Ghost Writer

Phineas Bligh was an ordinary sort. He had a comfortable situation as a clerk in a counting house. He rose every morning before dawn, took the seven o'clock train across town, then walked three and a half blocks up Market Street.

In the evening he walked back down Market Street, stopping by Rosalie's Diner for his supper, then caught the seven-fifteen train back home. He did this six days a week, without fail or deviation, without even a thought of putting pen to paper as his father had, until one day his life changed.

“Evening, Pheny,” Rosalie greeted him when he sat down at the counter. “You're mighty late tonight. I was fixin' to lock up.”

Rosalie was a stout woman, in her late forties, with long auburn hair pulled into a tight bun beneath a cloth net. She had always been overly protective and kind to Phineas, though he never asked why.

“Do you have anything left?” he asked hopefully.

“I think there's still some soup in the pot,” she offered, “and I can surely find some bread and cheese.”

“That would do nicely,” he smiled, hiding his disappointment.

Normally the diner was bustling with men, like Phineas, on their way home from work. Tonight it was empty. The walk down Market Street had been dark and lonely as well, not a single carriage clomping past - all the shops being closed for the day.

“What are you doing out so late?” she asked, setting a bowl of vegetable soup, a heel of bread, and a wedge of cheese on the counter.

“We had an audit today. Mister Levy has sold the business to a larger brokerage house.”

Phineas ate a spoonful of soup. It had a slight burned taste, but it was hot and filling – much better than going home with an empty belly. The bread was cold but fresh and the cheese was quite good.

“Will you be moving to the new firm?” She seemed concerned.

“Yes,” he said, swallowing a mouthful of bread. “Mister Levy secured me a position when he sold the firm.”

“That was decent of him. I've always said Mister Levy was a good man. A shame he never married. All that wealth and no one to share it with.”

“I expect I will be the same some day,” he replied, with some regret in his voice. He was not a social person, his life consisting mainly of work and little more. Rosalie was the only woman he conversed with regularly, and she was nearly twice his age.

“A strapping young man like you should have no troubles finding a wife – were he to look. You're a gentle and handsome man, with a good salary I suspect. If I were twenty years younger, I would claim you.”

“If people were not so strict in their false ethics and rude in their gossiping, I would court you like the fine lady you are. No man could ask for better meals or company.”

They both laughed. Phineas didn't have the heart to tell her his new situation would entail a change of office. He would no longer be enjoying her food or company come the following week. One more nightly supper was all he had with her.

***

The train station was empty when Phineas arrived. The nine-fifteen was the last run of the evening. He pulled out his pocket watch - three minutes past the hour. He slid it back into his pocket and noticed a woman standing by the landing. It was strange, he hadn't noticed her before.

She had long golden hair pulled back in an ivory comb. Her features, in profile, were stunning. Yet, his attention was drawn to her attire. She wore a long, loose, high-waisted dress popular a generation before – much like what he remembered his mother wearing – not the lacy, corseted fashion women currently forced themselves into.

The woman turned and met his gaze. He quickly bowed his head in embarrassment. When he regained the courage to look up, she was still staring in his direction. She smiled warmly, soothing his anxiety a little, and he returned her smile weakly.

“Do you know the time?” she asked. Her voice was melodic but seemed to him a little sad.

“It is three minutes past nine,” he replied, his voice cracking nervously.

“Thank you.”

“You are quite welcome.” He smiled again. Her voice, her presence seemed calming. And her smile...

“It is rather late,” she pointed out. “What kind of work do you do?”

“I'm a clerk at a counting house.”

He was beginning to feel as comfortable with her, as he was when conversing with Rosalie. He never felt so relaxed talking to women. He rarely did, even talking to other men.

“What brings you out so late in the evening,” he queried, “if it is not too forward of me to ask.”

“I had a meeting on Market Street. It was a little harrowing being in the city alone, after dark. It is quite pleasant to have your company now,” she said with a warm inviting smile.

Phineas felt a strange rush of joy and excitement, and he could feel his cheeks heating.

“Forgive me,” he said after a moment, closing the distance between them. “I have not properly introduced myself. I am Phineas Bligh.” He offered her his hand.

“Jessica McFarlin,” she replied, giving him her hand.

They stared for a moment, lost in each others' eyes - Phineas still holding her soft fingers in his. He noticed they were very cold, even in the mild spring air.

“Are you cold? You are welcome to use my jacket.”

“No, thank you,” she said softly, still holding his eyes and hand. “I am quite comfortable.”

Phineas noticed she had a small leather satchel under her arm. It brought back fond memories.

“My father always carried a satchel just like that,” he commented. “He was a writer, and he kept his papers in it.”

She let loose his hand and clutched the satchel, like a mother caressing her child when it becomes the center of attention.

“Are you a writer?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said shyly. She seemed so melancholy in her reply.

“Do you have anything published I could read?”

She looked away, her eyes clouding with tears. Phineas felt awful for causing her distress.

“I met with a publisher tonight,” she said, her voice full of emotion. “They didn't like my work. I have spent so many long years on my manuscript and he didn't finish the first chapter.”

He tried to console her. “My father was rejected many times, before he was published. There are more than a few publishers in New York. You should try others.”

“I have been to them all,” she confided. “They say my writing is excellent, but my story will not be well received – not from a woman. They suggested I should write about gardening or sewing.”

“I still know many of my father's friends,” he offered. “Perhaps I can help.”

“You are too kind, sir.” She smiled again, melting his heart.

“May I read it?”

“Of course,” she said, handing him the satchel.

“How may I reach you, when I have finished? To return your manuscript, of course.”

“My address is on the cover page.”

Phineas pulled out his watch. It was nine-fourteen. He heard the train coming in the distance, its breaks screeching on metal rails. He looked back up, and Jessica was gone.

He looked around frantically as the train screamed into the station. She was nowhere in sight. He was alone on the landing. The conductor called “All Aboard!” and only Phineas boarded the train.

***

Phineas laid the brown leather satchel on the counter at Rosalie's. He had carried it with him all day.

“Another late night, Pheny?” Rosalie greeted.

“Closing everything out,” he replied.

“I saved you a full plate tonight,” she said as she filled his glass with cool water. “Your favorite – pot roast with brown gravy and yams.”

He would sorely miss Rosalie's cooking.

Rosalie walked from behind the counter. She sat beside him on a stool while he ate.

“I reckon this is your last meal here, Pheny.”

“Its not so far away, I can visit.”

“What's in the satchel? I've never noticed you carry one.”

“I met the most amazing woman last night, at the train station. She's a writer, and she gave me a manuscript to read.”

“Have you read it?”

“No. I haven't had time yet.”

“You know, your father used to come here, when he had meetings with his publishers. Many writers have over the years.”

“No, I didn't.”

“So what is this aspiring author's name, who has you so smitten?”

“Is it so apparent?” he blushed.

“I've known you a long time, Pheny. Tell me all about her.”

“Her name is Jessica McFarlin,” he said wistfully.

“I knew a girl by that name, many years ago,” she interrupted. “A writer too, she was.”

“Maybe they're related,” he mused. “This Jessica has long golden hair, and the most beautiful blue-gray eyes.”

“May I?” she asked, reaching for the satchel.

“Of course. She told me every publisher in New York has turned her down. I plan to contact some of my father's old friends about her.”

Rosalie looked at the cover letter and her face went pale.

“This isn't possible,” she stammered. “Jess died twenty years ago.”

“What are you talking about, Rosalie?”

“Look at the date on this letter,” she said, “and the address. This was written by the Jessica McFarlin I knew twenty years ago. But she's dead.”

He looked at the letter, dated twenty years prior. The pages of the manuscript were old and yellowed.

“How did she die?” he asked, still leafing through the pages.

“She threw herself under the train, in that very station, after a publisher turned her down without even reading her work.”

“I talked to her last night, Rosalie. She was there. I touched her. She gave me this satchel.”

“It does look like Jessica's satchel. Your father had one just like it. They were close friends, back then. What did she look like, Pheny.”

“She had an old style dress like mother wore when I was young, and her long hair was pulled back in an ivory comb. She seemed sad, but she was very pleasant and a joy to converse with.”

“You're describing Jessica McFarlin, the night she died. She came here for coffee then went to the train. She was very distraught. I tried to get her to wait until I locked up so I could walk with her, but she said she needed to be alone.”

“What does this mean, Roslie? Did I meet a ghost last night?”

“I don't know, child. Maybe someone found the satchel after all these years and is pretending to be Jessica. All I know is, that's her handwriting on the letter, and this is the story she let me read twenty years ago.”

***

Phineas walked tentatively into the train station. He was alone and there was an eerie stillness to the place. He would have been tempted to tell himself it was all his overactive imagination, if he weren't clutching the twenty year old manuscript under his arm - a manuscript Rosalie vouched to be authentic.

“Hello?” he called out tentatively. His voice echoed in the silence that seemed to smother him.

For fifteen minutes he stood there in silence until the roar of the nine-fifteen, and the squall of her breaks, dashed all hopes of seeing Jessica again. He climbed on the train and went home.

Once home he settled into his reading chair and opened the old satchel. Page after perfect page he read until he reached the end. It was the most beautiful prose he could imagine. Even his father's best couldn't compare. But it was dark and sensual and erotic – not something a lady of her generation could ever hope to publish.

Jessica had poured her heart and soul into those pages, bled the ink onto the paper, and it had consumed her.

***

Phineas didn't report to his new job on Monday morning, nor on Tuesday. He never again put pen to ledger in the arrangement of numbers, but set out on a quest to publish Jessica's faded pages. Along the way he began writing his own.

They were, of course, published - after many heated arguments with men in the publishing industry he had grown up admiring. His primary demand was not money, but that not a single word of Jessica's text be altered.

His own story - based on Jessica's life, and everything he could learn about her - was also published. It took over a year to write, and many long nights talking to Rosalie. He learned much about his own father, things he had never guessed, and about other writers who passed through Rosalie's Diner.

Both manuscripts achieved tremendous success. Phineas continued to write – short stories, novels, poetry – just like his father. He always carried with him Jessica's tattered satchel, filled with his own pages.

One night, as he returned home from a party given by his publisher, the train passed through the Market Street Station and Jessica was there – standing on the platform just as he remembered her. She smiled, as the train sped past, and blew him a kiss.