The Writer on the River

The Writer on the River

by

Marvin Allan Williams

P

enelope Stone received a startling surprise in the mail. It was an invitation from the grand master of modern literature to become his biographer. What made the invitation so surprising was the simple fact that Arthur MacLeish had never granted an interview in all of his eighty-seven years on the planet. He was infamous for his gruff demeanor and was even more well known for his disdain of all current writers whom he felt were solely responsible for the downfall of modern literature.

“What the hell are they teaching our youth in school now days? The drivel that passes for literature appears to be written by a bunch of illiterate baboons.”

This statement alone was the cause of an outcry by teacher unions, university professors, and a slew of popular authors, all of whom thought Arthur McLeish was a dinosaur, albeit an award-winning dinosaur, with two Pulitzer Prizes for literature. No one could debate that his books were brilliant and had made the author a very rich man. It was his public personal opinions that seemed to rankle just about everyone he had ever come in contact with. So, it was with some reservation that Penelope accepted the great man’s invitation.

Most of what was known about Arthur McLeish was from his early days as an author. It was said that he was almost pathologically shy as a young man. As his fame grew so did his personality and he seemed to relish the attention he received when his first novel was released to critical acclaim. By the time his second novel came out he was wealthy beyond his wildest dreams and was able to purchase an old mansion along the lower Niagara River that was in desperate need of repair. He spent a considerable amount of money restoring the place to its former glory and hired the best gardeners of the time to develop the grounds into a place of beauty.

People who were fortunate enough to be invited to his lavish garden parties remarked that the estate was unrivaled in its beauty. The view of the river gorge was enough to take one’s breath away. It was a good time for the literary set. Authors came from all over to be a part of the writer’s retreats arranged by McLeish. The literary academics from nearby Niagara University were regular visitors. It was a good time for the literary world and it was a good time for Arthur McLeish, until the mysterious death of a young woman said to be the author’s lover and muse. An investigation by police determined that Annabelle “Annie” Holt had committed suicide. Still there were those who thought Arthur McLeish had pushed her to her death.

~~~

P

enelope prepared as best she could for her meeting with Arthur McLeish, but there was scant information on the man or his past. So, as she approached the entrance to his estate, she was quite nervous. She pulled her vintage Volvo up to the call box mounted on one of the massive stone pillars holding a double iron gate. She reached out and pressed the call button and waited for a response. After what seemed like a long time she wondered if the intercom was broken. She was about to try it again when an imposing voice came through the speaker.

“Who is it, and state your business.”

“My name is Penelope Stone and I was invited to be biographer for Mister McLeish.”

There was no response and Penelope began to worry she may not be allowed entrance. Then came a great creaking sound and the iron gates slowly opened. She drove her old Volvo up the long driveway, past well-maintained lawns and gardens. As she drove around the massive fountain centered in the round-about she saw an impressive figure standing at the front entrance to the mansion. She switched off the motor and winced when it didn’t stop immediately, and finally sputtered to a halt.

Damn, some first impression I make.

She grabbed her messenger bag from the passenger seat. It contained her notebook, recorder, tablet computer, and of course her personal things. She slung it over her shoulder as she exited the car and marched, she hoped confidently, to the man standing at the entrance. He looked intimidating. He was tall, muscular under his suit, and had a stern look on his face.

“My name is Barrett. If you will follow me Miss Stone.”

At that he turned and opened the heavy door leading into a large foyer. Penelope was astonished by the grandeur of it. A great oak circular table sat in the middle of marble elegance. On top was a vase filled with fresh flowers adding warmth to the otherwise cold surroundings. There was a circular staircase ascending on either side. She could imagine well-heeled gentry descending from the second-floor balcony to greet their guests. Barrett led her through the foyer, into a grand ballroom, and out onto a magnificent patio overlooking an immaculate lawn. Sitting in a garden chair facing out over the lawn was the great man himself. He neither stood, or faced her, as she and Barrett approached.

“Sir, Miss Penelope Stone.”

Arthur McLeish motioned to a chair on the opposite side of the table.

“Have a seat Miss Stone and tell Barrett what you would like to drink. I’m having an Old Fashioned myself, but Barrett can fix you whatever you like.”

Penelope sat and placed her bag on the ground next to her then looked at Barrett.

“I would like a Cosmo please.”

She then looked at the man she was going to write about. She didn’t know quite what she was expecting, but what she saw took her by surprise. The man was…grubby! There was no other way to describe him. He was wearing old chinos, sandals, and a shirt Hemingway might have worn, if he were in Cuba, not in a mansion on the lower Niagara river in western New York.

“So, Miss Stone I have read some of your work in various magazines and I think you may have learned a thing or two about good writing. That’s why I selected you to write my biography. But I have ground rules.”

Oh, here it comes. He’s going to make it difficult and tell me what I can and can’t write about.

Barrett returned with Penelope’s Cosmopolitan and set it next to her. She picked it up and took a drink.

“First you can ask whatever you want and I will answer you honestly, but you will not editorialize what I say. Second, I get to review the manuscript before anyone else and I have final say whether it gets published. Do you understand and agree to those terms?”

“Yes sir.”

“Okay Penelope, let’s drop the sir bullshit. Call me Arthur. We’re going to be together for quite some time. I’ll have Barrett show you to your room. I trust you brought clothes with you?”

“Yes Arthur, I did. I thought I’d be staying at a hotel somewhere in the city.”

“Nonsense, you don’t need the added expense, and frankly you’re more likely to get the story straight if you can take in my surroundings. Feel free to look around the estate and my home. The only place off limits is my room and the study. If you want to see them you ask first. We’ll start tomorrow. I usually have breakfast here on the patio, weather permitting. You’re welcome to join me. Now finish your drink and I’ll send Barrett out to get you.”

With that Arthur retreated and Penelope noticed he walked with a slight limp. He wasn’t an unattractive man. The only photographs she had seen of him were in his younger days, at the height of his fame. He aged pretty well and she thought he would clean up well. But she wasn’t there to judge him. She finished her drink and was gazing around when Barrett showed himself.

“If you are ready Miss Stone, I will show you to your room and retrieve your belongings from your vehicle.”

~~~

W

hen Penelope awoke the next morning, it was raining a gentle rain. She loved the sound of it and she always liked the way it cleared the air and made everything seem new again. She slipped from the bed and went to the window. It looked out over the back lawn of the mansion. From this height she could see the edge of the property and the great cut that was the lower Niagara gorge. Then she noticed the figure standing at the edge of the gorge. It was Arthur. She pulled on her long coat over her pajamas and went downstairs. She went out into the rain and walked across the lawn in her bare feet. She approached Arthur slowly, not wanting to startle him.

“Arthur, are you okay?”

“You know, this is where she jumped, my Annie. They never did find her body. She was probably carried out into Lake Ontario.”

“Tell me about her Arthur.”

“You’re not ready for that yet. At first, they thought I killed her. That maybe I pushed her to her death, but there was no evidence to support that theory. No matter. They had no idea how much I loved her. That I would have given my own life to save her, and I could have saved her if I hadn’t been so blind.”

“What did you mean when you said I wasn’t ready for that yet?”

Arthur ignored the question.

“You know when I was a young man of maybe sixteen, I used to walk in the rain on Falls Street in the city. I daydreamed that one day I would be a great writer. Being filled with teenage angst and melancholy I believed walking along in the rain was my way of suffering for my art. Of course, it was all drivel, my ideas and my writing. It took many years and many depressing episodes of life to make writing possible for me.”

Arthur turned and looked at Penelope.

“You’re not dressed to be out in this rain. You’re still in your nightclothes, and in your bare feet.”

“I love being in the rain. It makes me happy Arthur.”

“Yes, I suppose it would. It only makes sense.”

“I’m confused,” said Penelope. “What does that mean?”

“All in good time my dear. Let’s go up to the house and have some breakfast, shall we?”

They walked back to the house in silence. Penelope wondering about this mysterious man and wanting to know more about him, and more importantly, to know what went on inside his head. She went back to her room and showered. The hot water felt good on her skin. She dried herself and dressed. She grabbed her recorder from her bag. When she went down Arthur was already seated at a small table in the solarium. Penelope joined him as he poured her coffee.

“Is coffee okay, or would you prefer tea?”

“No, coffee is great.”

“Barrett will be bringing us breakfast soon. So, I suppose I should begin at the beginning of my story.”

Penelope took her recorder from her pocket, turned it on, and set it on the table.

“You don’t mind if I record our conversations, do you?”

“No, not at all.”

Arthur told of his growing up in the city and the places he would frequent. He said his father worked in a factory and he rarely saw him. After work he would frequent the local bars with the other men. His mother toiled at being a good 1950s housewife and raising a painfully shy son. He smiled when he told how she would sing while working around the house. Those were his happy moments. Then there were the terrifying scenes when his father came home drunk. Arthur would hide in his room as he listened to his parents’ fight. The yelling made him even more withdrawn. It was a scene that would repeat itself over the years. By the time he was a teenager he began to rebel. His grades in school were abysmal and he took up smoking at an early age. He thought it made him grown up. He desperately wanted to be grown up and out on his own. One of his teachers said he had, “a stinking rotten attitude and no pride.” He actually took pride in that statement. There were fights, many fights. He took his frustrations out on those he fought, and if they got the better of him, he relished the pain.

“That’s all for today I’m tired,” said Arthur. “Feel free to roam around if you like,” and with that he disappeared into his study.

It was early afternoon and Penelope decided she wanted to visit some of the places Arthur talked about. She wanted to try and get more of an understanding of this man who went from blue collar kid to a famous author. She notified Barrett that she was going into the city and would return before dinner. She drove past the great old homes that were part of a different world than the one Arthur knew and ascended the escarpment road up and to the grittier world to which he had been accustomed.

The city of Niagara Falls was, and still is, a tourist destination, but not in the way of those memories he talked about. It went from a small town with little shops selling trinkets and mementos, and edged with factories, to a sad shell of its former self. The factories were mostly gone or re-purposed for some other industry, and the little shops were replaced with theme restaurants and nightspots, and even a casino.

What a disappointment. None of the places Arthur told me about even exist anymore. I want to feel what he felt, see what he saw. And what of Annie? The woman he loved so much.

She returned to the mansion. To the well-manicured world of that lonely old man. She had so much to learn and she wasn’t leaving until she knew it all. Maybe, she thought, it was because she knew very little about her own past. Regardless, she was fascinated by this man, this writer the world could only conjecture about.

Inside the glorious house she discovered Arthur was still unavailable. She decided to explore. She went from one glamorous room to another. The place was filled with fine furnishings and expensive art. The world of writing had provided nicely for Arthur McLeish. In what would be considered the parlor, or living room, for middle-class folks like herself, she found a portrait hanging over the fireplace. It was large and the woman in it was divinely beautiful. She stood fascinated by the woman looking back at her. She seemed almost familiar.

“That is Miss Annabelle Holt. Quite beautiful, wasn’t she?”

Penelope turned around and saw Barrett standing a few feet from her.

“Sorry if I startled you Miss Stone. I wanted to inform you that Mister McLeish wants to see you in his study. I’ll show you the way.”

With that he turned and walked away with Penelope falling in step behind him.

Someone should hang a bell around that man’s neck. He seems to appear out of nowhere.

Barrett held the door open for her and then closed it behind her. She saw Arthur sitting in a big leather wing backed chair next to a round oak table.

“Join me please,” and he motioned to the chair on the other side of the table. “I’m having brandy, would you like one?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve never had brandy before.”

“Well then you must try it,” and at that he poured a snifter for her. She sat in the chair and picked up the glass, brought it to her nose and sniffed. Then she took a sip. It warmed as it made its way to her stomach.

“Very nice,” she said.

Arthur smiled and took a drink also. Penelope looked at some of the things on the table between them. There were a few photographs in pewter frames. One was of him being presented with the Nobel Prize, another of him talking with Kurt Vonnegut, but the one that really caught her attention was a photo of him at a party. The woman draped around his neck was the same woman in the portrait over the fireplace. She pointed to the photograph and looked at Arthur.

“She was quite the woman,” said Arthur. “Never could understand what she saw in me, but she always made me feel special. She was my muse and my best critic. If she thought my writing wasn’t up to snuff, she would be the first one to tell me so. She was unaffected by my fame.”

“How did you meet her?”

“Ah well, I had regular parties here during the early years. Mainly people from the literary world and some from academia. Everyone loves a good party, especially when the food and the booze were free. It allowed me to make contacts and it was an excuse to break free of the drudgery of writing. It’s a lonely existence. Hours spent with no one to talk to, except the voices in one’s head. I guess you could say the parties allowed me to meet with real people. None were more real than my Annie. She had accompanied someone from the university and amongst all the hilarity and drinking going on, she looked absolutely bored to tears.”

“Did you and her hit it off right away?”

“Oh, heavens no, I was the hot young writer so full of himself. Everyone wanted to come to my parties and it seemed they found me interesting. So, it was when I approached Annie. I thought she would fall under my spell also. Boy was I in for a surprise. It seemed nothing I said to her did anything but reinforce her low opinion of me. It wasn’t until I asked her why she was so put off by me that I got my answer. Do you know what she said?”

Penelope shook her head, “No what did she say?”

“She said, ‘I’m waiting for the real you to come out. Not the guy with all the lines. The one hiding behind a facade bolstered by drink,’ “Well that knocked me back down to size. I spent the rest of the evening talking with her, not at her, like I did with everyone else. I told her things about myself I never told anyone, and over the months she became my friend, my muse, and eventually my lover. It was the happiest time of my life.”

Arthur suddenly became sullen, tears welled in his eyes.

“I’m not feeling well,” he said. “We’ll have to finish our conversation later, or maybe tomorrow. I think I will go lie down.”

Shortly after Penelope saw Barrett carrying a tray with pill bottles up the staircase.

What is wrong with this man? I’ve never seen so many pills.

Penelope took the opportunity to look around the study. There were books, some of which were first editions, and there was a journal of some sort that had a locked clasp.

What I would give to get a look at that treasure.

She picked the journal up and ran her hand over the sculpted leather. It was hand stitched and was an amazing work of art in itself.

“Miss, you shouldn’t be in here when the master is not with you.”

Penelope gave a start and spun around to face Barrett. She was still holding the journal.

“Christ, you’re going to give me a heart attack if you keep doing that,” she said.

“That Miss, is personal and you shouldn’t be handling it,” and with that Barrett took it from her and placed it back in its place. With that he turned and left the room. Penelope looked around once more and then left the study closing the door behind her.

~~~

T

he next morning Penelope joined Arthur in the sun-room for breakfast. He was in very good spirits.

“I’m afraid I haven’t been much help to you in writing the bio about me, so what do you want to know?”

“I tried to visit some of the places you told me about so I could better understand you and they no longer exist,” said Penelope.

“Ah, yes. It’s been awhile since I’ve been out in the real world. What do you say we take in a little sightseeing?”

With that he rang a bell and the ever-faithful Barrett magically appeared.

“Barrett please bring the sedan around to the front. Penelope and I are going out for a while.”

Barrett left the room and Arthur and her finished their breakfast. Penelope thought that Arthur was at times complicated, and at other times down to earth. There was so much she needed to know about him if she were to do a good job of writing his biography.

“Dear, might I suggest that you wear something a little more down to earth. Maybe jeans and a casual shirt. I’ll meet you back down here in say fifteen minutes.”

What is this man up to?

When Penelope returned to the sun-room Arthur looked like all the blue-collar men she grew up around. Arthur led her out the front door and there in the drive was a nondescript Ford sedan. He held the door open for her and she slid inside. When he got in behind the wheel, she looked at him.

“This certainly isn’t what I expected from someone of your stature.”

“You have so much to learn about me my dear. Where we are going a fancy car wouldn’t do.”

The whole time they drove she kept looking at this enigma of a man. Who is this man really? Arthur took her to a small bar on the outskirts of the city.

“What is this place,” she asked?

“This was one of the places my father used to spend a lot of time in. He brought me here as a small lad and I would drink orange soda and eat Beer Nuts while he drank his beer.”

To Penelope the place smelled of stale beer and sweat. She looked around and saw men who looked like they were trying to drink until they could forget. There was an occasional conversation and a few lewd jokes. Mostly it was a means of escape. These were men trying to forget the day to day existence they found themselves in. She noticed Arthur seemed to be at ease here. He even joined in on some of the drunken banter. Then he suddenly rose from his perch on the barstool and beckoned for her to follow him. Outside he turned to her.

“There are a number of places like this and any one of those men could be like my father. They go to work in places that most assuredly will lead to an early grave. But they have families to provide for, and they come here to forget the dreams they had for themselves, and that they left behind.”

With that he held the door open to the sedan for Penelope as she wondered who was this man? At times a famous author, and at others, a working-class gentleman who still held a door open for a lady.

Their next stop was a small sandwich shop that seemed to be very popular. There was quite a line waiting to order. When they finally got to the front of the line, he ordered for both of them.

“Two steak and cheese please, with fries.” With that they waited and then took their order and returned to the car. They drove a couple of miles to a small park. Arthur went to the trunk of the car and retrieved a basket and a blanket. He spread the blanket in a shady spot under a tree and set the basket on the blanket. From the basket he drew two beers. He removed the caps and handed one to Penelope. They ate and drank in silence for a while.

“This is where my mother would take me and we would eat while she tried to explain my father to me. It is important to me for you to know where I come from. I wasn’t born into money and I certainly didn’t think I would ever be the person I am now.”

He became quiet again and she could tell he was contemplating something. Then he spoke.

“There were stories written about me. Untrue stories.

“About what,” asked Penelope?”

“That I was the reason Annie died. That maybe I killed her. That I pushed her to her death. I need you to believe I had nothing to do with it other than I didn’t listen to her. For that I am guilty. That’s why you’re here, to know the truth.”

“The truth about what?”

“You’re not ready yet, but soon. Soon I will tell you everything. I need you to hear the whole story first.”

~~~

P

enelope had a restless night. Her dreams were of the mysterious Annie. There was something digging at her. Something she couldn’t get a handle on. She rose from her bed and put her dressing gown on and then went downstairs to the parlor. She stood looking at the large portrait of Annabelle Holt.

“Who are you? Why are you haunting my dreams?”

She half expected the woman in the painting to answer her, but of course that was ludicrous. She had to start digging more into the story of Annie’s death. She returned to her room with a renewed determination. Tomorrow she would try to get some answers. She drifted off into sleep and there were no further dreams.

When she woke the following morning, the sun was beaming in her window. It made her feel like it might be a good day. She looked at the clock on the bedside table and was surprised to find it was nearly ten. When she had showered and dressed, she went downstairs only to find Barrett waiting to greet her.

“I trust miss slept well?”

“I did, thank you Barrett. Is Mister McLeish available?”

“No miss, he had an appointment this morning. Would you like breakfast?”

“No thank you, I’m going to go out and I’ll grab something while I’m gone. I should be back in a few hours if my old car doesn’t leave me stranded.”

“Very well miss. The master had his personal mechanic give your vehicle a good going over and I think you will find it is in tip-top shape.”

Penelope was delighted when she started the old Volvo and it purred like a well-fed kitten. She drove out of the estate and headed into the city. She found the public library and parked off the street. She went inside where she found a quiet corner and removed her laptop from her bag and set it on the table. When it booted up, she searched for the Niagara Gazette and clicked on the section for the archives. She could have done this on the estate, but she wanted to make sure her search wasn’t discovered by Arthur, or his ever-faithful man servant Barrett.

 She searched for anything related to Annabelle Holt. To her delight she retrieved a myriad amount of information. Annabelle, or Annie as Arthur liked to call her, was a local girl brought up in the Deveaux historic neighborhood of mostly doctors and lawyers. She attended a Catholic girl’s school and left suddenly before graduation. The next mention of her was of her years at Niagara University studying English language and literature.

Why would Annabelle leave so suddenly before graduation? There must be more to the story than I can find here. I have to ask Arthur.

Penelope found more about Annie and her studies at Niagara University which must have led here to Arthur. An author right in her own backyard, and a famous one to boot.

I must ask Arthur about this. Why is he being so secretive about a woman he supposedly loved so much? I have to be more assertive if I’m going to get this story right.

~~~

P

enelope woke to a knocking at her door.

“Come in,” she said.

Barrett entered with a look of sadness on his face.

“Miss, I’m afraid the master passed away in his sleep last night. The funeral home has already taken him to prepare for his last wish. When you are ready, please come to the master’s study.”

Barrett turned and closed the door behind him. Penelope was stunned and felt a tear running down her cheek. She rose from the bed and put her dressing gown on. As she descended the stairs and walked to the study, she felt a sadness that Arthur’s story would never be told. Not now, and probably ever.

When she entered the study, she saw Arthur’s ornate journal sitting in the middle of his desk. Barrett entered the study carrying a tray with a pot of coffee and a meager breakfast. He placed it on the edge of the desk and then motioned for Penelope to take a seat at the desk. She quietly went and sat in the big leather chair.

“The master wanted me to give you this,” he said as he handed her a small silver key. “Everything you want to know is in that journal.”

Having said that, he left the study.

Penelope looked around the room with its impressive collection of books and the smell of polished wood. She then looked at the key in her hand and shakily put it in the lock on the journal. She turned the key and the clasp opened. She opened the cover and began to read, her heart pounding in her chest.

“My dear Penelope, I have known for quite some time that I was dying. I have made arrangements for my departure from this earth and everything you need to know is in this journal. Every question you have will be answered in these pages.”

Penelope took a deep breath and exhaled to calm herself. Her hand was still shaking when she turned the page.

“First you should know that I have left my home, my money, and the rights to all of my books to you. Everything that was mine is now yours. It is my hope that you would keep Barrett on to help you navigate through the life you are now going to travel. The rest of this journal will give you a detailed account of my life and that of Annabelle Holt, your mother.”

She sat back in the big chair and sobbed. Could it be that the woman who stared down at her from the portrait in the parlor was indeed the mother she never knew. Penelope wiped the tears from her eyes and poured some coffee.

I’m not sure there is coffee strong enough to help me get through this, she thought.

She spotted the small table along the wall that held several decanters. She went to it and found the one holding brandy. She carried it, and a snifter back to the desk, poured a generous amount into the glass and took a drink. It warmed as it traveled to her uneasy stomach. A few more sips and she was ready to continue reading the story.

She read about Arthur and Annie’s life together. After many hours she came to understand why Annie had left school early, it was to have the baby she would sadly give up. It was the beginning of Penelope’s story. She also discovered Arthur’s reason for leaving everything to her. He felt responsible for Annie’s suicide. He felt he should have seen how important it was for Annie to find the daughter she gave up. Leaving everything to her was his way of ensuring Annie’s daughter would have a life of ease. She also read Arthur’s last wish.

Penelope went to the parlor and looked at the portrait of Annabelle “Annie” Holt. She then realized that the woman she had looked at a number of times was an image of a more mature self. The questions she had held most of her life were now answered. Now it was time to start the next chapter of her life. She rang for Barrett.

“Yes miss,” he said as he entered the parlor.

“I hope you will stay on and be as good a friend to me as you were with Arthur.”

“It would be my honor miss.”

“Please call me Penelope,” she said.

“Yes miss,” he replied.

Penelope just smiled. “I believe we should make sure Arthur’s last wish is honored; don’t you think?”

“Yes miss,” and for the first time Penelope saw Barrett smile.

~~~

I

t was an overcast day with a drizzle of rain as Penelope and Barrett stood at the edge of the estate overlooking the lower river. It was the spot where Penelope had joined Arthur as he remembered the loss of his sweet Annie. She read in his journal that Annie always liked the rain.

Penelope opened the urn and scattered Arthur’s ashes to the river below where Annie ended her life.

“I believe they are now together,” said Penelope.

“Indeed, they are,” said Barrett.