The Mulberry Tree Read online

  That was closer to the truth, because none of my books were fiction. They were fiction enough that my uncles and cousins couldn’t sue me, but, basically, they were the truth. “Distorted truth” as Pat said. As she’d pointed out on that long ago, happy day, I’d had enough bad in my life to write many books. I’d written about every rotten thing that had ever been done to me.

  But the truth that no one knew, not anyone at my publishing house or any friend, was that I’d written myself dry long before Pat died. The only book that was left in me was the one about Pat, and I was years and years and years away from being able to write that one.

  In the six years since her death, I’d wandered around the country, moving the few belongings I still owned from one house to another. I’d settle into a community, look around and listen to see if anything sparked my appetite, and hope to find a reason to start writing again.

  But nothing interested me. Now and then my publishing house would reissue some old book of mine, or put my few novellas into one book so it looked as though I was still publishing, but most people knew I wasn’t. When I typed my name onto the Internet, I found three groups that were discussing my death. They listed “facts” that they believed were proof that I’d taken my own life the day my wife died.

  The latest town I’d moved to was supposed to have great weather, but I hadn’t seen it. It was also supposed to be “charming,” but I didn’t find it to be so. I’m not sure why I didn’t move out the day after I moved in, except that I was tired. I was tired . . . not tired of living so much as tired of being brain-dead. I felt like those women who go through college, then get married and pop out three kids right away. They went from brain-overuse to not using their brains at all. I guess that’s where I was. In six years I’d had a few brief affairs, but since I compared every woman to Pat, I’d found each one wanting.

  About a year ago, I’d read something—I was a voracious, eclectic reader in those six years—about a witch that haunted some old house somewhere and it had sparked a tiny interest in me. I began to think about putting together a collection of true stories about ghosts or witches in America. Every state has those poorly written, locally printed books about regional ghosts, so I thought about collecting the books, doing masses of research, and publishing an anthology. A sort of Ghosts of the U.S. kind of thing.

  Anyway, doing the research appealed to me. All I needed was an assistant. But it turned out to be nearly impossible to find someone who was really useful.

  Did I have a knack for finding losers? Was it something in me that attracted them? Several of the women seemed to be living in a romantic novel. They seemed to believe that I’d hired them because I wanted to marry them and share all my worldly goods with them. I got rid of those women fast.

  Then I went through the ones who wanted everything spelled out for them. They wanted what they called a “job description.” I gave in to one of them and spent an hour and a half of my life writing the thing. Two hours later, when I told her I wanted her to go to the grocery for me, she said, “That’s not my job,” and I fired her.

  Some of them I fired and some of them quit. Truthfully, I think that all of them had an ideal in their minds of what it would be like to work for a best-selling author and I didn’t live up to what they expected.

  From my viewpoint, not one of them could follow an idea. They were like robots and would do what I told them to—as long as it didn’t interfere with their “job description”—but they didn’t take the initiative. And, too, many of them used their brains only for trying to seduce me to an altar. Free sex I would have taken, but it was “community property” that I saw in their eyes.

  Just before I was to move yet again—to where I had no idea—I was having lunch with the president of the local university, and he said, “You ought to get an assistant like ol’ Professor Hartshorn has. She’s writing a book for him.”

  I wasn’t much interested in what he was saying because I’d already scheduled the movers for next week, but I was being polite so I said, “What kind of book?”

  He chuckled. “It’s about Harriet Lane, with a great many passages about her violet eyes and her magnificent bosom.”

  I’d never heard of the woman, so he went on to tell me that she was President James Buchanan’s niece. “I don’t know where Hartshorn’s assistant got her information, but I’d be willing to bet it’s accurate. Miss Lane was an equal political partner to her uncle—who, by the way, was nicknamed ‘Old Gurley.’ If you know what I mean,” he added, waggling his eyebrows.

  Interesting, I thought. I needed an assistant who could think. “Is she writing the book with the professor?”

  The president grimaced. “Hell, no. One time when I confronted him, he said there was already too damn much written about everybody, so he wasn’t going to add to the pollution. But the trustees were on my case to fire him because he wasn’t published, so Hartshorn started using his students to pretend he was writing.” The president waved his hand, meaning he didn’t want to explain that particular story. “Anyway, a couple of years ago, I received this hilarious chapter of a book about an obscure president’s niece, and it had Professor Hartshorn’s name on it as the author. Right away, I knew he hadn’t written it so I gave it to my secretary—who knows everything that goes on in this town—and asked her who was capable of writing such a paper. She started telling me about a man who had a crush on a Victorian woman named Harriet Lane. Had pictures of her all over his office and always wore something violet because Miss Lane had violet eyes.”

  I was confused. “Hartshorn’s assistant is a man?”

  The president frowned at me. I knew that look. For a writer, you’re not very smart, it said. I’d found out long ago that when you’re a writer people expect you to understand everything about everything.

  “No,” he said, speaking slowly as though to an idiot, “that man was Hartshorn’s assistant’s father. He’s dead. Her father is dead, not Hartshorn. Anyway, Hartshorn’s young, female assistant sends me an extremely entertaining chapter every three months. They’re too naughty to be published, but the Trustees and I love them. The Misadventures of Miss Harriet Lane, we call them.”

  While he was smiling in memory of Miss Lane’s bosom, I was thinking. “If she’s so dedicated to Professor Hartshorn she won’t want another job.”

  “Hartshorn is an”—he lowered his voice—“what is colloquially known as an a-hole. I doubt if he’s ever even told her thanks for saving his job. Although I did hear that he gave her a raise for decorating his office with a life-size mannequin of Miss Lane.”

  This was beginning to sound good. She was creative. And smart. Took the initiative. I needed those things. I didn’t find out until after Pat died that I was a person who co-wrote. I need lots of feedback. I’ve never understood how other authors survived with the two or three words they got from their editors. You could spend a year writing a book and at the end all you’d get was, “It’s good.”

  If I were honest with myself—and I tried not to be—I wanted a partner, someone I could bounce ideas off. I didn’t want a fellow writer who was going to be competition, but I wanted . . . Pat. I wanted Pat.

  But I had to take what I could get. “So how do I meet her?” I asked. “Through Hartshorn?”

  The president snorted. “He’d lie. If he knew you wanted her, he’d drug her before he let you meet her.”

  “Then how—?”

  “Let me think about it and see what I can come up with. A social setting might be best. I’m sure I know someone who knows her. For the next two weeks, accept all invitations.” He looked at his watch. “Uh oh. I have a plane to catch.”

  He stood, I stood, we shook hands, then he left. It was only after he was gone that I remembered I hadn’t asked what the assistant’s name was. Later, I called Hartshorn’s office and asked what his assistant’s name was. “Which one?” the young woman on the phone asked. “He has five of them.” I couldn’t very well say, “The one who’s writing