by Dan Walsh
My desk now.
And there, centered on the desk, was his famous typewriter. A vintage Remington Rand portable, made in the 1940s. A smooth flat black finish, simple, effective. Hit a key, hear a clack, type a letter.
I flashed back to a memory from when I was twelve or thirteen. I had come by myself to stay with Gramps and Nan for a week that summer. But I’d been warned, Gramps was on a fixed deadline, so he’d have to write every afternoon. We’d spend the morning together, but after lunch, he’d disappear into his study until dinnertime. I remembered standing by the counter nearest the study door, the smell of beef stew and fresh baked bread filling the kitchen.
“Would you like to get him?” Nan said. “Dinner is ready.”
“Should I knock?”
“He won’t hear you.”
“I can knock hard.” I listened through the door, heard the click-click, clack-clack of the Remington Rand clear as a bell.
“I’m sure you can,” Nan had said. “But it’s not the sound of the typewriter I’m talking about. When you open that door, you’ll see Gramps’s body sitting right there at his desk, hammering away on that thing. But his mind will be in another world.”
And she was right. She’d instructed me to approach him gently but firmly. To tap him on the shoulder a few times and talk to him like I was trying to wake him from a sound sleep.
I looked down at the Remington Rand now, remembering how fascinating it was to watch him work. I leaned over and rested my hands on the keys. Without thinking, I typed “t-h-e.”
“The,” I said out loud. “The?”
That’s what I came up with? T-h-e? Who was I kidding? I would never be able to write like him. I sighed. It would take a lot more than living in his house and sitting at his desk to become a good writer.
Staring at this typewriter every day didn’t seem like a good idea now. It would probably intimidate more than inspire me. I looked to my right and saw the carrying case sitting on a shelf by itself, the case he put his typewriter in when he traveled. It wasn’t a Remington Rand case but a fancy hand-carved wooden box. Guess he had it specially made or something.
I decided to store the typewriter in there instead of leaving it out. At least it would still be in the room, and the case would keep the dust off it. I reached for the box and lifted it up, surprised to find how heavy it was, like it already had a typewriter inside. As I set it down beside the Remington Rand, I felt something shift inside. It was definitely not empty. I flipped the two brass latches and opened the lid.
I was staring at what appeared to be a fairly thick manuscript tied together with two pieces of twine. And an old leather journal. I picked up the journal first and flipped through it. Only the first few pages had any writing; the rest were blank. I instantly recognized my grandfather’s handwriting.
I pulled out his chair and sat down.
I set the journal aside, picked up the manuscript, and leaned back on the chair.
The paper was slightly yellowed with age. My hands began to tremble as I read the handful of words centered on the title page. Obviously, typed on the Remington Rand sitting before me.
AN IMPOSSIBLE LOVE
by Gerard Warner
I could hardly believe my eyes. I knew every book my grandfather had ever written.
In my hands, I held what appeared to be a fully typed, unpublished novel by one of the greatest authors of our time.
11
Jenn, you’re not going to believe this.”
I had to call her. I’d already tried a half dozen times as soon as her plane was scheduled to land. But she hadn’t picked up. It was killing me.
“What’s the matter? Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine. You just get in?”
“I’m walking through the terminal now.”
“Jenn, I found the most incredible thing.”
“Pictures of your grandparents? I told you, people don’t throw out—”
“No, not pictures. Actually, that hunt was a total waste of time.”
“You didn’t find any?”
“Not a single one. Marilyn was right. But listen, this is something else, something way better.”
“What is it?”
“A manuscript, Jenn. A book my grandfather wrote that he never published.”
“What?”
“I’m holding it right now. It’s sitting on my lap.”
“A finished book?”
“I think so. I have to read it to make sure, but do you realize what this means?”
“Sounds pretty big.”
“It’s huge. Way bigger than the biography idea.”
“Hold on,” she said. “I have to go down the escalator. You can keep talking.”
“Gramps’s last novel was over three years ago. Do you realize the impact of discovering a brand new book he’s written, and what publishers might pay to get something like this now, a few weeks after his death?” As I said this, it sounded crummy, even to me. Like I suddenly didn’t care that he had died.
“I’m guessing quite a lot. Say, Michael, maybe I should call you after I get my bags and get settled in the rental car.”
I really wanted to keep talking this over with her. “All right. You figure about thirty minutes?”
“I think so.”
We hung up. I walked out to the kitchen to refill my iced tea. And to clear my head. Carrying the glass back into the study, I stopped just inside and stared at the manuscript lying on the desk. It was an astounding find. Seeing it there, beside the typewriter . . . I realized Gramps had written it right here, in this room, on that little machine. I looked at the wooden carrying case on the edge of the desk, and it suddenly dawned on me.
He had meant for me to find it.
Sometime shortly before he died, Gramps had set this up so that I’d discover this unpublished manuscript in that wooden box. When he’d left the house to me, he knew I’d want to write in this study. And he also knew when I did, I’d be using my laptop, not his typewriter. He could have put the typewriter in the case himself. But he left it out, centered on the desk, knowing I’d put it back in the wooden carrying case.
And when I did, I’d find it, his last novel.
His last, unpublished novel.
I stood over it and noticed again the slight yellowing of the paper. That didn’t make sense. I picked it up and thumbed through the first fifty pages or so. They were the same color. Maybe it wasn’t his last novel. There was no date on the cover page. I sat down and untied the twine, then scanned the first few pages until I came to chapter one. Nothing there, either, about when he’d written this.
It didn’t matter. The main point was, it was an unpublished manuscript. And Gramps had intended for me to find it, after he died.
But why?
I read the title again. An Impossible Love. Intriguing. I wondered what it was about. I immediately gave up the idea of digging around for more information for Gramps’s biography. This was way bigger than that. I was sure Rick Samson would agree.
I wondered when I should call him, what I should say. Obviously, I’d have to read the manuscript first, make sure it was a completed book. That gave me an idea. I lifted it up again and went to the last page. Sure enough, there it was: THE END.
So it was complete. Still, I’d need to read it. That was job one.
I set the manuscript down and took a sip of iced tea. Wait a minute, what was I thinking? I’d have to read it. As if it needed my approval. I rolled the chair back from the desk a few inches. What had come over me? I wanted to read this. Not to assess its monetary value but because my grandfather had written it. Because I loved him. I didn’t need any more money. He’d already given me more than I would probably ever earn myself in a lifetime.
He’d written this and, for some reason, had never gotten it published. And for some other reason, he’d set things up for me to find it after he died. He’d have to have known how valuable something like this was. Did he mean for me to ge
t it published for him? It seemed obvious that he must. And if so, would he expect me to share the money with the rest of the family? With just the four grandchildren or my dad and Aunt Fran too?
If that were the case, why not just publish the book himself before he died and make it part of the estate?
None of this made any sense.
I smiled as I thought about it. Gramps’s novels had always included an air of mystery in them. I wondered what Jenn would think about all this. As I set down my glass on a coaster, I noticed the old leather journal that was also in the wooden box.
The journal.
That’s where I should start.
12
Jenn had called me back from the rental car before I’d gotten a chance to read my grandfather’s journal. I filled her in on the details, including my confusion about what to do with the manuscript. She was as puzzled as I was. We agreed I should just read it over the next few days. Maybe a sensible idea would present itself by then. I almost felt like I should put it in a safe deposit box or something.
I was looking at the only copy on earth.
When I wrote almost anything, I’d back it up in two or three places. The ease of the digital age. I was looking at a stack of papers that could easily be worth a million dollars. But I guess if this house had made it through almost two centuries intact, and this manuscript had been here long enough to turn yellow, I could relax for a few more days.
I’d also told Jenn about the journal. Gramps had only written in a handful of pages. I told her I’d read it and summarize what it said the next time we talked.
The sun had begun to set. I reached across the desk and pulled the little chain on the Tiffany lamp, which added a soft glow. I leaned back, spun the chair around, and rested my feet on a small leather ottoman, which my grandfather had set on the floor for this very purpose. It caught the light just right over your shoulder. I opened the journal to the first page.
I’d never known my grandfather to keep a journal, not in the traditional sense, like someone jotting thoughts in a diary. He’d always kept a little memo pad and pen with him, though. Saw him write little things in it more times than I could count. I remembered one time, maybe five years ago, we were hunting redfish near the mouth of Nowell Creek. I had just snagged a nice one. After he lifted it into the boat with a net, he got this look on his face, then yanked out that little pad.
“Gramps,” I’d said, watching the redfish flipping about in the net at his feet. “What’s up?”
“Saw a way to describe something in a scene I’m working on.”
“About fishing?”
“No,” he’d said, “about the way that redfish came back to life when he caught sight of this net. Gimme a minute.”
He knew I wanted to be a writer, so when he put the pad back in his shirt pocket he said, “You need to get yourself one of these. Some of my best lines come at the worst times.”
I pulled out my Pocket PC that I’d put in a ziplock bag so it wouldn’t get wet, and said, “Already got one.”
“Ever write in it?” he said.
I thought a moment. “Nothing worthwhile.” Sadly, that was the truth.
It was still the truth.
I set his journal on my lap and began reading the first few pages. He’d written the dates in the space at the top. All the entries were written last month, in the two weeks before he died.
The first several entries were a collection of some of his favorite and final memories with Nan.
A cruise they’d taken on their last anniversary together in the eastern Caribbean. Picking wild blueberries on a hillside during a walk in southern Maine. Driving through Sedona, Arizona, at sunset. A simple conversation they had on those same Adirondack chairs in the courtyard, where Jenn and I sat last night. Nan told Gramps he was still her favorite author after all these years. Then there were some things Nan had said about heaven, in those last few weeks when her mind was still clear.
Each entry affected me. It wasn’t the kind of writing I’d come to know in his books. It was much more personal. But his ability to make you see and feel what he experienced was just as strong. There was joy present as he spoke of the love he felt for Nan, the fun they had together. But I also sensed a pronounced loneliness, and heartache was evident on every page.
The last entry, just shy of two pages long, was different. That was obvious from the first few lines:
I am going to die very soon. I can feel it.
I haven’t gone to the doctor to confirm this, and I don’t plan to. Call it an old man’s prerogative. He’d simply try to talk me into any number of painful and intrusive lifesaving measures which, if I’m dying, won’t prolong my life but merely cause it to end badly. I saw what they did to my beloved Mary, death by inches. I won’t let them do that to me.
Why would I want to prolong my life anyway?
I’ve lived a full measure of years. I’m ready to depart this world the moment my Maker intends. I want to see Mary again, be with her. I’ve wanted that every waking moment since I last felt the warmth of her hand in mine. Four long years now.
So I will let this disease inside me have its way, whatever it is. Probably a cancer of some kind. It’s not very painful, at least not now. I can still do all the things I need to do, a few I want to. From what I’ve read, this will continue until, at some point, my body begins giving way to the inevitable. When that happens, well . . . that’s why they call it inevitable.
I’ll just spend my last days on morphine, unless the Lord has a mind to take me quietly in my sleep. A few moments after that, I will be doing just fine.
So Gramps knew he was dying, had for some time. We weren’t told exactly how he died, just that he died in his sleep. Guess he got his wish on that one. My dad and Aunt Fran had passed on having an autopsy done. It was clearly not foul play and neither cared to know the biological details.
I’m writing these last few pages for my family. More precisely, for my grandson Michael to find.
“What!” I said aloud when I read my name.
I trust he’ll know what to do with it, and with the package I’ve left in my wooden box (which has its own story, and he’ll find out about that too).
I knew it. Gramps meant for me to find the manuscript. What did he mean that he’d trust I’d know what to do with it? I didn’t know what to do with it. I looked at the wooden box and wondered what he meant, saying it had its own story. How was I supposed to find out these things? I flipped through the rest of the journal.
No more entries.
So how was I supposed to know?
My will has already been written, and by now everyone should know what they’re getting. I suspect they will all be very happy. They have a right to that happiness, for all the countless ways they have added to mine. Besides that, the Good Lord set things up so you can’t take a single thing with you.
I know none of them will be nearly as happy as me. I expect to be holding my Mary’s hand again, seeing and knowing things that have puzzled wise men for ages.
Do I have any regrets?
All the worst ones have been washed away by God’s mercy. There is this one matter that has chased me the better part of my life. I’ve spent decades dodging its shadow. Since we’re so close to the end now, it looks like I may succeed. But I don’t believe it’s fair, nor is it right, to allow it to chase after my family, once I have departed.
They have a right to know the truth.
I will leave it to them to decide what, if anything, to do about it.
Actually, Michael, I leave that decision to you.
I reread the last few lines three times. “Oh, Gramps, you’re killing me.” Some mysterious matter had chased him his whole life?
I’ve spent decades dodging its shadow.
What did that mean? And how would it now “chase after my family”? Marilyn would freak out if she read this. It seemed to confirm the worst of her conspiracy theories.
And why . . . I stood up and said it
out loud: “Why, Gramps, would you leave the decision of what to do with all of this up to me? Why me?” I set the journal down next to the manuscript, turned out the lamp, and hurried out of the study, closing the door behind me.
This was just crazy.
I decided I needed to get out of the house for a few hours, get some fresh air, some good food. Talk to Jenn for a while. But I knew what I’d be doing right after that.
I’d come back home, dive into that manuscript, and read it front to back. Probably stay up late tonight and then get at it first thing tomorrow morning.
Chapter One
October, 1942
“Ben,” she said, “what are you thinking? You’ve left the room again.”
Ben Coleman looked up at Claire, then at all his newfound “friends” sitting around the lunch counter at McCrory’s. How could he tell her what he was thinking? He was thinking he’d fallen hopelessly in love with her. He was thinking how impossible it was for them to be together. And he was thinking about why—two reasons came to mind. Both presented insurmountable obstacles. He looked into her beautiful eyes. “I’m just tired,” he said, suppressing a sigh. “What did I miss?”
So many lies.
Starting with his name. It was not Ben Coleman. In the past two months, he had become aware of how heavy words become when you carry them alone. Lies spoken to someone you love were heavier still.
“Hank was just saying we should all go to the movies tonight,” Claire said. “I get off at 6:00. What time’s it playing, Hank?”
Ben looked at Hank Nelson, who stared at Claire with lovesick eyes. He always looked at her that way, and she never seemed to notice. But Hank didn’t have a prayer; she was way out of his league. Most, if not all women, were out of Hank’s league. “Starts at 7:00,” Hank said. “I could swing by and pick you up.”
Three others sat at their end of the counter. Hank’s offer was clearly meant for Claire. “That’s okay, Hank. I don’t need a ride,” she said. “So Ben, can you come?”
Claire Richards, her real name, looked right at him as she said this. Either he was totally off, or she felt something for him too. Like just now. She was almost asking him for a date. “What’s playing?” he said.