The Rough Draft

There was something familiar about the man sitting alone on the station bench reading a carefully folded newspaper. 

Nelson Wilcox had the unsettling sense of somehow knowing – and yet never having met – the man. It was not a case of having “seen him somewhere before.” This might appear to be a seemingly immaterial difference, but to Wilcox, a man whose livelihood depended on finding the correct phrase; in capturing elusive truth in precise prose, it was an important distinction. 

The station clock told Wilcox he had several minutes remaining to board his train, and, this being mid-morning of an unremarkable weekday, the station was far from crowded. In short, there was no compelling need to rush. 

At the news agents, he searched the racks for something to occupy himself during the forthcoming ride up the Penacook Valley. The publications for sale were familiar names. In fact, his work had appeared at one time or another in most of them – certainly all of those displayed prominently on the top shelf. He decided to make do with that day’s newspaper. It seemed to hold the interest of the man on the bench, and his audience would expect their speaker – a “distinguished man of letters” after all – to be up to date on current events in the city. 

One headline announced the closing of the Exposition in Paris. If only that meant the removal of M. Eiffel’s tower. The fact it would stand for another twenty years, gave Wilcox – until 1909 at least – an admirable excuse for not visiting Paris. 

Still intrigued by the lone man, Wilcox walked towards him. A few feet away, convinced he was mistaken, he adjusted his path to continue on to the platform. 

“Don’t I know you?” 

It was the man on the bench. Now, this is awkward, thought Wilcox. 

“I’m afraid not, sorry.”

“No. I’m sure we know each other,” the man insisted, standing up. 

“If we’ve been introduced, I apologize. I meet so many people and I’m afraid… I have a poor memory for faces and names.” This opened a door Wilcox wanted closed, so he abruptly added: “But I am sorry. We have not met.” 

“And yet, we know one another,” the man insisted. 

“Sorry to disappoint. Please excuse me, I must get to my train,” said Wilcox.

From his seat in his second-class compartment, Wilcox spotted the man walking toward the first-class car and breathed a sigh of relief that while they were sharing the same train, the economics of train travel spared him sharing a carriage. 

In his compartment, a young man was already settled in next to the window. An elderly couple entered the compartment and took seats opposite Wilcox. 

The train was soon speeding west, past the snow-dusted farms, bare-limbed orchards, and quiet towns and villages that defined the landscape between Boston and the Penacook Valley, where mill towns had now become small cities along the banks of the river that flowed south.

Wilcox tried to focus on that day’s news, but he was unable to shake the discomfort that lingered from his interaction with the man on the bench. His nerves were already on edge with from yet another night of poor sleep. In spite of the fact there was no wind to speak of, he had once again endured a night of rattling windows and shutters. 

“It will be good for you to get out the city,” his editor, Tom Thayer, had said when urging him to embark on the speaking tour. “Some fresh, country air and a break from this claustrophobic community of ours will do you good.” This last point is what prompted Wilcox to finally agree. 

The young man in the window opposite Wilcox was absorbed in the most recent Van Damm’s Journal, an issue which featured a story by a young writer Wilcox had introduced to the editors – one of many such introductions made over the years, something of which he was, in his opinion, justifiably proud. Wilcox put aside his newspaper, hoping for some rest before lunch.

Wilcox was woken by the jostling of the elderly couple as they unpacked the lunch they had brought in an act of frugal necessity. The man in the window looked on with distaste and left for the comforts of the dining car. 

“I wish I had the forethought to pack a picnic lunch,” said Wilcox. “Alas, I will have to subject myself to the highway – sorry, railway – robbery of dining car prices.” 

As if the day were following some grim design, the first face Wilcox saw upon stepping into the dining car was the man from the station. In an attempt to make it clear their interaction was something not to be continued, Wilcox caught his eye, shrugged his shoulders, and then pointedly took an open seat two tables away. 

While he enjoyed a bowl of soup, the voice of the man from the station broke through the conversational hum of the dining car, the rumble of the wheels, and the occasional whistle of the train. The man worked as a private tutor to a wealthy family in Boston. His sole student was a sickly boy doted on by his mother and a distant, but free-spending, father. He had been granted a brief paid leave, by the family. 

Before the other man said it, Wilcox knew what he would say next: “They are taking the boy to a sanitorium for a cure.” 

And that is exactly what the tutor told his lunch companions. 

Wilcox drained his water glass. His hands shook as he poured more. He leaned back, gently shut his eyes, and breathed in slowly and deeply. 

Conversation at the other table turned to the weather, thankfully, and soon the couple talking to the stranger were folding the napkins and saying their goodbyes. 

The stranger was introducing himself.

“Bartlett, Paul Bartlett.”  

How is this possible? 

Wilcox’s spoon fell from his hand, clattering against the bowl. A splash of tomato bisque stained the white tablecloth. 

Wilcox jumped up, tossed more than enough money on the table, and dashed from the dining car. 

Back in his compartment, Wilcox tried to avoid any further thought about what had occurred, but it was impossible. 

He tried to combat his rising anxiety with activity. He reviewed the speech he would give every night of the tour and made edits that only made the script different, not better. He wrote a list of predictable questions to rehearse responses.

“What are you working on now?” 

“When will we see a new story from you? It’s been so long.” 

“What do you think of the critics?” 

Truthful answers – “Nothing.” “Probably never.” “As little as possible.” – would not suffice. He constructed credible alternatives: 

“I’m working on a novel. I’m afraid that means a longer wait than usual.”

“They provide an important service to readers who have so many books from which to choose but, as a writer, the critic I pay attention to is the one in my head – and you, my readers.”  

            That evening, after dining alone at his hotel, Wilcox was met at the front desk by a young man who would walk him to the lecture hall. He was more nervous than anticipated. His guide’s non-stop chatter spared him making small talk. 

            His guide casually pointed to a large theater, “That’s where Mr. Twain spoke a few years ago. Filled the place.”

The location for his talk – the local library – was, thankfully, much smaller. Lessening his fear of empty seats. 

As he waited in the greenroom, the hall filled. Just as he had been reassured – an author of his repute was a rare treat in this part of the state and “the whims of fashion” do not change as readily this far from Boston. 

“Whims of fashion,” what a delightfully innocent way to put it. 

The introduction cited the usual works, most written five to ten years before. The applause was generous. The audience attentive. His delivery proved to be as animated before an audience as when Wilcox had rehearsed alone. Lines he had hoped would produce smiles, brought laughter. During passages designed for rapt attention, he could feel the room hold its breath. 

When he finished, applause was robust and prolonged. 

“Our guest will now take a few questions from the audience,” announced the evening’s host, Lester Townsend. “Yes, you sir. Please stand – and do speak up so everyone can hear you.” 

No. This is not happening, thought Wilcox. Sit down, damn it.

The man from the station. The man from the dining car. Bartlett was standing to ask a question. 

To Wilcox’s relief, Townsend did not call on Bartlett. Nonetheless, Wilcox remained standing. 

This did not seem to draw the attention or elicit concern from anyone else. 

After a half dozen questions, Wilcox quietly asked Townsend to end the evening. 

Wilcox stayed in his room the next day until the carriage arrived to take him to the train for his next stop on his north-bound route up the Penacook Valley. To his relief, there was no sign of Bartlett. 

Registering at his new hotel cheered him when the clerk was evidently pleased to meet Wilcox. 

“Would you like me to have your bag sent up to your room, Mr. Wilcox? You could relax in the reading lounge.” 

Wilcox decided to indulge and gave the clerk a tip for the porter.

As he turned to go, the clerk said, “Sir, I hope it is not out of place for me to say this, but my father was a big reader of your books.”

“Not out of place at all. Always a pleasure to hear. You said ‘was.’ My condolences.” 

“What? Oh. He’s still alive and kicking sir. I guess I said that because, you know. It’s been a few years. You’ve earned your retirement, as they say.”

Wilcox let this comment about “retirement” pass without correction.

“Well, I am pleased to hear that your father is still with us.”

The reading room was clearly designed for the comfort of male travelers who likely constituted the majority of the hotel’s guests. Dark wood paneling, a spacious fireplace where three very substantial logs burned away slowly, mullioned windows, leather club chairs - soft and embracing from years of use, and an assortment of oriental rugs scattered at various angles across the gleaming floor. Wilcox felt at home and took a seat by the window, ordered tea and sandwiches, and began to scan the local paper. 

On the third page was a small notice about his appearance that evening. “Many will remember the excitement that used to greet the appearance of a new novel or story by Nelson Wilcox…” 

Thayer was wrong. There was no escape from the innuendo and cutting remarks. 

He turned the page. 

When he was nearly done with his tea and sandwiches, the desk clerk approached with a telegram. 

CONGRATULATIONS.HEAR EVERYTHING WENT WELL.TONIGHT IS SOLD OUT.WILL TRY FOR STORY IN BOSTON PAPERS IF THIS KEEPS UP. - THAYER

Energized, Wilcox explored the town.

A small park was opposite the hotel. Here, weeks before they would be in Boston, the trees were bare, their spiky limbs silhouetted against the winter-white sky. Dead leaves skittered across the frosty walkways and gathered in damp clumps beneath the unoccupied benches. The fountain had been drained in preparation for months of sub-freezing temperatures. Wilcox was struck by the sad futility of an empty fountain. 

The town library stood at the opposite corner of the park. 

The librarian at the circulation desk nodded a friendly welcome. 

Fiction, arranged by author’s last name, lined the walls. As was his habit, Wilcox went in search of his own work. His three most popular novels were tightly packed on the shelf. Evidently, no patrons had decided to read or re-read his work in advance of his talk. 

A broadside tacked to a bulletin board announcing his talk was partially obscured by other notices. 

“If you are interested, we are giving away tickets. It’s tonight.”

“I’d heard the event was sold out.” 

“I don’t know about that. I’ve got a handful they want me to give away.” 

Once again, Wilcox was met in the lobby to be escorted to his speaking engagement. Thayer had explained this as a way to relieve the stress of navigating unfamiliar towns, but Wilcox knew each escort was surely required to report on his well-being. If he were late, cancelled, or stumbled in his remarks, it would all be reported to Boston with a few clicks of a telegraph. 

He did not want to contemplate what would follow.

The president of the local literary society, Mrs. Thomas Rumson, sat backstage with Wilcox as the audience slowly filled the hall -- partially. 

When it was evident all the audience they were going to enjoy was seated, Mrs. Rumson introduced Wilcox. 

At the podium he noticed. 

Seated in the dead center of the hall, directly in front of him and, thanks to the slope of the hall, at eye level: Bartlett. 

Wilcox lost his place and stumbled just long enough to set off a murmur in the hall. While the other audience members glanced at their neighbor, the ceiling, looked for familiar faces in the room, or checked their watches, Bartlett remained relentlessly focused on Wilcox. 

Throughout the lecture, Bartlett’s gaze never wavered. In fact, he did not appear to blink. 

Remarks concluded, Mrs. Rumson joined Wilcox on stage to manage questions. 

“Keep that hand of yours down,” thought Wilcox.

“Don’t be shy now,” said Mr. Rumson. “I know you are an inquisitive bunch.” This earned a chuckle from the audience, but no hands went up. 

“Alright then, I’ll get us started,” said Mrs. Rumson. “Are you working on anything now? I am sure your readers would welcome the news of something coming from you again.”

Wilcox responded, as prepared: “I’m working on a novel. I’m afraid that means a longer wait than usual.” 

The audience nodded and smiled sympathetically. Some began reaching for hats and scarves. 

Bartlett remained motionless.

A man stood. 

“Yes. Mr. Waterstone?”