The Rough Draft

There was something familiar about the man sitting alone on the station bench reading a carefully folded newspaper.

Nelson Wilcox had the unsettling sense of somehow knowing – and yet never having met – the man. It was not a case of having “seen him somewhere before.” This might appear to be a seemingly immaterial difference, but to Wilcox, a man whose livelihood depended on finding the correct phrase; in capturing elusive truth in precise prose, it was an important distinction.

The station clock told Wilcox he had several minutes remaining to board his train, and, this being mid-morning of an unremarkable weekday, the station was far from crowded. In short, there was no compelling need to rush.

At the news agents, he searched the racks for something to occupy himself during the forthcoming ride up the Penacook Valley. The publications for sale were familiar names. In fact, his work had appeared at one time or another in most of them – certainly all of those displayed prominently on the top shelf. He decided to make do with that day’s newspaper. It seemed to hold the interest of the man on the bench, and his audience would expect their speaker – a “distinguished man of letters” after all – to be up to date on current events in the city.

One headline announced the closing of the Exposition in Paris. If only that meant the removal of M. Eiffel’s tower. The fact it would stand for another twenty years, gave Wilcox – until 1909 at least – an admirable excuse for not visiting Paris.

Still intrigued by the lone man, Wilcox walked towards him. A few feet away, convinced he was mistaken, he adjusted his path to continue on to the platform.

“Don’t I know you?”

It was the man on the bench. Now, this is awkward, thought Wilcox.

“I’m afraid not, sorry.”

“No. I’m sure we know each other,” the man insisted, standing up.

“If we’ve been introduced, I apologize. I meet so many people and I’m afraid… I have a poor memory for faces and names.” This opened a door Wilcox wanted closed, so he abruptly added: “But I am sorry. We have not met.”

“And yet, we know one another,” the man insisted.

“Sorry to disappoint. Please excuse me, I must get to my train,” said Wilcox.

From his seat in his second-class compartment, Wilcox spotted the man walking toward the first-class car and breathed a sigh of relief that while they were sharing the same train, the economics of train travel spared him sharing a carriage.

In his compartment, a young man was already settled in next to the window. An elderly couple entered the compartment and took seats opposite Wilcox.

The train was soon speeding west, past the snow-dusted farms, bare-limbed orchards, and quiet towns and villages that defined the landscape between Boston and the Penacook Valley, where mill towns had now become small cities along the banks of the river that flowed south.

Wilcox tried to focus on that day’s news, but he was unable to shake the discomfort that lingered from his interaction with the man on the bench. His nerves were already on edge with from yet another night of poor sleep. In spite of the fact there was no wind to speak of, he had once again endured a night of rattling windows and shutters.

“It will be good for you to get out the city,” his editor, Tom Thayer, had said when urging him to embark on the speaking tour. “Some fresh, country air and a break from this claustrophobic community of ours will do you good.” This last point is what prompted Wilcox to finally agree.

The young man in the window opposite Wilcox was absorbed in the most recent Van Damm’s Journal, an issue which featured a story by a young writer Wilcox had introduced to the editors – one of many such introductions made over the years, something of which he was, in his opinion, justifiably proud. Wilcox put aside his newspaper, hoping for some rest before lunch.

Wilcox was woken by the jostling of the elderly couple as they unpacked the lunch they had brought in an act of frugal necessity. The man in the window looked on with distaste and left for the comforts of the dining car.

“I wish I had the forethought to pack a picnic lunch,” said Wilcox. “Alas, I will have to subject myself to the highway – sorry, railway – robbery of dining car prices.”

As if the day were following some grim design, the first face Wilcox saw upon stepping into the dining car was the man from the station. In an attempt to make it clear their interaction was something not to be continued, Wilcox caught his eye, shrugged his shoulders, and then pointedly took an open seat two tables away.

While he enjoyed a bowl of soup, the voice of the man from the station broke through the conversational hum of the dining car, the rumble of the wheels, and the occasional whistle of the train. The man worked as a private tutor to a wealthy family in Boston. His sole student was a sickly boy doted on by his mother and a distant, but free-spending, father. He had been granted a brief paid leave, by the family.

Before the other man said it, Wilcox knew what he would say next: “They are taking the boy to a sanitorium for a cure.”

And that is exactly what the tutor told his lunch companions.

Wilcox drained his water glass. His hands shook as he poured more. He leaned back, gently shut his eyes, and breathed in slowly and deeply.

Conversation at the other table turned to the weather, thankfully, and soon the couple talking to the stranger were folding the napkins and saying their goodbyes.

The stranger was introducing himself.

“Bartlett, Paul Bartlett.”

How is this possible?

Wilcox’s spoon fell from his hand, clattering against the bowl. A splash of tomato bisque stained the white tablecloth.

Wilcox jumped up, tossed more than enough money on the table, and dashed from the dining car.

Back in his compartment, Wilcox tried to avoid any further thought about what had occurred, but it was impossible.

He tried to combat his rising anxiety with activity. He reviewed the speech he would give every night of the tour and made edits that only made the script different, not better. He wrote a list of predictable questions to rehearse responses.

“What are you working on now?”

“When will we see a new story from you? It’s been so long.”

“What do you think of the critics?”

Truthful answers – “Nothing.” “Probably never.” “As little as possible.” – would not suffice. He constructed credible alternatives:

“I’m working on a novel. I’m afraid that means a longer wait than usual.”

“They provide an important service to readers who have so many books from which to choose but, as a writer, the critic I pay attention to is the one in my head – and you, my readers.”

That evening, after dining alone at his hotel, Wilcox was met at the front desk by a young man who would walk him to the lecture hall. He was more nervous than anticipated. His guide’s non-stop chatter spared him making small talk.

His guide casually pointed to a large theater, “That’s where Mr. Twain spoke a few years ago. Filled the place.”

The location for his talk – the local library – was, thankfully, much smaller. Lessening his fear of empty seats.

As he waited in the greenroom, the hall filled. Just as he had been reassured – an author of his repute was a rare treat in this part of the state and “the whims of fashion” do not change as readily this far from Boston.

“Whims of fashion,” what a delightfully innocent way to put it.

The introduction cited the usual works, most written five to ten years before. The applause was generous. The audience attentive. His delivery proved to be as animated before an audience as when Wilcox had rehearsed alone. Lines he had hoped would produce smiles, brought laughter. During passages designed for rapt attention, he could feel the room hold its breath.

When he finished, applause was robust and prolonged.

“Our guest will now take a few questions from the audience,” announced the evening’s host, Lester Townsend. “Yes, you sir. Please stand – and do speak up so everyone can hear you.”

No. This is not happening, thought Wilcox. Sit down, damn it.

The man from the station. The man from the dining car. Bartlett was standing to ask a question.

To Wilcox’s relief, Townsend did not call on Bartlett. Nonetheless, Wilcox remained standing.

This did not seem to draw the attention or elicit concern from anyone else.

After a half dozen questions, Wilcox quietly asked Townsend to end the evening.

Wilcox stayed in his room the next day until the carriage arrived to take him to the train for his next stop on his north-bound route up the Penacook Valley. To his relief, there was no sign of Bartlett.

Registering at his new hotel cheered him when the clerk was evidently pleased to meet Wilcox.

“Would you like me to have your bag sent up to your room, Mr. Wilcox? You could relax in the reading lounge.”

Wilcox decided to indulge and gave the clerk a tip for the porter.

As he turned to go, the clerk said, “Sir, I hope it is not out of place for me to say this, but my father was a big reader of your books.”

“Not out of place at all. Always a pleasure to hear. You said ‘was.’ My condolences.”

“What? Oh. He’s still alive and kicking sir. I guess I said that because, you know. It’s been a few years. You’ve earned your retirement, as they say.”

Wilcox let this comment about “retirement” pass without correction.

“Well, I am pleased to hear that your father is still with us.”

The reading room was clearly designed for the comfort of male travelers who likely constituted the majority of the hotel’s guests. Dark wood paneling, a spacious fireplace where three very substantial logs burned away slowly, mullioned windows, leather club chairs - soft and embracing from years of use, and an assortment of oriental rugs scattered at various angles across the gleaming floor. Wilcox felt at home and took a seat by the window, ordered tea and sandwiches, and began to scan the local paper.

On the third page was a small notice about his appearance that evening. “Many will remember the excitement that used to greet the appearance of a new novel or story by Nelson Wilcox…”

Thayer was wrong. There was no escape from the innuendo and cutting remarks.

He turned the page.

When he was nearly done with his tea and sandwiches, the desk clerk approached with a telegram.

CONGRATULATIONS.HEAR EVERYTHING WENT WELL.TONIGHT IS SOLD OUT.WILL TRY FOR STORY IN BOSTON PAPERS IF THIS KEEPS UP. - THAYER

Energized, Wilcox explored the town.

A small park was opposite the hotel. Here, weeks before they would be in Boston, the trees were bare, their spiky limbs silhouetted against the winter-white sky. Dead leaves skittered across the frosty walkways and gathered in damp clumps beneath the unoccupied benches. The fountain had been drained in preparation for months of sub-freezing temperatures. Wilcox was struck by the sad futility of an empty fountain.

The town library stood at the opposite corner of the park.

The librarian at the circulation desk nodded a friendly welcome.

Fiction, arranged by author’s last name, lined the walls. As was his habit, Wilcox went in search of his own work. His three most popular novels were tightly packed on the shelf. Evidently, no patrons had decided to read or re-read his work in advance of his talk.

A broadside tacked to a bulletin board announcing his talk was partially obscured by other notices.

“If you are interested, we are giving away tickets. It’s tonight.”

“I’d heard the event was sold out.”

“I don’t know about that. I’ve got a handful they want me to give away.”

Once again, Wilcox was met in the lobby to be escorted to his speaking engagement. Thayer had explained this as a way to relieve the stress of navigating unfamiliar towns, but Wilcox knew each escort was surely required to report on his well-being. If he were late, cancelled, or stumbled in his remarks, it would all be reported to Boston with a few clicks of a telegraph.

He did not want to contemplate what would follow.

The president of the local literary society, Mrs. Thomas Rumson, sat backstage with Wilcox as the audience slowly filled the hall -- partially.

When it was evident all the audience they were going to enjoy was seated, Mrs. Rumson introduced Wilcox.

At the podium he noticed.

Seated in the dead center of the hall, directly in front of him and, thanks to the slope of the hall, at eye level: Bartlett.

Wilcox lost his place and stumbled just long enough to set off a murmur in the hall. While the other audience members glanced at their neighbor, the ceiling, looked for familiar faces in the room, or checked their watches, Bartlett remained relentlessly focused on Wilcox.

Throughout the lecture, Bartlett’s gaze never wavered. In fact, he did not appear to blink.

Remarks concluded, Mrs. Rumson joined Wilcox on stage to manage questions.

“Keep that hand of yours down,” thought Wilcox.

“Don’t be shy now,” said Mr. Rumson. “I know you are an inquisitive bunch.” This earned a chuckle from the audience, but no hands went up.

“Alright then, I’ll get us started,” said Mrs. Rumson. “Are you working on anything now? I am sure your readers would welcome the news of something coming from you again.”

Wilcox responded, as prepared: “I’m working on a novel. I’m afraid that means a longer wait than usual.”

The audience nodded and smiled sympathetically. Some began reaching for hats and scarves.

Bartlett remained motionless.

A man stood.

“Yes. Mr. Waterstone?”

“Does past critical reception weigh upon you and even chill the creative impulse?”

Mrs. Rumson shifted uncomfortably, scolding Waterstone with a gentle shake of her head.

“Authors are always dealing with an array of issues – on the page, in our heads, in the minds of the public, and in the acid-dipped pens of critics.”  Wilcox delivered this well-worn line with a bravado designed to encourage laughter. There was none.

With no further question and some already leaving the hall, Mrs. Rumson thanked everyone for coming.

Wilcox and Rumson retreated to the green room where they stood in awkward silence.

“Well, that seemed to—” said Wilcox.

“I’m sorry about the audience. I honestly thought we’d get more and I’m sure many of them had questions. They are surely intimidated by an author of your renown.”

The young man who had escorted him to the hall reappeared to guide Wilcox back.

“Well, that went well,” he said as they walked side-by-side. “Good audience for a cold winter night. Nice round of applause at the end.”

“You picked up all that – from the lobby?” said Wilcox. This silenced his companion.

Back at the hotel, the desk clerk greeted Wilcox. “This came for us to deliver with tomorrow’s breakfast, but I might as well give it to you now.”

Wilcox opened it:

CONGRATULATIONS.HEAR EVERYTHING WENT WELL.TONIGHT IS SOLD OUT.WILL TRY FOR STORY IN BOSTON PAPERS IF THIS KEEPS UP.  – THAYER

Wilcox threw the telegram into the fire.

Wilcox knew he was there at every stop along the way. It ceased to be a surprise.

Each day, it was only a matter of time before he would spot Bartlett. Perhaps across the dining room at his hotel. Sitting on a park bench when Wilcox passed by. A shimmering reflection in a store window. Checking the schedule or adjusting his watch in a train station.

And he was always there in the audience. His steady, unblinking stare.

He had abandoned many lunches and dinners upon the sight or at the thought of seeing Bartlett. Each night’s sleep proved to be more restless than the night before.

The tour, which was supposed to be an escape, had become a form of torture. He began to count down the remaining stops in his notebook at the end of each day.

Five. Four. Three.

The end was near.

Two.

Two more speeches. Three more nights, and then – Boston. He needed to believe this would all end when he returned home.

Before heading to his room, Wilcox ordered a warm gin to be delivered.

In his room, he added a little fuel to the fire and changed into his night clothes. The warm gin washed over him as he settled into the soft comfort of his chair.

It used to be so much easier. He was never a natural talent, whatever that meant, but if he sat down, put in the time, did the work, something decent would eventually emerge. And editors and readers and critics alike consistently welcomed what he produced. His output at one point was sufficient that he and his publisher contemplated publishing some works under a second, fictitious, name to avoid overwhelming the market. During all those years he maintained old friendships while developing new ones made possible by success. He consistently encouraged younger writers impatient for the kind of readership he enjoyed and financially supported peers who struggled in obscurity.

This had not been calculated on his part. It came naturally to him. It was the right thing to do. In one of his stories, torture like this would not befall one who had been so charitable to others.

Wilcox was sweating when he woke up that night.

The modest fire lit the room and cast long shadows that lurched along the floor and writhed over the walls of his room.

Firelight glinted off the freshly polished boots.

“No,” Wilcox screamed from his bed.

The figure sitting beside the fire did not move.

Wilcox reached for the water glass on his bedside table and hurled it across the room. It should have struck Bartlett in the knees, but it sailed past and shattered against the brick of the fireplace.

“How the hell did you get in?” Wilcox got out of bed and crossed the room. “What the blazes are you doing here?”

The chair was empty.

Wilcox put on his slippers and robe and went to the front desk.

“Give me another room.”

“I don’t understand, sir.”

“I can’t sleep there. I won’t sleep there.”

“What is the matter with your room. Surely, I can take care of—”

“No, you can’t ‘take care’ of it,” snapped Wilcox. “Look, I’ll pay for both rooms. I’ll go as I am. I will not return to that room.”

Half an hour later, Wilcox lay under several layers of blankets in a new room.

One. One more speech.

Wilcox slept poorly. So poorly, he indulged in an afternoon nap at his new hotel the following day.

His exhaustion proved even greater than he imagined for he did not awake until the front desk clerk knocked on his door – banged, is more accurate – to announce his escort had arrived to take him to that evening’s lecture.

“Oh, my,” said the clerk. “Mr. Wilcox, are you alright?”

“I am fine. I took a nap. Overslept.” Wilcox directed the clerk to report he would be down in ten minutes.

“Of course. Is there anything we can do to help you? We have a doctor on call if –”

“I do not need a doctor. I fell asleep. Is that such an unusual occurrence in a hotel room?”

A minute later, looking in the mirror, Wilcox saw what prompted the offer for medical help. He did, in fact, look worse than poor. Pale skin, dark circles under his eyes, sweat on his brow, and at this hour the poor job he had done shaving that morning was all to evident. There was only time for a warm towel for his face and a hasty combing of his disheveled hair.

As he walked to that evening’s lecture, Wilcox was struck at how evident it was this town had seen better days, or never realized the heights some ambitious investors had once had for it. Buildings that should have been lit up, were dark. Storefronts that should have well-tended displays were empty.

That evening’s host, Timothy Johnston, was waiting, silhouetted, at the back entrance to the lecture hall.

“What a relief, I was afraid—” said Johnston.

“Nothing to fear. I’m here,” said Wilcox.

“An old friend of yours is here to see you.” Johnston stepped aside.

“Tompkins! What are you doing here?” said Wilcox.

“I couldn’t believe it when I read you would be giving a lecture tour. You, of all people. It’s hard to imagine you outside of your Boston – and even more so that it would include stopping here,” Tompkins’s gaze took in the shabby room, with its dated, small-town idea of elegance.

“Don’t feel sorry for me,” said Wilcox. “Please.” This last word was delivered with a forcefulness that surprised Tompkins.

“Sorry, old friend. That was rude of me.”

“I’m actually enjoying myself.”

“Whatever you need to. Whatever will do you some good is fine by me.”

“We need to get onto the stage,” interrupted Johnston.

“I’ll be out there, cheering you on,” said Tompkins.

From the stage, Wilcox immediately spotted Bartlett in a back row, in the shadow of the overhanging balcony. Tompkins was seated in the front row – almost too close for comfort, but this was a friendly familiar face, not that of a man who had been following him for days.

The applause following the introduction was warm, verging on generous. As Wilcox spread his speech on the podium, Bartlett rose and moved to an aisle seat out of the shadow of the balcony.

One page, and then a second, fell to the floor. Wilcox bent to pick up the pages, jostling the podium. Johnston leapt to steady it.

Bartlett moved forward another two rows.

“Stop that,” Wilcox snapped. Silence filled the room. “Sorry. Talking to myself there for a moment.”

The pages of his speech were hopelessly out of order, but – working from memory – Wilcox began. The tension in the room subsided as he settled into the comfortable, familiar rhythm of his remarks.

When he paused for a drink of water, Bartlett changed seats again.

Wilcox slammed the glass down on the podium and stared at the pages spread in front of him, some now spotted with splashes of water.

“Forgive me, I just need to…” said Wilcox, his voice trailing off.

Johnston rose, stood next to Wilcox at the podium, and suggested taking questions from the audience.

“I think they’ve heard all they want for one night,” said Wilcox.

“I see hands going up already.” Hands obediently rose in response to this claim. “Let’s see…” Johnston said, preparing to call for the first question.

“I can do this,” said Wilcox. “Sit.”

Johnston returned to his chair.

In the silent aftermath of Wilcox’s outburst, two of the four raised hands went down. Wilcox saw that only Bartlett and an elderly woman remained interested in asking a question.

“Yes, ma’am? You,” said Wilcox.

He answered her question about the authors who had influenced him. He next called on a man who no longer had his hand raised.

“Yes, you. Go ahead. Ask your question.” Nodding toward the center of the hall, Wilcox announced, “He can wait. He can wait all damn night, in fact.”

Wilcox gave his well-rehearsed answer about working on a novel.

“One more question,” he announced, wiping his brow. “And, not from you,” Wilcox shouted.

The audience stirred uncomfortably.

Tompkins approached the stage.

“Sit down, damn it all!” shouted Wilcox. “No. Not you, Tompkins, for god’s sake.”

“There’s no one…” said Tompkins.

“Don’t tell me what I see,” said Wilcox. “This was good tonight, right? I can still fill a hall. Not all washed up. What’s he doing now?”

Tompkins hoisted himself onto the stage, put a supportive arm around Wilcox, and faced the audience.

“Thank you all for coming this evening. My friend – we’ve known each other for years – has been working very hard and I am afraid the toll of this tour and maintaining his demanding writing schedule have taken a toll - exhaustion. Thank you all for coming out tonight.”

Tompkins walked Wilcox back to his hotel and up to his room.

“Are you sure you’re alright? I could call for a doctor,” he said.

“I’m fine, thank you. Just…tired. Nothing more,” said Wilcox. “Good night my friend.”

His room was a warm and welcome sight. A fire crackled away. His bed had been turned down, and the lamp beside it lit the room with a warm, welcoming glow.

Not ready to fall asleep, he poured a glass of water and sat by the fire to start the book he had bought that day for the long ride ahead of him: The Master of Ballantrae.

The tapping at his door started as soon as he opened the book.

He covered his ears. In a low growl, he repeated “Go away. Go away.”

He finished the water and hurled his glass into the fireplace. The explosive crash yielded a short break in the tapping.

Wilcox buried his face in his hands. “I’m coming. Just, stop!”

He opened the door, and without an invitation, Bartlett entered.

Wilcox poured two brandies.

“Why are you pursuing me? How? You are nothing but a creation of my imagination,” said Wilcox.

Bartlett said nothing.

“Was this all some grand design to torture me?” asked Wilcox. “Night after night, I have been introduced with reference to works written years ago. They don’t say, but I know everyone is thinking the same thing: ‘Washed up. A has-been. Had a streak there for a while, but the well’s run dry. Wasn’t much there to begin with.’ Ha! I know what they are thinking, though not one of them has the guts to say it. I’m no fool.”

Bartlett admired the fire, his hands resting placidly on his crossed knees.

“Damnit, say something, man. Are you just going to sit there and torment me.”

Wilcox took a drink of brandy.

“I’ve made enough, you know. I’ve done well. I could find some quiet place to live, even adopt a different name, spend my days anonymously reading, taking long walks in the woods or along the shore. I could pick up some hobby. And at night, at night there is always this. Sweet release. The nepenthe of our age.” He rolled the empty tumbler in his hand.

“What is it you demand of me? Do you take joy in my suffering?”

Wilcox stood and went to the window.

“Look at them all smugly comfortable in their homes. Every day they go about their business just like they did the day before and will the day after that. Did the figures tot out correctly? Is the stock room full? Have the phrases used a hundred times before been deployed once again in the contract drafted today? What relief it must be to have such small worries. What I would give for a life of such quotidian concerns.”

Bartlett spread his hands as if so say, “Go ahead.”

“Don’t give me that.” Wilcox crossed the room and poked the logs in the fire.

“It used to be so easy. And then, well, then you came along. You were the best damn idea I’d ever had – and I knew it. I still know it. I was fired with inspiration. I could see it all – like nothing I had written before, I told myself. And I believed it. The thing is, I still believe it.

“Oh, it started well enough. The first pages almost wrote themselves. First chapter, done in a weekend. The second, finished before the middle of the following week. And then it all began to slow down. I came to my desk later and later every day. I scheduled appointments I did not need – anything to fill my day. But it was always there, and I knew it. And, Wilson – good old Wilson – I’d told him too much. He shared my excitement, my conviction, that this would be my masterpiece. Masterpiece, ha! I lied to him, of course. ‘Finished another chapter.’ ‘Half-way done already, man.’ Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore. Broken lunch dates. A missed dinner or two. An unreturned card or letter. Turns out, it only takes a little neglect can kill a lifelong friendship.

“I began to dust off things I’d written years before. Editors who hadn’t seen a story of mine for years were so eager they overlooked their amateurish – at times frankly adolescent – nature. And then, of course, they began to sour on the drivel I was sending. But they could forgive me, and so could my publisher, for they had all heard – Wilcox is working on something truly impressive. Going to stand out above everything else he’s ever produced.

“And now, this damned tour. Just another chance to live off the fumes of the past. I know it.”

Wilcox buried is face in his hands.

When he looked up, the desk lamp was on.

Bartlett raised his hand, inviting Wilcox to approach the desk.

The arrangement before him was familiar. Pens and ink and pencils and paper set out as they had always been.

Oh, those sweet mornings.

Wilcox unfastened the latch of his briefcase and pulled out a sheaf of papers tied in string.

He took his seat and laid the pages on the blotter.

Fingers trembling, he untied the knot left untouched for years, rifled through the well-worn pages, and set them aside.

He pulled his chair a half inch closer to the desk, and dipped a pen in the inkwell:

Chapter Three

In the mirror above the desk, there was no sign of Bartlett.

He was alone, as it always been.

About the Author

Garrett Bliss lives in Rhode Island where he frequents the library visited by Edgar Allan Poe during his Providence years.

“The Rough Draft” is one of a series of New England Gothic stories set in the fictional Penacook Valley.