Six fireplaces supplied warmth and a friendly glow to the graceful Colonial style building that had a lavish dining room on the first floor, serving excellent food, Cape Cod style. John Deer was feeling better than he had in some time, so his appetite allowed him to consume a considerably wider variety than his usual diet of just bread and coffee with no sugar.
The Inn was fully occupied, as was generally the case during the busy summer season. Since he was feeling so well John Deer not only took his meals in the dining room, but also stayed afterwards for conversations with the other guests. When the curse/gift was upon him, this was something he could not do.
On his second evening, after he had polished off an especially fine meal of deep fried cod, crisp fried onion rings, ‘steamers’ swimming in melted butter, and corn on the cob, followed by strawberry shortcake - the man who occupied the room opposite his, spoke.
“Terrific meal sir, wasn’t it? My name is Peters. Al Peters. I’m in furs. Not that I wear them of course,” he laughed. “But I sew them into coats and such for Boston’s finest ladies in my shop on Washington Street.”
“It’s nice to meet you Mr. Peters. I’m John Deer. I’m afraid I don’t have such an interesting job. About all I do is trade a few dull stocks now and then.”
“I’m Al. Call me Al, John. Now that I know you’re in stocks, I want to buy you a drink, maybe several. I might get some free stock tips.”
They both laughed as they made their way to the Inn’s lushly appointed ‘Old English Style Pub’ that opened out onto a terrace with a fountain and a view of the graceful steeple of a nearby church.
The soft breeze that reached them was cooled slightly as it grazed Shawme Pond, after which it was scented beautifully by dancing through a field of pink and blue hyacinth before wafting into the terrace where they sat at a glass top table with curving ornamental wrought iron legs.
“I have a great job,” affirmed Al Peters. “I get the whole summer off, every year! That’s because the only fur business there is in the warm months is the cold storage of the fur coats and wraps and such. I only need one person to watch over them, so that frees me up to spend all of July and August in this heavenly setting. What about you? Do you work for a broker?”
“No Al. I just dabble. I had a few fortunate deals that have put me in a position where I’m lucky enough to be a free agent most of the time.”
“Well John,” said Al as he sipped his champagne, “If you have any tips for me, I sure would like to know them. I’ve done very well with the Sandwich and Boston Glassworks. I bought 2,000 shares at a dollar each when they were first offered some eight or nine months ago. When the stock went up to three dollars I bought 2,000 more and then when it doubled to six, I bought another 2,000. So, I’ve got twenty thousand invested in the company and at today’s price that stock is worth $60,000. That’s a nice profit for less than a year.”
“It certainly is,” agreed John Deer, “I think perhaps it is you that is giving me a tip, but sadly I can’t think of one right now to swap back to you.”
“Oh that’s okay John. I’m just saying that if anything comes up while we are both staying here, please let me in on it and I’ll do the same.”
“That’s a bargain Al. Thanks for the champagne. Allow me to get us another.”
John Deer excused himself to use the bathroom facilities before ordering a new round of beverages. Upon his return he was surprised to see that Al Peters had been joined by two young ladies.
In the light of the elegant Murano Venetian chandelier that hung from the ceiling of the pub, the two women seemed more beautiful than any of the Vaudeville stars that he had seen in the ‘big time’ theaters like the Orpheum in Boston and the Palace in New York. The hues reflected from the chandelier’s three levels of dozens of tinted glass leaves and fruits and flowers, made it seem as though the ladies’ faces were adorned for a masked ball. He couldn’t see the details but knew that the close-up view would be even more spectacular.
It had been a long time since he thought about women – or pretty much anything except the chores he had to do to get to Provincetown, his last stop.
“John, you’re back. Please sit down and meet our neighbors.”
Al Peters introduced him to Miss Jane Wallin, a stunning, petite blond woman dressed in a very tight fitting green gown that fully flattered her full features. But he took little note of Miss Wallin, who was sitting so close to Peters that she was nearly in his lap.
It was the sepia haired beauty that al Peters introduced as Miss Emily Rapport, who captured his attention. Her hair was darker than midnight with eyes to match. Her skin was tanned beautifully as though she had spent many hours in repose at the beach to earn her deep tones, yet her visage seemed very light when compared to her shimmering black, shoulder length hair.
The two couples spent a pleasant hour discussing various topics of the day. During a lull in the conversation, Al Peters and Miss Wallin excused themselves in favor of an evening stroll around Shawme Lake.
“I don’t mind telling you it’s been a long time since I’ve enjoyed myself this much, Miss Rapport.”
“It’s Emily, John. To you, I’m Emily and just so you know. I’m not as old fashioned as my name suggests,” she said playfully. “I’m flattered that you enjoy being with a plain old schoolteacher on a Cape Cod holiday.”
“Number one you are not old,” he protested. “Number two you are anything but plain and finally – they don’t make school teachers that look like you!”
“I’ll take all of those as compliments John. I’ve been in the teaching business for seven years. I’ve been very fortunate. Last year I was appointed headmistress at the Huntington School for Girls in Boston.”
“I know the school. It’s very near the place of my first memories.”
“Were you born near there?”
“No. Well yes, in a sense Emily. In a certain way I am only seven years old. I have no memories other than waking up in a hospital near your school. I had a busted skull. How I came to be fractured, is unknown. As I had no wallet or other means of identification when I was found, I also don’t know my real name or much of anything about myself. I’m pretty sure I’m not a crook or a murderer so you don’t have to be afraid….”
She cut him off – “John, how horrible for you. Is there any chance your memory will come back?”
“Yes Emily, I’m afraid there is. I’m on some sort of a crazy mission. Something inside me, is forcing me towards the city of Provincetown. I fear that my answers will be revealed there.”
“You say ‘fear’, John. Why are you afraid?”
“I’m not afraid tonight Miss Emily! Let’s talk about this at another time. There is a bright moon in the sky and a secret rose garden on the other side of the Inn. Might we explore it?”
Thus began the happiest time of John Deer’s seven years of conscious life. As the summer inched toward autumn, he and Emily spent much of their days and evenings together.
For John Deer it was the longest period since his brain injury that he had gone without the explosions in his head. By far it was also the finest time of his seven years of pain and premonition.
For Emily, their friendship had turned to love almost immediately.
John had to battle with himself and remind himself every day that he was not free to fall in love. To spend a lifetime with the most enchanting woman he had ever known was not his destiny. His lot, cast by some unseen hand – was to board a loud, foul smelling steam engine and ride it to the last stop on the line - Provincetown. The American Indians called it the ‘end of the earth’.
Provincetown: where in all probability the ‘end of the earth’ would also be the end of his life. He did not know this for certain, but had a dark feeling that it was so.
Chapter Four:
Love Blooms on Feelings of Doom
On a hazy morning in late August John deer and Emily Rapport set
off in a rented buggy pulled by a prancing strawberry roan named “Goldie”. They were bound for a picnic near “Town Beach” at the entry to Sandwich Harbor. Soon they arrived at one of Cape Cod’s most scenic attractions, the Mill Creek Boardwalk.
While John unhitched the carriage and found a grazing spot for the for the reddish colored horse with a golden tail and mane, Emily set their blanket upon the soft, salt marsh grass near a large, flat boulder. Softly humming the new Vaudeville hit tune, ‘Down by the Old Mill Stream’, she laid out plates of fried chicken, corn bread, and potatoes with gravy. She warmed the meal over a small cook-fire.
After lunch they walked the 1400 foot boardwalk all the way to the head of the harbor where five foot whitecaps were bashing the rocky shoreline. Gazing over the undulating green waves of marsh grass along the way, they saw stunning views of Cape Cod Bay - framed in spots by lush beds of salt spray roses ranging in colors from a washed out red to pale pink and purple-blue.
Smiling, holding hands, and looking into each other’s eyes more often than at the elegant scenery; they crossed over the old Mill Stream and dozens of dunes before arriving at a platform overlooking the winding bay.
They could see the beginnings of the enormous construction project that would become the Cape Cod Canal. Work had begun in Bourne the previous summer and already had reached Sandwich Harbor.
Sitting at a bench on the observation platform, the lovers embraced.
“In a few days John, I have to leave to go back to school. What about you?”
“Emily I can’t bear the thought of losing you.”
“It’s settled then, you can come to Boston with me.”
“No Em. I can’t. You know that I’m not able to, though God help me, I wish I could.
Like a schoolboy on his first date, for in a sense it was very near to the truth, John closed his eyes and kissed her with open mouth. She laughed and recoiled at the same time – for in his nervousness, he fully missed her lips and landed his wet mouth upon her nose!
“Don’t be embarrassed,” she smiled. “Practice makes perfect. Try again!”
He did, with infinitely more success the second time around. For hours they sat by the sea in a warm, shared embrace.
As the red tinged clouds began gathering near the falling sun, making its way for evening, John quickly rose, “We have to be going back now. I must get “Goldie” back to her stall at the stable.”
Emily stood beside him and grabbed him as tight as she could. “I don’t ever want to let go.”
John looked into her eyes. They were the color of night. Her luxurious, onyx hair shined from the last rays of the sun. Her lips, parted slightly, were full and waiting. Returning her unyielding embrace, he kissed her deeply.
Forgotten for a moment was his mission. Overlooked was the memory of the headaches, the pains, and the premonitions. He was going to go Boston with Emily. They would marry in the Kenmore Hotel’s grand ballroom with all the faculty of the Huntington School for Girls in attendance.
Overhead, from out of nowhere, a flapping, fluttery cloud of bats appeared. Roller-coastering dangerously near Emily’s long hair, they startled the lovers and forced them to break short their feverish clinch.
The eerie creatures skittered off to the east and as they did, John’s eyes followed them. Over the stone jetties, he watched the erratic flight of the bat cloud. His gaze continued eastward and he saw all the way to Provincetown, located at the very tip of the 64 mile long sandbar in the Atlantic Ocean, called Cape Cod.
Provincetown. The glow from the city lights reminded him that there would be no kisses for him. No idyllic marriage ceremony. No band playing. No quartet harmonizing ‘Down By the Old Mill Stream’. No dancing with Emily in the street. No children playing at his feet. No Christmas Dinner with exotic foods to eat. No! None of this! Provincetown was his destination – not Boston.
Silently, they left Town Beach and began walking along the boardwalk. For more than 1400 steps, winding back to where the horse was waiting, the only sound made was the thudding of their footwear on the rough planks.
The livery shop was closed when they arrived back in the center of Sandwich. The owner had left the stable doors unlocked so John and Emily were able to get Goldie inside. They cooled her down and fed and watered the beautiful roan mare before going back to their picturesque colonial inn.
The Newcomb Tavern was already 217 years old in 1910, but was still one of the most fashionable buildings on Cape Cod. Its dining room served the tastiest food in the entire Massachusetts Bay Colony. John and Emily felt their sadness dissipating and their appetites growing, as the delicious aromas from the kitchen greeted them when they passed through the front door and into the main living room. It was a cheery area with a floor to ceiling hearth, plush couches, and a highly polished Baby Grand Piano.
They went into the dining room and took the most secluded table, eating enthusiastically from heaping platters of bay scallops, with sweet corn, potatoes, gravy, and bread straight from the oven. Their beverage was a bold red wine made by an elderly medical doctor from Dennis Village who retired from the practice of medicine, to practice the ancient ‘craft of the grapes’ that he had learned in Italy as a child.
After dinner the young couple walked through the French Doors that gave way to a terrace overlooking the East Garden, and the neatly trimmed lawns where croquet was lazily played in the day time. Sitting at a bulky table of delicately crafted ornamental iron, they stared at each other with moist eyes, but said little.
He finally broke the silence, “I want to, but I can’t ‘Em!”
“I know Johnny. I know two things - first that you do love me and second that you are guided by some internal order or feeling that you cannot control. You are exactly like the railroad tracks. They end in Provincetown for they were laid in that direction and can go nowhere else. As for you, just as if you too were being led by iron rails on top of bulky wooden ties, you also can go to no other place than Provincetown – the end of the line.”
For a long time, nothing further was said. The candle in the middle of their table, once burning cheerily and strong, was now sputtering, with its nearly naked wick ready to fall into a tiny pool of melted wax, which was all that remained of the once tall and straight, illuminated shaft.
The light from the chandelier seemed to dim as if blocked by the shadow of some unseen flying creature passing before it. Emily swallowed the little puddle that remained in the bottom of her fourth glass of wine and reached for a fifth.
As the illumination from the fixture above returned to normal, she noticed an indentation in John Deer’s forehead that she had not perceived before. The sides of his head along the divide of the scar were uneven. There was perhaps an eighth of an inch difference.
John observed her stare and said, “It never healed properly. The bone on one side was pushed deep into my brain. The doctors said that the bone penetrated into me like an axe and if the pressure had continued I would have died.”
“Were they able to relieve the pressure?”
“No Emily there was nothing they could do, short of taking a crowbar and pulling up the bone to match the other side…..”
“And that would have killed you,” she commented.
“Exactly. The physicians did the only thing they could do. They waited. For one full week I lay unconscious floating between light and dark - life and death. Just when the doctors thought that I would perish, the bone began moving of its own accord. First a tiny fraction, then an inch, then two and then three inches, the bone retracted from the interior of my brain. But before the two sides became equal, the movement stopped.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Not usually. During the times when I get the headaches, it seems like the bone presses in harder on the brain, and the gap between the two sides temporarily widens. It is during these moments that I have what is called ‘second sight’. I know things. Someti
mes I can predict the winner of a baseball games, the stock market, or even what spots will fall from a pair of rolled dice. Other times I don’t see the future, but I get glimpses of people in pain and suffering. The only thing that stops my pain is helping them with their troubles.”
“I don’t have to leave for another few days,” Emily said, changing the subject, “but the time is weighing too heavily on me. I feel like a condemned prisoner waiting to be executed. Each minute is becoming more oppressive.”
She stopped talking and finished the last of her wine. John did the same. They gazed at the flickering candle in the center of the table struggling to stay lit even as the last of its wax was pulled up into the wick.
Tearfully she said, “I’m going back to Boston tomorrow.”
The dying taper sputtered its final flare and went out. With slow, reluctant steps they went to her room – for the last time.
In the morning after they shared a final tearful embrace at the Sandwich Terminal. Emily boarded the train for Boston.
With a hissing screech, the six massive power wheels of the Alco steam engine slowly began to turn. Emily shouted through the open window by her seat, “Write me. Telephone me. Do not let go of me whatever happens.”
“I promise I will keep in touch Emily. No matter what may become of me, you’ll know.”
Chapter Five:
Sandwich Spoiled
It began as soon as the train was out of sight. His eyes refused to focus. A sickly wave of warmth started in the back of his head, at the base of his brain. It oozed like a river of hot lava, to his forehead before creeping downwards all the way to his feet. He felt like he was in a hot bath, but instead of water he seemed to be immersed in a thick petroleum-like substance that was getting hotter.
His fingers began to twitch. The involuntary jerks migrated to his hands. His vision clouded. The divide in his forehead grew larger as if the bones were being held together only by a faltering band of elastic.
Though each step was a struggle against limbs that were reluctant to move, he staggered back to his room. John Deer made it to his bed before the explosions of his cranium fully immobilized him.