by Reiss Susan
During those days with Uncle Jack, we’d spend hours together. At the end of each day, we would sit quietly and watch the sun sink in the west. The moment it disappeared, I believed there should be a sound. We’d try out different pops and glissandos as we made our way inside the Cottage.
I gazed out the window into the growing darkness and whispered, Here I am, Uncle Jack. I wish you were here.
I didn’t want to wallow in sad thoughts, so I gulped down a sandwich for dinner and went back to my new writing den. I couldn’t identify the different woods used to create its natural richness of tone and pattern. Why had Uncle Jack banished this beautiful piece of furniture to the garage in the woods? That was one of many questions that would go unanswered. Fortunately, the moving men had found a rag and some furniture polish to wipe away cobwebs and the thin layer of dust. I don’t think I could have managed it by myself and I didn’t want to wait until the housekeeper came. I was too excited to make this desk my own.
I opened the large doors above the writing surface and my breath caught. Cubbyholes and shelves waited for my things. Could there be a hidden compartment or two? I decided that no bills or medical instructions would be kept there. Only notes for the book and drafts. Vertical slots would keep file folders neat. I dragged a box of office supplies over to the desk and dove into it to find places for ballpoint pens, places that had once held quills. There were cubbyholes for a stapler, scissors, and a ruler. Drawers for stashing away thumb drives and chargers, all those things that take up space until you need them. A couple of shelves could accommodate a few books, including the one about punctuation a friend had given me, because I never used commas in the right places.
The challenge would be to remember where I put everything. Supplies were incidental until you needed something. I checked the bottom of the moving box and found a stack of white printer paper. I decided it could sit on the corner of the writing surface until I found the printer. That clean white paper was begging for words to appear. I was tempted to take a pen and start scribbling, but prudence and caution prevailed. I needed what energy I had left from a long day to get upstairs to my bedroom. But first, I had to put my mark on my new home.
I reached back into the box and retrieved a small pile of origami paper. Origami—creative paper folding-- was a favorite pastime. It didn’t take long to do and it could put the whole world on pause for a few minutes while I made something lovely and meaningful.
I chose a square of Wedgewood blue paper to signify the open sky and water of this area, but what form should I fold I wondered, then smiled. It only took a few minutes for me to create a delicate blue butterfly, the symbol of change and growth. A caterpillar had to change to become beautiful. That's what I had to do--change to become self-sufficient and independent again.
I set the butterfly on the edge of a cubbyhole, to remind me of my goal and a way to mark my creative space. This desk would be an inspiration.
I straightened the stack of paper sitting on the writing surface, ready to record my new story starting tomorrow. Tomorrow. The beginning of my new adventure.
It was time to put the Cottage to bed as Uncle Jack always called the nighttime ritual. I turned out the lights one by one and checked the windows and doors as well. City ways died hard, even in a beloved cottage in the country.
Now that the Cottage was tucked in, it was my turn. I stood at the bottom of the staircase and stared up at the top step that looked miles away. What was I thinking, leaving a modern, one level condo and moving to a historic old cottage with two floors? I reached up to my neck to touch a necklace, a gift to celebrate a major accomplishment. I always wore it to remind myself that I could do tough things. But it was no longer there, lost in the emergency response to save my life.
This was your idea, I lectured myself. So, you better haul your sorry body up these stairs or you’re gonna sleep on the sofa without a soft pillow or blanket.
I grabbed the banister with one hand and jockeyed the crutches around with the other. Who would have thought that shifting my 120-pound body would be so hard? Panting from the effort, I began the climb that I thought would be so therapeutic.
I felt every muscle stretch, every nerve twitch as I stepped up. At this rate, it would be time for breakfast when I finally got to the top. My kindergarten teacher instinct kicked in. What would I tell a child to make this fun? Of course, my old fallback. Sing a song! A counting song. But singing one I used in the classroom would make me miss the kids even more than I already did. I’d make up my own. That would distract me.
The first line that came to mind was Here’s step one. I wish I were done.
That was too pessimistic when I faced so many more steps. I teetered on the first step from standing there so long. Then inspiration came.
“Here’s step one,” I sang. “I’ve just begun.”
Oh, this wasn’t working. I looked around thinking that I should sleep on the sofa when something caught my eye. Outside, near the Lone Oak, a light was dancing around. The kids in my kindergarten class would think it was a fairy dancing in the blackness of the night. More likely, somebody was holding a candle or flashlight. By the old tree? In the middle of nowhere? I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again. The light was gone. The painkiller must be playing tricks. I needed to get some sleep. I wrapped my hand around the banister again and pulled myself up another step.
“That’s step two to make just a few, but it’s one more than when I’d begun.” The singing sounded more like grunts and the rhyme was awful, but I was making progress.
After only six steps, the tears started to flow. My shoulders hurt. My leg hurt. My pride was in tatters. Why did I think I could do this? Not only live alone in the Cottage but recover the use of my leg?
I can’t do this alone, Uncle Jack. I need you.
He always said, “Emma, you can do anything you put your mind to.”
I smiled remembering how that brilliant, accomplished man always let that one preposition dangle at the end of that sentence. He said it would help me remember what he said.
And that’s what l have to do…remember.
I wiped my cheeks with my sleeve, took a big breath, and climbed my way to bed. I only had enough energy to make my nightly entry in my journal.
The next morning dawned bright and clear with a break in the summer heat and humidity. Going down the stairs was a little easier. I was in the kitchen in no time and grateful it was small and compact. Soon, the toaster hummed. The coffeemaker dripped. The Cottage was beginning to work its magic, making me feel like I was home.
Anxious to begin work and make my mark on that stack of white paper, I hustled through breakfast. The dishes could sit in the sink for now. With a fresh mug of coffee placed on the computer table with wheels, I carefully pushed through to my writing den for the first day of work on my new book. I refused to let it rattle me that I had no clue about the storyline or characters.
As I approached my magnificent writing desk, I looked at the stack of paper I'd left there and gasped. Words were written on the top sheet.
My Dearest Emma
Chapter Two
“A good short letter is better than a poor long one. The language of a letter should not be…too dry or abrupt. It should be easy, flowing, graceful.”
How to Write Letters: A Manual of Correspondence Showing the Correct Structure, Composition, Punctuation, Formalities, and Uses of the Various Kinds of Letters, Notes and Cards
by J. Willis Westlake, A.M.,
Professor of English Literature,
State Normal School, Millersville, PA 1883
I rocked on my crutches from the shock. It would be better to sit down than fall down, so I got myself into the chair and dropped my crutches to the floor. I couldn’t believe someone had addressed a letter to me in such an intimate way and left it on my desk. Almost forgetting to breathe, I slid the page in front of me and read:
My Dearest Emma,
If I may still call you my dearest sinc
e you must think so badly of me for not writing sooner. It is not a lack of desire to contact you. It’s about having the ability to write.
This war has brought such deprivations down on us. I have sat here at my father’s desk, as if chained to it, waiting for that most precious commodity, paper.
Now that it has appeared and in abundance, I shall be able to tell you what has transpired and assure you of my faithfulness now and always. I often think of you walking by the water, watching the osprey, and breathing the salt-tinged air. It brings me such comfort.
Your obedient servant,
Daniel
My dearest Emma? Who is this Daniel? How did he get into the Cottage?
I held my breath, listening. Was this Daniel still here? Could he be in the living room or watching me from the hallway? I spun around in the chair, but no one was there. The letter fluttered to the floor.
Okay, calm down, I told myself. If he was here, there would not be much I could do to defend myself. My phone, where was my phone? Not in my pocket. Not on the desk. Idiot.
I’d left it on the kitchen counter by the sink. So near, yet so far. There was nothing else to do but get up on the crutches and get to the kitchen as fast and as quietly as possible. Hopefully, I wouldn’t run into the intruder.
The rubber tips on the crutches made squeaky noises as I tried to tiptoe across the hardwood floor. My ears strained to hear any other sounds. There was nothing except the hum of the fridge and the tick-tick of the old hallway clock.
It felt like it took hours to get to the kitchen. I reached for my phone. My hands trembled as I tapped out 911. I needed the police to come.
Only there was no call, no bars on my phone. No Service.
What should I do? Get out of the Cottage!
This wasn’t a horror movie where the starlet waits around for the Slasher to appear. I moved to the patio door as fast as I could. I pulled, but I couldn’t open it. The door was locked.
The intruder, this Daniel, must have come in another way.
Ever so carefully, I slid open a drawer and pulled out a steak knife. If this Daniel came at me, I could wave it around to threaten him. But how was I to use the crutches, carry the knife and not stab myself? No time for an elegant solution. I had to move. I stuck the blade between my teeth, the sharp edge away from my lips.
I held my breath and listened. Still nothing, but the fridge and the clock. Slowly, I made my way down the hallway to the front door. One glance at the deadbolt showed me that the front door was locked, too. Did Daniel come in, write that letter, leave, locking the door behind him?
I stood there like a dummy trying to figure it out. Then there was a light scraping sound at the door and the deadbolt handle slowly turned.
He was back.
Fear glued my feet to the floor. I watched with growing panic as the lock clicked. The door handle turned. The door began to open.
"Emma, it—”
SLAM! I threw my body against the door. The crutches clattered on the floor. My fingers scrabbled to close the lock again.
I rested my face against the door, panting. A fist struck the wood from the other side again and again. The solid knocking thumped against my face, sending the ugly vibration through my head. The deadbolt knob started to move again. I grabbed it to keep it in place, my fingers squeezed against the metal.
“Who are you? What do you want?” I demanded, my voice breathless and pathetic.
The response came from two inches away on the other side of the wood panel.
“Emma? It’s me, TJ. Are you hurt?” He sounded as terrified as I felt. “I’m coming in.”
“Wait!” I swallowed my fear. “Wait. You’ll knock me down.” I flipped the lock, picked up the crutches, and collapsed on a step.
“Now?” he asked.
“Yes, now,” I called out, my heart thundering in my ears.
At first, the door opened an inch then flew back in a rush. His head swiveled around, taking in the situation. Seeing that all was quiet, he knelt at the bottom of the steps.
"Emma, are you okay?" His soft words, spoken with a Southern caress, were meant to comfort a frightened child. "What's wrong?"
What could I say? Somebody—somebody named Daniel—broke into the house while I was asleep, wrote me a love letter, and left, locking the door behind him? It sounded ridiculous to me, even though that is what happened. I was sure of it. This country boy would think I was a skittish female from the city who jumped at every odd sound that came with living close to nature. The man would resign from the caretaker job before he started. Or worse yet, he’d be at the Cottage all the time. My mind whirled with the possibilities, but the one that didn’t occur to me was about to happen.
“Emma, I’m so sorry. I was trying to be considerate. Mr. Saffire gave me a key so you wouldn’t have to run to the door every time I came by.” He glanced away and sighed. “Look, I thought I’d open the door and yell out to let you know I was here. I meant to save you some steps, not to scare you.”
He didn’t factor in that my nerves would be jangling from finding a letter from an unknown admirer inside my locked house. I wasn’t ready to reveal its existence, but I was hell-bent on preventing it from happening again.
TJ slipped his John Deere hat off like a courteous schoolboy. His light brown hair, streaked blonde by the sun, fell over his ears. He took out his key ring. “Here, I can give you my key to your front door. I can’t promise it’s the only key outstanding, but at least you’ll have mine.”
The perfect solution. "I have a better idea. You bring up an important point. There might be other keys out there in possession of people who are not as honest as you are. What do you think about changing all the door locks and making sure the window locks work? Can you do that, TJ?"
He looked around and twisted his mouth a little as he considered the situation. "You only have two doors, including the one out to the patio. Yes, ma’am, I can handle it. No problem, but I’ll have to go into town to get the locks.”
“Can you do it today?”
He nodded as he held out a hand to help me stand up.
“Oh, that’s okay. I can do it myself. I have to do it myself if I’m going to get back to normal.” I put my hand on the newel post and, using one crutch, I struggled to my feet.
“May I hand you the other crutch?” he asked carefully.
I hid my burst of frustration as I reached out to accept it. “My lawyer said you’re supposed to be my go-to man for things around the house, is that right?”
“Yes, ma’am, that would be me. I’m your handyman and an active local farmer. Anything you need, let me know and I’ll take care of it.” He pulled an index card out of his shirt pocket. He wasn’t wearing a T-shirt like so many other men did on the Shore. Instead, his pale-green cotton shirt had a buttoned-down collar and long sleeves rolled up his suntanned arms. "I wrote down my name and cell number. I'll put it on the refrigerator door where you can find it when you need it and have reliable phone service," he added as he took off down the hall to the kitchen.
I followed him, swinging my crutches, sometimes hitting the wall. “I should write down my cell number for you.”
“It’s okay, ma’am. Mr. Saffire gave me all your contact information,” he said with a smile.
“He did, did he?” I felt a little exposed. This guy looked nice enough, but…
He must have read my thoughts because he said quickly. “I have your number right here.”
He patted his shirt pocket on his rather broad chest that I couldn’t help but notice. I chuckled to myself that I must be getting better.
“I always have my cell turned on, but I’ll stop by to see if you need anything.”
“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary. I’ll call you when I want something.” I needed to be clear that I didn’t want neighbors and new friends dropping by. I’d come to the Cottage to do certain things, and I meant to accomplish what I’d set out to do, as always.
“Remember, ce
ll coverage is spotty here. There’s a great signal on Route 50 for people heading to the beach.”
“But down a country lane, coverage isn’t so good?” I said.
“Don’t worry. Mr. Saffire arranged for a landline to be installed in the house. The phone company should be here any day now.”
“There’s no specific time? Like today?”
“Well, I don’t want to speak for the phone company, but there is such a thing as Eastern Shore time.”
I began to nod slowly. “I see. The installer will be here when he or she gets here?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Our conversation petered out. The silence felt awkward. I grasped for the first thing that came to mind. “Your name is TJ? Is that short for Tom Jr. or something?"
“Not exactly.” He laid on a thick Southern drawl. “But my family does have deep roots in the South, Miss Emma.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, something I hadn’t done much lately.
Chapter Three
“I took an old mahogany Bureau to the shop for repairs… I found this inscription on the bottom written in the varnish in a firm large way July 16, 1792 by L. Tarr for James Dawson, Baltimore, MD. We have given the piece to…”
—100 Years of Change on the Eastern Shore: The Willis Family Journals 1847-1951, Edited and Annotated by James Dawson
“That’s better,” TJ said with a big grin. “Maybe we could start over.” He took a step back. “Good morning, Miss Emma.” He made a deep bow from his narrow waist. “Thought I’d drop by and see if you had a good night. I hope this fine morning finds you well.”