VIN (a.k.a. "Untitled") PT 7

“Because you are a person or something? Free will and all of that?”

“I’ve been dead for about twenty-five years and...the free will thing.”

“You’re a ghost?”

“I’m a memory. Your memory. I was a colleague of your father’s when you were just a little thing. Four, I think.”

I study his face and try to remember.

“It’s no use my dear. You were four.”

“Why do I think of you warmly?”

“I always wanted kids of my own— I never saw you or any of your siblings without gifts in hand. I needed you all to like me because I wanted to feel confident that I would be a good father some day. Being the youngest, you were my favorite. I am a little bit ashamed to admit that your gifts were just a little bit nicer than those of your siblings.”

A silence falls between us.

“Are you alright?” He asks.

“I have another question. What about the others?”

“The others?”

“The men in my stories.”

He...Hardy, for some reason I want to call him Hardy. Is it Hardy or Harvey? No...it’s Hardy.

“I would think that they might be variations of one man.”

“The man of my dreams?”

“The type of man that you think might be the one for you. You’re...figuring things out.”

“They’re all so different.”

“Are you sure?Think about your romantic male characters. Is it possible that you write different backgrounds for them, give them different careers, interests, likes and dislikes but at their core they are all essentially the same man.  They’re all kind, they care for others, and have a great capacity for love.”

“You’re suggesting that my characters are my dream man but since I don’t know the specifics the surface details vary?”

“Something like that.”

"Why?"

“Panic, fear, impatience. You have been working very hard to get it all ‘right’.”

“I have. I never seem to.”

“You will.”

Hardy. I’ve decided to call him Hardy, looks down at the volume that lays across his lap.

“It appears that I have finished with this one.” He says as he closes the book and holds it up.
I can see the spine of it from where I am sitting.
“Many thanks to you Lord Byron.” Hardy says to the book. He looks back at me. “I think I’ll go with an adventure this time. I’ve always enjoyed a good adventure.” Hardy rises from the chair to replace Lord Byron and choose his next bit of company. He stops next to the chair that I am sitting in and says gently. “Do not cry my dear, you’re doing the hard work.”

I look up at Hardy and wipe a renegade tear from my face.

“What did your father always say about the hard work?”

“That the hard work is what gets the best results.” I answer, my voice cracks a bit. “Any more advice?”

His mouth turns up with a gentle smile. "Give your love to the man who will care for your heart like the treasure that it is my dear because you have a beautiful one." He gets a wistful look, the kind smile returns, "You know my mother used to say that men are a little bit like cats. You can call, cajole, cry, and offer goodies all day long, but a man will not show himself until he decides that he wants to be seen, and not a second sooner. There is nothing that you can do to change that.”

Unsure how to respond, I raise an eyebrow.

“She had cats for my entire life. A gentleman friend or two too. The woman would know.” Hardy continues his walk to the bookshelves.

“Is that it?” I ask as Hardy peruses the shelves.

“Is that what?”

“Are we done here?”

“That would be up to you.”

I sit back in the chair and watch the fire for a few minutes.

“Eureka.” He calls.

I turn in my chair and watch as Hardy retrieves his treasure from the its resting place. He holds up the leather bound volume.

“Don Quixote.” He announces. “A wonderful book. A bit difficult to get into at first, but definitely worth the time.” Hardy practically skips back to his chair and settles in.

“Have you read it?” He asks.

I shake my head.

“Please try to make time to my dear. You won’t regret it.”

Standing up, I walk around taking in everything. One long last look before I have to go.

“It was nice to see you again my dear.” Hardy says. “I hope that you come back some time soon.”

“Thank you.” I respond as I begin to walk past the wooden desk that sits directly opposite the fireplace and affords a view of whomever sits in the reading chairs. I see something and stop. The gargantuan desk itself is quite ugly but what is sitting on it, calls to me.

The first thing that I spot are the books. A stack of my favorites. Some copies are very old. An old dance card still lays between the pages of Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. I assume it is a leftover favor from a young lady’s party as Mr. Darcy’s name is written in for every other dance. A copy of Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte lays in the center. A battered copy of The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett is at the top of the stack.

 Then I spot the writing implement. “A fountain pen.” I whisper. I sit down on the chair behind the desk and grab it up like a greedy toddler. A fountain pen is something that I have always wanted and dream or not I am finally going to get to use one. Without thinking, I put the point of the pen to the thick piece of parchment on the desk in front of me and prepare to write. The surface has already been used.

                                                                             Never Choose Reality

You will waste your life fighting battles that can never be won.

Against demons that never take physical shape.

Eventually disease of the body, spirit, or the mind takes over and you will die alone.

Never finding the happiness that you have been seeking.

It was signed “Vin.”

I look at Hardy. “I wrote this?” I ask.

“You did.”