Mr. Thomas struck a match and held it into the bowl of his pipe, inhaling deeply, the air whistling down that tiny chimney. I found I was smiling at him. At him, and the memory.

“But you did not answer my question,” Mr. Thomas exhaled. “Why do you write?”

I looked at him standing by the mantel, his hair brushed surely back from his brow, casual and earnest as he waited my reply.

“It allows me to vanish.”

He drew upon his pipe but did not comment.

“Go on.”

“When I sit down to write, at first it is as though I am descending downward through the fleecy coverings in my head, and down I go, down I go, all the while staring out the window, in the attitude of someone at study, my pen in my hand. And the soft procession of my thoughts floats past me as I fall, until I am suddenly stuck upon one that will not fall past, something solid, a voice perhaps or a scrap of conversation I do not know the beginning of, or the end. And then I take up my pen and I begin to listen.”

“Ah, it is your pen that does your writing.”

“Hush. It was you asked the question.”

“I beg your pardon. Continue. Please.”

But I could not. His lightness had noosed my explanation. He waited for me to begin speaking again, and then, hearing my silence, he looked up, a rueful smile upon his face.

“I suppose I have ruined it.”

“Yes,” I said simply. “You have made me feel foolish.”

“Why is it you should wish to vanish?”

“Why should you wish to remain here?” I challenged.

He smiled richly. “To stand before you and hear your voice crossing to me in autumn.”

But I wanted him to fathom me. Unthinking, I rose and crossed the room to him.

“When I vanish, I can see.”

22 October

Tell me—what is the distinction between what one imagines and what one remembers? How often my memory, or my recording of events, slips the leash—and I wander just a bit further outward—into Possibility—where what Was and what Might Be are twin sisters on these pages. For I have set down here all the doings of our days, and see, my dear Reader, how easily the little scenes crawl forward, as though drawn to being by the bright clarity of fiction?

Nay, not fiction exactly. For, of course, what I have written here is what did happen.

Isn’t that right, Susannah, my sister, my best reader?

MY PARLOR PLOT

“Close your eyes, and I will tell you a story.”

He sat down swift as a pupil and crossed one long leg over the other, his black boot shining on the carpet at my feet. Then he closed his eyes.