I played it all back again and then I went to my typewriter and wrote:
Dear Mr. Metcalf,
No doubt you will hear of Mr. Andrew Wyatt’s death before learning that his last act was to assure you of a position with the Wyattsville Farmers’ and Merchants’ Bank. This is a commitment which the family will wish to honor. Please arrange to be here on Monday, September 14, at 3:00 P.M. for an interview.
There is an excellent opportunity for advancement in this community, and in the years to come I am sure your mother will have reason to be very proud of you.
Yours very truly,
In the San Francisco directory I found a Mrs. John B. Metcalf and a John B. Metcalf, Jr., listed at the same address on Clay. This seemed appropriate for her income so I sent the letter there. It afforded me satisfaction to imagine her wondering how I knew of her conversation with Andy; how much, in fact, I knew about Jack.
In the safe in Andy’s office there was a metal box for which he and I had the only keys. I took it out and went through the contents carefully. There was a considerable amount of cash, an exquisite diamond and emerald necklace which Laura Lee had seen and admired and which Andy had subsequently purchased as a surprise for her on her birthday in October, birth certificates for all of them, and two tape recordings which could bring Ad Tuttle’s little political empire tumbling down in ruins. I took the tapes, and the things which were mine: the baby’s identification bracelet, a larger one that read “Mary Sylvia Skouros Sommers,” a plastic envelope that held a downy feather of dark hair, and the twenty-three stock certificates which had been Andy’s penance candles.
He gave me the first seven of them on November 22, 1948. “Money’s no substitute for a child,” he said bluntly, “but it’s one hell of a nice thing to have. These cost five thousand dollars each.” He fanned them out on his desk. “They’ll appreciate. Hang on to them, Sylvia, and one day you’ll be a woman of property.”
“You don’t have to do this,” I said.
“I know that. Let’s say I do it for the same reason I give Laura Lee jewels. She’s the only woman I’ve ever loved, and you’re the only one I ever wholly trusted.” And then he said, “There’ll be another of these each year.”
They had appreciated, and I am a woman of property. I put all of these things into my handbag together with the carbon of my letter to Jack, the carbon paper I had used, and the recording made that afternoon. Whatever was left in Andy’s office or mine was anybody’s business, and would be tomorrow.
I posted the letter to Jack Metcalf and drove on to my apartment. The night was soft and still, and by contrast my apartment was too cool and too quiet. I turned off the air conditioner and opened a window. The band at the auditorium was playing a medley of old nostalgic tunes, and when the clock struck twelve the musicians drifted into “September Song.” I hadn’t cried in more than twenty years, but I cried now with noisy abandon. I wept for dear, good Sam who had begged me to keep Andy’s child and had given him a name which I refused to give to the adoption agency; and for Andy, who did not love me but needed me, and who paid — finally with his life — to keep the Wyatt escutcheon unblemished; and for my son, whom I could not claim, and would not again disclaim, to whom I would always be, as I had been to his father, just a trusted and loyal friend.
The Ghost in the Garden
by Dan Crawford
The little village of Merodale sat high in the mountains. It was cool there, and dry, but the ground was so thin, over the rocks of the mountain, that not much food could be grown. The people of Merodale could grow only just barely enough for themselves.
Between Merodale and the three largest mountains that cast their shadows over the village, however, there was a garden. Once, long ago, everyone in Merodale knew, there had been a mighty palace there. The great person who had lived in the palace had had dirt and plants and gardeners brought in to make a beautiful place for his family. There were fruit trees and nut trees and berry bushes and little streams and ponds with fish in them.
The palace had fallen down years ago. No one in Merodale could remember ever seeing it when it wasn’t just a pile of stones. But the garden was still there, full of weeds now, and foxes. Every autumn, when the people of Merodale looked over their own tiny plants and trees, they would think about the garden, and how big it was, and how much food they could grow there.
“I wish we could go up to the garden,” they’d say. “It would be enough if we could just pick a few apples, or catch a fish in the pond.”
Some people did go up to the garden now and then. And they did get apples. They’d hear a rustle in the leaves, and bang! an apple would hit them in the forehead, or on the arm. And something nobody could see would go running off through the trees.
Or sometimes a woman would go to the pond to try to catch one of the fish. And a hand would grab hold in her hair and push her head under the water until she nearly drowned. Something she couldn’t see would laugh, and splash through the pond as she gasped for breath.
So no one went up to the garden unless they were truly hungry. “There’s something in there,” they said. “A spirit from the forest, or a demon from the mountains; don’t go in.”
It had been that way for years and years. Now and then some brave villager would sneak into the garden just to see if the spirit was still there, only to be pushed into the pond or knocked down by apples. So the people of Merodale grew what food they could on the little thin land that they had.
One day a wandering magician chanced to come upon Merodale. The people of Merodale had heard of such men but had never seen one, for few came so far north. For his own part, the magician was glad to see Merodale, for cities and even villages were rare and set far apart, so close to the mountains.
He rested in Merodale for several days, helping the people with such magic as he knew, curing a few sick pigs, bandaging broken arms, and telling them what the weather was going to do. The people gave him a share of their food for this. If he noticed that there wasn’t much food, and that it wasn’t very good, he never complained.
But he did ask, one afternoon, “Why does no one farm the land over by the trees up there? You might find it good land for growing.”
“We can’t go up there,” whispered Young Josh, the potato farmer. “There’s a ghost.”
The magician sat up and stared at the trees. “A ghost, is it?” he asked. “What sort of ghost?”
“Are there sorts of ghosts, then?” said Old Linda, the baker. “This is the only ghost we’ve ever seen.”
“I suppose he’s seen plenty of ghosts, to know what sorts they are,” laughed Vivon, the pigherd. “Aye, and gone to have dinner with them.”
The magician stood up. “I’ve talked with ghosts,” he said. “It may be I shall talk with this one.”
“Maybe,” said Vivon. “Maybe not.”
Medina, the mayor, stood up to walk over to the magician’s side. “Stranger,” she said, “if you could tell the ghost we need to use the garden, you would have our thanks forever.”
“I will not live forever,” said the magician. “But you may thank me if I come back.” He picked up his walking stick and started for the tall trees. The people followed him to the edge of town and then stood to watch until he had disappeared into the shadows.