The Enigmatic Mr. Dawsley
by Michael Bergquist
Copyright 2012 Michael Bergquist
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This ebook is a work of fiction and therefore, any resemblances to persons living or dead, events, or places is purely coincidental. This is the product of the author’s imagination.
For John and Janet
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Prologue
I had always loved the plant called “the burning bush”. Not the Biblical tale, rather the beautiful red-leafed plant that one can find growing in various common areas, looking fantastical and rare in direct contrast of its immediate surroundings. Such a lovely plant grew in the small excuse for a garden that was planted right outside of my apartment building. I did not know who had planted it or how it survived throughout the years of constantly changing weather. My apartment was in the Northeast and so the plant would only turn its wonderful shade of red in the fall, much to my disappointment.
Inside of my apartment, however, not a single plant existed. I simply did not have the disposable income, nor the time, to cultivate a collection of plant-life. I worked in a local grocery store after losing my job with a small print-news organization that had gone bankrupt. This unfortunate situation led to funds being tight. The job at the grocery store was not so bad and it paid me enough to maintain the costs associated with my apartment, however. I had no family to turn to in troubling times such as these, as they had left me alone when I turned eighteen, forcing me to grow up quickly and spend the next twelve years of my life trying to establish a stability that I never truly had and so desperately longed for.
I had seen many people struggle as I had throughout my life and I had seen the decisions that they often had to make. I had been blessed from birth with an attraction to justice and helping others and did not let poor times manipulate me into committing atrocities. Many a time I became the victim of such atrocities that others were not strong enough to resist committing. I had been mugged, beaten, and even had my apartment broken into after I had raised enough money to rent it. These times and these events never broke me, though, and this was something that I was proud of.
I lost the grocery job one afternoon when it could no longer afford to stay in business. With the loss of the job came the loss of income and potentially the loss of my home. I had decided after I had first started renting my apartment that I would not allow myself to live on the streets again. There had to be a way to raise money and keep myself fed, hydrated, clothed, and sheltered. I applied for every job I could, being as polite as possible even when I was rejected. I had finally given up my search for work one day and decided to stay in my apartment until the landlord officially evicted me. I would spend my time standing in the window, watching the winds shake the burning bush in front of the building and allowing myself to feel peace and happiness, even if the leaves were not yet red.
I had received a letter one afternoon and feared that my eviction notice had finally come. Instead, it was a letter from a family whose name I recognized from the news and from history books I had read. The letter was in a fine, white envelope with black ink writing and a golden silk lace keeping it closed. I unwrapped the envelope and opened it carefully, afraid to damage it as if it were some wondrous jewel.
“My dear Truman,” the letter had read, “I, Mr. Dawsley, of the Atlantia estate of the Dawsley family, do greatly wish for you to attend a night of dining and conversing if it so pleases you. Show up whenever is convenient for you, my door is always open.” The letter had been signed simply, “Dawsley”. I had not known how to respond, other than to show up to the estate on one foggy evening in mid-July soon after receiving the letter with a bottle of the nicest wine I could afford under my arm. I dressed as nicely as a man of my means could, considering I did not have all that much. I took a cab and tipped the driver as generously as possible. He had been a swell driving companion, easing my nerves with casual conversation for the duration of the trip.
The Dawsley estate was famous in the United States as one of the most grandiose mansions in history. Some even claimed it rivaled those mansions of Long Island, though, in my own opinion, no building could ever hope to rival anything built out on Long Island. One thing was certain however, and that was that the Dawsley estate was the largest home on the small island of Atlantia.
In case you are reading this in some time when Atlantia has re-submerged just as the scientists had predicted, there are a few things you should know about that wonderful little place. Atlantia was an area that once was a part of Atlantis. Yes, Atlantis was once an actual place as many legends and tales had claimed. After many years, a piece of it broke off, floating to the top of the sea just off the East coast of the United States. Researchers, writers, architects, and a host of other exploratory-natured people quickly flocked to the site in order to learn as much as possible about it. Much was gained in terms of information regarding their culture, which seemed to have influenced or been influenced by that of the Ancient Romans and Ancient Greeks. Ancient Chinese relics were found, as well as relics from the original inhabitants of the Americas, which added to the wonderful host of theories and data that had been accumulated. The wealth of information gained from this small piece of that once great empire did wonders for the evolution of our knowledge regarding the history of the world.
The Dawsley family were the first to build on the land despite the protests of researchers who claimed that there was no evidence that the island would not simply sink once again. The researchers and explorers had been very careful when exploring the site and had taken everything they could off of it in the event that it sink once more and the findings be lost. The Dawsley family’s building on it, however, disproved many of the theories regarding sinking and people soon flocked to it, turning it into the fifty-first state of the United States of America. It was still believed that it would one day sink, but that day was far off and as long as it was still floating, the people would remain happily upon it.
The cabbie and I had crossed the long, metallic Dawsley Bridge which connected the island to the mainland. It was a splendid, yet monstrous bridge, paid for by the people and constructed by the greatest architects of the generation. How it came to be named after the
Dawsley family, I still to this day do not fully know.
I exited the cab at a large metal gate, showing a distinct similarity to the bridge we had just crossed. The gate blocked the road up to the mansion and I approached it cautiously. Oh, what a gate! I never in a million years thought I would be so taken with a gate. As I marveled at the craftsmanship, a buzzing sound emitted from a metallic pillar to the right of the gate and it opened itself slowly and silently. I waved to the driver and he waved back before speeding away back toward the bridge. I made my way up the road through the fog. Any other man would have probably felt chills, walking through fog to a mysterious mansion, unsure of what he would find. Not I, though. I found myself excited and nervous, the way a child feels on Christmas morning before their parents wake up. Such anticipation and mystical wonder right before them while they’re forced to wait to see what lies in store. That was how I felt. Even now the memory fuels that feeling, as if right at this moment I was walking up to the Dawsley estate on that foggy July evening.
I held the wine bottle close to me, fearful that in my excited state I would drop it like a fool and would have soiled their property as well as come to dinner empty-handed. The bottle and I luckily made it to the door in one piece. I pressed a button next to the large wooden doors and a thunderous sound echoed through the interior of the house. The door opened slowly and a short, husky, hard-faced woman stood there, examining me. She did not appear to speak English, but mumbled foreign words as she pulled me inside by the arm. I admit, I was not expecting such a forceful greeting and nearly dropped the bottle on the floor. She took it from me, and my coat as well, before shuffling away into the house.
I stood in the foyer alone, that little woman having stripped me of my possessions. I admired the architecture of the building, vaguely remembering learning at some point that the builders of the bridge had also constructed this very house. I looked up at the chandelier above me and presumed that such a work of art must have cost, at the very least, five hundred thousand dollars. That was a complete guess, but it could not have been too far off the mark. As thoughts of the like circled in my head, intoxicating me with daydreams of immense fortunes, a portly man of about thirty-five joined me in the foyer smiling.
“Mr. Truman?” he asked. He had a kind voice, one that could calm a crying baby or a crying woman depending on the situation.
“Yes.” I replied. He extended his hand.
“Mr. Dawsley.” he said. I shook his hand and looked at my other hand, anticipating the bottle of wine to be in it. I had forgotten that the small woman had taken it from me.
“I had a bottle of wine for you, Mr. Dawsley.”
“Ah, yes, Sandra has taken it into the kitchen. Please, do come into the house. I can not imagine that you would want to spend the evening in the foyer.”
“It is very nice, though.”
Dawsley laughed heartily and slapped me on the shoulder. He guided me into the dining room where two places were set. We sat down across from each other and Sandra began bringing out food and wine.
“Do you wonder why you are here?” he asked suddenly. We had just sat down and begun drinking, yet he fired the question off as if we had known each other for many years.
“I had been wondering, yes.”
“It is because I grow restless in this horrid house.”
He took a long drink of wine and I wondered what he could have meant. The estate was exceptionally lovely and surely he could afford anything he could conceive.
“I want to experience the world, not have it cater to me so much. Wealth is overrated, it becomes old after awhile. Oh, how I long to be like the common man!” he said. “A man is not meant to sit in his home all day while the entire world moves without him. It is unnatural. So, I wish for you to accompany me whilst I am on the outside.”
“The outside?” I asked.
“Yes. The world outside this dreadfully dull estate.”
“Why me?” I asked foolishly.
“My dear Truman, I did not know how to select such a companion. If I were to advertise for such a position, leeches would attach themselves to me and try to get to my money by any means necessary.”
“So how did you choose?”
“I picked a random name from the phonebook.”
“And it was mine?”
“Indeed it was.”
“How do you know I’m not a leech.”
“Because my various employees watched you for a month. You’re a decent man. You hold the door for women, you vote, you recycle, you are generous with the little money you have, but not to the point of bankrupting yourself, et cetera.”
“Et cetera? You were watching me?”
“Yes.”
He began eating the roast duck that Sandra had brought out and I looked at him in confusion and slight annoyance.
“Is this a joke?” I asked.
“What’s that?” he asked, looking up from his plate.
“Is this a joke?”
“Why would it be a joke?”
“You chose me out of the phonebook, followed me, then hired me to accompany you on your travels outside of the house?”
“That is correct.”
“You don’t see anything peculiar about this?”
He stopped eating and stared at me. He was thinking it over and I could tell at that moment that this entire thing was absolutely genuine.
“Would you like the job? If not, I will simply pick another name after we finish our meal and you will go off on your way and I will take my money back. Speaking of which, I think you may wish to know that I have added a considerable sum of money to your bank account as a sort of signing bonus and have left a wallet of bills for you in what is to be your bedroom, should you take the job.”
I thought it over for a few moments. I was in dire need of money at the time and this experience promised to be an incredible one anyhow. It was strange though, and I would be sure to keep my guard up, lest this turn out to be some form of joke or scam.
“I’ll do it,” I said with an air of caution in my voice, “I’ll accompany you around.”
“Splendid!”
He clapped loudly and Sandra brought out a large bottle of champagne and two glass flutes. We toasted to the new business arrangement and touched our glasses before draining them of their contents. Sandra then brought out more exquisite foods and several different spirits, including my bottle of wine, which to my surprise was greatly enjoyed by Mr. Dawsley.
Chapter 1
I had stayed the night in one of the guest bedrooms of the mansion and awoke to the sound of a piano emitting a wonderful classical tune from the floor below me. I rose out of bed, sadly leaving the most comfortable silk sheets I had ever felt and left the luxurious room I had stayed in. I descended the nearby staircase and found myself in the foyer, the music having grown louder and closer. I followed it and it led me to Mr. Dawsley. He was sitting before a massive piano made of some sort of precious stone, playing a piece foreign to me.
Sandra was shuffling around dusting and sweeping while Dawsley played on. The scene caused me to burst out with a laugh. Dawsley turned to me and smiled, apparently realizing my presence for the first time since I had entered the room. He played faster and finished the song abruptly.
“Did not want to keep you waiting.” he said.
“That’s quite all right, sir. I would have gladly listened to the remainder of the piece at normal speed.”
“You are too kind, dear Truman. And please, do not call me sir. If you knew the sirs that I know you would understand why one would not wish to be lumped in with that crowd.”
He stood up from the bench and left the room. I followed him, jogging slightly to keep up with him, lest I become lost in the great maze that was this house. He led me to the dining room from the night before, a great feast of breakfast foods now adorning the table. He motioned for me to sit across from him as we had been the previous night. I took a bagel, cut it in two, and began to spread something I
had never encountered before upon it.
As I ate, I thought about the incredible size of the house. I wondered how many rooms it consisted of and if other people lived within its walls. I had heard through rumors spread by those not necessarily reliable, that Mr. Dawsley lived alone and had done so since childhood. The story resonated in my mind and gave the mansion a feeling of being even larger than it already was. I made a promise to myself to refrain from exploring on my own. I would see the rooms that my host and employer wished for me to see and no more.
“What is our plan for the day?” asked Dawsley suddenly, breaking me away from my thoughts.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Our plan. What is our plan?”
I did not know how to respond. At no point in my recollection of events did Dawsley ask me to formulate a plan for today. I sat quietly and looked at him.
“Do we not have a plan?” he asked.
“I was not aware that I was to make a plan.” I replied.
“Ah, perhaps I had forgotten to ask you to do that. No matter, we shall take the car out today and meet with the citizens of Atlantia.”
I nodded happily and with much relief. We ate our breakfast quietly and without rush. We had become so engrossed with our respective meals that had one of us left the table, surely the other would not have noticed. After we had finished and Dawsley had belched loudly, we walked to the front door and exited the house.
The weather was lovely, being not too warm, nor too cold. We walked briskly along a path that branched off of the massive driveway to a small shed that was more than likely larger than my own apartment. Inside was a rack of keys and a sleeping man in a suit. I deduced that the man was a driver employed by my host. Dawsley looked at me and raised his finger to his lips. He crept up to the man slowly and clapped his hands together right in front of the man’s face. He awoke suddenly and fell backward in his chair. He struggled to stand and was cursing in some foreign language. Dawsley stood there, roaring with laughter. He walked over to the man and helped him back up.
“Very funny, Mr. Dawsley.” chuckled the man nervously.
“Your reaction was one for the books.” replied Dawsley.
“Do you need your keys, sir?”
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