Maplecroft Read online

  • • •

  Yesterday in one of the elementary biology classes, there was an incident.

  Dr. Warner thinks the fault lies with me. He says that it’s a matter of my pride, and my obvious disdain for the students. He chided me to be more patient with them, for they are first-years, and still learning their way around the university and their coursework. He asked me what had changed, and if anything was wrong.

  It is as I have said. Nothing is wrong.

  But I’m sick to death of being patient with them. I’ve always been patient with them, for years upon years—as long as I’ve been at Miskatonic—and the time has come for a raising of the bar. It’s an utter waste of my abilities, dealing with the first-years and their inadequacies!

  One outstandingly inadequate youth is named Theodore. He is a small weasel of a lad, intelligent without being wise—and very quick to spout whatever is on his mind. It’s as if there’s no one at all working the drawbridge between his brain and his mouth. He’s been trouble since his first class, and he’s trouble now, and he’s trying to bring the trouble to me.

  Should I have attacked him? A noble man might say “no,” behave in a penitent fashion, and hope for the least of all possible reprimands. The question, then, is whether I am more noble or less for refusing to pretend I did not intend to harm him.

  For I did intend to harm him. And why not? He intended to insult me. An eye for an eye, or so it’s been said. I will not quibble here, in my own papers, over whether or not a moral injury and a physical one can suitably correspond. I was justified. We’ll leave it at that.

  Theodore Minton, youngest son of a haberdasher from someplace no one cares about, I’m certain, stood up in class and accused me of mortal sins. Even the least puritan left among us in the region can understand the offense I took. He attributed unto me sloth, saying he’d caught me sleepwalking in the halls between the chemistry lab and the biology department on Monday afternoon.

  I was not present in these offices on Monday afternoon, and therefore could not possibly be guilty of this offense. I told him as much.

  He insisted that he’d come to ask my help with regard to one of the upcoming assignments, and that I’d rebuffed him with violence—pushing him into a door, and sending him sprawling. Then, he asserted, he’d gone to seek the department head . . . to tell him what, I wonder? That he was a weakling and a coward, a feeble, frail, useless little twig of a not-quite-man who’d been bullied by a fellow almost old enough to be his father?

  (Which of course, did not happen. As I have said. For I was not present.)

  I haven’t the slightest notion of what went through the whelp’s mind when he made this claim in front of the classroom, God, and everyone else within hearing distance, but I will not tolerate disrespect.

  He came too close; that is what happened. He put his face too near to mine, and his eyes were earnest—What an actor he must be! Perhaps science is the wrong discipline for him—and he tried to say that I had not been this way in the previous semester, when he’d taken the first round of my introductory biology course. Babbling, he said that everyone knew it, and no one understood it, but that he was taking his concerns to the top of the university’s administration if I did not resume my previous demeanor.

  “What previous demeanor?” I demanded to know. Nothing has changed in my classrooms, except that each season the boys are stupider and the classes feel longer; those are the only differences.

  Something insipid fell out of his mouth, some diatribe couched in terms of concern for my well-being, suggesting that in prior months (before the summer leave) I had been more patient, more perceptive, and more willing to assist the young men who were my charges. He then was so bold as to inquire after my health, and went on to make accusations about my pallor—for neither that, nor my demeanor, either, was satisfactory to this wretched snake of a character.

  I do not remember the precise words that moved me from where I stood, listening angrily, to up against him, with my hands on his throat.

  But his classmates intervened—treacherous idiots, the lot of them—and someone ran out into the hall, where the lumberjack-sized (and -brained) Dr. Greer was dragged into the altercation, effectively bringing it to a close.

  I was sent home like a naughty schoolboy, ostensibly to rest and recover, and to consider my actions.

  Fine, then. I consider them.

  While I consider them, and consider how grand it felt to squeeze the boy’s pulse in his throat, as he struggled against my grip, I consider what on earth could have prompted him to make his unfair, unfounded accusations. What have I ever done to him, prior to this afternoon? Nothing, and that’s another fact which has gone overlooked altogether by my superiors. I’ve never shown him anything but the fondest feelings of paternal kindness, in my efforts to instruct him.

  I too am an actor, and a good one in my own right.

  But. As I replay the events, today’s and those which remain alleged . . . I am forced to wonder. I struggle to recall. What was I doing on Monday afternoon? Where was I? What inane, ordinary set of tasks did I perform? They must have been ordinary indeed to have slipped so precipitously from my memory.

  I’m sure I was reading essays, or otherwise considering the grades of the same ungrateful slugs who watched me warily as I made my exit.

  The last thing I recall with any great certainty is mundane enough to imply that the rest of my day was equally so. I was at home, in the office I’ve made for myself on the second floor, where I keep my samples, my supplies, research volumes, my periodicals. I was reading, I believe.

  I was reading, and the window was open, and I fancied that I could smell the ocean.

  Nance O’Neil

  LETTER ADDRESSED TO LIZBETH A. BORDEN, FALL RIVER, MASS., MARCH 29, 1894

  You’re wrong, you know: I don’t need your parties, your money, or even your smile—keep all that to yourself, and it makes no difference to me. I’ve never asked you to put on a show; if you’re unhappy, be unhappy and I’ll be right there with you, doing my best to change the situation. I lie for a living—I don’t need more lies cluttering up my leisure time. Even the gentle sort, offered with good intentions.

  Your insistence that I should stay away from Fall River “for my own good” is nonsense. I’d like to say we both know that, but perhaps it’s only me, after all. Perhaps you honestly feel you’re doing me some favor, by sending me away like a nervous child to a boarding school, for my own protection and well-being.

  Unfortunately for you (but of dear happiness to me!) I am not a child, and I cannot be dismissed so summarily. Therefore, let this letter serve as formal notice that I am coming to visit!

  Not in this next week or two, but surely by the end of April. You may expect that I’ll stay a few days or more, and I won’t hear any protests to the contrary. You miss me. I know you do! I couldn’t possibly miss you so thoroughly as I do, if it’s all for naught and unreciprocated. I refuse to believe in a God so cruel as that.

  (He’s plenty cruel enough as it is, don’t you think?)

  Oh, Lizbeth, if you had any idea, these last few months . . . it’s been a nightmare. The whirlwind kind, where you’re tossed about from place to place, and can’t remember anyone’s name, or any of your lines . . . and the curtain is about to rise. They’re the worst nightmares of all, the kind you can’t wake up from—when it’s all too real, and I’m all too awake, and none of this is anyone’s fault but my own.

  I could’ve taken the winter off, you know. I could’ve stayed in my apartment and rested, or I might’ve even sneaked into town to see you. For just one party, perhaps? Just a few short nights, and then back to New York on the train. You could’ve come with me, if you liked. They’re different about things, in the city. I could tell you I loved you, if I wanted, and not worry so much that someone might overhear.

  But I didn’t take the winter off. And you didn’t come to New York. And now I’m stuck here by my own design. This season, all the blam
e can lie with me. I took the second play, when I should’ve thrown my hands into the air and pleaded exhaustion.

  (It would’ve gotten me out of The Wanderer, anyway. I mostly took that one because the director wants to arrange Sappho sometime this summer, and I want him to be happy with me, so he’ll keep me in mind; but it wasn’t a project that was near or dear to my heart, and I would have happily skipped it otherwise.)

  And now, when I’m almost too tired to hold a pen and write this note, I have all these second, third, and fourth thoughts about the matter.

  I should’ve sent Peter to Cathy Francisco or Mabel Lee. Either one of them would’ve done a perfect job in the role he wanted. And by “perfect” I mean, neither of them is a better actress than I am, and he wouldn’t prefer either of them over me.

  But no. I’m too frightened of being without work. Acting is such a terrible business! If only I’d been bitten by some other bug . . . but it’s too late for that now, isn’t it?

  It’s a permanent worry, I swear. Never confident of the next year’s employment, always in fear that the critics will hate you—and even more afraid they won’t notice you at all. It’s a system designed to tug and batter at one’s vanity. That’s why, I think, so many vain fools survive it.

  Sometimes I worry that I’m not vain enough, and this is making me ill, or unnecessarily frantic. I don’t want to be unnecessarily frantic. I want to be calm, and quiet, with you in that lovely little town that leaves you alone. At least for a few days. Well, however long it takes for me to recover from this terrible exhaustion that’s settled so deep into my bones.

  I know you said I’d find no respite from exhaustion with you, and I’m not sure if you’re making a joke or being morbid. Sometimes in your letters, I simply can’t tell.

  This is why we must speak face-to-face, quietly, over drinks in that wonderful parlor. We can sip scotch or whichever wine you have on hand (you still haven’t shown me that cellar, and I’m beginning to take offense). We’ll turn the lights low, let the fire burn down—for I doubt it will be so cold, by the time I arrive. And I can tell you everything about these last two plays. And you can tell me everything that’s bothering you. All the things that make you want to push me away. I demand to hear them, no matter how dark they might drive the conversation. I’ll listen. I’ll do nothing but listen. I feel like I always talk—for the benefit of others, as often as not. I don’t even use my own words.

  It’s tiresome. I’d rather listen to yours.

  I doubt your sister would care to join us, but you must invite her. I wish she liked me better. You love her and I love you, but therein lies the problem, doesn’t it? At any rate, I’m sorry. I’ll leave it alone. This is meant to be a happy letter, not a reproachful one.

  I am looking forward—not backward!

  Backward is a grim, unpleasant place. If there are worse gossips or backbiters than actresses, anywhere on the face of the earth . . . I’m not sure I’d believe it. Wicked fiends, the lot of them—surpassed only by directors, whose evil nature is exceeded only by the pen-fiddlers who write for the papers, and tell the world of our triumphs but describe them as the most dismal of failures.

  I’ve just now reread what I’ve composed so far. If I had more paper at my immediate disposal, I’d throw these sheets away and begin again. I’m rambling, and doing so with embarrassing inconsistency.

  I’m tired, Lizbeth. That’s the root of it all.

  The days are so long in the theater company. Twenty-four hours, and they want them all. Half the week I sleep atop a pile of costumes backstage, with a bottle in my hand (if I’m lucky) or your letters (if I’m luckier still). Then I awaken when the first hands arrive, or Mary and I often do—and sometimes Anne stays, too. They expect the most from us, more even than they want from their leading men.

  And look, now I’m sulking.

  Forgive me. I’ll stop wasting ink, and wasting paper.

  This is a happy letter, because it announces that soon, you and I will be together. And we will drink and sleep and make whatever sort of merry we please. It will be lovely, and it will last as long as we like.

  Don’t bother to write and tell me to stay. It won’t work. I’m well past taking “no” for an answer. If you turn me away, it will kill me. Maybe that would please your sister, but I don’t think it’s what you want.

  I wouldn’t ask you to choose between us. There’s no reason you ought to, and no reason you have to. We’re grown women, she and I, and we will behave accordingly.

  I will see you shortly! So shortly . . . another two weeks, and then however long it takes to pack and book the train tickets. I’ll send a telegram in advance of my arrival, so you’ll know when to pick me up.

  All my love, of course. Always.

  GL (though don’t you dare address me so.)

  THIS KNOT I KNIT, THIS KNOT I TIE

  Emma L. Borden

  APRIL 11, 1894

  Here comes Gertrude.

  Oh, she hates to be called that, I know—she’s a proper actress now, with a proper actress name. Why Lizzie indulges her, I have no idea. Or I do. I have several ideas, and none of them are very polite.

  Though it might seem nasty of me to suggest it, I daresay the situation is not wholly different from older men who marry down, and younger women who marry up. And there it is. We are spinsters with fat pockets and purses, and we are pariahs so far as the entire county is concerned. Meanwhile, “Nancy” is a pretty, popular girl with a small measure of fame, if no fortune to speak of. (She avoids the subject, but I have gathered that her origins are somewhat dubious.)

  Actresses come in two types, as I hear it: fabulously wealthy, and pitifully destitute. The difference between them is alleged to be the quality of their suitors.

  All things being equal, I suppose it’s safer than a street corner.

  But Lizzie loves her, and I tolerate her. The girl isn’t often untoward, but she’s routinely uncouth and so very, very young. Plenty young enough (and if I am to be fair, beautiful enough as well) to find a rich man to keep her.

  So yes, I can make my guesses as to what keeps her coming ’round. They’re better than guesses, and anyone who suggests that ladies don’t do such things doesn’t know much about ladies. Or anyone else, I expect.

  Thank the good Lord above for thick walls and large, sturdy houses. Our rooms are adjacent, but without a measure of shouting, no one is likely to hear anyone else.

  Under more ordinary circumstances, this slight distance is a source of distress to Lizzie . . . she wants me nearer, closer, more easily guarded and defended even at night. (Especially at night.) I appreciate her protective streak, and indeed, it’s kept me alive this long; but there are times when I find the attention stifling.

  My resentment is unfair, in every way. It does not reflect on her in the slightest. It’s only my old longing for the easy independence I took for granted when I was Lizzie’s age. I am jealous, and that’s the extent of it.

  I’ll leave it there.

  • • •

  “Under more ordinary circumstances.” That’s what I wrote only a minute ago.

  But in a way, these circumstances of ours have come to feel . . . not ordinary, but perhaps consistent in their peculiarity. A woman can get used to anything, I guess. It must be something like the adage about a frog in hot water: Drop him in, and he’ll jump back out. Turn the heat up slowly, and he’ll sit there and cook.

  We cook ourselves in fear.

  Fear is the routine that has come to feel ordinary. That, and Lizzie’s search, her quest for understanding. Her struggle to find a solution before her investigations are found out—as they very well might be, someday. We use a great deal of gas power. We send and receive an inordinate amount of mail, and from strange places. Stranger people. No matter how much caution we exercise, the details may eventually betray us. Now our terror is not merely that we’ll both be thought mad, and possibly criminal. No, it’s worse than that. How much worse, I dare not specula
te.

  No. That isn’t true, and I shouldn’t lie here. When I lie to myself, I lie to everyone. Here’s the truth: I speculate all the time.

  The threat is great against the pair of us, if we are found out before we can explain ourselves fully. At best, we might find ourselves incarcerated at a sanatorium, and what would become of Maplecroft then? What of Fall River? Massachusetts? For yes, the threat extends to the entire region—that much has become appallingly clear.

  And how much farther than that?

  To the whole of the nation? To the world?

  We are pulling at threads in the darkness, traversing a labyrinth of ancient and awful design. There are worse things than minotaurs at the center. That much, I can state with utmost confidence.

  • • •

  And now, here comes Gertrude.

  Nancy with the fancy actress name. “Nance,” Lizzie calls her with enough affection that it makes me ill. Tall and pretty and strong, in some sense Nance makes a better, more reliable companion than I do. But she’s naive and quick to take offense, and quicker still to leap to judgment. Her moods are mercurial under the best of circumstances, and Lizzie has enough to manage without her.

  This having been said, my sister’s mood has been grim for years, and it remains grim almost always . . . except when Nance brings herself around. When she’s in Nance’s company, she’s as happy as I’ve seen her since before Father passed.

  So there’s one point in Nance’s favor.

  Since I’m feeling generous, I’ll offer another: It could be worse—the girl could be stupid. But she’s only rash and inexperienced.

  • • •

  Lizzie is already beside herself with regard to Nance’s impending visit, her heart torn in the two most obvious directions. She’s glad for the opportunity to see her young friend, but horrified at the sheer extent of what must be hidden before she arrives.