The Typewriter Girl

by J. L. Jarvis

  “I’m telling you now. I’ve only been back this past week,” she said sharply. She took in a breath and exhaled. “Prepare yourself. He’s been in a state.”

  Fletcher went into the study where Benjamin lay slumped over his desk. He looked back at Mrs. Dowling. She raised a brow and slid the door silently closed. Fletcher took cautious steps toward the desk, his eyes constantly watching for Benjamin to awaken.

  Fletcher stopped at the sight of loose papers stacked on the desk, weighted down with a pistol.

  Chapter 17

  As Fletcher reached for the pistol, he brushed some loose papers, which fell to the floor. He whispered a curse. The sound roused a stertorous snort from Benjamin. Fletcher recoiled and recovered as Benjamin settled back down and returned to his slumber.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” he said under his breath. He checked it for bullets.

  “What!” Benjamin woke and sat up with no warning.

  “Oh, shit!” said Fletcher, fumbling with the gun in his hands.

  “Shit!” countered Benjamin as he jerked back in his chair to avoid the potential discharge of the gun.

  Fletcher recovered and made sure that the gun was not loaded. “Where are they?”

  “Where are what?”

  “The bullets.”

  After his head cleared, Benjamin reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful. He set them, palm down, on the desk. After putting the gun in a drawer on the opposite side of the room, Fletcher paused to regain his composure. With a close eye on Benjamin, he returned to the desk. Unsure of what to say now, Fletcher nonchalantly lifted a few sheets from the top of the thick pile of manuscript pages, and read. “This is good—the first page, anyway. Of course, that’s just the title, but I’m sure that the rest just gets better and better.”

  Fletcher threw down the pages along with his flippant façade and leaned angrily over the desk. “What the hell were you thinking!”

  Benjamin slowly lifted his head and managed to focus a scathing look from under one halfway closed eyelid. “What? Oh, that.” He barely glanced toward the drawer that now held the pistol. “I needed a paperweight.”

  “One with bullets?”

  Benjamin glared at him dryly.

  Fletcher pulled up a chair and plopped down. “God, Ben, what have you done to yourself?”

  “Not a hell of a lot.”

  “With astonishing progress.” Fletcher hid at least some of his shock, but felt it deeply, along with the guilt that had gnawed at him over the past two months. Shame was a powerful snare, and Gwendolyn knew how to use it to brilliant advantage. He struggled, oppressed and conflicted.

  With a sudden slap of his hands on the chair arms, he said, “Get up!”

  Benjamin’s head had returned to a resting position upon his crossed arms. Moving only his eyes, he looked up and said, “No.”

  But by then, Fletcher was on his way to the drapes, which he yanked open to let in a flood of bright sunshine.

  “Oh God, no,” murmured Benjamin, hiding his face.

  “Oh God, yes. It’s the daylight, which to look at you I’d say you haven’t seen since...Tuesday. Of last month.

  “C’mon.” Fletcher lifted his friend by the armpits.

  “Sorry. My dance card is full,” grumbled Benjamin.

  “That’s a relief, because you’re a little too heavy on your feet at the moment.” Fletcher shouted, “Mrs. Dowling?”

  “Damn!” Benjamin recoiled from the sound while gently touching his temples. “If you do that again I’ll have to kill you in self-defense.”

  Fletcher laughed.

  “I’m not joking,” said Benjamin dryly.

  Mrs. Dowling arrived. “Would you pack a few days’ worth for my friend, here? I’m taking him home to dry out.”

  “I like myself soggy,” he grumbled.

  Fletcher pulled Benjamin to his feet. “Trust me, I’m doing you a favor.”

  “I’ll return it someday. Count on it,” growled Benjamin.

  “Don’t worry. My turn’s coming...sooner than you think.”

  “It’s a fortress of doom!” Benjamin said as they pulled into the front drive of the New York Asylum for the Insane. He had spent two days sobering up at Fletcher’s house. “I’ve always wondered what it looked like inside.”

  Fletcher said, “Well, you’re not going to see that on this trip.”

  “Well, that comes as a relief. I thought you might be nominating me for a club membership.”

  “No, not you. Not yet, anyway.” Fletcher’s mirth did not last. He looked up at the two stone towers with dark, troubled eyes.

  “It’s not that bad, is it?” said Benjamin.

  “What? Oh.” Fletcher laughed. “No, I was just thinking.”

  “Well, that explains that strained expression.”

  Fletcher dismissed the remark with a smirk.

  “So, Fletcher. Tell me. This new interest in gardening, what brought it on?”

  “My family donated money to have this thing built. Oh yes. Somewhere inside, there’s an engraved brass plate marking my own padded cell—Egyptian cotton and down padding, of course—and a strait jacket—something in nice charcoal herringbone frock coat imported from Paris.”

  Unfazed by the wry stare he got, Fletcher went on. “Everyone will be here. It’s quite an event. And besides, I thought the fresh air might be good for us.”

  “For me,” said Benjamin, not to be fooled for an instant.

  Fletcher shrugged. “You’re feeling better, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, my headache has dulled to a Sousa drum cadence.”

  Fletcher gave him a rare serious look. “But you’re better than two days ago?”

  Benjamin let down his guard and nodded. A flood of feelings nearly kept him from talking. “The truth is, I was at the edge of the abyss.”

  Fletcher’s eyes locked onto Benjamin’s gravely. “I know.”

  Benjamin looked away. Fletcher had saved him, if not from death then from something close to it.

  Fletcher gripped Benjamin’s shoulder and fixed a deep gaze at him.

  Benjamin’s mouth twitched, but it just wasn’t in him to smile at the moment. But he did feel the depth of his friendship for Fletcher. He quite possibly owed him his life. With eyes fixed straight ahead, Benjamin said with a low, steady voice, “Van Elden, if you try to hug me, I swear I’ll use you to drop kick a field goal between those two towers.”

  They both laughed and got out of the buggy.

  As they arrived at the vast lawn that stretched out from the back of the building to the gardens, Fletcher glanced about as though searching for something. They walked down a path toward a maze of manicured shrubs. Benjamin tried, but could not quite suppress a deep yawn.

  Fletcher noticed and said, “I thought you liked this sort of thing.”

  “What?”

  “Nature and all that...natural stuff.”

  Benjamin looked at him curiously. “Nature, yes. But this? This is pinched and pruned nature, lined up in rows, neat and tidy. It might come from nature, but there’s nothing natural here.” He read something in Fletcher’s reaction. “Not that I mind it. As a novelty. Once. But—for the record—the next time you save my life, don’t count on my being this grateful again.”

  Fletcher did not seem offended. In fact, he did not seem to notice at all. He was clearly preoccupied, which did not escape Benjamin’s notice.

  Benjamin let out a laugh. “Of course. I’m so dense.” He was grinning at Fletcher. “We’re not here for the flowers, are we?”

  Fletcher’s eyes opened wide, then he hastily scanned the grounds, looking once more as though something were out there he needed to find.

  “Well? Who is she?” Benjamin asked.

  “Who?”

  “The young lady you’re obviously looking for. Who is she?”

  Fletcher looked at him, puzzled, and then said, “Excuse me for a minute.”

  Benjamin had never seen him like this.
He stood on a path in the middle of the garden and watched Fletcher head for the building. For Fletcher to have left so abruptly, it had to be either a woman or some sort of digestive disorder. He laughed to himself, and then winced. Best not to think about that, he decided.

  Fletcher stood in the administration office across an oak desk from a humorless nurse who was clearly at the end of her sparingly measured out patience.

  “No, I don’t know where Dr. Whitfield is.”

  “Would you please check your records again? Her name’s—”

  “Emma Farlowe.” She looked over her glasses. “Assuming it hasn’t changed since the other two times I checked.”

  “Could she have been discharged?”

  “Mr. Van Elden? Did you hear what I said? She is not on the list. Never was.”

  He leaned just the right distance over the desk and looked into her eyes with the look. “Would you just check again?”

  The look had always served well to bring blushes to cheeks and melt hearts into honey.

  “Well, I can see you are a man who needs special attention.” With a conspiratorial air, she leaned over the desk to meet him halfway.

  Fletcher smoldered.

  Inches from him, she said, “So I’ll make myself clear. No.”

  Fletcher made a mental note that the look did not work on the nurse. The next moment, Fletcher learned that the nurse had her own look. Her look was far less pleasant, but far more effective than his. Fletcher left.

  With Fletcher inside, Benjamin grew restless and wandered the grounds. Olmsted’s landscaping created an illusion of pastoral isolation in the midst of the city. By design, it was meant to soothe patients by immersing them in nature. While Benjamin admired the intent, which showed a marked turn from Victorian asylums of the past, it was but a meager suggestion of nature. The very element of nature that made his heart swell was its wildness and freedom, both of which were decidedly absent here, in what he considered an oversized floral arrangement. He would not even try to explain this to Fletcher. But Emma would have felt it and understood easily.

  He wandered along the curved paths lined with trees, slowly strolling. A grouping of wildflowers caught his attention. In contrast to the others, all fussed over and perfect, this planting, set off to the side, was soft and a little unruly. Once more, his thoughts settled on Emma. Like a flower in the wild, he had found her by chance, solitary and delicate. Emma had withstood the harsh environment into which she had had the misfortune to find herself. She was a beauty to look at, but what moved Benjamin most was the gentle and distant expression she had when she was thinking. She seemed almost beyond reach, so that when he drew her attention it pierced him with exquisite pain. Her loss was a wound that would never be healed. He would cling to that pain as the only thing left to remind him of her.

  A light flutter of fabric caught his eye. He turned, but no one was there. He smiled to himself. In that instant, he’d felt as though she were haunting him. He looked back at the building. There could be no better place for a haunting. At the foot of this ominous fortress, a ghost would be fitting. He wished it had been his Emma.

  Fletcher walked back down the lawn looking troubled. Benjamin asked him if something was wrong, but Fletcher dismissed it as nothing. They walked through the gardens, attracting their share of attention from admiring young ladies. Benjamin was, as usual, unaware of shy feminine glances admiring his brooding good looks and tall, powerful build. Fletcher received notice from admirers of impeccable style and fine Grecian features. Unlike Benjamin, he welcomed the soft smiles and demure nods, which he promptly met with a lift of his hat. More than once, Fletcher had to poke an elbow to get Benjamin to observe the most basic courtesy of returning a greeting. But Benjamin’s thoughts were with Emma, wherever she was.

  Benjamin tolerated his afternoon in the garden, but leaned back into the carriage seat, relieved it was over. As they turned onto Delaware Avenue and rode down toward their hotel, Fletcher said, “Why don’t you just get a pied-à-terre in the city? You spend enough time and money on hotels and trains—not that you need to worry about that.”

  “It’s not that. It’s the city—any city. I love it, but in very small doses. The noise and the people wear on me. After a few days, I find myself longing not so much for home, but for solitude.”

  “But, of course, being with me makes it tolerable.”

  Benjamin grinned. “Well, of course.”

  Fletcher looked about, energized. “I love it here. I love cities—New York, London, Paris, I love them all. Although...” Fletcher lowered his voice. “I confess that Paris is my favorite.”

  “More than Buffalo?” Benjamin said with a smile.

  “The buildings are just a bit grander in Paris.”

  “That hospital we just left, not to mention the garden, was not what you’d call tiny.”

  Fletcher lowered his chin and looked up with raised brows. “That was quaint compared to Versailles.”

  Benjamin said archly, “All we need are a few throngs of impoverished peasants to oppress, while they give us the life we deserve.”

  Fletcher cast a tolerant smirk, then his gaze grew distant. “I need to go back, perhaps in the fall.”

  “To the asylum?”

  “To Paris.”

  “I’m thinking of doing some traveling, myself,” offered Benjamin.

  “Really?”

  “I’ve been approached about the Harriman Expedition.”

  “To Alaska? Isn’t that a bit close to the Yukon?”

  “I know. But that was before. I’ve mailed off the manuscript, and I’m restless. We’ve talked, and I’m probably going. He’ll be there at lunch, by the way.”

  Fletcher looked down to conceal the distress he refused to let Benjamin see. No one spoke for a moment.

  Benjamin filled the silence. “He’s taking a steamer from the panhandle up to the Bering Strait. You wouldn’t believe the team he’s put together—all the best scientists and an artist or two. It should be exciting. We’d leave in a month, but I need to get to Seattle as soon as I can to help outfit the expedition. There’s a lot to do. It should be very exciting.”

  Fletcher leaned back. “Yes, you said that. Exciting. One question: why don’t you look excited?”

  Benjamin exhaled and said frankly, “I’ve got to do something—go away someplace—anywhere—it doesn’t matter. I just can’t be here right now.”

  “You can’t run away from your feelings.”

  “No. But I can keep myself too busy to drown in self-pity and scotch.”

  Fletcher wanted to say something to make him reconsider, but as he looked at his friend, he knew that he was right. He knew no man stronger in body, mind or spirit. Nor had he seen a man so close to the line between grief and undoing. It would be better for Benjamin to go. To stay home and brood would beg for disaster.

  “I think you’re right. You should go.”

  “You agree with me? Really?”

  Fletcher nodded. “Even from this one day’s outing you look better.”

  “Than what?” said Benjamin, wryly.

  “Than a couple of days ago, when I found you. You look more yourself.”

  “It’s a mask.”

  “It’s a start.”

  The hospital gardens drew such an abundance of visitors that some patients grew agitated. Their routine had been changed and, for some, it was too much excitement. The nurses were busy with incidents outside and in. By default, those patients whose behavior was under control were afforded a small share of increased independence. Emma relied on Mrs. Hall, who gently led her to the potting shed, where she sat her down and attempted to calm her. She sipped on the water her kind friend had brought her.

  She said, “You’ve lost so much sleep. You probably dozed off and dreamed it.”

  “I was very awake, I assure you.”

  “My dear Miss Stone, listen to me—”

  Emma heard the name and, seeing her earnest concern, felt possessed of a sud
den need to be honest. “That’s not even my name.”

  In her quiet way, Mrs. Hall waited for the answer to her unvoiced question.

  “My name’s really Emma Farlowe. The woman who brought me here told me to change it so no one could find me. I’m a murderess, you see.”

  “Emma, you don’t have to tell me. If it makes you uncomfortable—”

  “I should have been put on trial for murder. I killed him, the man I saw—or thought I saw—today. Benjamin Stark. I loved him, but somehow I killed him. And now he’s haunting me.” She cried, no longer able to hold back the tears.

  Nettie burst through the door. “It’s like a full moon at midnight out there,” she said, brushing back strands of hair that were stuck to her overheated forehead. “They sent me down here for some flowers for some bigwig. I can’t remember whom. It was someone important, and there’s a piece of cake in it for me if I hurry right back.” Nettie caught sight of Emma. “Oh. Did I interrupt something?”

  By this time, Emma had wiped her eyes dry. “Not at all. I’ll go cut a bouquet and wrap it for you.” She went to the door and held it open for Nettie. “You go on. I’ll bring them up in a minute.”

  Nettie looked troubled. “But the cake...”

  “It’s all yours. Don’t worry.”

  A bright grin lit Nettie’s face. “Oh, thank you. I’ve got to get back. Lucinda is a mess, poor thing. Her husband came for a visit. It did not go well. I’ll explain it all later.”

  They walked outside together and parted ways. Emma selected an assortment of flowers without too much thought. The colors ran together before her moist eyes. When her arms were full, she came back to the shed and set them down on the wooden counter on top of a small stack of waterproofed newspapers. The pages still smelled of the mixture of copal varnish, linseed oil, and turpentine, which Mrs. Hall had brushed on them a few days before. She said this was just as good as the paper the nurserymen used to wrap flowers.

  Emma wrapped the large bunch of flowers and picked them up to take then to the administration offices. Her elbow brushed past the remaining papers, which fell to the floor. With an impatient sigh, Emma stooped down to retrieve them. She stacked them back up on the counter and smoothed them out flat. One headline leapt from the page. “BENJAMIN STARK TO JOIN HARRIMAN EXPEDITION.” Emma set down the bundle of flowers and read on as her heart pounded wildly. He was going to be part of a team on a big expedition. She read quickly ahead...Alaska...a meeting...the Buffalo Club...a formal announcement expected today.