John Finn

by Vincent McCaffrey

  Peter Hansen removed his boots and nestled his aching body deep into the hay in the loft of the barn. With his head back, he could see through a crack in the boards, and this allowed him to study the house. He could see no lights. But it was late and there was the likelihood that anyone there might have fallen asleep and their candle burned out. His thoughts shifted as he moved his sore leg to find a kind spot . . . What if? What if the house was empty? What might he find? It was a substantial house. There might be anything in there, awaiting his hand. As tired as he was, he could not sleep on the thought of that. With or without the gun, Dezell would laugh at him for his useless venture if he returned with no silver at all. She would tease until he hit her down again. She could never help herself from making fun of him.

  ​Suddenly a ghost appeared there in the moonlight of the yard, moving to the door. He turned onto his belly with a start and pushed his eyes closer to the crack. It was a woman. She had walked up alone from the Cambridge Road and entered the house without a hesitation. Obviously, in the way she acted, it was her home. He waited for voices. There was only silence.

  ​The barn was empty of animals. He could smell the fresh leavings of a cow, but the animals had been taken away. Whoever lived here had left at least the day before. Perhaps in anticipation of the turmoil. The house had been left empty. And now they had come back . . . No. Just this woman. Alone. What was the chance of that?

  ​He heard the clank of metal from inside. Still no voices. No fire. No candle. He waited.

  ​His eyes began to close before he saw a flare of light.

  ​After a few more moments he saw the flicker of a flame come to rest close at the rear window. Still no other light. He looked to the chimney top for smoke. He had not taken note of this before. He should have. There was nothing there. Not a wisp. Nothing else moved. No voices.

  She was alone.

  ​At last the door opened again with a small blaze of light. She had a small torch in her hand as she stepped into the yard and headed for the well as if to find water but did not stop there. She came on further, directly toward him. She was coming all the way to the barn.

  ​He shifted in the hay and watched her enter below him. First, she tried to hold the small torch with one hand while pulling at the side-planks on a stall with the other. The planks were well nailed. The torch burned low. Then she turned a metal water bucket upside down and laid her torch handle over this and so that she could use both hands for the planking, pulling several free. She was a strong girl. Fair. Well filled!

  It occurred to him that he could offer to help her. But how would he say that. From above. Like the voice of God. It would certainly frighten her enough to make her scream. Or run. It would bring the neighbors.

  ​No. Now he had another idea.

  Cary Peet turned up the road to the Andrews house with a feeling of relief. His walk from Boston had taken four hours. He had not slept well the night before and his legs felt leaden.

  By habit he turned his body through an often used opening in the fence to catch the short cut up by the barn toward the house. He felt relieved now. He was home at last and would lay down on his bench in the kitchen without fussing. There was no Mrs. Andrews here to tell him to wash. No Mary to remind him of his prayers.

  He heard a noise then—perhaps a door—but saw no light as yet. Not until he was in the deeper shadow of the barn itself. It was there his eye caught the gilt of a flame at the kitchen window. It must be Mary, he thought. Returned. Safe, thank God. Where had she run off to?

  Almost as quick as the thought, he heard a cry. Not from the house, but close, from inside the barn.

  He jumped a second fence in a vault and pushed at the side door. Across from him, in an odd flicker of light close to the floor, he could see a woman’s body that appeared to be naked. A shadow passed before the larger door that stood open toward the house. For a moment Cary was frozen by the apparition. A silent ghost.

  And then, from the dark close by, a darker shape swung upward at him, tipped with a silver edge.

  32. The way it is

  ​There was no happy end to it that I could see.

  Tom Browne would have returned the next morning, the first chance he had, from his post with the rebel forces at Charlestown Neck. He found Mary was not at home. At his brother’s house he learned that Mary had left the night before. He checked with neighbors and then went to his own home to speak with his mother and father before returning to duty.

  ​Tom’s father promised to check for Mary, as he did each noon afterward, walking the mile and back before dinner. But the Andrews house remained abandoned. And in the weeks that followed, the house was vandalized repeatedly. Finally, there was a fire. Perhaps accidental.

  Mary Andrews was never seen again.

  Tom Browne made saddles and harness for the next forty-seven years, died a bachelor, and was buried now in the same ground with the others who had died before him on that morning so long before.

  Peter Hansen was hung on Boston Common, but for other crimes—likely even for destroying other lives.

  What happiness could I invent out of that?

  James Crockett would read my story and throw it back in my face.

  I could hear him.

  “What’s this?” he’d say. “You want your readers to cut their wrists?”

  What could I say? “It’s the way it was. There was no happy ending to it.”

  Crockett wouldn’t accept that. “Make one up, for God’s sake!”

  I would object. “No. It happened this way. The story’s done. That’s the way it ends.”

  He would laugh out loud. The other faces at the bar would turn toward us. “You want an agent? You want me to be your agent? Then find an end to it that doesn’t make the reader feel like shit.”

  I was depressed.

  For the umpteenth time I toyed with the idea of making my poor lost Mary the evil one. If she were the seductress, the liar, the cheat, Mary’s death would not be mourned. But I saw her as none of those things. I saw her as the unfortunate victim of evil and circumstance, a tragic figure on the periphery of larger events. Better than the average for her courage, but of the same common stuff that made her neighbors. I saw her as resourceful to the end. And certainly, worthy of the love of Tom Browne. A good woman with dreams of better things who meant well and did her best. She had not fought in battle, but wasn’t there room for her in the history of that day? She was not a true heroine only for lack the chance. But to invest her with heroic intentions would be as false as making her a villain.

  And then there was Cary. Too young to be the intentional hero. Certainly, a boy of courage. His role was as lost as the dreams he had shared with those of his family who were gone before him.

  There were certainly heroes that day. Tom Browne, surely. He had risen to the first sounds of the regulars as they came through Menotomy in the dark of night and was one of many heroes then. He had willingly faced his enemy, knowing what it might cost. And, importantly to me, he had held his love fast and true to the end.

  Rebecca would agree with me, I thought.

  Knowing what the truth was, was always worth the price with her.

  Last week, as I was coming close to the end of the story and still looking for alternatives, she had made her case clear enough about that.

  What was wrong with me, she had asked. “You said that writing made you happy. You don’t look happy.”

  I tried telling her, not at all sure she would understand.

  “I’m a little depressed, I guess. The way it turned out. It’s not a happy end. I’m just not European enough to find satisfaction in misery.”

  She laughed. Not all that common with her. She’s much too serious about nearly everything. She’s more European by nature I suppose.

  She said, “That’s a load of crap. Is it the story that you’re unhappy with, or is it yourself?”

  Right to the point.

  “I suppose I’m responsible for a good deal of it
either way.”

  Rebecca wasn’t buying.

  “Yeah. You are. It’s all your fault. Mary Andrews got herself killed and thrown down a well. And your other girlfriend disappeared without saying goodbye.”

  Again, to the point. Until that moment I had forgotten Rebecca had been on the fencing team in college.

  There was a risk in going into that other territory, but it was clear that Rebecca wanted to deal with it. I said, “What if she’s dead and lying in a ditch somewhere? Shouldn’t I want to know?”

  I got the distinct feeling of being a student before the teacher again.

  She gave that idea barely a nod, “But you’re going about this backwards. All wrong. You should do what any good scientist would do when faced with insufficient data. Make it up! . . . Ho! That’s what a novelist does as well, isn’t it? What a coincidence!” She smiled falsely then. But not a smirk. More like one of her movie character faces. “Look. Even in the most proscribed circumstance, the possibilities are usually infinite. If you don’t think so, you aren’t looking hard enough.” She lectures well. I paid attention. She had her theme. She followed it. “Science isn’t about following every possibility. It’s about finding the one that fits the need. That’s all . . . don’t frown. That’s not blasphemy. It’s a fact. Admit what it is you would most like the answer to be and then follow that line first. If you disprove that answer, then go to the next best possibility. And then the next. Keep going until you’ve eliminated every other possibility, or you’re too tired to continue. What’s the point of looking anywhere else for answers when you know the one you really want? Go there first. If it proves false, then move on. Try them all, if you must. If you can. But when you’ve done it, it’s done.”

  I think I was smiling pretty broadly by then. “I can’t get you to read any novels. How do you know what it’s like writing a novel?”

  I knew her answer. I’d heard it before. “I don’t like magic. Pulling a rabbit out of a hat is just a trick. Science is not a trick. It’s hard work. All I’m saying is that there is a human element to the process. We make choices. That’s what you do when you’re writing, isn’t it? And I’m just saying that you ought to look at the answers you’d be happy with before you go looking anyplace else. That’s the only rational thing to do.” She waited. But I hadn’t caught up. She was out of patience with me. “Isn’t it? So, what do you want? Do you want to prove Desiree is dead, or alive?”

  Of course, I had thought she was talking about Mary Andrews. She waited for my answer without a flinch. I answered, hesitating only because it was so obvious I felt stupid about it.

  “Alive.”

  She said, “Then stop trying to find her dead. Just try to find her. It’s the surest way to find your answer . . . And mine.”

  Burley finally returned home from Bodega Bay today. Gone little more than a week. He just showed up this morning without a phone call. He knows I do my writing in the morning, so he knew I’d be there.

  ​He had taken the train back. Paid for a sleeper. Odd, I thought. Given the urgency of money and time and my own worry.

  ​I had to ask, “How long did that take?”

  ​“Three days.”

  ​I was jealous. My own journeys years ago were all by bus or by thumb. Greyhound was the best I could afford.

  ​“Was it worth it?”

  ​His smile was enough to confirm that fact.

  “Yeah. I spent most of the time talking to the porters. I’ve never done that before. You know. It sort’a gave me a little insight into my grandfather’s life. I told them how he used to work on the Baltimore and Ohio. That broke the ice. They all said it wasn’t the same any more, but they had lots of stories. You should have been there. You’d have wanted to write all that down. Great stories.”

  ​My jealousy ballooned.

  ​“They probably wouldn’t have told you the stories with me around. People won’t talk about such things to just anybody. But I’m glad you got to hear it . . . And besides. Now you can re-tell them to me over a few beers.”

  “More than a few. It was three days, remember.”

  He wanted to make it hurt. I had dragged him away from his lady love, and he had simply made the most of it.

  I said, “But now, tell me what happened? What did you find out about Des?”

  ​He shook his head, the smile suddenly gone. “I don’t know if I can.”

  ​He hadn’t called. This was why. The trip was a failure. My best hopes were dashed. Nice word, ‘dashed’. Broken. Destroyed. One doesn’t get a chance to use a word like that very often.

  ​I said, “Did you find anything out at all?”

  ​I had sent him to find Desiree. I felt sure she would be there. It just needed a pair of eyes that knew what they were looking for. I was not sure I had the right to do that myself. She had run away from me, after all—from me as well as the rest of it. But she had never met Burley.

  ​He said, “Yeah. And I think I found out what you wanted.”

  ​My disappointment stuck in my throat. I was choking on my own negativity.

  ​Burley looked pretty uncomfortable himself. And I had no idea what was going on.

  I finally said, “Did you see her?”

  Burley was sitting across the table in my apartment, nursing the last of my orange juice out of a coffee cup. When I asked him if he had seen her, he looked at the Van Gogh print with the feathers in the frame and squinted as if the light was a little too bright.

  He said, “You know how you once told me that you wouldn’t go back? How you wouldn’t want to go back in time if you could, to do it all over again, because you were sure you’d just make the same stupid mistakes?”

  It seems to me that was too many beers ago to be remembering. It was not a thought I had written down, in any case. Not yet.

  “I guess that’s right. I think that’s right. You can’t rewrite it. I guess that’s what makes fiction just fiction.”

  It was as much of the thought as I could put together at the moment. It seemed to me I had told him this once, but I couldn’t be sure. Besides, Burley’s lack of expression was annoying me then. What was I supposed to make out of that?

  He said, “Well, Mr. John. I think you were generally correct. Some things you can’t redo. There’s no delete button. It’s done. But some things—” he rocked his head with the idea, “But some things you can. Some things you can start all over again. You can’t start from the beginning, but you can pick up what’s left. Like me and Therese. Maybe not fresh, but you can re-write what’s left. Just like one of your stories.”

  He had that smile on his face then. The one that says he’s got the answer.

  All I could say was, “Yeah.” It sort of took my breath away for a minute. “Is that it then? That’s it? That’s the answer?”

  He said, “Yes.”

  I had to ask, “Where is she?”

  He shook his head. “You had it right. But I’m not going to tell you anything more. You might get stupid one day and spoil it. You might try to re-write it when it’s fine just the way it is.”

  But that was good enough. She was alive. I could write the rest in my head. She had gone back to where her life had taken a turn for the worse, and where she had been too briefly happy; to the place where she had married a man she loved—the man who had died in the car she was driving. She had to face that. She was brave enough for that now, maybe.

  That ending was good enough.

  I said it out loud. “I’m not looking to interfere. I just wanted to know. I love her. I just want to know she’s okay.”

  Burley looked back at the feathers. “I think she might even be happy.”

  “You spoke to her?”

  He hesitated, looking at me.

  “Yes.”

  I was curious how he had gone about finding her. Maybe he’d tell me that story sometime too. But it was good to know just that much.

  “And she’s not calling herself 'Desiree,' any longer?”
/>   “No. Just Maggie.”

  And that meant she might have picked up on her married name as well, which was why I had been unable to trace her.

  I said, “But I think her mother would like to know that. Someday.”

  He said, “That would be good. But that’s up to her, isn’t it? Someday.”

  And I hoped her husband Daniel’s family were not far away. I could certainly hope that they had forgiven her for the loss of their son. And then the thing that had never occurred to me before dawned. Caught me stupid again. Gobsmacked. A near perfect word for it.

  Certainly, she had lied to me about being married for a reason. The lie was larger than that. Part of what she had been running away from at least as much as herself. I said that thought out loud as well and added, “Was her child there?”

  Burley smiled and nodded. He didn’t know I had never guessed it before.

  “Yeah. I think she’d been living with the grandparents.”

  So, it was done. Or begun again. But either way, there was nothing else for me to write about it.

  ***

  About the author

  It is hard to be serious about so unserious a subject as oneself. Though I now live in New Hampshire, I was born in New York City and raised there, with intermissions in South Carolina. I have had a fair number of mundane jobs through the years, from mowing lawns to shoveling snow and house painting—all of it good material for stories. My favorite of those occupations was being a night clerk at several hotels, which is the background to a failed novel that I will continue to work until I get it right. For higher education I attended an experimental college in the hills of Vermont (it was all the rage at the time and another good subject for a novel). For an all too brief period of about ten years, I was a publisher, an editor, and chief window-washer for several publications produced under the aegis of Avenue Victor Hugo, the new and used bookshop I conducted on Newbury Street in Boston for most of my life. Hound was my first published novel, issued by Small Beer Press, along with its sequel, Slepyng Hound to Wake. I have completed seven others (some begun well before Hound was conceived), two novellas, and two books worth of short stories, none of which has found a home elsewhere, so now, I have begun to publish again for myself. One historical mystery, The Dark Heart of Night, as well as the science fiction adventure, The knight’s tale, a story of the future, are already available through the mighty Amazon. In order to keep the bills paid, I will continue to sell books through our on-line bookshop as well as the physical site of our barn in Lee. Amazingly, my dear family has been, for the most part, quite tolerant of all this.