The Typewriter Girl

by J. L. Jarvis

  They would cling, spent and trembling on rumpled bed clothing, in awe of the love with which they were inexorably bound. He would know she was his, as surely as he knew he was hers.

  At eye level, on a shelf in the kitchen, where he would not fail to see it, Henrietta left him a bottle of laudanum. He took a generous dose. He then made his way to the study, where he drank a more generous dose of scotch whiskey.

  The next morning, Henrietta found him sprawled on the floor of the study, empty bottle and Shadow beside him. She left him to wake on his own, and let the dog out the back door. When he opened his red-rimmed eyes, the day was half gone, and he felt half dead. But he dragged himself up, took a bath, and forced down some dry toast, which he washed down with scotch. By mid-afternoon, he was on his way to the station to catch a train headed for Boston. From there, he would catch another train down to Newport, and look for her there.

  Nearly missing the train, he arrived at the station and ran to make it onboard. As he opened the door, the coach jostled and upset his stomach. He let the door close and, cursing, vomited between the train cars.

  In Newport, he rented a buggy and rode up Bellevue to her house. It was a long way to go to have the door slammed in his face. “Good to see you, too, Gwendolyn.”

  He drove along the ocean and back in through town and along the harbor. He walked past sailboats and yachts. He asked around. Everyone knew who she was. Between her running away and the trial publicity, they knew her—and some of them recognized him.

  He secured a pint of scotch in town and boarded a train. In the back of the train car, he sat quietly drinking. An old woman glanced back with disgust as she caught sight of him lifting the bottle. He gave her a lopsided smile. But he inwardly berated himself. “You’re not in the Yukon. These are civilized people.” He looked out the window and saw his reflection. “Aw, fuck ‘em.” And he lifted the pint to his mouth.

  As though hearing his thoughts, or perhaps he had muttered them, the woman looked back again. With a swoop, she took her two grandchildren in tow and moved up to the next car, which suited him well. There was still half a pint. Now at least he could finish it in peace.

  The next day, a letter arrived from the hired detective in Buffalo. He had checked all the typewriting agencies, as well as the businesses downtown. Hotels and boarding houses had turned up nothing. He checked hospitals, church soup kitchens, and even the red light districts. To continue, he would need more money.

  While Benjamin wrote out the check, the thought stabbed at him. Red light district? His Emma? Would she rather do that than marry him? He stuffed the check into the envelope and scribbled out the address.

  He picked up a letter from his editor friend and tossed it, unopened, back onto the desk. How could he write without Emma? He looked at the typewriter table, the papers all tidy, just like she had left them. He tried to remember her sitting right there, but her features had blurred and it troubled him now. He should remember each facial trait instead of watching them fade into mist.

  He went to the window and leaned on the frame. She had walked right down there on that first night like an ethereal beauty that could not have been real. But she was. He had reached out and touched her, and wanted her more than he thought he could want. Now the water reflected the sunlight like piercing, bright slivers of glass to remind him how harsh life really was. His eyes stung from the brilliance. He yanked the drapes closed.

  At this moment, she might be in another dark room somewhere, letting some man use her body. It would kill her inside, and him more. He could not let himself think of her like that.

  After the last drop of the laudanum splashed into his scotch, he drank it all down in a gulp. Pacing the length of the room, all he thought of was Emma. He wanted to find her and tell her whatever happened that night wasn’t her fault. He couldn’t remember it, but he knew in his gut that she would never have hurt him. He would find her and tell her. They would get through this. Of course, he forgave her. There was nothing to forgive, but he knew her. She would need to hear it from him. He had to find her. But each day she was lost to him more. Every lead, every faint possibility, ended with no sign of hope.

  Racking sorrow began to subside as the drug took control of his senses, so mercifully sweet. He sat down and lay his head back, but a thought nagged at him. The grief might be gone, but so was Emma, and this was not bringing him closer to her.

  “I’ve got to look for her myself. Maybe then I would find her.” But the room was so dark and serene. “What’s the use when I’ve lost her already?” He murmured it softly, content to have rest without sleep. It wasn’t so bad now. It wasn’t so bad.

  Benjamin woke in the study. The pain of his loss had come back with a force that was worse than before. He could not live without her. Anxiety, until now an unfamiliar emotion, tormented him. Emma needed him. He had to find her. He had to do something. The restlessness would not be willed away. He had to go out.

  As he rose, muscles ached, getting worse with each step he climbed up to his room. He glanced at the mirror in passing and halted, dismayed by the face that stared back. His skin, etched in gray, looked more like dried parchment. Hollow eyes stared at him. He turned, too appalled to look further. Just a bath and a shave, that was all that he needed. Despair hung in the air. How it stalked him and taunted him just like before. He had grieved over Daniel for months. The scotch whiskey had gotten him through that, but this time it was worse. This was Emma. He loved her too much.

  Benjamin managed to dress to go out. Go out where? Where was she? He would go back to Buffalo and see what that detective was doing. Two of them could cover twice the ground. Staying here did him no good. He resolved to get on the next train. He packed a bag and went down to tell Henrietta where he was going. As he walked into the kitchen, he saw a fresh bottle in the place of the bottle of laudanum he had finished. It disturbed him, that bottle. He watched it and wrestled for the will to walk past it.

  He reached slowly and picked up the bottle. Lifting the lid drew the scent to his nostrils to seduce him and taunt him for his weakness. His eyes shut as he drew in a breath. It would be so much easier to give in and let this take away the pain. The smooth curves of the laudanum’s bottle proved as tempting as the seductive round places on even the most exquisite woman’s body. Ah, but Emma was more than a body. Her soft beauty was deeper than that. She was tender and strong, and he loved her.

  “I might never see her again,” he whispered, too soft to hear, “and the bottle is here.”

  Benjamin stared at the bottle and knew that his pain could feel better, at least for a while. But a deeper idea had already lodged itself into his mind. Emma needed him now. He could not let her down.

  The door opened. With a swish of her skirts, Henrietta entered. Startled, she quickly recovered and replied to his questioning look that he gave her, the bottle in hand. “Oh, I saw you’d run out.”

  She proceeded to set down some herbs she had picked from the garden. Her shoulders jerked at the sound of the shattering bottle. Shards of glass scattered all over the sink and the floor. Henrietta warily approached, her eyes wide and alert.

  “That’s okay.”

  Benjamin barely moved as he glared at her, seething.

  Tiny muscles surrounding Henrietta’s eyes tensed and deepened small lines, but she spoke in a voice that was careful and calm.

  “I’ll just clean up this mess.” She moved fluidly, picking up the large pieces, then sweeping the smaller ones up with a whisk broom. All the while, Benjamin watched her. She avoided his stare, which grew harder to do as the strain charged the air. As she swept the glass onto the dustpan, he leaned with both fists on the counter. She took it in with a sideways glance, and went on with her task. She was closing the broom closet door when he walked over to her. Her expression was calm, but taut muscles turned her mouth downward.

  With a gaze of forged steel, he locked onto her eyes until she averted them. Flitting her eyes back, but unable to meet his gaze
for more than a moment, she forced a smile. With a cheery tone, she said, “Benjamin. You look frayed. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll make you some tea?”

  In a voice that was even and dark, he said, “I want you out of my house.”

  “Benjamin?” She tried to sound innocent, but her face would not match her intention. She glanced about nervously.

  “What are you waiting for, Henrietta?”

  “Nothing.” She dipped her chin down and looked up in with a helpless demureness that failed to appeal.

  Her eyes darted away and returned for another attempt. “Oh, Benjamin. It breaks my heart to see you like this. I know how it is to lose someone you loved, but—”

  “Not loved. I love her.”

  Her veneer melted. “Yes, I know. I love Daniel, but he’s gone, too.”

  For a split second, the guilt found its target. His clenched jaw flexed as reddish tones crept into his cheeks.

  She watched him with caution and took a step back, then she turned and said softly, “I know just what you need.” She went to the pantry and emerged with a bottle of Graves Pectoral Compound.

  “This will take care of that headache and tension. Look at you. You’re wound tight as a drum.”

  Benjamin watched her pour a generous portion into a glass.

  She glanced up to see if he was watching. “Don’t worry. It’s all vegetable. Even children take it.” She set down the bottle.

  He looked at the glass as she handed it to him. He lifted it to his nose and breathed in its aroma.

  Henrietta looked pleased.

  “You know, Henrietta, you look a little tense yourself.”

  Before she could react, he grabbed hold of the yellow bundle of hair at the base of her neck. With a yank, he tilted her head back and poured the drink into her mouth until she reflexively gulped. When she moved, he gripped tighter and said, “Don’t worry. It’s all vegetable. Even children can take it.”

  The liquid trickled down her cheeks and her chin, but he would not let go until she had finished the glass. He released her with a shove. She grabbed hold of the table to steady herself. He snatched up the bottle and read to her, “Eighteen percent alcohol and ten grains of opium per quart bottle. It’s too bad. It’ll take more than that to cure what’s wrong with you.”

  “Benjamin, I was trying to help.”

  “You do want to help me, don’t you?”

  “That’s all I want,” she said, almost sincerely.

  “Then get the hell out of my house.”

  “Benjamin, what have I done? We’ve been friends for so long.”

  “Long enough. Now get out!”

  “But my things.”

  “I’ll send them on later.”

  “But—”

  He shoved the bottle into her hand and grabbed hold of her arm. After dragging her out to her buggy, he gave the horse a good slap on the rump to send them on their way.

  Inside, he wiped up the splashes of medicine and lifted the rag to his nostrils. He slowly inhaled. “God damn it to Hell!” He watched the liquid form rivulets and he wanted to reach out and taste it before it was gone, but he threw the rag into the sink and pumped water to rinse it and rinse it again until every trace of the liquid was gone.

  The next morning, Benjamin flew out the door in a fervor. He rode into town and was on the next train bound for Buffalo. Taking a seat in the emptiest car, he pulled out some manuscript pages. He wrote a few lines and examined the scrawling. It wasn’t as pretty as Emma’s typewritten pages, but he would finish what he and Emma had started. He had wasted months after returning from the Gold Rush. Guilt had ruled him—guilt and self-pity. Then Emma came into his life. He would find her again. He would no longer hide behind laudanum or scotch whiskey. He would search in the daylight and into the evening. And when he came back at the end of the day, he would write. He would finish the book he had started with Emma. The last pages would not be typewritten by Emma’s gentle hands, but he would scrawl it in ink or in pencil or blood until he had control of his life, and had Emma beside him.

  He leaned over the pages as the sound of the train masked the furious scratching of pencil on paper.

  Four weeks passed. Benjamin rode his horse back from town, once more defeated. No one at the railroad station had seen Emma board a train. If not by train, she had to have gone over land. The lake would have been too rough to travel in a small boat from the shoreline near his house. No one along the road had seen a young woman on foot. Wherever she went, someone had to have given her a ride. If she made it to Lake Erie, she might have gone by a larger boat over the border to Canada, but no one by her name or description had purchased boat passage from anywhere within miles. There was no trail. There was no Emma.

  The detective placed ads in newspapers across the U.S. and Canada. She, or someone who knew her, might see one and notify them. He did not expect Emma to do so. She left not intending to return. There was no way to know in which direction she had gone. This was done by design. If she had wanted to be found, they would have found her. By now she was far too well hidden or too far away.

  It was some small relief to Benjamin that nothing had turned up at police stations, hospitals or asylums in Western New York. There was no record of an Emma Farlowe or Madding, or even a Jane Doe close to her description. They’d checked the records of all public institutions for the past month. The detective would continue his search as long as Benjamin paid him, but he offered little hope.

  Benjamin arrived home and was greeted by Shadow, who followed him into the kitchen. He found Mrs. Dowling down on her hands and knees, looking under the oven. She sat up with a start.

  “Mr. Stark! You scared the daylights out of me! You shouldn’t do that to a woman my age!”

  “Mrs. Dowling, forgive me. I know it’s a shock for a woman just barely forty.”

  “You’re a terrible liar,” she said with a grin. Taking the hand he offered to help her stand up, she thanked him.

  “Can I help you with something?” he asked.

  “Oh, it’s my keys. I thought I might have dropped them. I misplace them at least once a week. They’ll turn up.” She dismissed it with a wave. “Can I get you some coffee?”

  Benjamin turned his chair sideways and sat at the table, stretching his legs out to rest on the next chair. He heard all about her sister’s hip. Oh, the trouble she was, the poor dear. But now Mrs. Dowling was back and ready to get the household back into shape.

  As efficient as ever, she brought him his coffee, sat down, folded her arms, and then got to the point. “What happened to Miss Farlowe?”

  He looked at her frankly and said, “I don’t know.” He explained what he did know, and she listened with a look so concerned that it made the pain worse.

  When they had talked it all through, he withdrew to his study and pulled the door silently closed. The typewriter table was waiting for Emma’s return. The window missed her silhouette. He walked over and drew the draperies closed. Whatever bits of light seeped in at the edges did not travel far, but diffused quickly to cast an eerie dimness on the room. It brought to mind the dark days in the Klondike. How different he’d been in those days. Others had quit and gone home empty handed, but Benjamin Stark persevered. Nothing stopped him back then.

  He reached into his drawer and grasped hold of the bottle of scotch. With only a brief hesitation, he pulled it out and took a long drink. A mounted bear’s head stared down from the wall. “Remember those days?” he said to the bear as he took one more drink. He swung his feet onto the desk and leaned back, with the bottle in hand.

  “Back then, I knew what to do, and I did it. But what do I do now? I’ve traveled the Chilkoot in weather so cold that my piss froze on the way to the ground. I did what I needed to do to survive, because I was going to finish what I’d started. I never set out to prove anything. I was there to mine gold, and I wasn’t about to give up just because the damn day and the day after that were too cold. Back then I knew what to do.”
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br />   He looked at the typewriter, longing to see her there, clacking away at the typewriter keys. God, how that used to annoy him. That noise once filled the room until he thought he’d go mad. He sank back into the leather desk chair.

  “But I didn’t go mad.” Where was she? Why had she left him? “Why, Emma? Why did you do it?”

  Why didn’t she know that he would have held her and made it all better? Because she knew that he couldn’t have.

  He no longer knew what to do. This was new. It was not in his nature to sit back and be helpless. He did things, made them happen. He was known for it, known for conquering adventures that cowed lesser men.

  He looked up at the bear he had slain with a knife in his hands. He had never set out to do it. He did it because he knew that only one of them was going to survive their chance meeting. He looked up at the glass eyed bear with a puzzled expression.

  “How do you lose? I don’t know how to.”

  Days began to go by unnoticed. For Benjamin, days were no different from nights. With the laudanum gone, he returned to his old friend, scotch whiskey. He drank until he slept or passed out, then woke up to drink more.

  “I’m fit to be tied,” said Mrs. Dowling as she opened the door.

  Fletcher Van Elden walked in. “I had no idea.”

  “You’re his friend,” she said, as though that made him clairvoyant.

  “No one told me,” he said pointedly.