Maplecroft (7 page)

The skin. The eyes. The lumbering, clumsy look—as if they lacked full control of their faculties, or their senses were
somehow dulled. Matthew’s condition was not yet as severe as Abigail’s had become, but I could see it in his face. I could see it in his shambling movements. A more severe case of the Borden problem was working its way into his body, into his blood.

I fastened the front door with more precision than was necessary, and dashed upstairs to my office, where I kept notes, files, paperwork. Things to remind myself of patient histories, and records that might assist authorities in case of a plague.

In Europe, physicians and civil servants have been tracking disease outbreaks for decades, beginning with the cholera epidemics in London. Records compiled by doctors, clergymen, postmen, and others have proven invaluable to the study of how sickness spreads, and my own interest in the subject had prompted me to collect such day-to-day details and write them down. I’d begun perhaps five years before, recording basic information and keeping it in files after reading about the efforts of a Dublin doctor to do the same in the slums of that city. I had no slums for the studying, but I had Fall River and I knew its population.

I didn’t honestly believe that any of my short notations would ever be as important as London’s Ghost Map. No, certainly not. But I liked to think that one day my notes might benefit some researcher, somewhere.

My drawers and files had fallen into disarray, relative to how neatly they were kept when my wife was alive. Such is the way of things, all order passing into chaos, given time enough. But even so, I soon found what I was looking for: a few sheets of paper stuffed into a folder, labeled “Ab. Bord.”—to distinguish her from Andrew but to preserve some measure of anonymity for the families whose well-being I observed.

(Privately,
I assumed that any serious researcher would have no difficulty teasing out the particulars of my patients; but I liked to think that my little abbreviations would at least give me some protection, if any of those patients were to learn of my notes and take objection to them.)

My
notes frustrated me. They were incomplete, and woefully so—through no one’s fault but my own.

Upon my first visits with Abigail Borden, I had recorded everything from her temperature to her breathing rate, but as her condition deteriorated . . . it’s as I said before. I was paying less and less attention, for I was distracted by the family drama that played out across the street.

I was deeply annoyed because the notes revealed that I’d become complacent and lazy, and that I have not always performed my job to the best of my ability.

When did that begin? When did I go from the ideals and optimism, and the intent engagement of youth, to the apathy of age?

I’m not so old yet as to be feeble or infirm. I’m scarcely in my sixties, and though my hair goes whiter by the year, I still
feel
like a healthy man with a sturdy constitution.

Granted, men with sturdy constitutions and feelings of health drop dead every day, and this should sober me. But it sobers me less than the awareness that I’m slipping, in my way. Maybe not my strength of body, but strength of character—or professional responsibility.

Disgusted, I stuffed the notes back into their sleeve. They told me nothing, and they would never tell anyone anything. I’d done too poor a job. I’d done nothing more than waste my time,
and the time of any future readers who might stumble across my pitiful recollections.

On second thought, I decided I could spare one of us, at least.

I reached into the drawer and pulled out everything I could carry, and then I opened the next drawer and retrieved its contents, too. Everything that would fit in my arms I hauled downstairs, over to the fireplace—which had burned down low due to inattention. But it blazed bright when the first loose leaves of paper went over the grate and into the coals.

I’d wasted enough, and I would waste no more. No more time, no more vainglorious scribbling for posterity, serving nothing and no one.

And while my collection of trifles burned, I sat at my writing desk and I began to record in earnest every single thing—every impression, every suspicion, and every half-recalled idea—I’d ever known about Abigail Borden and Matthew Granger.

S
EPTEMBER
22, 1893

The question is not “What is wrong?”

A closer query would be “What is different?” or “What is changing?”

Something is changing. Something is shifting, or slipping. I want to ask if I’m losing my mind, but who would answer? How on earth can I step outside my brain and ask it to evaluate, with all fairness, its effectiveness as a body-governing device?

It might only lie to me. How would I know?

And I can’t rely upon the opinions of my peers; this much is certain. They’ve been all too happy for all too many years,
calling me daft. They’ll be no help at all, now that the question has seriously reared itself.

Then again, I don’t
want
any help.

I’m feeling quite well, if occasionally light-headed. I don’t believe I’m suffering from any illness or cancerous complaint. Nothing more dire than a peculiar clarity at times, and a warm resonance at others.

The resonance is difficult to describe. It tugs at me, an intermittent sensation as if I’m being lured. No, invited. Or even more precisely,
welcomed
. I’m not yet certain what brings this on, though I’m considering a series of experiments. The resonance is not quite repeatable at my command, but it’s consistent enough to call a symptom. I will prod at it like a soreness in a tooth, pinpointing the trouble with my tongue until I know where the problem lies.

But there I go again, calling it something it’s not.

This is no
problem
. This is only a condition, and a not altogether unpleasant one. I mentioned the clarity, did I not? I’m remembering things with greater sharpness, more vividly, with more significant contrast around all the edges. Something unusual is at work. I’m confident of that if nothing else.

I’ve begun to track my dietary intake, writing down every bite I take in the back of this journal. If these new feelings and facts are the result of some change in my meals (as I suspect may be the case), then I intend to catch it. All I have to do is recognize the pattern, or the new introduction to my
usual
pattern. Then I’ll find it.

Maybe I’ll add a second set of pages to the end of this volume, wherein I record the symptoms of resonance. Do they happen most often when I am indoors, or out? When I’m at the university, or at my home? Where do they come from, these flashes
of . . . of overwhelming desire . . . of
yearning
, as if for someone or something who yearns for me in return?

I’ll describe it yet.

I suspect I’d better—my students are grumbling more than usual (and honestly, drat the ungrateful lot of them). They’ve been grousing to the dean that I’m becoming unresponsive, not making my office hours, and grading unfairly. Not a new complaint in the lot, but the volume has raised some interest. I don’t care for it, but there’s only so much I can do. I’ll carry on, teach my courses, and evaluate the brats as fairly as possible.

Yesterday
in one of the elementary biology classes, there was an incident.

Dr. Warner thinks the fault lies with me. He says that it’s a matter of my pride, and my obvious disdain for the students. He chided me to be more patient with them, for they are first-years, and still learning their way around the university and their coursework. He asked me what had changed, and if anything was wrong.

It is as I have said. Nothing is wrong.

But I’m sick to death of being patient with them. I’ve always been patient with them, for years upon years—as long as I’ve been at Miskatonic—and the time has come for a raising of the bar. It’s an utter waste of my abilities, dealing with the first-years and their inadequacies!

One outstandingly inadequate youth is named Theodore. He is a small weasel of a lad, intelligent without being wise—and very quick to spout whatever is on his mind. It’s as if there’s no one at all working the drawbridge between his brain and his mouth. He’s been trouble since his first class, and he’s trouble now, and he’s trying to bring the trouble to me.

Should I have attacked him? A noble man might say “no,” behave in a penitent fashion, and hope for the least of all possible reprimands. The question, then, is whether I am more noble or less for refusing to pretend I did not intend to harm him.

For I
did
intend to harm him. And why not? He intended to insult
me
. An eye for an eye, or so it’s been said. I will not quibble here, in my own papers, over whether or not a moral injury and a physical one can suitably correspond. I was justified. We’ll leave it at that.

Theodore Minton, youngest son of a haberdasher from someplace no one cares about, I’m certain, stood up in class and accused me of mortal sins. Even the least puritan left among us in the region can understand the offense I took. He attributed unto me
sloth
, saying he’d caught me sleepwalking in the halls between the chemistry lab and the biology department on Monday afternoon.

I was not present in these offices on Monday afternoon, and therefore could not possibly be guilty of this offense. I told him as much.

He insisted that he’d come to ask my help with regard to one of the upcoming assignments, and that I’d rebuffed him with violence—pushing him into a door, and sending him sprawling. Then, he asserted, he’d gone to seek the department head . . . to tell him what, I wonder? That he was a weakling and a coward, a feeble, frail, useless little twig of a not-quite-man who’d been bullied by a fellow almost old enough to be his father?

(Which of course, did not happen. As I have said. For I was not present.)

I haven’t the slightest notion of what went through the whelp’s mind when he made this claim in front of the classroom,
God, and everyone else within hearing distance, but I
will not tolerate disrespect
.

He came too close; that is what happened. He put his face too near to mine, and his eyes were earnest—What an actor he must be! Perhaps science is the wrong discipline for him—and he tried to say that I had not been this way in the previous semester, when he’d taken the first round of my introductory biology course. Babbling, he said that everyone knew it, and no one understood it, but that he was taking his concerns to the top of the university’s administration if I did not resume my previous demeanor.

“What
previous demeanor
?” I demanded to know. Nothing has changed in my classrooms, except that each season the boys are stupider and the classes feel longer; those are the only differences.

Something insipid fell out of his mouth, some diatribe couched in terms of concern for my well-being, suggesting that in prior months (before the summer leave) I had been more patient, more perceptive, and more willing to assist the young men who were my charges. He then was so bold as to inquire after my health, and went on to make accusations about my pallor—for neither that, nor my demeanor, either, was satisfactory to this wretched snake of a character.

I do not remember the precise words that moved me from where I stood, listening angrily, to up against him, with my hands on his throat.

But his classmates intervened—treacherous idiots, the lot of them—and someone ran out into the hall, where the lumberjack-sized (and -brained) Dr. Greer was dragged into the altercation, effectively bringing it to a close.

I was sent home like a naughty schoolboy, ostensibly to rest and recover, and to consider my actions.

Fine, then. I consider them.

While I consider them, and consider how grand it felt to squeeze the boy’s pulse in his throat, as he struggled against my grip, I consider what on earth could have prompted him to make his unfair, unfounded accusations. What have I ever done to him, prior to this afternoon? Nothing, and that’s another fact which has gone overlooked altogether by my superiors. I’ve never shown him anything but the fondest feelings of paternal kindness, in my efforts to instruct him.

I too am an actor, and a good one in my own right.

But. As I replay the events, today’s and those which remain alleged . . . I am forced to wonder. I struggle to recall. What
was
I doing on Monday afternoon? Where was I? What inane, ordinary set of tasks did I perform? They must have been ordinary indeed to have slipped so precipitously from my memory.

I’m sure I was reading essays, or otherwise considering the grades of the same ungrateful slugs who watched me warily as I made my exit.

The last thing I recall with any great certainty is mundane enough to imply that the rest of my day was equally so. I was at home, in the office I’ve made for myself on the second floor, where I keep my samples, my supplies, research volumes, my periodicals. I was reading, I believe.

I was reading, and the window was open, and I fancied that I could smell the ocean.

L
ETTER
ADDRESSED
TO
L
IZBETH
A. B
ORDEN
, F
ALL
R
IVER
, M
ASS
., M
ARCH
29, 1894

You’re wrong, you know: I don’t need your parties, your money, or even your smile—keep all that to yourself, and it makes no difference to me. I’ve never asked you to put on a show; if you’re unhappy, be unhappy and I’ll be right there with you, doing my best to change the situation. I lie for a living—I don’t need more lies cluttering up my leisure time. Even the gentle sort, offered with good intentions.

Your insistence that I should stay away from Fall River “for my own good” is nonsense. I’d like to say we both know that, but perhaps it’s only me, after all. Perhaps you honestly feel you’re doing me some favor, by sending me away like a nervous child to a boarding school, for my own protection and well-being.

Unfortunately for you (but of dear happiness to me!) I am
not
a child, and I cannot be dismissed so summarily. Therefore, let this letter serve as formal notice that I am coming to visit!

Not in this next week or two, but surely by the end of April. You may expect that I’ll stay a few days or more, and I won’t hear any protests to the contrary. You miss me. I know you do! I couldn’t
possibly
miss you so thoroughly as I do, if it’s all for naught and unreciprocated. I refuse to believe in a God so cruel as that.

(He’s plenty cruel enough as it is, don’t you think?)

Oh, Lizbeth, if you had any idea, these last few months . . . it’s been a nightmare. The whirlwind kind, where you’re tossed about from place to place, and can’t remember anyone’s name, or any of your lines . . . and the curtain is about to rise. They’re the worst nightmares of all, the kind you can’t wake up from—when it’s all too real, and I’m all too awake, and none of this is anyone’s fault but my own.

I could’ve taken the winter off, you know. I could’ve stayed in my apartment and rested, or I might’ve even sneaked into town to see you. For just one party, perhaps? Just a few short nights, and then back to New York on the train. You could’ve come with me, if you liked. They’re different about things, in the city. I could tell you I loved you, if I wanted, and not worry so much that someone might overhear.

But I
didn’t
take the winter off. And you
didn’t
come to New York. And now I’m stuck here by my own design. This season, all the blame can lie with me. I took the second play, when I should’ve thrown my hands into the air and pleaded exhaustion.

(It would’ve gotten me out of
The Wanderer
, anyway. I mostly took that one because the director wants to arrange
Sappho
sometime this summer, and I want him to be happy with me, so he’ll keep me in mind; but it wasn’t a project that was
near or dear to my heart, and I would have happily skipped it otherwise.)

And now, when I’m almost too tired to hold a pen and write this note, I have all these second, third, and fourth thoughts about the matter.

I should’ve sent Peter to Cathy Francisco or Mabel Lee. Either one of them would’ve done a perfect job in the role he wanted. And by “perfect” I mean, neither of them is a better actress than I am, and he wouldn’t prefer either of them over me.

But no. I’m too frightened of being without work. Acting is such a terrible business! If only I’d been bitten by some other bug . . . but it’s too late for that now, isn’t it?

It’s a permanent worry, I swear. Never confident of the next year’s employment, always in fear that the critics will hate you—and even more afraid they won’t notice you at all. It’s a system designed to tug and batter at one’s vanity. That’s why, I think, so many vain fools survive it.

Sometimes I worry that I’m not vain enough, and this is making me ill, or unnecessarily frantic. I don’t want to be unnecessarily frantic. I want to be calm, and quiet, with you in that lovely little town that leaves you alone. At least for a few days. Well, however long it takes for me to recover from this terrible exhaustion that’s settled so deep into my bones.

I know you said I’d find no respite from exhaustion with you, and I’m not sure if you’re making a joke or being morbid. Sometimes in your letters, I simply can’t tell.

This is why we must speak face-to-face, quietly, over drinks in that wonderful parlor. We can sip scotch or whichever wine you have on hand (you still haven’t shown me that cellar, and I’m beginning to take offense). We’ll turn the lights low, let the fire burn down—for I doubt it will be so cold, by the time I
arrive. And I can tell you everything about these last two plays. And you can tell me everything that’s bothering you. All the things that make you want to push me away. I
demand
to hear them, no matter how dark they might drive the conversation. I’ll listen. I’ll do nothing
but
listen. I feel like I always talk—for the benefit of others, as often as not. I don’t even use my own words.

It’s tiresome. I’d rather listen to yours.

I doubt your sister would care to join us, but you must invite her. I wish she liked me better. You love her and I love you, but therein lies the problem, doesn’t it? At any rate, I’m sorry. I’ll leave it alone. This is meant to be a happy letter, not a reproachful one.

I am looking forward—not backward!

Backward is a grim, unpleasant place. If there are worse gossips or backbiters than actresses, anywhere on the face of the earth . . . I’m not sure I’d believe it. Wicked fiends, the lot of them—surpassed only by directors, whose evil nature is exceeded only by the pen-fiddlers who write for the papers, and tell the world of our triumphs but describe them as the most dismal of failures.

I’ve just now reread what I’ve composed so far. If I had more paper at my immediate disposal, I’d throw these sheets away and begin again. I’m rambling, and doing so with embarrassing inconsistency.

I’m tired, Lizbeth. That’s the root of it all.

The days are so long in the theater company. Twenty-four hours, and they want them all. Half the week I sleep atop a pile of costumes backstage, with a bottle in my hand (if I’m lucky) or your letters (if I’m luckier still). Then I awaken when the first hands arrive, or Mary and I often do—and sometimes Anne stays, too. They expect the most from us, more even than they want from their leading men.

And look, now I’m sulking.

Forgive me. I’ll stop wasting ink, and wasting paper.

This is a happy letter, because it announces that soon, you and I will be together. And we will drink and sleep and make whatever sort of merry we please. It will be lovely, and it will last as long as we like.

Don’t bother to write and tell me to stay. It won’t work. I’m well past taking “no” for an answer. If you turn me away, it will kill me. Maybe that would please your sister, but I don’t think it’s what
you
want.

I wouldn’t ask you to choose between us. There’s no reason you ought to, and no reason you have to. We’re grown women, she and I, and we will behave accordingly.

I will see you shortly! So shortly . . . another two weeks, and then however long it takes to pack and book the train tickets. I’ll send a telegram in advance of my arrival, so you’ll know when to pick me up.

All my love, of course. Always.

GL (though don’t you dare address me
so.)