Dear Diary, I'm In Love

by John A. Broussard

  “What’s your attorney’s phone number. We have to get him on this immediately. And those IRS agents who were here. They must have left their card. Believe me, your accountant hasn’t been doing this only to you. He must be pulling this same scheme or something similar on a raft of farmers. And no way is he reporting this income.”

  ***

  The next few days didn’t solve all of McKenzie’s problems, but they lessened his burdens enormously. Oscar Melville reassured him, while trying to suppress his amazement at McKenzie’s naïve handling of his finances. “You won’t get a hundred percent back of what old Hubert was bilking you out of, but you should get a sizeable amount after the IRS gets through with him. He has plenty of assets—that building free and clear, a condo on Maui, a hunting lodge in upstate Michigan, at least a half dozen fancy cars and even a yacht out on the lake. Yup. He knew how to steal, and he knew how to spend—on a grand scale.”

  Pleased as he was at the news, McKenzie felt the need to celebrate, to say nothing of wanting to reward the two persons who had made it all possible. He announced to Erik and Baldy that Friday night would be dinner at Turnville’s fanciest restaurant, to include Bernice and her family. Baldy begged off. “I’d feel a lot better taking a sandwich out to the barn.”

  Erik, on the other hand, accepted with alacrity. McKenzie assumed there was more than a choice meal attracting his young hired hand.

  A table had been set up especially for the party of six, which included McKenzie, Bernice, Becky Anne, Erik, Georgette—Bernice’s older daughter—and her husband, Frank Payne. Good food and good conversation prevailed, and special announcements marked the evening. Bernice’s was the first. “The contract between Bernice & Daughters and the McKenzie Farm will be signed tomorrow.”

  In the midst of cheers, Erik broke in, “Can Becky Anne and me be excused? It’s almost time for the next show at the Palace and there’s a great horror movie showing we’d like to see.”

  Laughter greeted that announcement. McKenzie leaned over to Bernice and said with a smile, “Maybe it’s serious.”

  Bernice’s answer was, “I hope so.”

  Georgette broke in as Becky Anne and Erik rose to leave. “As long as we’re making announcements, I think everyone should know that Bernice is going to become a grandmother.”

  More cheers. Bernice got up and hugged her older daughter, before saying. “I guess I can’t top that, but I’ll try. To launch our new CreamRich I’m opening up a plant right here in Turnville.”

  McKenzie looked up and asked, “Does this mean you’ll be spending a lot of time here?”

  “Of course,” Bernice smiled. “I’m going to have to check regularly on the farms that are supplying all that premium cream for our premium ice cream.”

  ____________________

  THE SABBATICAL

  My mother was hoping I would use my sabbatical leave to find a husband. I could think of few things I needed or wanted less. My plans were far different. I fully intended to use the fifteen months for the one thing I'd missed most during my seven years of teaching—the chance to sit uninterrupted to do the research I'd been wanting to do.

  My first day in the Library of Congress Rare Books and Manuscripts reading room was almost too good to be true. Oh, there had been some glitches. I didn't realize how much security checking was involved in getting admittance into the sacred precincts. No pagers, no cell phones. I had to go through the expected metal detector, submit to a thorough search of my brief case, and this was followed by a close check of my laptop by a knowledgeable librarian. Two guards stood watch at all times, with one patrolling the aisles, another at the door and at least one more monitoring the surveillance cameras. I wasn't complaining, though. It was all a small price to pay for the access I had been looking forward to for years.

  It wasn't really until the end of my first week's research, which had now become almost a crusade to repair Mary Todd Lincoln's tarnished reputation, before I finally took time out to survey my surroundings. And doing so made me fully aware of him for the first time. Even while he was sitting, I could tell he was tall and ungainly. At the time, I considered him downright homely, if not ugly. I guessed his age to be somewhere in the lower forties. But then I had the feeling he was probably the kind of man who aged well because he'd finished his aging some years before—had probably looked forty from the time of his twentieth birthday.

  Perhaps the RB&M reading room stimulates even more curiosity about what others are reading than ordinary library reading rooms do. In any event, I was curious about the stacks of books and manuscripts scattered in front of him. Amused at myself, I waited until he had gone off in search of more material. I stretched, got up and wandered close enough to his end of the table to see periodicals from the era I was working on.

  I became so engrossed I didn't hear him approaching. I am sure my face turned red as I looked up into a pair of deep-set brown eyes. He smiled. It was an engaging smile but also a somehow wistful one, and I can still remember his first words. “I hope I'm not monopolizing something you need.” There was no irony in his voice; he seemed to be expressing genuine concern.

  Flustered as I was, it took me a moment to answer. To fill in, I shook my head, and it occurred to me then he must have wandered by my own end of the table at some time or other and knew we were working with much the same documents.

  “No,” I finally managed to say. “I think we're in the same period, but it looks as though we're concerned with two different subjects.”

  He nodded and reached out a giant hand. “Sheldon Taylor,” he said, and my hand was lost in what turned out to be a surprisingly gentle handshake.

  We moved on rapidly to credentials, and I felt the momentary twinge which the professional feels when an outsider invades her field. Of the academic disciplines, history was the one most likely to face such invasions and, all too often, the invasions were successful. As I found out early in my college career, history is not just something you learn about, it's also something you have to be skilled in describing. Too many historians lack the latter aptitude, many “outsiders” have it. I had the credentials. I was hoping my planned biography of Mary Todd would demonstrate that I had the writing talent to go along with them.

  As I look back over my school years, I know I have been undeservedly fortunate to come as far as I have, especially when I think back to high school. How I survived those wild years was a minor miracle. To do so without having become pregnant or coming down with AIDS was a major one. College promised to be more of the same, on an even grander scale, but my first class turned my life around a hundred and eighty degrees.

  It was a history class. The bald, unprepossessing instructor shuffled in, and I was all prepared for the inevitable boredom I would have to endure in order to keep my parents financing my higher education. When the lecture ended, I was still sitting entranced. Paul on the road to Damascus could not have felt a more profound conversion, and Professor Camarelli bore the brunt of my transformation. I haunted his office when I wasn't in the library devouring what was assigned, and much not assigned.

  Somehow, Professor Camarelli survived my demands on his time and patience, and he eventually became my graduate thesis adviser. I ended up specializing in the post Civil War years up to the early nineteen hundreds. The professor's own particular interest in the Civil War had been an enormous help and, while he never said so in so many words, I am sure he was pleased when I chose as my area something so close to his own interests. He was still at the University to welcome me to the faculty when I received my appointment—the same year he retired.

  And, of course, my mother never did really understand how my first love could possibly be history, how the subject left no room for men in my life, and how she would have to rely on my younger brother to continue the family line.

  So it's small wonder I still can't remember whether or not tall, gaunt Sheldon Taylor sat at the same table I had occupied on my first day in RB&M, since I was completely engrossed
in the letters of Mary Todd Lincoln from the moment I held them in my hand.

  I had long been fascinated by her and felt she was much maligned. Married as she was to a man completely involved in a terrible war, a man given to long fits of depression and one who was hated and ridiculed in his lifetime, with many of her own close relatives fighting for the Confederacy, and stricken by the death of a beloved child while she and her husband occupied the White House—it was little wonder Mary Todd had left the impression of being a termagant. But I was convinced much of the impression had been created by the almost entirely male commentators—men who regarded Lincoln as a saint patiently suffering under the burden of a thoughtless and shallow wife.

  I could see a glint of amusement in Sheldon's eyes as I waxed eloquent about the subject of my research. Sudden awareness of his reaction switched off my enthusiasm, and I took refuge in asking him about what or who his subject was.

  It was my turn to be amused. Chester Arthur! “Talk about a nonentity. I'd put him somewhere between Millard Fillmore and Gamaliel Harding at the bottom of the list of Presidents.”

  “I thought it would make a change,” Sheldon answered, somewhat apologetically. “My first biography was Frederick the Great, and then I moved on to Phil Sheridan and most recently to Bernard Montgomery.”

  “All military men,” I observed, not exactly overwhelmed by such choices. But then I remembered Professor Camarelli's fascination with the Civil War, even though he himself was a pacifist who had actually been arrested for protesting the Vietnam debacle.

  Sheldon smiled at my reaction. “It's part of the reason I picked Chester Arthur. I needed a rest from all the carnage.”

  We chatted a bit longer, but I could see he was eager to get back to his research, and I was torn between curiosity and wanting to return to my own study of Mary Todd. I left the RB&M early in the afternoon while he was still engrossed in his books and papers. He did notice me as I was leaving though, and waved good-bye before plunging immediately back into his work.

  The reason for my early departure had been to allow myself time to get to the local bookstore and back to my apartment before the afternoon rush hour, when taxis are virtually unobtainable. The two books I was looking for were one on Phil Sheridan and the other on Frederick the Great. Sheldon's latest, on Montgomery, was yet to be released. I also took time to look up the reviews. Frederick had received good notices, Sheridan far better. I'm not one to be much convinced by reviews, though, so I thought I'd check with an expert.

  My e-mail correspondence with Professor Camarelli had been lagging, and this was a good excuse to do some catching up. Since he was retired, his replies were frequently instantaneous. This time, his answer was almost so. In the midst of the general chitchat and comments about my research, he remarked on my casual question about Sheldon's biography of Sheridan. It was just one word. “Superb.”

  Well, I should have been getting my notes together from the day's research. And I certainly should have been cooking my own economical meal. But instead I decided to luxuriate. I dropped into the local fast food emporium, propped Frederick up in front of me and proceeded to lose myself in Eighteenth-Century Prussia.

  I had only a smattering of knowledge about the place and period, so I was in no position to evaluate the accuracy of the portrayal, but the writing was excellent. Later, I was angry at myself for having spent the entire evening on something so far from my field, and even angrier at Sheldon for going on to waste his time and very real abilities on a cipher like Chester Arthur.

  I arrived at the RB&M before he did the following day. I wanted to tell him my feelings about Frederick, but he merely waved at me, and it was clear he was again absorbed in his work. Around ten, however, he was the one to come over and suggest a coffee break.

  “I'm pleased you liked Frederick,” he said after we'd settled down in the cafeteria. “It was my first attempt, and it took me a couple of years to find an agent, and two more for him to find a publisher. Fortunately, I also located a first rate editor. In retrospect, I have to admit Frederick—the book—really needed a good editor.”

  “Why did you pick Frederick!”

  “I guess I keep looking for heroes, and military men seem to be our traditional heroes. And then I'm invariably disappointed with my choices. Frederick made a lot of noise, but only the sudden death of his nemesis, Elizabeth of Russia, saved him. And I thought Sheridan was an outstanding Union General. But, as you'll see if you read what I wrote about him, there is isn't much there to admire. The same holds for Montgomery. I'll have to do some signings in England, and I expect his followers will be there to throw rotten eggs at me after they read what I wrote.”

  I couldn't help asking, “Do you admire Chester Arthur!”

  His face flashed the half-smile I had come to regard as his trademark. “Actually, I think he's nowhere near the nonentity you feel he is.”

  I had to watch myself, much as I felt he was wasting his time and energy on a President few people remembered and no one admired. I had learned early in my role as a college instructor, and later as an assistant professor, how important it was for bad decisions to be rectified by the students themselves. It was especially true in the case of male students. I remembered one, especially, who was determined to write his doctoral thesis on an Alabama county's financial recovery from the Civil War Years. Motivating him were the almost complete records kept by some meticulous county clerk in the late sixties and seventies.

  I dropped a few broad hints about the narrowness of the choice, but I allowed him to mull over the decision. Finally, one day, on his own, he dropped by my office and said, “There's something I'd like to ask you, Professor.”

  I was fairly certain about the nature of the question, but I allowed him to do the asking. I was right. “Do you think it might be a good idea for me to try a different topic for my dissertation!” It was fascinating to see how he thought he had arrived at the conclusion all on his own and was really wondering how I would react.

  There's no doubt about it. The macho male has to think he is making his own decisions. I hoped Sheldon would do the same. I was convinced someone with his writing talent just should not be expending them on the likes of one Chester A. Arthur.

  It was about the fourth day of our separate but equal research when Sheldon asked me out to a long lunch. It was a pleasant interlude. He was a good listener, and he had some excellent suggestions about my topic. I suspect he had already gotten the gist of my attitude toward his, since he didn't press me about my thoughts on the subject. In the meantime, I had read his book on Sheridan, and it took no effort for me to fully agree with Professor Camarelli. The work was indeed superb, and I told Sheldon so. The quality of the book had made me all the more uncomfortable at the thought of his current wasted efforts.

  What surprised me about the luncheon discussion was how we drifted off into our personal lives. It turned out Sheldon had lost his wife to cancer two years previously and was still having emotional problems, as the result both of her death and of the long and painful illness preceding it.

  “I guess I've never been an especially happy person,” he said, “and Lettie's death pushed me over the brink. I'm still dosing myself with antidepressants, but it does look as though I'm finally on the mend.” The wistful smile came back. “Research and writing seem to be the best prescription for what ails me.”

  I went on to tell him about my own background, though it was hardly one filled with adventure. I am usually rather reticent when it comes to talking about myself, but having a sincere listener can make a lot of difference—can actually make the telling rather enjoyable.

  Sheldon must have found the luncheon equally pleasant, since he invited me to dinner for the following evening. Considering the invitation, it was surprising he didn't show up that next day at the RB&M. I wondered why he hadn't. The mystery was resolved by a message grudgingly delivered to me by one of the guards.

  “You know, we aren't supposed to do things like this,�
�� he said, handing me the note.

  “But it's supposed to be some kind of emergency. Or so he said.”

  The note was brief. Sheldon was asking me to call, leaving a phone and extension number. I went out into the long hallway to find a pay phone. My curiosity changed to apprehension when the number turned out to be for a nearby hospital. The familiar voice I finally reached didn't provide much reassurance.

  “Sorry about this evening's engagement,” he said, sounding tired, “The cab driver this morning made a left turn in front of a fast-moving bus.”

  Before I could do more than express my concern, he added, “My face got a bit bruised. It wasn't much to begin with. Maybe this will improve it.”

  “I'll be right there.”

  “There's no need to come to the hospital,” he protested. “I just wanted you to know I wouldn't be in much shape for dinner this evening, especially since they want to keep me here overnight.”

  Naturally, I ignored him and took off immediately for the hospital. When I arrived, there was no way I could judge what damage had been done to his face since it was almost completely hidden by bandages. I assumed he was trying to smile, however, because his voice, tired as it was, indicated some humor. “I think the back of the front seat got damaged worse than I did. The doctor says there's nothing broken. The surface has just been shuffled around some.”

  I stayed on for a while, after reassuring myself he hadn't, in fact, been seriously injured. The nurse indicated he'd be able to leave in the morning.

  While there, we picked up on the previous day's conversation. Disappointingly, he still showed no signs of abandoning his current research topic. Since he was obviously tired and under mild sedation, I reluctantly said good-bye and headed back to the RB&M.