The following continues the April 21, 1949 entry in the Rocky Stone notebooks:
I blinked a few times to see if I was still dreaming, and every time my eyes opened they focused in on my client as he cocked his head at me with a mixed expression of concern and wonder. I suddenly became aware that I was just wearing my shorts and my undershirt underneath the covers, and the awareness only heightened when the door flew open and Gloria breezed in. “Did you hear something?” she asked the Reverend.
“Indeed,” he replied. “Mr. Stone is awake.”
She turned toward the bed to see if I was still in it. I rolled over so we could look at each other. Her eyes were soft and yielding, and I knew she was back on my side, if just for a little while. “Things have changed,” she said to me.
“Does that mean Nine Knuckles had a change of heart and he's going to give the Reverend his wife back? Maybe it means Max suddenly realized he doesn't need the money and he's decided to forgive and forget? Or have you decided to quit playing around, sweetheart? I'm getting a pain in my neck from trying to figure out whose side you're on.”
“That's quite enough,” the Reverend scolded, and stood above me, looking about twenty feet tall. “It matters not a whit what she may have done in the past. She is truly concerned for Marjorie's safety.”
“Things have changed,” I quipped.
Gloria sat in the chair the Reverend Hosea vacated and tossed a few strands of unruly hair back where they came from. “Read the letter,” she said, and since I didn't have one on me at the time, I could only assume she was talking to him. The Reverend dutifully reached into the interior pocket of his black jacket and removed an envelope. It was a light shade of pink with flowers at the border, feminine.
“I received it this very afternoon,” he prefaced, and then dove in to the content. “'My Dear Cornelius, I am sure I am the last person on this Earth from whom you would expect a letter, but there is little time and I do not expect I will get another opportunity to set the record straight. I am living in my Mother's house, at the return address on the envelope. It was important for me to make my peace with her, and I believe I have. Now it is my time to make my peace with you.
“I am truly sorry for all the trouble I have caused you and despite all the evidence to the contrary, I still love you and long to see our children, although I know this can never be. It may make you laugh when I say they are 'our children,' but I continue to see it that way. When I said they were not yours, I spoke in anger and it was not entirely true. George Armstrong is yours. It is true after his birth that I began to be unfaithful to you, a fact I suspected you knew when you named our daughter Hester Prynne. When you named our next child Benedict Arnold I was sure of it. You had every reason to be suspicious. I am not sure who their fathers are, and what's more, I've never been curious. I choose to believe they are yours.
“Forgiveness is a part of your work. I do not understand how you could possibly forgive me for my foolishness, but I beg for it none-the-less. You married me even though you knew what I was, and you forgave me despite what I did. All I ask is this one last pardon, for I will die soon, perhaps before you even read these words.
“Please, when I am gone, think kindly of me. Kiss the children, and when you remarry one day, please choose someone more worthy than me. Your loving wife, Marjorie.”
The Reverend closed the letter and folded it gently along the creases she had made. He replaced it in the envelope and put it back in his jacket. His lip quivered just a bit, but that was all the emotion he allowed himself to show.
“Remind me never to ask you to name my dog,” I observed.
Gloria jumped from her seat and slapped me in the face. She did it solid, nasty, like she meant to do it harder but this was the best she could do. “Is that all you can say? His heart is breaking...!”
He cleared his throat and arrested her attention. “Miss Hallward informs me that Marjorie is still alive and that you in no small part are responsible. I thank you, Mr. Stone. And now that I know where she is, I will say good-bye to you.” He reached for his wallet and drew out some bills, placed them on the end table and turned to go.
“Wait,” I said. “Where are you going?”
He looked over his shoulder at me. “To see Max Blank, of course.”
Can the Reverend Hosea get his wife back from Max Blank or is it already too late? Find out next week on The Adventures of Rocky Stone!
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