Dear Abby

                    Dear Abby

The dark complexioned woman looking over the ten miniature pewter spoons in a rack which should have held twelve was Lena Grande, who had been a student in Professor Albert Grande’s graduate philosophy course two years ago but who had since become Mrs. Grande. Although he was always addressed by Lena as Albert, the advocate of Nietzsche preferred to be called “El Grande.”

The red headed woman looking through velvet-covered photograph albums was Molly Brown, who hailed from Toronto and dated Professor Tomas Redzinski, a Polish-American from Pennsylvania Dutch country and a fellow admirer of Nietzsche. Neither of the couple was in a rush to be wed, he because he dreaded the responsibility; she because she embraced the independence.

The blonde-haired woman was Marian Napoli, former teacher of American military children on a base in Wiesbaden, Germany, and an archivist in the city Stadtarchiv. She had met her future husband, Ben Napoli, when he was in Wiesbaden checking out his maternal grandfather’s creation, the largest cuckoo clock in the world. They instantly fell in love, but it took Ben almost two years to realize he had. Marian had followed Ben in his return to the Niagara Frontier and was now in Hoffmaster’s Antique Shop looking for a desk she could purchase to replace the dining room table he was using to correct his English class essays. Hoping to buy one and preparing the way for a negotiation, she approached the owner in his native language.

 “Sind alle Möbel, die Sie hier unten haben, Herr Hoffmeister?”

      “Sie müssen Deutsch sein.”
      “Ich bin.”
      “Von wo in deutschland.”
      “Aus Wiesbaden.”
      “Ich komme aus Rüsselsheim. Du weißt es.”
      “Natürlich. Es liegt zwischen Wiesbaden und Frankfurt.”
      “Was kann ich für Sie tun, liebe Dame?”
      “Sind alle Möbelstücke hier unten?”
      “Wonach suchen Sie?”
      “Ein Schreibtisch.”
      “Nein, oben sind zwei oder drei Teile.”
      “Darf ich sie ansehen?”
      “Natürlich.!”
                         “Dankeschon.”
      Marian turned away from Hoffmaster and started up the stairs to the barn’s loft.  The other women saw her, dropped what they were doing, and followed.  All now stood before a tiger-oak, roll-top desk, slightly covered with dust, but not looking the worse for wear.
      “What do you two think?”
      “It’s practical, but a bit of an eyesore.”

 “Oh, Molly, you’ve got to look past the dust, the scratches, and the nicks.”

Lena had already looked pass them. “I think Ben will love it. If you don’t buy it, I’ll get it for Albert.”

“How much is it?”

“Let’s find out,” answered Marian, who called to the owner still downstairs, “Herr Hoffmaster, bitte!”     

“Ya?”

“Wie muc ist der Roll-Top Schreibtisch?”

    Despite his girth, Hoffmaster was up the stairs directly, and the women stepped aside for him to see the desk. He circled and studied it. He closed and opened the roll top almost soundlessly.     

“Einhundert dollar!”         

Marian took a turn around the desk.

“Zu viel!”

“Funfundsiebzig dollar.”

    “Fur eine Landfrau?”

The old man smiled. 

“Funfzig dollar und einen hausgemachten apfelstudel, liebe frau?”

“Und einen hausgemachten apfelstrudel, liebe Herr Hoffmaster?  Sehr gut! Mein freund hat einen volkswagen bus. Darf ich morgen kommen und es abholen mit einen hausgemachten affelstrudel?”

“Alright, what was that all about?”

“Lena, the blonde siren here just conned the old German out of that desk for fifty dollars and I think a home made apple strudel. That’s it, Marian. From now on, you retail for me.”

“You better shop at Hoffmaster’s, then.”

On a tree-lined street two blocks from the falls, a green and white Niagara College van and a green Audi pulled up along side the Napoli residence. Tomas and El Grande stepped out of the van; Marian, Lena, and Molly, out of the Audi. The men opened the back door to reveal the roll top desk.  They examined it and then looked to the third floor of a three-family house behind the elm. They nodded to each other and began to empty the desk of drawers and hand them to the three women, who set them on the sidewalk. They then took hold of the desk and started across the sidewalk and up the steps and into the house, the three women, each holding a drawer and trailing behind.

El Grande and Tomas struggled to carry the desk up the steep, narrow steps to the second floor, stopping to lean against the wall on their way up. There they set the desk down and took a breather. The women remained on the steps holding a drawer in hand. 

A little later all the drawers were piled to either side of the desk, which stood before the windows looking out on a elm which shaded the house. Marian nodded her approval of the desk’s placement as El Grande questioned her.

    “Tell me again, Mrs. Ben, why isn’t Mr. Ben here to help us move this desk?”

“You know why, Albert. It’s a birthday surprise for Ben.”

The sound of a Corvair pulling up outside called Tomas to the window to peer out. “You better get those drawers in. Ben just pulled up.”

The women handed a desk to each of the men, who checked a number on the bottom of the drawer to match with one on the frame and then slipped the former into its slot. Marian left the room and quickly returned with a big red ribbon she placed on the top of the desk.

They all heard the door to the apartment open and quickly assembled before the desk to hide it from view. Ben walked into the living room, his book bag over his shoulder, paused to study the unexpected appearance of colleagues, and exclaimed, “What the hell’s goin’ on?”

Marian and friends stepped aside.

“Happy Birthday!”

Dumbfounded for a moment, Ben approached and studied the desk, reached out and rubbed his hand along the roll top, opened it, and turned around, “For me?”

“For you, Mr. Ben.”

“From?”

“Your wife, Ben! Who do you think?” responded Tomas.

“And Herr Hoffmaster,” added Molly.

    “Marian bought it; we hauled it.”

“Thank you, Lena; thank you, all.”

“Doesn’t it look beautiful there, in front of the window, Ben?” asked Marian.

“It does! It’s going to look even more handsome in our new study.”

“Our new study?”

“Yes, in our new home. You remember that Tudor-style, half-timbered house in Lewiston you loved so much, Marian?”

“Yes?”

“I just made a down payment on it. Subject to your approval, it’s ours, and, as much as you like it from the outside, you’re going to love it from the inside.”

“You’re leaving this beautiful apartment with all of its lovely nooks and crannies set only three blocks from the Falls?”

“You know me, Molly, good old boy scout. Be prepared.”

“You pregnant, Marian?” asked Lena.

“Not yet, but we’re working on it.”

“When do you move in, Mr. Ben?”

“November 1^st.”

“Two weeks from today?”

“Yeah. Maybe you guys can help us move. I’ll rent a truck.”

 El Grande and Tomas looked at the desk, then at each other, and then grabbed pillows from the sofa and threw them at Ben.

The leaves on the tree-lined street in suburban Lewiston were turning all yellow; and the branches, all black. In the drive way were a blue Volkswagen and a white Corvair. Inside, in the kitchen, Marian emptied china wrapped in newspaper from a cardboard box on a counter. 

Ben was in his study, a room with shelves across the top half of one wall over built-in cabinets beneath. The room was crammed with boxes yet to be unpacked. His desk stood before a window looking out on a small back yard garden. He was putting the drawers back into his new desk and was down to the last two smaller drawers which were to go just below the flat surface of the desk. He picked one up and inserted it into the space to the right until it was flush with the frame. He grabbed the other and placed it to the left until it hit resistance and stood out from the frame two inches. He tried pushing it in farther, but it would not budge.

Hesitating to apply more strength for fear of damaging the drawer, he paused and then pushed the right side bin in a little, and it receded farther in before it hit the back. He removed both drawers and set them down side by side on the floor. One was clearly shorter than the other.

    “Marian!”

Fearful something dreadful may have befallen her husband, Marian rushed into the room.

“What is it? What happened?”

Ben pointed: “Look carefully at those drawers.”

    “One is shorter than the other.”

    “Yes, but why? Did Hoffmaster mention anything about the difference?”

“I doubt he knew about the difference.”

Ben picked up the shorter of the two and slid it into one of the openings; it fitted flush with the exterior frame. He pushed the other in, and it too was flush with the frame. He withdrew the shorter one and knelt down to look in, but the darkness within made it impossible to discern anything. He reached in and touched something to the rear of the desk. The sounds of a click followed by a slight thud preceded his withdrawing his hand, which held a batch of old letters tied with a faded, frayed red ribbon. Ben and Marian stared at each other.

    “Did Hoffmaster mention anything about a secret compartment?”

“I doubt he knew anything about one.”

“Let’s see what we’ve got.”

    Ben untied the red ribbon and lifted the top letter from the batch and set down the others. He opened the envelope and removed a folded sheet of very thin paper. He unfolded it and, as he read the letter to himself, his eyes brightened. Finished reading, he picked up the envelope and read the addresses thereon.

“What is it, Ben?”

“Here, read it for yourself.”

Ben went to the shelves and pulled down one of the few books there, a reference tome, while Marian read the letter. Ben read from the middle of the book and then looked up. Having completed her reading of the letter, Marian questioned Ben. 

“Who’s Abby?”

Ben put the reference book back on the shelf, turned, and smiled at his wife.

    “And who’s dearest?”

Ben smiled again, this time as a fox might in the hen house.

The outline of the gnarled branches of the tree-lined suburban street stood out against the light of the full moon. In the drive way were four autos. 

Inside, in the living room, the three couples dined on their dessert of apple strudel, ice cream, coffee, and tea.

    “I think it’s time, Ben.”

“Count me out, Marian!”

“Out of what, Albert?”

“The Ubermensch has decided he will no longer play charade.”

“Not to worry, El Grande, Marian refers not to any game we have planned for you, but rather to a reward for your efforts in helping her move my new desk into the old apartment and all our furniture, here.”

“Reward? Mr. Ben. Count me in.”

“Me too,” added Tomas.

“Your reward comes in two stages. First, a reading of a letter found in a secret compartment of the desk!

“Secret compartment? I love it! I feel like I’m in the middle of one of those Masterpiece mysteries,” offered Molly.

“A secret compartment!”

“Where?”

“Behind the top left side drawer!”

“And the second stage, Mr. Ben?”

“A discussion about what to do with the letter.”

“I am in the middle of a mystery.”

“Indeed, you are, Molly; we all are!” added Marian.

“Let’s hear the letter, Ben,” cried Lena impatiently.

“Right, the letter!”

Ben took the letter out of the inside pocket of his jacket, unfolded it, and held it up to read. He added one more introductory note for the benefit of Tomas and Molly.

“Pay close attention, for there’s a lesson for some of us here in this letter. I was going to read it, but on second thought, I think it best Marian read the letter. It will give the reading verisimilitude.”

“Verisimilitude, Mr. Ben?”

“A literary term, do doubt.”

“Listen.”

    “’Dearest, your reply to my news about our unexpected event isn’t surprising.’”

The attention of the guests instantly became more enrapt. 

“’I knew you would propose marriage immediately. I want very much to accept your proposal, but I must qualify my assent with a condition.  I love teaching. It has brought me the greatest satisfaction of my life; it has brought me you. I will marry you provided you not object to my continuing to teach once we are wed. We will be able to afford a nanny. I foresee you are meant for greater things than being a lawyer. If and when you achieve political office, even the greatest office, it’s my intention to continue teaching. Grant me this one wish, and I most gladly and pleasurably accept your proposal. Your teacher in all things, Abby.’”

The room remained silent for a few moments.

“If I understood the letter, dearest had proposed marriage only after Abby had become pregnant, right?”

“But, Lena, only on the condition dearest agree to her continuing to teach once they were wed? A woman after my own heart,” added Molly.

“Who’s Abby?”

“Who’s dearest?”

“Were there other letters?”

“A dozen more!”

“Like this?”

“All from Abby addressed to dearest, all personal, but not quite as intimate.”

“For the last time, who’s Abby, Mr. Ben?”

“Who’s dearest?”

“Abby was a young school teacher on the Niagara Frontier by the name of Abigail Powers. Dearest was one of

her older students.”

“Mr. Ben, did dearest have a name?”

“The older student’s name was Millard Fillmore.”

“Who’s Millard Fillmore?” inquired Molly.

“My question exactly when Ben first named him,” said Marian.

    “Millard Fillmore, who for most of his life lived on the Niagara Frontier, was the thirteenth president of the

United States. And for part of that time he was a student of Abigail Powers.”   

“Holy shit, Ben!”

“My words exactly  when I figured out who the correspondents were, Tomas.”

“So the thirteenth president had to marry his former school mistress because he got her pregnant?”

“El Grande, I think we can add Fillmore to our catalogue of American ubermensch. So then, our hearing the contents of this letter is our reward for lugging that heavy oak desk up to your third floor apartment and then again into this study?”

“Hold on, Tomas. I suspect a letter like this to be worth quite a bit, am I right, Mr. Ben?”

“Quite a bit!”

“And?”

“I plan to share its worth with the movers of the desk.”

“It’s monetary worth?”

“That’s up to you. Marian, former archivist of Wiesbaden, Germany, believes it would be attractive not only to individual collectors but also to archives throughout the country. I’ve made inquiries as to its possible worth. Its value is quite substantial.”

“How substantial?”

“In the thousands of dollars, several thousands of dollars! And that is one option, sell it and divide the

spoils in three.”

“One option?”

“And the other options?”

“Basically three! The first is we alert Herr Hoffmeister of what we have discovered and invite him to

share in its value.”

“Wait a minute!”

“Hold on!”

“Way ahead of you two. Again I have consulted with the archivist and, as she has so wisely pointed out, once we go down that road we would probably have to go much farther back tracing all the previous owners of the desk.”

“Thus spaketh Zarathustra, Mr. Ben.”

“That leaves us two other options. Millard Fillmore is not high on the list of successful presidents. He signed the Fugitive Slave Act returning escaped slaves as property to those who claimed them and he spearheaded the Know Nothing party.”

“Know Nothing Party. Sounds like the current administration in my Canada.”

“Or our America.”

“Know Nothing Party, Mr. Ben?”

“A party against immigration, especially against the immigration of Catholics into our country!  When asked about their platform, they would hide their affiliation behind their claim, “I know nothing.”

“Like Sergeant Schultz on Hogan’s Heroes.”

“Exactly, Lena. But Fillmore’s positions were so unpopular, the frontier has received not much advantage from its connection to him. But he did found Buffalo University. If we were to sell the letters to that school, both the college and the town would enjoy some national attention.”

“And the final option?”

“You two ever been in the rare book room of our college library?”

“Room? More like a closet.”

“Exactly, Tomas! The third option is we donate the letters of Abigail Powers to Millard Fillmore to the Niagara College library, a donation on behalf of professors Grande, Napoli, and Redzinski.”

A lull in the conversation follows while the two professors mull over the decision having been placed before them. Meanwhile, Lena suggests another possibility.

“Since we helped lug the drawers up the steps, do we women get a vote?”

“Yes, but only on the condition each of you reads one of Abby’s letters to the rest of the group before we vote.”

“Mr. Ben. The letters, please!”

In the Niagara College library, an older student, dressed in denim jeans and a corduroy sports jacket approaches the check-out counter and speaks to the nun behind it, who gestures for him to follow her.

The young graduate student does and both he and the nun come to stand before a cabinet in the middle of the room, a cabinet with glass on all four sides of it. Behind the glass and on the several shelves and within frames with glass on both sides also are contained letters written in script on faded, thin paper. 

“These are Abigail Powers’ letters to Millard Fillmore. If you have trouble reading any of them, just let me know and I will take them out for your perusal.”

“Thank you, sister.”