“Ashley?---Ashley!” a man called from the other side and he knocked on the door with force. She opened the door and saw her landlord standing there about to rap again.
“Oh!” He exclaimed. He was a small nebbishy little man in a drab sweater and khakis, horn rimmed glasses and worn saddle shoes left over from high school….probably from the sixties. She glared at him as she adjusted her T-shirt.
“I’m sorry to bother---I’m not bothering you, am I?” He asked innocently. She did not answer but continued to glare. “Well, I’m concerned about the rat problem---you know we have a rat problem.”
“uh-huh.” She said.
“Have you seen any?” He asked.
“In the street, sure.” She answered.
“No I mean in the building.” He replied.
“So far I haven’t seen any rats but I have seen a few mice.” She answered in her drawl.
“You have to make sure that you put your grains like cereal and bread into the ice box. That’s what I do and I take the trash outside every night before I go to bed so there is nothing for anything to nibble on.” He explained.
“Uh-huh.” She mumbled.
“They just run races in the backyard. Have you seen them out the window? ---I have, JESUS! GOD! They repulse me.” And he quivered and shook as if a cockroach ran right up his back. She started to close her door and smile nicely but he thrust his arm through.
“Wait.” He said. “Oh, I’m sorry.” And he removed his arm. “The reason I came by is to tell you that the exterminator will be by today about three o’clock. It’s a preventative measure…Will you be home?”
“Probably not.” Ashley said and she started to close the door again.
“Well, then I’ll let myself in if you don’t answer.” He replied his face moving in tandem with the closing door.
“Whatever.” She said and the door clicked as it hit the latch. She moved back into her kitchen and gazed at the clock as she sipped the remnants of her morning coffee. It was about eleven. Martha Stewart was on. She could paint for four hours and then go for a walk while the pest control man sprayed the apartment. Or she could treat herself to the Met. Then she thought about the woman who seemed frail and upset at the historic house a week or so before. Maybe she should make some peanut butter cookies and take them by. That might make her feel better, she thought. Oh. But what if she didn’t like peanut butter. Southern people like peanuts so it was a no brainer when she lived in North Carolina. S’mores. Mmmm s’mores, yes. She’d make two batches. One for the woman in the old house and one for herself. She started going through her pie-safe like a woman obsessed. She needed marshmallows, of course. She needed graham crackers, chocolate and maybe even a touch of whiskey to give ‘em a kick. Vanilla. Did she have vanilla? Just then the phone rang. She was about to let it go to voice mail and then she thought maybe she should answer. She looked at the number on the fourth ring and did not recognize it. Telemarketer? Maybe. What the hell. “Hello?” Someone was on the other line but it crackled and hissed. “Hello?”
“Ashley.” A woman said.
“Yes?”
“It’s Chelsea.”
“Oh, heeey.” Ashley replied sweetly. “How are you?”
“I’m good. I, I’ve been wanting to call you for a while but I’ve been under deadline on a few things.” She said apologetically.
“Oh that’s alright. People get busy.” Ashley said as she continued searching for vanilla.
“Anyway, I know I promised that I would look through the archives at work for you.” Chelsea said.
“You did?” Ashley seemed surprised. She couldn’t quite remember what for.
“Um, you know, you told me about that painter Richard Rhys.”
“Oh my god---yes. Yes!” She said.
“Well, I found some information at the Public Library oddly enough.” She answered.
“You did?” Ashley cooed.
“Yep. So…” Chelsea said trying to form the next words. “Hey, would you be up for having dinner or something tonight?”
“Um, hold on. Let me check something.” Ashley said and she looked at her calendar that remained blank for days on end. “Yeah, I think I can swing it. What time?”
“Six?” Chelsea said.
“I, um, well, I have to run an errand and deliver some baked goods here in Brooklyn. Can you do seven?” Ashley replied.
“Sure…yeah, sure I can do seven. Meet me at Rafaella on twenty-first and ninth.” Chelsea said.
“You got it. I’ll see you then.” Ashley said and she hung up the phone. Just then she spied the small bottle of vanilla. AHA!
While Ashley was busy talking with her landlord Richard realized that Nell had hung his suit there on the door knob. He got up quickly, grabbed his clothes and tip-toed into a small anti-room. It was the bathroom. He looked at the commode for some time thinking that chamber pots had certainly come a long way. This woman must be rich, he thought. She doesn’t have any appropriate clothes but she has an exquisite toilet. It was all so confusing. He dressed quickly and tried to tame his thick black hair.
“Nell!” He said. “Nell?” Nell scurried up to the bathroom door.
“We’re not supposed to be here!” She said and she looked around nervously.
“You keep saying that. Stop saying that.” Richard instructed.
“It’s true.” She said.
“If we’re not supposed to be here then where, pray tell, are we ‘supposed’ to be?” He asked.
“I don’t know.” She said and she looked frightened.
“You look positively petrified.” He said as he straightened his tie. “I must find my way back to the Library.”
“Why?” Nell asked. He turned and gave her a look. She never asked why before.
“Because I need to see Victoria and that is where I saw her last.” He said.
“I don’t think she’s there. She’s very worried about you, sir.” She answered.
“Nonetheless, I shall make my way to the Public Library this afternoon.” He said.
“Yes sir.” Nell replied obediently. Just then Ashley walked between them. Richard and Nell remained stiff like statues and waited for Ashley to say something like ‘what are you two strange people doing in my house?’ followed by a scream.
“I don’t think she can see us.” Nell whispered. Richard put a finger to his lips and remained frozen. Ashley pulled her shorts down and sat on the toilet.
“Two boxes of graham crackers should do it. A bag of marshmallows---butter, I need butter…and…” She said to herself. Richard was shocked and he moved slowly and deliberately to step out of the loo.
“My god!” He said exasperated. “She has no modesty whatsoever.”
“She can’t see us.” Nell explained. “We’ve invaded her privacy. We should go and leave the poor dear in peace.”
“Do you know how to get to the library?” Richard asked. Nell just shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. “Well it can’t be that hard. I assume the trains are running. We’ll make our way to Wall Street and go from there.” He said as he stepped towards the door.
Chelsea made one last phone call out in front of the New York public library before entering.
“Is Patricia Niall in, please? Sure. I’ll hold.” She stood for a moment watching tourists gawk over the tremendous granite lions that marked the entrance to the building.
“Hi. Miz Niall. It’s Chelsea Barrett…Yes, one of the writers. I wanted to discuss doing an interview with Damien Hirst….I know just about everyone has…uh-huh….uh-huh…I know the slicing and dicing animal stuff is old news…Sure…Well? I have a different angle on him…I want to piggy back another piece with the Hirst article…I’d rather speak in person if that’s alright with you…Tomorrow? Sure. Thank you.” As she hung up she made a thumbs up sign and sauntered inside. Weeks before she had discovered the volume with the old photograph of Mr. Rhys, but since the Library was about to close she was unable to read through the letters and other clippings and today she decided she would a take a long lunch break and continue her sleuthing. Her investigative work at the city morgue archives uncovered what he died of and now she wanted to find out personal things about him. The letters might reveal how he felt and expressed himself about current affairs or simply about Mrs. Thornton. She felt as though she were tapping away at the tip of an iceberg. Chelsea could very well rediscover a major artistic talent and it could make her career. It might even be made into a movie. She giggled at the thought. Strangely enough she felt even more excited about telling Ashley all the information she had uncovered thus far.
Angela the archivist escorted Chelsea to the area where the records were kept.
“Let me know if I can assist you.” Angela offered as she peeled off her white cotton gloves. The room was brisk and musty. The only lights in the room were the overhead fluorescents. Chelsea hated fluorescents. They cast a weird spectrum and took the healthy pallor away from people and things. She opened the volume and held the old tintype of Richard in her hand. There was something extremely familiar about him and again a feeling of sadness washed over her. She wished he were still alive so that she could talk to him. She carefully moved the clippings and began to sift through the papers. She untied the ribbon that held a group of letters together. She studied the perfect cursive forms of his handwriting. No one wrote like that these days anymore. No one cared enough about how a letter is hand executed. On the back of one of the letters she discovered a small sketch. It was exquisite. It reminded her of Sargent. Written beneath in faded pencil, “My dearest Victoria, my love beyond all loves.” It was a portrait of Victoria herself, a very intimate rendering of sipping tea in the garden, perhaps. Something about it made her heart swell. She felt strangely emotional about it. Chelsea prided herself on being able to control her feelings. Standing before masterpieces that take one’s breath away like Van Gogh’s Starry Night or Courbet’s, The Painter’s Studio and Goya’s The Shootings of May Third in Madrid elicited waves of excitement and a kind of overwhelming satisfaction. But this particular piece of art brought tears. Not tears laden from sadness but tears somehow laced with joy and discovery.
Richard entered through the front doors of the New York Public Library. People looked at him strangely and he wondered why they stared in rapt fascination. He nervously straightened his tie and smoothed his frock coat. It was a warm spring day and his black wool suit seemed out of place, but he felt a constant chill and almost wished he had brought his over coat with him. At times he could even see his breath. He moved up the stairs that lead to the second floor balcony over the Rose Main Reading Room. It was the expansive ornate room that was more akin to a cathedral than a place of research. At the end of one of the balconies he saw the closed off door that led to the rehearsal area where Booth had been working. Curious, he wondered if Booth was still there. He slowly turned the handle and the door opened with ease. He peeked in to find the room had completely changed. There was a grand wooden desk in the center with windows looking out onto a vast green lawn. Portraits of regal men hung in gold leaf frames. He recognized one as being George Washington. Suddenly an extremely tall, thin man with a beard entered and sat down at his desk. He was completely entranced with his own thoughts. Contemplative and even a bit melancholy the gentleman held his head in his hands for some time as Richard stood there watching him. He looked up and his grey eyes were piercing and majestic. He studied Richard for a moment as a sudden realization swept over him.
“Why did you do it?” He asked resignedly.
“Sir?” Richard answered confused. At that moment he realized he was in the presence of Mr. Lincoln.
“The war was over. It was a time of mending.” Lincoln said. “How could you do that to my wife---in front of my wife?”
“It wasn’t me!” Richard exclaimed as he stepped closer. “People say I look like Booth, but I’m not Booth. My Name is Rhys.” Lincoln studied him for a moment.
“Oh…well then. What can I do for you, Mr. Rhys?” Lincoln said and his voice was soft.
“Oh, Nothing, sir. I was just looking for my wife.” Richard answered. “But since I’m here I do have a question.” Lincoln sat up and looked him in the eye. “Why did the war have to go on for so long?” The president took in a long breath and he turned the words over in his mind for quite a long moment. Then he looked at Richard.
“I honestly don’t know. I wish I could answer you. I wish with all my heart that it would have been over at that first Bull Run.” Then he turned and looked over the correspondence on his desk. Richard was almost completely out the door when the President added, “Your wife isn’t here. She is at your estate.” Richard nodded and turned. “She’s very worried about you.” Lincoln gazed at him sternly.
“Thank you, sir.” Richard said and he slipped away quickly. His heart was racing. He had just seen Abraham Lincoln in the oval office. It was a thrill beyond his wildest imagination. He had wanted to ask that question since he was a boy. What would Martin Tosher think about it? He wished he could tell Martin.
He moved to the room where the old maps hung on the wall. As he opened the door he could see his wife sitting at the long wooden table. She held a letter in her hands and her eyes were red and moist. She set it down and the tears flowed easily. He quietly moved towards her and sat across from her.
“What is it?” He asked. But she did not answer. She was caught up in her own pensive thoughts. He looked down to see the letter and it was from him. He turned it and scanned the words. It was a love letter he had written while she was away on one of her lecture circuits. He wondered why she seemed so melancholy as the words were filled with hope and optimism and the beginning of a life together. There were plans for renovating the Grove Street house and collecting furniture crafted from the best artisans in Europe. Victoria had even considered using Louis Comfort Tiffany’s glassworks in the manor house. Then he flipped it over to find the quick little drawing he had done of her a week or so before. It brought a smile to his face. For once the rendering was done he and Victoria had gone upstairs and he had made love to her once again. It was the moment of conception for their second child.
He placed his hand on hers and after a time she drew it away and wrapped her arms about herself as if she had caught a chill.
“Victoria?” He said. She could not hear him. He could see his breath again and he grew ever more concerned. She glanced at her timepiece and quickly put the volume of memorabilia away.
“Victoria?” He tried again. And again she did not respond. “I will make you hear me!” He said. And he followed her out of the room and through the library. He would follow her wherever she went even if it took another hundred years.
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