The Revenant Read Free Page B

teachers and students seated together at one table. The girls from the parlor were not there, and I breathed a little easier in their absence. Miss Adair kindly made introductions, but I was too tired to do more than smile and nod. I forgot the names almost instantly. A negro man called Jimmy served us a baked hash with bread and vegetables, the smell of which made my stomach groan in anticipation. Eating so preoccupied me that I said little to the others at the table. I would strive to make a better impression the next day.
    What a relief to finally retire to my very own room for the night! I opened the windows of my turret and sat in the evening air. The breeze wasn’t much cooler than the still air in the room, but it was fresh and smelled of cut grass. I stared out onto the boardwalk that led down toward town but could see little. Faint lights sparkled in the distance, but the seminary lamps had been extinguished. All was dim and quiet outside this fortress.
    When I felt cooler, I unpacked my case by lamplight. It was a rather pathetic collection of items. A nightgown, which I placed on the bed. Two shirtwaists and one skirt. Very worn underclothes, patched in a few places, but soft from many washings. A heavy shawl, which made me sweat to look upon it. The last item was a fine black cape with a ruffled collar and a satin bow at the neck. I placed it around my shoulders and studied my reflection in the chiffonier mirror. Very handsome it was, and very unhandsome I’d been in taking it. I shrugged the cape off and folded it carefully, placing it with the other items in the chiffonier.
    All that remained in my bag was my father’s three-volume set of Shakespeare’s complete works and, within the first volume, a faded tintype of him in full costume as Orlando in As You Like It . He was very young when the photo was taken—he’d not yet met my mother and surely thought himself quite the dandy. I sat upon the bed and gazed at the image, wanting to touch it, as though petting a photograph would bring me comfort. But I did not wish to cause damage with my sweaty hands.
    I placed the photo back between the pages of the volume.
    That was everything I owned. Father’s gold watch had been sold, as had my good coat. I’d needed the money for the train fare and one night’s stay at a respectable inn along the way.
    I glanced at the white paper peeping out of the third volume of Shakespeare’s works—the collection of his tragic plays. How fitting. The letter had all the makings of a tragedy unfolding. But it now signified a tragedy averted, for rather than drawing me to my doom, it had spurred me to action. I pulled the letter out and smoothed it open on my lap.
Dear Willemina ,
Your father’s dream was for you to have a fine education, and you’ve worked hard to stay at the Athenaeum when I had no money for tuition. You’ve made me proud. You frown and shake your head as you read this, but I write the truth .
We need you home now. My heart is heavy as the ink blots this page, because I feel your disappointment like a weight even though you’re so far from me. I am with child again. It is a blessing, to be sure, but right now it seems like a wasting disease has come upon me. I can barely rise from bed. The food won’t stay down, and I get sicker by the day. I can’t get the housework done, and it’s nearly killing me to chase after the boys .
Willie, you are seventeen, with many years of schooling behind you. I need you at home. I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t so desperate. Mr. Toomey will come for you on Saturday. I beg you not to be rude to him. He’s been very good to us .
When the child is older, perhaps we’ll get you back to school, though by then you might feel too old. By then you might be ready to marry and start your own family .
I can barely sit up long enough to finish this letter .
    Mother
    That letter was delivered to me at the Columbia Athenaeum four days prior, and I’d immediately hidden it in the