rare edition?
“Nah. Mz. Ha’der ain’t seein anybody.”
But the caretaker was regarding me less fiercely now. In my grimy baseball cap, with my thick-lensed glasses and gentlemanly way of speaking, it was possible to interpret me as a literary eccentric—indeed, a very plausible “writer-friend” of C. W. Haider.
I added, with a disarming smile:
“I am truly sorry to intrude on this household but—I am expected, you know. My name is King. Steven.”
“‘King.’” The suspicious eyes blinked. “You sayin you are—that famous writer?”
“No! I am Steven—S–t–e–v–e–n. He is Stephen.”
“But—you are some kind of writer ?”
“Yes. And a publisher as well, with an interest in publishing Ms. Haider’s work.”
This was the inspired thing to say! The caretaker smiled broadly.
“She goin to like that, sir. I mean—Mr. King. Mz. Ha’der goin to be real happy about that.”
It was touching, the black servant cared so genuinely for his employer! He introduced himself as Esdra Staples.
“‘Esdra.’ So good to meet you.”
I extended my hand to shake his. For a startled moment he hesitated—(obviously, Esdra Staples knew his place )—then he shook my hand. Esdra’s hand was half again as large as mine, and mine is not a small hand—remarkably strong, and warm-blooded.
“Mz. Ha’der ain’t home at the present time, but I can take the book for her. I will take good care of it. She trusts me, all kinds of things.”
“I think my dear friend Ms. Haider requested that the book be placed in her hands. It’s not only a rare purchase, but has sentimental value to her.”
“Well. That too bad, Mr. King. See, she ain’t here.”
“When will she return?”
“She ain’t said.” Esdra spoke guardedly. His forehead furrowed with a pained sort of solicitude.
“Well, then—where is she?”
My concern was so seemingly genuine, Esdra relented.
“Ms. Ha’der taken sick, and she being treated. Some place she goes, in New Brunswick. She be home soon, they sayin.”
“Oh! Ms. Haider is il l ?”
“She been like this before, when old Mr. Ha’der died and she was grieving. She ‘checked herself in’ and after a few weeks she was fine, and came back home.”
“Really! That sounds—optimistic . . .”
I felt a wave of sympathy, and guilt. It had not been my fault that C. W. Haider had worked herself into a convulsive fit and collapsed but I could well understand how years of frustration, fury, and failure could drive an aspiring writer to madness and breakdown.
I explained to Esdra that Ms. Haider and I had an “epistolary” relationship exclusively—“That is, a friendship through the mail”—but had not yet met; I told him that Ms. Haider had volunteered to lend me several books from her library to help in my research into the American Gothic novel. In fact, I hoped to incorporate some of Ms. Haider’s own writings in my study.
“Yah, she always writing, seems like. She gon be pleased to hear that. But she didn’t tell me about anybody coming to pick up books . . .”
“If I see them, I will recognize them, Esdra. Of course.”
With a touching sort of naïve trust Esdra led me into the interior of the Haider house. There were shadowy, dank-smelling rooms that appeared to be shut-off and unused. Ghostly sheets drawn over furniture, even over chandeliers. At the rear was a comfortably cluttered room containing a beautiful old mahogany desk heaped with books and papers, an aged leather sofa and cushioned chairs, a wide stone fireplace. The walls were mostly bookshelves and these were crammed with books. On the floor, an Oriental carpet worn threadbare in places and in other places retaining its intricately meshed colors. I thought— This is her home. I have no right to intrude in the woman’s home.
On the sofa, on a quilt, lay a sleek black cat regarding me with eyes glaring like gold coins. The cat’s long tail switched restlessly but the cat did not leap
“Nah. Mz. Ha’der ain’t seein anybody.”
But the caretaker was regarding me less fiercely now. In my grimy baseball cap, with my thick-lensed glasses and gentlemanly way of speaking, it was possible to interpret me as a literary eccentric—indeed, a very plausible “writer-friend” of C. W. Haider.
I added, with a disarming smile:
“I am truly sorry to intrude on this household but—I am expected, you know. My name is King. Steven.”
“‘King.’” The suspicious eyes blinked. “You sayin you are—that famous writer?”
“No! I am Steven—S–t–e–v–e–n. He is Stephen.”
“But—you are some kind of writer ?”
“Yes. And a publisher as well, with an interest in publishing Ms. Haider’s work.”
This was the inspired thing to say! The caretaker smiled broadly.
“She goin to like that, sir. I mean—Mr. King. Mz. Ha’der goin to be real happy about that.”
It was touching, the black servant cared so genuinely for his employer! He introduced himself as Esdra Staples.
“‘Esdra.’ So good to meet you.”
I extended my hand to shake his. For a startled moment he hesitated—(obviously, Esdra Staples knew his place )—then he shook my hand. Esdra’s hand was half again as large as mine, and mine is not a small hand—remarkably strong, and warm-blooded.
“Mz. Ha’der ain’t home at the present time, but I can take the book for her. I will take good care of it. She trusts me, all kinds of things.”
“I think my dear friend Ms. Haider requested that the book be placed in her hands. It’s not only a rare purchase, but has sentimental value to her.”
“Well. That too bad, Mr. King. See, she ain’t here.”
“When will she return?”
“She ain’t said.” Esdra spoke guardedly. His forehead furrowed with a pained sort of solicitude.
“Well, then—where is she?”
My concern was so seemingly genuine, Esdra relented.
“Ms. Ha’der taken sick, and she being treated. Some place she goes, in New Brunswick. She be home soon, they sayin.”
“Oh! Ms. Haider is il l ?”
“She been like this before, when old Mr. Ha’der died and she was grieving. She ‘checked herself in’ and after a few weeks she was fine, and came back home.”
“Really! That sounds—optimistic . . .”
I felt a wave of sympathy, and guilt. It had not been my fault that C. W. Haider had worked herself into a convulsive fit and collapsed but I could well understand how years of frustration, fury, and failure could drive an aspiring writer to madness and breakdown.
I explained to Esdra that Ms. Haider and I had an “epistolary” relationship exclusively—“That is, a friendship through the mail”—but had not yet met; I told him that Ms. Haider had volunteered to lend me several books from her library to help in my research into the American Gothic novel. In fact, I hoped to incorporate some of Ms. Haider’s own writings in my study.
“Yah, she always writing, seems like. She gon be pleased to hear that. But she didn’t tell me about anybody coming to pick up books . . .”
“If I see them, I will recognize them, Esdra. Of course.”
With a touching sort of naïve trust Esdra led me into the interior of the Haider house. There were shadowy, dank-smelling rooms that appeared to be shut-off and unused. Ghostly sheets drawn over furniture, even over chandeliers. At the rear was a comfortably cluttered room containing a beautiful old mahogany desk heaped with books and papers, an aged leather sofa and cushioned chairs, a wide stone fireplace. The walls were mostly bookshelves and these were crammed with books. On the floor, an Oriental carpet worn threadbare in places and in other places retaining its intricately meshed colors. I thought— This is her home. I have no right to intrude in the woman’s home.
On the sofa, on a quilt, lay a sleek black cat regarding me with eyes glaring like gold coins. The cat’s long tail switched restlessly but the cat did not leap
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