becoming a policy expert and contractual fine print clearly defined limits of coverage that his denial letters highlighted. When the laws changed, he had already risen in the ranks into management. He took an active role in eliminating his former coworkers’ jobs during the downsizing of the claims department to transform the company’s salary structure for the benefit of the shareholders. His most defining quality for years was the talent to accept the hatred of others.

Harper expected a change of employer or change of job within the employer to coincide with his change of heart, but nothing supported the theory. He remained employed in his current role until the end, though it is notable that no one had been sacked during those remarkable forty days.

Conversions of the heart are often associated with religion. Harper’s first visit once the train pulled into the station was the vicarage. It was possible Nilsson had found solace or redemption in another faith community unbeknownst to those who knew him best, and there were no stories told to account for that possibility either.

Vicar Davenport could provide no elucidation into the matter. He attributed the phrase “…the Lord works in mysterious ways” to explain the change in the formerly unpleasant and lapsed congregant. Nilsson did not regularly attend services and during those forty days when he did attend, he sat in the back and departed without exchanging greetings with his fellow worshippers. Vicar Davenport did not have the hubris to believe his sermons were the cause of the man’s sudden transformation, but he hoped they aided in some way with the continuation of the purer path. Although he would not betray confidences if spiritual matters were addressed with any parishioner, the Vicar admitted he was new to the community by five years and he never spoke to Merritt Nilsson at all.

The Nilsson’s stately home stood atop the hill in an otherwise modest working-class town. Now in the possession of the nephew, the executor of the estate and Harper’s client, the furniture had been in the home for years, indicating there was no influx of income that had improved his surroundings. While touring the house, Harper admitted to her client that the inquiry she was being asked to investigate was unusual at best. “Why would you like to know why your uncle became a better person in his last forty days?” “Because it means there is hope for us all,” was his reply.

In the bedroom she rifled through the desk and the drawers and found no incriminating letters or messages to decode. There were no secret photos or a matchbook in the jacket pocket. But on one pair of shoes she found two small metal coverings on the bottom of the shoes, one placed at the heel and one at the front. The nephew mentioned he didn’t know his Uncle wore lifts. “They aren’t lifts,” she replied. “These are tap shoes.”

The nephew’s face turned a bright shade of pink as he explained his Uncle had never danced, not at his wedding, not at the local festivals, not ever. But he confirmed the shoes were his Uncle’s and he had nothing further to add except by saying, “but that can’t be it. There must be more to it than that. Besides the shoes are worn, the metal is considerably scuffed. He must have been wearing them longer than the forty days that he changed his tune…if you’ll forgive the expression.”

She replied, “The assignment you gave me is impossible because the answer can not be provided with certainty. We can not look into the soul of the deceased to know his true intentions while here, not even if there were a note that explained it all, but what we know is that the actions of the man were the actions of a man whose heart had changed. Perhaps there was a voice on his personal road to Damascus or perhaps he heard his own inner voice for once and listened to it. But we know that somehow finding something to love in oneself and pursuing that has a relationship to how one interacts with others. What started first? It’s the chicken or the egg. Would you like me to continue to investigate? I can search local dance studios for further information.”

“No, no. There’s something here that’s enough,” the nephew replied. “We never knew he liked to dance. No one in the family knew, I’m sure of it. He never showed that side of himself to us. I suppose those who knew him best, knew him the least. You have helped us to understand him better.”

As the train roared back to the city, Harper considered that forty days was not a long time to live so remarkably. Then again, Nilsson lived for many decades, and he only utilized those forty days as the talk of the town. Harper recalled her own thoughts on the way west and considered that the way the Confessions of Augustine were written, it appeared that if the older self who wrote the words were able to go back, he would have stricken “but not yet” from his mind but in truth, he would have no control over the heart. The heart must change and whether there is an internal or external force that begins the transformation, what matters is that we fragile creatures here on earth have the ability to change and that fact is both wondrous and mysterious.

It was sometime later, long after Harper had returned to the city, that she came upon a dance studio in a neighborhood close to the train station. She stood outside and wondered if she would find more answers there, whether Nilsson danced there, whether he had found a partner to dance with, and when exactly did he start and was it at the start of those forty days or for much longer? Harper breathed in and breathed out before walking back to the station, resolving instead to do something kind for a stranger if she found the opportunity along the way.

-Fin

Joseph Quirk 9/14/23 Joseph Quirk 9/14/23

Le Diable Roulette (The Short Story)

Le Diable Roulette

Author’s Note: I wrote this short story after visiting New Orleans in July 2023. After I wrote the story, I sent it to Kurt Boucher so he could create an audio theater version of it. He cast Nicole Boucher as narrator. Amanda Yount and Tiffy McKay as the conventioneers, and Paul Starybrat as the diabolic bartender. Since Le Diable Roulette aired, I discovered this story has received considerable interest. More visitors to the website have selected the audio theater version of Le Diable Roulette than any other story in recent memory, bar none. I decided to share the short story version here so that folks interested in it can read it in that format and then, if they are so inclined, revisit it in the audio theater version (and vice versa). This is a NON Barnaby Druthers story. The characters, locations and events are all fictional and not based on anyone or anything. It was simply inspired by the remarkable city. Requests to republish this short story should be sent to the attention of the author via the Contact form on this Barnaby Druthers website. Comments welcome about this story. Please consider sharing your thoughts below.

The following is a work of fiction. Any similarities between any parties or situations are completely coincidental.

They were referred to as “the twins” during the conference. Julia and Jill shared a sophisticated, avant garde aesthetic and a devil-may-care spirit which made New Orleans the perfect destination to explore once the formal presentations were concluded. There were keepsakes to purchase, culinary treats to savor, drinks to imbibe and attractions to capture for social media. After taking the streetcar to Iberville for a selfie at the famous cemetery, Julia and Jill began a long trek across the French Quarter from Rampart to St Peters, Iberville to Esplanade in a dizzying pattern, one right, two lefts, two rights, another left and straight for two blocks, all while laughing with voices rising above the sound of jazz in the night.

The red brick façade of “Le Diable Roulette” shone brightly in the moonlight as they peered through the large picture window. A warm light shone in a fireplace and the black leather seats at the oak bar had backs to them, making the seating arrangement more comfortable than the stools or standing-room-only venues to which they were accustomed.

“Looks cozy.”

“Last one before back to the hotel.”

Jill swung open the rustic wooden door and they entered, following along a hallway whose walls were covered by rows upon rows of golden framed photographs of smiling faces. Turning the corner, they were welcomed by a lush burgundy carpet, a fire burning in the fireplace, and a deceptive grandfather clock that displayed no hands on its face, for the world inside these walls were timeless. The man behind the bar wore a dark tie above his crimson shirt which were both covered by a black paisley vest. His full head of jet-black hair and van dyke beard were impeccably groomed, and Julia could not help but say, “I love it!” as they sat down.

“Make yourselves at home,” he said.

“What’s good here?” Jill asked.

He smiled, “The drinks have no names. Each glass is crafted exclusively for our guests. Tell me what you thirst for, and I will create and pour.”

“A mixologist! I love it. Ok. Ok. So…I’m thinking something sweet...but not too sweet,” Julia flirted.

“Something sweet but with a hint of danger?”
They both laughed. “Absolutely! Are you kidding me? That is a must!”

He pushed and twisted a carved muddler over berries in a large glass to release the flavors before pouring from two unmarked bottles. He covered the glass and shook it before placing a two-pronged coiled Hawthorne strainer over the glass and poured two drinks into clear flute glasses. They instinctively lifted the concoctions to examine the liquid in the firelight. A luminescent golden glow seemed to rise from the bottom of a blood red cocktail and float to the top of the glass.

“I love it. What is it?”

“Something sweet with a hint of danger. Something meant for you.”

“Are you going to try it?” Jill asked.

Julia nodded and cautiously took a sip and her eyes lit up in wonder. “Oh, that’s good!”

Jill accepted her friend’s recommendation and put the glass to her lips. As soon as the mixture reached her tongue, an explosion of flavor and memories electrified her mind. It tasted like excitement but somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she imagined there was a hint of sadness in the back of the throat, as if every experience she underwent never filled a void she believed existed in her heart. The bartender smiled and moved to the other end of the bar, busying himself by cleaning the already clean glasses and wiping the immaculate bar top.

Julia and Jill talked excitedly about their adventures, about the wonderful artists whose work hung on the fence surrounding Jackson Park, about the one club on the second floor on Bourbon Street with the real authentic jazz flavor, as far as they could tell. Neither listened to jazz back home, Julia in Waukegan, Jill in Schenectady, but after three nights in the Crescent City, they believed they were experts in the genre. Undoubtedly, they were experts in everything about New Orleans, at least all that happened after 4pm in the popular tourist spots. Museums weren’t open much later than 4pm and they skipped them and the cathedrals. They wondered if they were missing something they’d regret later.

“Do you like the cathedral at Jackson Park?” Jill asked the bartender.

“It’s not for me,” he replied.

“I thought I wasn’t missing much. I was right.” She turned to Julia, “I grew up in the church. I mean I used to go, like, when I was younger. I still consider myself a spiritual person, you know?”

“Oh, sure. Important for kids. You know, to learn values. I didn’t need it.”

“Maybe you don’t need religion to learn values, but it like, gives a structure. That helps. At least at first.”

“Until high school.”

“Middle school.” They laughed.

“Wait, wasn’t the window to the left of us?”

Julia turned to see that the window that had once been to their left was now on their right. She realized all through the conversation that the bar, including the seats and the table was slowly turning counterclockwise.

“Oh, I think I heard of this place! This isn’t the carousel bar, though, is it?”

“It is not,” he replied.

“Where are we?”

“Le Diable Roulette.”

“Oh, I like how that sounds. Very New Orleans,” she said, like an expert.

“Fun! Let’s take a photo. Can you take a photo of us?”

He replied. “Your drinks are empty. Would you care for another drink first?”

“Please!”

He repeated the process of mixing the special glass filled with sweetness and a hint of danger. While muddling the berries, he said, “Some believe taking a photo steals a part of one’s soul.”

“Then you have a lot of souls in the hallway!” laughed Jill. “Who are they? Are they famous? I didn’t recognize any of them, but I don’t watch old movies. Or are they local politicians or something?”

“Guests who played Roulette,” he answered. “Would you like to play Roulette?”

They noticed that each seat had a number in front of them and a color alternating between red and black.

“Ooh…sounds dangerous!” Julia giggled nervously. “Look at the numbers. Everyone has a number. Can we have your number?” She asked the bartender.

“You honor me,” he answered as he poured two new flute glasses.

“My husband knows I kid a lot. That’s what he likes about me. Well, not the only thing! Martin likes that I have my girl-time! What about you and…what’s his name…Brent?”

“We’re not serious,” she lied.

“Oh, so then you’re available,” Julia replied in a sing song voice as she looked up at the bartender which indicated a slight twinge of jealousy.

The bartender smiled as his eyes glowed to match the fireplace.

“Red or Black. Black or Red.

One soul living. One soul dead.

Your heart’s desires may come true,

Or may forever be lost to you

Black or Red. Red or Black.

Wheel once spun can not spin back”

“What do we win?” asked Julia.

“Whisper your desires to me,” was all he said.

Julia looked at Jill with a devilish smile. Turning to the man, she whispered in his ear. He stood back and placed his entire focus on her. “That’s not your desire, Julia.” Saying her name shocked her as she fell into his dark cavernous eyes. He nodded and so did she. He leaned forward once more, and she whispered something in his ears. He remained for the moment until she had concluded her thoughts. He stood back and nodded.

“Which chair?” he asked.

“This one,” she said, pointing to her own. “This is a lucky chair.”

“Twenty red,” he confirmed. Turning to Jill, he said, “Whisper your desires to me.”

She looked at him and then Julia again. Julia’s gaze seemed distant, as if dreaming of her winnings to come. Jill looked at her drink and then, as if to sip courage or at least to purchase more time, she drank from the flute glass slowly.

“It’s just fun,” Julia said.

Jill sipped slowly. Explosions of experience filled her thoughts. She recalled the smell of gumbo filtering from the kitchens onto Chartres Street and of the sweet taste of ice cream during the noon break near the park. She tasted the crawfish in butter sauce she wanted for dinner but had settled for a burger. She could sense the scent of baked cookie dough on Sunday mornings that her mother would make for the gathering after church; she could smell incense from a memory long ago and in that moment remembered what it felt like after the sacrament of her first reconciliation when she felt truly happy and renewed. With her own voice but with words she had never spoken before, she whispered in his ear, “Nothing from you. All I require has been prepared for me already.”

If he was angry, he didn’t show it. He leaned back and stared at her, but she stared back without changing her mind. Then from under the bar in front of Julia, he removed an intricately decorated spinning wheel inside a larger dark circular casing. A pure white ball sat in the red twenty pocket. He lifted the ball from the pocket and placed it in Julia’s hands and every nerve tingled with excitement, Jill shivered. He spun the wheel, and the room began to shake as if the room itself were waking from a dream. With a thunderous roar, she yelled, “Red or Black! Black or Red!” and spun the white ball counterclockwise around the circumference of the spinning wheel.

Faster and faster, the ball circled the wheel as Jill felt the room begin to spin to match it. Her eyes could not adjust to the bright white ball circling the dark wheel. She felt light-headed and dizzy, and she yelled for Julia to stop, but she couldn’t hear her own voice as if there was already an overpowering sound permeating the room. Julia was fixated upon the spinning white ball and didn’t notice Jill screaming, mouthing the words, eyes wide open. Jill was reaching for Julia’s arm but despite her seat being next to her, Julia was far, far away. Faster and faster, the bar turned until Jill’s chair lurched back and at the crescendo of the spin, Jill was flung from her chair toward the window.

She closed her eyes and braced for an impact, expecting the shattering of glass or the shattering of her bones depending on which was stronger, but when her eyes were open, Jill found herself standing on the street, dazed and bewildered. She looked forward and back, turning in every direction, but she did not see the red brick building that housed the diabolical bar. How far had she gone? She didn’t recognize the streets. She texted Julia. She did not respond. She called but Julia did not answer. Jill left a cautiously optimistic message and asked for a call back. None was received. She tried texting and calling again but received no reply. She could not find a website or any information about the macabre brick building and the app on her phone which used satellite service to map locations was not connecting. Without any other recourse, Jill began to walk. She turned left and right and left and left and right again and suddenly she was back on familiar ground in the French Quarter.

Desperately, she tried to retrace her steps, but she could not locate her friend or “Le Diable Roulette”. Resigned to the prospect of returning to the hotel alone, she tracked down a pedicab and fell into the carriage. The pedicab crossed busy streets, past revelers, musicians, conmen, artists, tourists and adventurers until, at last, Jill was back at the hotel. There was one more day of the conference left. She would ask Julia when she saw her there.

But Julia did not attend the conference. Many of her fellow conference goers mentioned “No twins today?” and Jill had no answer to give them. She texted and called Julia again but there was no reply. She was not there at checkout. Jill’s flight back to Schenectady was tinged with sadness and she could not let the thought of Julia go.

As time passed, Brent would tell her that summer friendships, even for adults, don’t always last and to let the memory of the “twins” remain a memory, but “unsolicited helpful advice” didn’t help her at all. The sadness did not abate. Finally, on a Thursday afternoon, Jill located Julia’s employer and from there found an address listing in Chicago and a general 800 number. Using the employee directory, she was able to find “Getty, Julia”. Gathering her courage, Jill called the number and the extension from her own workplace phone.

A monotone voice spoke succinctly into the receiver. “Promodore Chemicals, Julia Getty speaking. Your call can be monitored or recorded for quality assurance purposes; how many I help you?”

“Julia, it’s me. It’s Jill…from the conference.”

“How may I help you?” There was no change in the monotone delivery, no indication that her call elicited any emotion at all. It was Julia’s voice, but without her usual exuberance.

“I wanted to see…how you were? I didn’t see you after the, uh,…”

“This call may be monitored or recorded for quality assurance purposes,” Julia said more firmly.

“Right, so, like, I was, I just wanted to know you were doing ok.”

“I’m fine. Thank you for calling Promodore Chemicals. Have a good day.” And she terminated the call.

There was no request or solicitation to contact her privately or to keep in touch. The multitude of text Jill had sent now seemed foolish and unwelcome. She deleted the messages and then, upon reflection, she deleted the contact. The twins were no more.

Jill closed her eyes and fought to keep them from welling up in sadness. In her mind’s eye, she saw the hallway of “Le Diable Roulette” and in a golden frame somewhere on the wall was a smiling photograph of Julia Getty. Jill thought about her often, especially on Sundays after church service, while eating the cookies she had begun to bake and bring like her mother had done so many years ago, when the world was safe and her heart was pure.

-Fin

Joseph Quirk 2/23/23 Joseph Quirk 2/23/23

Harper Thorne: Curse of Sallowe Manor (The Script)

Harper Thorne: Curse of Sallowe Manor (Script)

The following is a work of fiction. Any similarities between any parties or situations are completely coincidental.

Curse of Sallowe Manor By J. Timothy Quirk

Directed by AJ Lin

Harper Thorne: Devon Richtmeyer

Mister Silas Sallowe: Dave Walker

Sound: wind in the night. An owl hoots. A Coyote howls.

Harper (VO)

Is a curse the call of destiny, a sorrowful promise inevitably fulfilled? Is it merely a cautionary tale told to warn of future harm? If one unfortunate event is the consequence of a poor choice or simply bad luck, do we consider a chain of ill-fated calamities a curse when no other explanation fits? Beware the stranger who arrives in the night, for our secrets and our curses shine the brightest under a full moon.

Sound; The wind howls until eclipsed by the music

Sound: Theme music

Sound: knock on the door to Silas Sallow’s house

Sallowe

Who is it?

Harper

My name is Harper Thorne. I sent my card ahead.

Sound: door opens

Sallowe

Your card is hardly a worthy emissary, Miss Thorne. The printed words provide little justice when introducing your great beauty.

Harper

Your reputation for charm precedes you, Mister Sallowe, as does your reputation for gallantry. May I enter?

Sallowe

Please. (sound: Harper walks in. Door closes behind her) Although I do not know the reason why a lovely unaccompanied young lady has come to my door at this late an hour, I look forward to uncovering… the purpose. May I offer you some tea?

Harper

I do not prefer to drink tea so late in the evening.

Sallowe

Neither do I. The men in my family do not prefer tea at all, but I keep some in the house for special occasions. Now then, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Miss Thorne? Do you simply enjoy walks beneath a full moon?

Harper

I do, but that is not why I’m here. I would like to hear from you directly on the occurrence at Sallowe Manor?

Sallowe

(angrily) Are you here on behalf of my sister? My brother?

Harper

Neither. I am interested in stories of the macabre. I am told you have a unique tale to tell in this vein.

Sallowe

There are enough tales in books to satisfy your appetite.

Harper

I am a voracious reader, Mister Sallowe, but my interest in this subject is quite insatiable. Will you indulge me?

Sallowe

I suppose I see no harm in it. What would you like to know, Miss Thorne?

Harper

If it were my story to tell, I would begin with the house itself.

Sallowe

Interesting, yes. Well, it seems you must already know that Sallowe Manor is the largest estate in the region, sitting atop Mystic Hill. Travelers can see the three conical spires from any road entering the village and at the peak of the tallest tower, an arrow points ever eastward. I learned as a boy it was not a weathervane; like my father, the arrow never wavered. In every weather, no matter the wind, it only pointed to the land of my ancestors. How was I to know it pointed to the origin of our family’s darkest secret…the curse of Sallowe Manor?

Harper

The Manor safeguards many mysteries, undoubtedly.

Sallowe

Generations of Sallowes lived in the Manor. It is a symbol of our family’s legacy. You must understand that every child born into our lineage must safeguard and forward this legacy. I used to love the house. I knew every inch of it, every door and window, every stair, every floor. I could walk through it in the dark. I suppose every boy’s childhood home is like that. But as much as I thought I loved the Manor, my siblings loved it more. You see my brother and sister, Julius and Rose, were born in the Manor as this was the Sallowe tradition; but mother was visiting her family in the old country when I unexpectedly arrived. Father was furious that the custom had been broken; she bore his anger in silence with dignity and grace which only fueled his fury further, a fury I thought he wished to visit upon me. She most certainly shielded me, for she wished her youngest to be her mother’s son. Do you know what they say about a mother’s son?

Harper

It depends entirely upon the mother.

Sallowe

Are you your mother’s daughter?

Harper

I have never sought to discover the answer to that question.

Sallowe

Julius and Rose saw my favor in her eyes, and they hated me for it. When we were alone, they claimed mother was a witch and that the horrors of the damned would fall upon us both. What a thing to tell a child. She was nothing but kind and peaceful. I knew it. Father knew it. They knew it too. They said it all the same as if speaking it aloud willed it to be so. In time, the air chilled when my father and I shared the same room. When I was old enough to make my mark in life, I sought warmer surroundings while Julius and Rose remained. My departure dealt a crushing blow to my mother or, as might be more accurately stated, I believe after my departure, she was dealt a crushing blow. They say she fell by accident and not by any hand, but I have my doubts.

Harper

You suspected your father.

Sallowe

I suspected death is the ultimate curse of the Sallowe Manor.

Death comes to us all, but for the Sallowes, it never arrives kindly. Father never remarried. Julius and Rose kept father busy until he was old and decrepit and then they left him to languish in his memories, in his guilt… He had only one visitor in his remaining years.

Harper

That was you, Mister Sallowe?

Sallowe

It was a lawyer named Grimes. I was told, in the eleventh hour, father altered his will. When he died, the Manor and all its contents were bequeathed to me. I know not why.

Harper

How did your father…. meet his creator?

Sallowe

My father died from a fall. He was by himself; I doubt very highly he met his creator.

Harper

Was his fall in the same location as his wife’s?

Sallowe

Strangely enough it was. The grand stairway leading to the towers. How did you know?

Harper

If your tale was simply just a tale, it would be the most likely location. Why did your siblings not prevent the fall? Were they not there?

Sallowe

They were both called away.

Harper

What called them away?

Sallowe

Business of some sort. They received letters calling them away and each left the house. When they returned, the lights were out and they found him at the foot of the stairs. He must have fallen in the dark.

Harper

That would be unusual for a man who lived in Sallowe Manor for his entire life.

Sallowe

But whether he died of a fall or any other means, it was long past his time. If it was not a fall it would have been something else. As it was, I found myself as the sole owner of the Manor and all its contents save for the two occupants who called it their home, my former tormentors, the demons of Sallowe Manor: Julius and Rose.

Harper

Tormentors? Demons?

Sallowe

Children lack the measuring cup of experience to temper their cocktail of cruelty. They were demons in the most extreme. I suffered injuries none could see or believe.

Harper

How did you repay them for those injuries?

Sallowe

I? I did nothing, my dear. I merely wrote to Julius and Rose individually and advised them I did not want the Manor and I would consider giving it to one sibling but not the other and as I could not choose between the two, in a year’s time, I would sell it to a stranger. Then all I had to do was wait! Ha! They did not know what Grimes had told me: that the will stipulated it would not be fully owned by me for a full year anyway, but neither Julius nor Rose knew that. Word came that Rose fell ill. She recovered, weak, but alive. My brother fell victim to a two-wheeler striking him in town. They say the horse was possessed by an uncontrollable force but perhaps the rider was simply well paid. Julius favored his right leg after that. I am told his pain endured as did the pain festering in Rose’s stomach. Yet both refused to leave the house, lest the other lock the other out. Can you imagine a year in that house? The agony, oh, the delicious agony.

Harper

You smile as you say that, Mister Sallowe.

Sallowe

Of course, I do. Two siblings, thick as thieves, now at each other’s throat! Alone in the Manor, the two must have plotted countless acts against the other, each too gruesome to be believed and yet so subtle that no word was brought to my attention since Julius’s accident. So now the year is nearly upon us.

Harper

And should the year pass and it falls into your possession, will you sell the Manor?

Sallowe

Once it is truly mine, I shall do with it as I please. I may consider waiting six more months. Who knows what may occur between Julius and Rose before then? Or I may sell it at once. Whichever will have the greatest impact, that will set my course. So…now that you know my story, are you satisfied, knowing the curse of Sallowe Manor, Miss Thorne?

Harper

It appears the true curse of Sallowe Manor is the inheritance of a cruel heart that followed from father to son. You have become vengeful and vicious. You are your father’s son as you knew him, Mister Sallowe.

Sallowe

I knew it! You are here on behalf of Julius and Rose!

Harper

I am not, sir.

Sallowe

You are a liar! Get out of my presence at once!

Harper

I tell the truth. I am not here on behalf of your brother or sister! I am here at the direction of Mister Grimes!

Sallowe

What? But I…I don’t understand…

Harper

In your father’s last days, he saw how his children neglected him and that ultimately the legacy he built was neglect and suffering. He prayed his youngest would be his mother’s son, the peaceful and kind woman he married and the woman he harangued until her death. Mister Grimes does not believe your father’s hand caused her fall, but the guilt of her passing did not feel any different to him. All you had to prove in a year’s time was that you were not like him. You have failed.

Sallowe

I have done nothing wrong! Nothing!

Harper

You attempted to play one sibling against the other in hopes of pain and suffering for your own pleasure. How were you to know your gambit would not succeed? Anyone can hire a two-wheeler and anyone can replace tea in a jar, especially one with knowledge of every door and window. The men in your family would not drink it, would they?

Sallowe

Wicked woman!

Harper

You sought cruelty, not forgiveness. Is that not like your father?

Sallowe

Begone from the house! You have no proof!

Harper

Does it not concern you that the letters your siblings received calling them away from the house on the day of your father’s death was in the same hand and that they would talk to each other and discover it?

Sallowe

The letters were sent via wire. There was no handwriting to compare.

Harper

An interesting detail. How did you come by that information?

Sallowe

I…am quite certain it was mentioned.

Harper

That may be your defense and it may be successful. But I have my word. My own tale to tell of the Curse of Sallowe Manor. This is the work assigned to me by Mister Grimes and I have now completed that task.

Sallowe

Do not think because you are a woman, that no harm will come to you here.

Harper

Do not think because I am a woman, I would not strike first and strike harder. Besides, there are those of my company at your door waiting for my safe exit or my call to enter by any means necessary. But it will not come to that, will it, Mister Sallowe?

Sallowe

What will become of the Manor? Will Julius have it?

Harper

If the year ends without a worthy heir, travelers will see the spires burning from every road into the village.

Sallowe

You leave me with nothing.

Harper

That may not be necessarily so. Should the courts find you guilty, you will meet justice. Should your defense succeed, then you have time to build a legacy of your own. You can be your father’s son or your mother’s son or, you can be your own man entirely and leave your mark. There is no curse commanding your decision, the choice is yours to make. The choice has always been yours. Good evening, Mister Sallowe.

Sound: the door opens. The wind blows, an owl hoots, and music fades.

Joseph Quirk 7/7/22 Joseph Quirk 7/7/22

Messages in a Bottle

Harper discovers a note inside a book in a used bookstore.

The following is a work of fiction. Any similarities between any parties or situations are completely coincidental.

The smell of rare books is one of the seven olfactory wonders of the world that no electronic reader can replicate. If it could be bottled, the fragrance might consist of cedar or redwood, a note of nostalgia, a hint of “discovery” and more than an ounce or two of “joy”. A used bookstore, if you can find a good one, exists to provide the existential experience of immersing yourself in that scent and, if you’re fortunate, to carry a piece of it with you when you leave; I’m not talking about the antiseptic used bookstores attempting to replicate the look and feel of the last bookstore chain in the country, although any bookstore is better than none, I’m talking about the kind of used bookstore that requires walking up or down stairs to earn passage, where the paperbacks are double or triple stacked, the price is written on the top corner on the second page in pencil, a cat is somewhere on the premises and, if you’re lucky, there’s a sale.

Harper was in her youth when she first walked down the steps from street level into a used bookstore and became forever enchanted with the world of used books. She could find something of interest in nearly every category, but she preferred certain sections, like fiction and poetry, over others like reference and biography. The narrow pathways between rooms were sometimes made narrower with more boxes of books that had yet to find space on the shelves.

Her soul stirred when she held in her hand certain leatherbound classics as if by virtue of their binding, the value of the work to the greater society was affirmed. Jane Austen was always in fashion, but Harper already owned copies of Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility and Emma. This made the discovery all the more fantastic when, kneeling down to rifle through the books in a box on the floor, she lifted a curious treasure, an early 1900’s illustrated edition of Austen’s Northanger Abbey.

There was no dust jacket and the small depiction of the main character on the front caught her eye. The illustration on the inside of the cover was equally colorful and charming. Harper could not help but smile as she used her thumb to flip through the book to view more illustrations when she noticed a pressed dried rose and a small piece of stationary folded once within the pages.

She opened the paper and could not stop herself from reading it.

“My Dearest Elizabeth,
Please accept my message in a bottle, carried on literary waves from the
solitary island of our shared invention. We made difficult choices and they will always be
honored until every consequence of every choice reaches their natural end.
The years never became my ally. In the decades since our time together,
I kept my promise to you. I moved forward. I never wallowed in unhappiness or regret.
Strangely it was always in my happiest hours and moments of triumph, that I
Thought of you and missed you most.
We have both lived life and we have both lived fully.
We simply did not live it together.
If this note finds you, and you are happy, please know it is all I have ever truly
Wanted and that our shared choices, though difficult, must have indeed been the correct ones.
And if this message has failed to live up to the promise of my thoughts, if it has angered
you or made you unhappy, please forgive my use our shared passion for used bookstores
and for Austen as my emissary.
But if by some chance you are free and have wondered if what we shared was true…
wonder no more and come find me.
Your eyes created music in my soul that the years would not silence.
Your kisses were like flying.
Your touch was my world.
And if there was no music, if there were no more kisses or touches, I would still recognize your
Heart. That is everything. That is all.
With Love,
Edward”

Young Harper read it once more and clutched the book close to her heart. She looked at the price written in pencil in the top corner of the second page and calculated she could purchase it.

But then…she folded the paper neatly back into its page, realigned the flower, closed the book and returned it to the box. The communication would never reach its intended recipient if she took it home. Some day she would find another edition of Northanger Abbey in some other used bookstore and when she did, she would find it unclaimed by someone’s long lost lover.

Sound: musical transition

Many years later, Harper became involved in another one of Barnaby Druthers investigations and found herself back in a familiar city where she chanced upon the cherished used bookstore. It was still in business, though the original proprietor had long since retired and bequeathed the responsibility to a younger generation.

As she crossed the threshold once more, she inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly like a form of meditation. She allowed her fingers to gently glide across the hardcovers in the front as she made her way to the back where the classics were showcased. There on the second shelf beside Mansfield Park was a copy of Northanger Abbey and Persuasion together in one volume. It would have been difficult to imagine that the same copy of Northanger Abbey with the note and flower would have remained on the shelves all these years. She sighed and picked up the edition before her and thumbed through the pages.

Inside was a note on a stationary pad with a flowery décor. At that moment, Harper recalled every detail of the note she read in her youth. Now, almost trembling with excitement, Harper opened the message before her and read the following:

                “Dearest Edward,
I received your message in a bottle and if heaven favors the foolish, you may one day
find my reply as proof that only the angels thread the loom of fate’s tapestry.
I am pleased you lived well. I too lived with purpose. My journey was fulfilling and rewarding
and is still in progress.
If we were of a later generation, perhaps our choices may have been different but then again,
if we were of a later generation, would we truly be ourselves or would we be other people,
with other values and dreams? Would we have meant the same to each other in some other
time? There are no answers without attempting to create fiction. I will not live in fiction.
And more to the point, the decades of decisions since we knew each other have forged new
people. We are no longer who we were. I am me as I am now, not the heart, eyes or kisses
from memories past.
You spoke of consequences reaching their natural end. For our story, that time came and went,
Perhaps even before you wrote your note, perhaps not. But it was not my responsibility to find
you. To live forward means never living in or for the past and that’s what was offered.
                I accept the past as it was; I have no need to find answers to what might have been.
I acknowledge there could be something new, not existing on memories alone.
If our shared past was not the lodestar guiding us backwards, if it was not an anchor,
keeping us still, if the past was simply a collection of stories involving two other people and did
not preclude a future, then you may search for those answers, not with messages in a bottle,
but in person, face to face. Then we shall discover together what is true today.
And if you do find this edition of Northanger Abbey, but a knock on my door never comes, then
always remember there was once a woman who loved you so much that she
agreed to let the past live only in the past, to allow you the wonderful life you lived.
                With Love,
                Elizabeth

Harper closed the book. Had this Edward seen Elizabeth’s note? If he did, wouldn’t he have purchased the book? The note may have been read by hundreds of patrons but only Harper was a private investigator, and she had a burning desire to see the story through.

She discerned that the messages were communicated through the same bookstore which indicated both parties were most likely living in the same proximity to the bookstore, a fact which gave her a glimmer of hope that the odds of a successful search for two individuals with the names of Elizabeth and Edward was less than simply impossible.

She searched an archive of wedding notifications for an Edward and Elizabeth but there were no listings where the bride and groom’s projected ages were relevant. Perhaps a wedding was not in the cards. Perhaps a wedding was not necessarily the true “happily ever after” for the story. It is quite possible that happily ever after meant a cozy reunion followed by a solid friendship or perhaps happily ever after meant a life apart, moving away from the past and simply being fulfilled by themselves in the present.

After a matrimonial search had been exhausted, she searched many online social media platforms for the names which was too voluminous to bear fruit. After some contemplation, she searched for posts involving Northanger Abbey, Edward and Elizabeth. That is where she found them. Some mutual acquaintance must have been with the older couple and thought it was social media worthy. The post read: “What a cute couple Edward and Elizabeth reading #northangerabbey”. They were an older couple, spotted in a café on the outskirts of the city. They both had large print editions.

Harper now had a photograph of the principals. She could use that.

There was an old café, a used bookstore, love of Jane Austen, a photo and a common city. She had all the clues and the wealth of data on the internet to search.

Harper located the Elizabeth first. She had striking, unmistakable curly hair. She was well liked, good natured and volunteered within the community. Finding her meant finding Edward within the hour. Harper discovered that Edward reached some level of success as a vice president for an insurance company. He prospered during the age when employees worked for one company and retired from it. That world did not exist anymore.

Harper began to investigate further into Edward and Elizabeth’s personal lives when she immediately stopped short and closed her laptop. It was not her place. Maybe she saw someone had grandchildren, maybe someone’s child was famous enough to have a special check on their social media account.

It didn’t matter. Harper recognized the past was the past and both Edward and Elizabeth were not living there. They were alive. They were together. And they were, for the moment, happy. Any story can end with happily ever after depending on when the author chooses to leave the tale. Harper decided it was time to end the tale here. Happiness does not have to have “ever after” next to it, for Harper, in her mind, Elizabeth and Edward had found happiness in the present and that was all the resolution she required.

That night, she found Northanger Abbey online and began to read. After the second chapter, she stopped, closed her eyes and put the e-reader down. In the morning, she resolved to find another used bookstore that sold a used, hardcover copy of Northanger Abbey with the smell of cedar or redwood, a note of nostalgia, a hint of “discovery” and more than an ounce or two of “joy”.