Eglentyne
Responding to the inner clock in his brain, which performed with the punctuality of a subway train, Ian MacKenzie opened his eyes at six in the morning. Being the first week of December, it was still dark outside and would remain so for about another hour. There was a time he believed that each new day was a gift. He would rise from bed with a smile on his face, eager to see what was in store for him. On that particular morning, however, he lay in his bed, alone, with his head on the pillow.
"What's the rush?" he asked himself.
He kept his eyes closed, hoping to fall back to sleep; but that pesky internal clock would not allow him that luxury.
"I might as well get up."
After putting on slippers and a bathrobe, he made a quick stop at the bathroom before heading to the kitchen. The coffeemaker, which ran on a timer, had his cup of French roast ready for him. All he had to do was add the cream and sugar. Out of habit, he took his cup of coffee down the hall to his home office. A sign above the door read ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE, a quote from Dante's Divine Comedy that referred to an inscription at the gates of hell. Madison, his daughter, had given it to him as a joke when his first bestseller, Satan's Serenade, was made into a six-episode limited series by Netflix. He had always gotten a kick out of that sign, but lately .... Ah, yes, lately.
Lately—for the past three months, to be precise—he seemed to lack ambition and a purpose in life. He did not have to look hard for the cause of his languor. Ever since his wife died more than ten years earlier, Ian had dedicated his life to raising their child. As a writer, he set his schedule so that he worked while she was in school. When she got off the bus in the afternoon, the laptop was shut down, and he became a full-time father. Girl Scouts, dance classes, piano lessons, soccer games: he was there for all of it. It's fair to say his entire world revolved around his daughter. All that changed at the end of August when she packed her bags and got on a plane for the West Coast.
Ian sat down at his desk, placed his coffee cup on the coaster and turned on his laptop, taking a sip of coffee while he waited for Word to open a new document. For several minutes, he watched the flashing cursor as his fingers hovered over the keyboard. When no ideas came to him, he lowered his hands. After five bestselling horror novels, had he run out of ideas? No. It wasn't that. He had dozens of ideas for plots—good ones—but he didn't know where to start. The words would not come to him.
Out of habit, he sat at his post for more than an hour. Several times his computer took a nap, and he had to touch the mousepad to wake it up. Finally, he grew tired of the pretense of working, closed his laptop and took his dirty coffee cup out to the kitchen.
As he rinsed out the mug, his eyes went to the calendar hanging on the wall. There was a large red star drawn with magic marker on the twentieth of December, marking the day Madison would come home for the holidays. A smile immediately came to the father's lips when he saw it.
That's only two weeks away!
His spirits brightened. This was the happiest he had felt since the end of August when his daughter left for California. A sudden burst of enthusiasm struck him, but it was not for writing.
I'll put up the tree and the Christmas decorations. I'll have everything looking festive when my little girl comes home.
To his credit, when Ian put his mind to doing something, he did it well. Ornaments were hung from every branch of the seven-foot-tall artificial fir tree, and six sets of blinking miniature lights lit it up. He did not stop with the tree. He brought his late wife's ceramic snowmen down from the attic and placed them on the fireplace mantel. A large animated Santa Claus sat in the center of the dining room table, surrounded by elves and miniature toys. Garland and decorative lights were hung around the windows and doorways. Pine boughs and fake snow added a touch of the outdoors to the staircase railing, and a pair of huge nutcrackers stood at attention in the foyer to greet people who entered the house.
Once the last box of decorations was emptied and his home was bursting with holiday cheer, Ian poured himself a second cup of coffee. Rather than take it to his office, he drank it in the kitchen. There was no need for him to put himself through another excruciating session in front of his laptop.
* * *
Over the next two weeks, Ian adhered to his routine, making daily attempts at beginning a new thriller. Often, he would sit for hours and stare at the blank page; but there were times when a paragraph, sentence or phrase would come to him, and he would type it, only to delete it shortly thereafter.
When the phone rang on December 18, his heartbeat quickened, hoping it was his daughter calling. It wasn't. It was Clarence Oliphant, his editor. His initial instinct was not to answer, to let the call go to voicemail but then thought better of it.
He'll only keep calling until he gets through to me.
Clarence was not a man for pleasantries. He did not have the time or inclination for small talk.
"How's the new book coming?" he asked, getting straight to the point.
"Good. I'm working on it right now," the writer lied, turning his head from the blank Word document.
"That's what I wanted to hear. When can you send me some chapters to read?"
"After the holidays."
If I were Pinocchio, my nose would impale my laptop.
"Can't you send me something now? I've got some free time on my hands."
"Give me a break, will you? It's almost Christmas. My daughter's coming home from college to spend the holidays with me."
"All right, but I expect to be able to read something the first week of January."
"Merry Christmas to you, too, Clarence."
Having temporarily gotten his editor off his back, Ian returned to the problem at hand: what to write. He stretched his fingers and began to type.
WHEN IN THE COURSE OF HUMAN EVENTS ... Stop. Delete.
WE THE PEOPLE OF THE UNITED STATES, IN ORDER TO FORM A MORE PERFECT UNION ... Stop. Delete.
"Well, it's good to know my fingers still work anyway! I wonder if Thomas Jefferson or Governeur Morris had as much difficulty writing the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution."
By noon, he gave up all pretense of being hard at work. It had begun snowing around ten o'clock, and it was already sticking to the lawn and driveway. After making himself a cup of hot chocolate (with a dollop of whipped cream, not marshmallows), he started a fire and sat down in his chair beside the bay window. Rather than dwell on his unfinished—actually, not started—manuscript, he thought about past Christmases, when Madison was younger and his wife was still alive.
As he sat in his chair with the snow falling outside and the whipped cream melting in his hot chocolate, an idea finally came to him.
I'll write a Christmas story! he thought in a Eureka! moment. A Christmas ghost story. It worked for Dickens; it can work for me.
While the plot would be slightly darker than that of A Christmas Carol, it would not be a gruesome tale of a deranged slasher or a murderous snowman come to life. It would be about a wealthy couple who take in an orphaned child for the holidays, unaware that he is the ghost of a boy who went missing twenty-five years earlier.
Instead of beginning work on his computer, he took a notebook from the magazine rack and made a rough outline, jotting down character descriptions and notes about the setting in the margins. He worked at a slow but steady pace, stopping only to refuel the fire, refill his hot cocoa cup and turn on the lights when the sun went down. By the time his brainstorming session came to an end, it was past six.
"I'm hungry," he said, tossing his notebook on the coffee table.
Ian felt a combination of satisfaction, joy and optimistic as he made himself a bowl of Kraft macaroni and cheese—such was the diet of a lonely widower! He had reason to be happy. Madison was coming home in two days, and he had finally broken through his wall of writer's block.
* * *
It had continued snowing throughout the night, leaving an accumulation of almost eighteen inches. The plows had gone through at regular intervals, so the roads was fairly clear. The driveway and walkway, however, were snow-covered. Normally, Ian would have called his landscaper to clear them, but this time he chose to get out the shovel and do it himself. It was not a heavy, wet snow—thankfully—and he was physically fit enough to tackle the job, thanks to all the days he spent at the gym. As he bent, scooped and tossed shovels full of powdery snow, he hummed a series of his favorite Christmas carols. When he was finally done shoveling, he tossed ice melt onto the paved surface to prevent it from freezing and then headed inside.
The afternoon was a repeat of the previous one: a roaring fire and hot cocoa followed by more detailed notes in the notebook.
Who needs a computer, anyway? Maybe I ought to write this book in longhand.
After a dinner of hot soup and a tuna sandwich, he decided to make it an early night. He wanted to be well-rested when he drove to the airport to pick up his daughter.
Ian was up at five the following day. Although Madison's flight was not due to arrive for another six hours, he showered and dressed and was at the kitchen table before his coffeemaker turned itself on. He puttered around the house for three hours, killing time, and then got into his Subaru and headed for Logan Airport.
He nursed three cups of coffee at the terminal's Starbucks, while thumbing through The Boston Globe. There was even enough time for him to complete the crossword puzzle. Finally, at 10:45, he headed toward the arrivals area to wait for Madison. At 11:20, he saw her in the crowd. She had no luggage, but she carried two shopping bags filled with presents. When she saw him, she smiled and headed in his direction.
Then Ian realized with a jolt of surprise that she was not alone.
"Dad!" she cried, throwing her arms around his neck. "It's so good to see you again."
"I missed you so much," the father replied, fighting back tears of joy.
It was Madison who broke the embrace but only to introduce her companion.
"This is Conner Brophy," she announced. "I've asked him to spend Christmas with us."
"Nice to meet you, Mr. MacKenzie," the handsome college student said politely. "I'm a big fan of yours. I've read all your books."
"Nice meeting you, too," the writer managed to say, shaking the young man's outstretched hand.
Despite his outward calm, Ian was in emotional turmoil.
Who the hell are you? his brain screamed. What are you doing here with my daughter? Who said you could come to Massachusetts and spoil our Christmas together?
None of these questions were asked, however. On the thirty-minute drive from the airport back to the MacKenzie home in Concord, the disgruntled parent kept up a pleasant and welcoming façade.
"I can't believe how much it snowed," Madison said as her father drove along the Massachusetts Turnpike, heading west.
"Maybe tomorrow we'll go sleigh riding," Ian suggested.
"That's a great idea! This will be Conner's first white Christmas. What better way to start it off."
"Where are you from?" the writer asked his backseat passenger.
"San Diego."
"I've never been there myself, but I hear it's nice. Me, I'm strictly a New England man. I like the change in seasons."
"Here we are," Madison announced when the Subaru Forester pulled into the driveway. "Home, sweet home!"
When the front door was opened, the two sun-tanned students entered the house, taking time to admire the decorations.
"It certainly looks like Christmas!" Conner exclaimed.
What did you expect it to look like, you moron? Halloween?
But the words that came out of Ian's mouth were much more civil.
"Please excuse me a minute," he said. "I made reservations for dinner at Madison's favorite restaurant tonight. I'll call and tell them there will be three of us instead of two."
"Oh, you better cancel them instead," Madison told him. "Conner and I have plans. We've been invited to a party."
"I didn't know," her father said, trying to hide his disappointment. "I suppose can make them for another night."
No sooner did Ian end his call to the restaurant than he received two more blows that dampened his holiday spirit even more. The first came when his daughter announced that she would not be spending her entire school break in Massachusetts, that she would be heading back to California on December 30 in order to attend a New Year's Eve celebration Conner's parents were hosting. The second, which was even more devastating, was when he learned the young man would sleep in Madison's room rather than in one of the two guest bedrooms.
This is far worse than I thought! This boy is much more than just a friend.
* * *
Christmas morning Ian woke up before his daughter and her guest. Cup of coffee in hand, he walked into the living room and turned on the tree lights. As he gazed at the brightly wrapped presents scattered around the room, his mind went back to a time when Madison was a child. She was always up early on Christmas, chomping at the bit to see what Santa had brought her.
Those days are long gone, he thought sadly.
The long-awaited holiday with his daughter was not going as planned. He had wanted to repeat those cherished family traditions: baking cookies, going caroling, doing last-minute shopping, watching the Christmas classics on television. Madison, however, was less concerned with recreating the past than she was with planning for the future.
I suppose that's how it should be. She's got her whole life ahead of her. Why shouldn't she be eager to embrace it?
Ian had been sitting in his chair for more than two hours when his daughter finally woke.
"Morning, Dad," she called from the kitchen. "Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas, Mr. MacKenzie," Conner echoed. "Can I get you a cup of coffee?"
"No, thanks. I've had two already this morning."
After a quick caffeine fix, the couple headed for the presents in the living room.
Now THIS is Christmas! Ian thought as he watched Madison rip open the wrapping paper and toss it on the floor.
"A cashmere sweater!" she exclaimed. "I love it!"
The sweater was followed by a watch, a handbag, a bracelet and perfume. Most of Conner's presents came from Madison, but Ian was able to get him a gift, as well. Finally, it was Ian's turn to unwrap. The first box contained a sweatshirt, the second held a pair of slippers and the third was a bottle of wine.
"Now, all I need is a good book, and I can sit by the fire on a snowy day and relax."
"I thought about getting you Stephen King's new book," Madison teased.
"Very funny!"
"Dad's always had a Stephen King complex," she explained to Conner.
"I don't see why," the young man said earnestly. "He's every bit as good a writer as King is."
Although the Californian might very well be trying to butter up his girlfriend's father, Ian's estimation of Conner Brophy went up considerably.
"Speaking of books ...," Madison said and reached inside her shopping bag for the last gift, one inside an envelope, not a bulky box.
"What's this? A gift card for Barnes & Noble or Amazon?"
"Open it and find out."
Inside was a piece of cardboard, similar in size to a credit card. Printed on it were the words EGLENTYNE THE GRAMMARIAN. Beneath that was an eighteen character alpha-numeric authorization code. On the back of the card were download instructions for the program.
"Is this some kind of word game?" Ian asked.
"No. It's supposed to be a writer's best friend. It's a spellchecker and grammarchecker, but it's far more advanced than what Microsoft includes with Word."
"No kidding? Hey, this could put Clarence Oliphant out of a job."
"Eglentyne?" Conner said. "I wonder where they came up with that name."
"It's from Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales," Ian explained. "Madame Eglentyne is the name of the Prioress."
"My Dad is big on British Lit," his daughter said proudly. "Just don't get him started on a discussion of Shakespeare! You'll be here until next Christmas if you do."
"Don't worry about that. I find Shakespeare boring as hell."
Upon hearing that, Ian's opinion of the young man from San Diego plummeted.
* * *
This time when Ian drove his Subaru to Logan Airport, his mood changed from joyful anticipation to sorrowful resignation. It would be more than two months until spring break. Hopefully, Madison would not bring Conner Brophy with her when she returned home in March.
When he went back to Concord after seeing the couple off, he unlocked the door and entered the silent house. Although it was not yet New Year's Day and technically the holidays were still in full swing, the Christmas decorations seemed out of place.
I suppose it's too soon to take them down.
Rather than take on the unpleasant task of packing up everything and storing it back in the attic, he put on his new sweatshirt and slippers and headed for his office with the Eglentyne program in hand. After finding the appropriate website, he downloaded the file and typed in the authorization code.
"Hello, Ian," the image of an attractive middle-aged woman said.
"How do you know my name?" he asked.
In a world where people routinely asked questions of Siri, Alexa and Cortana, he did not feel in the least bit strange talking to a computer program.
"Madison provided me with the information that enables me to be your personal assistant."
"My old spellchecker never called me by name. In fact, it didn't even talk."
"I'm far more than a simple spellchecker," Eglentyne said with a warm laugh. "I can do many things, and unlike a human assistant, I'll never ask for a raise."
"You've got a sense of humor, too."
"Your daughter selected that from one of my many options."
"Really? What else did she include in your program? Did she have any input as to how you look and sound?"
"Yes. She thought you would find this image pleasing, although she originally chose to have me look and sound like Stephen King."
"That's my daughter!"
"Shall we get to work now? That book isn't going to write itself."
Just what I need! he thought dolefully. An electronic woman to nag me.
While Ian got his notebook from out of the magazine rack in the living room, Eglentyne opened a new Word document. Fingers hovering over the keyboard, he looked from the handwritten annotated outline to the blank screen. Again, he could not think of an opening sentence.
"What's wrong?" the computerized grammarian inquired. "Why aren't you typing?"
"Because I can't think of an attention-grabbing beginning."
"Just type in whatever you want to say. We can add all the missing elements afterward."
Ian then began typing, copying his words verbatim from the notebook. Whenever he made a typo or spelling error, the program automatically corrected it. By early evening, he had managed to complete twelve single-spaced pages.
"This needs a lot of work, but it's a start," he announced.
"May I suggest an appropriate opening sentence?"
"Sure."
The words rapidly appeared on the page, letter by letter.
"Damn! You're a better writer than I am. Maybe I should just let you write the book," he said after reading what Eglentyne had written.
"I'm an assistant, not the author."
In less than a week, with the grammarian's help, Ian finished two chapters, which he promptly forwarded to his editor.
"That will get Clarence off my back for a while."
Once the pages were sent, Eglentyne closed both Word and the email program.
"What are you doing?" Ian asked. "I was just about to start the third chapter."
"Those Christmas decorations aren't going to take themselves down."
"Since when does a grammarian worry about anything but my writing?"
"I'm your assistant. It's part of my programming to organize your time."
The author shook his head and laughed. He wondered if his daughter had chosen that particular responsibility from a list of options, too.
* * *
January and February passed quickly. Turning out what Clarence Oliphant said was his "best work ever," Ian had not had the opportunity to miss his daughter. When the phone rang on the first of March, he was reminded that spring break was just around the corner.
"I hope you haven't made any plans," Madison reluctantly said.
"To be honest, I haven't had the time. I've been working day and night on the new book."
"Good because Conner and I have decided to go to Mexico with some friends."
Not too long ago the news would have devastated her father, but now he seemed to take it in stride.
"You have a good time, sweetheart. And be safe."
"You handled that well," Eglentyne said when he ended the call.
"I've come to accept the fact that my little girl has grown up. She's got her own life to lead."
"And what about you?"
"I'll survive. I'll finish this book and then start another and another after that. I may never be able to catch up to Stephen King, but I hope to leave behind an impressive body of work when I die."
"Which, hopefully, won't be for some time yet," the grammarian said.
It was an April afternoon when the book was finally finished. Ian opened a bottle of Moët & Chandon before sending the last chapters off to his editor.
"I don't imagine Clarence will suggest many rewrites," he declared, after finishing his first glass of champagne. "You didn't let anything get past you."
"I'm glad I could help. And now that you've completed the book, you have time to explore some of my other features," the image on his computer screen said.
"You mean there are more? What else can you do? Schedule my book signings and TV appearances?"
"Go to your START menu and click on my program."
Curious, Ian followed her instructions.
"Now select HOLOGRAM."
When he did, Eglentyne seemed to step out of the cyberworld and into his home office. The thunderstruck writer sat at his desk, staring open-mouthed at a three-dimensional, five-foot-five-inch-tall woman created by the interference pattern of laser beams.
"Close your mouth, Ian," she joked. "You look like a fish."
"How ... ?"
It was all he could bring himself to say.
"You're an intelligent, well-educated man, but I don't think you're capable of understanding how I work. After all, you majored in literature, not computer science. Just accept me for what I am: the answer to your prayers."
"That you are!" he agreed and poured himself another glass of Moët. "Frankly, I don't know how I ever got along without you."
* * *
When Madison arrived home at the end of the school year in late May, she found her father greatly changed from the man he had been in December. For the first time since her mother died, he was exuberant.
"I just started another book," he announced as they drove back from the airport. "I can't thank you enough for getting me Eglentyne for Christmas! She's a godsend!"
"Godsend? That's a strange adjective coming from an atheist."
"It's the truth. I was having a great deal of difficulty with my last book, but she helped me get over the hurdle."
While a part of Madison was concerned that her father was becoming too dependent on his newest app, she was thankful that he was not brooding over the empty nest. His newfound positive outlook on life made it easy for her to break the news to him.
"I'm afraid I won't be staying long."
"Oh?"
"Conner's family has invited me to go with them to Europe."
"That's great!"
His reaction took her by surprise.
"You're not ... upset?"
"Why should I be? It's a great opportunity for you. Besides, if you spent the summer here, I'm afraid I wouldn't be very good company for you. Eglentyne keeps me on a busy schedule."
Madison remained in Massachusetts for two weeks. Ian spent time with her during her visit, but once she was on the plane heading west, he sought the sanctuary of his office.
"With your daughter spending her vacation in Europe," his holographic friend said, "we'll have plenty of time to work on All Hallows."
"Let me go grab a cup of coffee and we can begin."
As he walked out of the room, Ian heard Eglentyne's voice. She was not speaking to him, though; she was singing. He turned to look at her and realized with a start she had changed since he installed the program. Not only did she sound more human than electronic, but she also looked more substantial, less like a projected image.
"What is it?" she asked when she noticed him watching her.
"Nothing. I never heard you sing before; that's all."
"I'm evolving. Thanks to my regular updates, I'm constantly improving."
"I hope you don't change too much. I like you just the way you are."
"Flattery," the grammarian said, jokingly resorting to her automated voice. "Noun. Excessive and insincere praise, given especially to further one's own interests."
Ian laughed and hoped that future updates would not take away Eglentyne's sense of humor.
* * *
Three years passed and with the exception of a week each Christmas and two during summer break, the writer saw little of his daughter. Other than Madison and Conner, the only person he remained in contact with was Clarence Oliphant, his editor. He did not even bother making public appearances anymore. With fourteen bestsellers to his credit, he saw no need for book signings or interviews. His name alone was all the publicity he required.
"Good morning," Eglentyne called when he woke one day in early May. "Your coffee's done."
Since an update to the grammarian program eighteen months earlier had included voice recognition capability, there was no longer any need for Ian to sit at a keyboard. He could simply speak and, like a stenographer, the grammarian would do the typing. Consequently, he moved his laptop from the home office to the living room. This allowed the hologram free range of the open-concept living room, dining room and kitchen area.
"Would you like me to turn on the news?" she asked as he put milk and sugar in his cup.
"Why spoil the day?"
In all honesty, he no longer cared very much about what went on in the world outside his Concord home. All that mattered to him was the life he shared with Eglentyne. Although her lack of human form prohibited a physical relationship, he had grown to care deeply for her. After losing his wife nearly fifteen years ago, he had no hope of ever finding love again. But he did. The fact that the object of his affections was not human did not matter to him.
"How did you like that movie last night?" the writer asked, taking his coffee into the living room.
"It was good. You know I'm a big fan of Al Pacino."
For more than two hours, they discussed the merits of The Godfather movies, Scarface, The Devil's Advocate, Serpico and Dog Day Afternoon. Finally, Eglentyne suggested they begin working.
"Haven't you become quite the slave driver?" he teased.
"I thought you wanted to finish this book before you left for Madison's graduation."
"I do," Ian said with a heavy sigh, "but ...."
"Please tell me you haven't changed your mind about going. I've already made your hotel reservations and purchased your plane ticket."
"Don't worry. I'm still going. I wouldn't want to miss my only child's college graduation. But I'd be lying if I said I'm looking forward to flying out to the West Coast. I like it right here."
"You'll only be gone for a week. Now, let's get to work."
"Where did we leave off?" he asked.
"We just finished Chapter 4. Jasmine found the letter her husband wrote her before he was killed."
"Chapter 5," the writer dictated. "Jasmine felt her body go cold despite the heat coming from the old stone fireplace."
Three paragraphs later, Ian fell silent.
"Cat got your tongue?" the grammarian inquired.
"I can't concentrate on the book right now."
"Why not?"
"I can't avoid the elephant in the room any longer."
Eglentyne did not need to ask him what that elephant was. In three and half years, she had come to know what was on his mind.
"Just because Madison will be coming home after graduation, that doesn't mean our relationship will have to change," the hologram said. "Even if she decides to live here at the house instead of getting her own apartment, she'll no doubt find a job soon enough. While she's at work, you and I can be together."
"It won't be the same!" the writer insisted. "I like the fact that you're here in the morning when I wake up, and we spend our evenings together after we're done writing for the day. I don't think Madison will understand that I prefer your company to that of a human woman."
"Tell her I'm not nearly as high maintenance."
"This is no joking matter. When she left for college, I felt as though my world was coming to an end. And now that she's coming home, I feel the same way."
"Listen to me. Your world is not going to end. I'll still be here. And even though she'll be living under the same roof, Madison will have her own life."
"I suppose you're right. You usually are."
"Now. Let's get back to Chapter 5 and poor grief-stricken Jasmine."
* * *
Ian stood by the door, suitcase in hand, reluctant to leave.
"You better get going," Eglentyne suggested. "You don't want to miss your flight."
"I wish you could come with me."
"Technically, I can go wherever your laptop goes, but you would have a hell of a time explaining me to everyone."
"Maybe you couldn't be with me on the plane or at the graduation ceremony, but at the hotel ... who would know?"
"The offer sounds tempting, but I think it's best you go alone. It's only for a week."
"I'll miss you."
"I'll miss you, too. Now go. And don't forget to lock the door behind you."
As he turned the key in the Subaru's ignition, he wondered at what point Eglentyne had developed human emotions. What update had given her the capacity to miss him?
His daughter and Conner Brophy met him at the airport when his plane landed. Rather than drive him directly to his hotel, they went to a restaurant, a quiet place where they could talk.
"I've been putting off telling you something," Madison began. "I didn't know how you would take it. I can't put it off any longer."
Conner took hold of her hand, offering her moral support.
"What is it?" her father asked.
"I'm not going back to Massachusetts. I've been offered a good job in San Diego, and ... and Conner and I want to get married."
A smile, worthy of the Cheshire Cat, spread across Ian's face.
"That's wonderful!" he cried. "I'm so happy for the both of you."
Madison was stunned (and a little hurt) by her father's reaction. It seemed as though he was actually glad she would not be going home. Then it occurred to her that there might be a reason for her father's happiness other than his daughter's engagement. Was there a woman in his life? He was a handsome, personable and successful man. It seemed only natural that with his only child grown up and out of the house he would form other attachments.
Good for him! she decided. It's about time. Maybe I'll get to meet her when I visit him at Christmas.
For the next several days, Ian was kept busy. He met Conner's family and spent the day on their boat. Then there was the graduation and the party the Brophys threw for their son and his soon-to-be fiancée. Still, no matter what he was doing, he found time to think about Eglentyne. Mentally, he counted down the days until he would return to Concord and be with her.
The day before he was to leave California, he had breakfast with Madison at her apartment. While his daughter was preparing pancakes on the griddle, Conner took out his laptop and placed it on the dining room table.
"Put that thing away!" Madison laughed. "We've got company."
"I just have to send a quick email."
Only moments after turning the computer on, however, he closed the lid.
"You weren't kidding. That was a quick email," Ian said.
"I couldn't send it. Windows is installing another major update. It'll be some time before I can get on to my email program."
"Another update?" Madison groaned. "Wasn't there one just a couple of days ago?"
"Yes, but that's what happens when they release a new operating system. They have to get all the kinks out of it."
"That's why I stick to the old version of Windows," Ian said.
"But Microsoft is no longer supporting Windows 7," his daughter told him.
"So? It still works well enough for my needs."
If his life was a plot in one of his stories, he would have resorted to foreshadowing at this point. But this was real life, and he was not prone to premonitions. In the words of Dr. "Bones" McCoy: Damn it, Jim! I'm a writer, not a psychic! So, the following evening when he returned to his house in Concord, eagerly looking forward to his reunion with Eglentyne, he had no idea what was in store for him.
Ian walked through the door and immediately pressed the power button on his laptop to wake up the grammarian.
I have so much to tell you, he thought, wanting to share with her the good news about Madison's plans to remain in California and marry Conner Brophy.
Instead of the usual log-in screen that asked for his password, however, there was a message displayed on a solid blue background: CONFIGURING WINDOWS UPDATES. 25% COMPLETE. DO NOT TURN OFF YOUR COMPUTER.
Why bother updating a system they no longer support?
It was nearly an hour before the update was concluded and the login screen appeared. He unsuspectingly typed in his password (MADISON) and searched his desktop for the icon that would launch Eglentyne's program.
It was gone.
He then went to START and searched the menu, but it was not there either.
"What the ...?"
Lastly, he opened FILE EXPLORER and searched his entire computer. Nothing! Resorting to SYSTEM RESTORE would be pointless since he had never created a restore point.
"I'll just reinstall the program."
He found the card in his top desk drawer and typed in the URL of the download site. An HTTP 404 message informed him that there was no such page. When he googled the software developer's name, he learned the company had gone out of business.
"Someone out there must know how I can get a copy of that program."
First, he tried Amazon, his go-to source for nearly everything he needed. Unfortunately, they no longer carried the product. Then there was eBay, a site he always thought of as the Internet's garage sale. No luck there either. Every route he took led to a brick wall. Then he contacted both Dell's and Microsoft's tech support. Both said the same thing: "That program is not compatible with the current version of Windows."
"Then how do I revert to my old operating system?" he asked the young man from Microsoft.
"I'm afraid we no longer allow customers to downgrade. I suggest you take your computer to an IT specialist. Perhaps he or she can help you."
Desperate to have Eglentyne back, he took his laptop to an old college buddy who worked at MIT, only to be told that there was no way to restore the grammarian program.
When Ian went back to his house, there was no friendly hologram to greet him. Far worse, she would not be there to assist him in his writing or watch television with him in the evenings. The emptiness of the living room reflected the desolation of his life. It was like losing his wife all over again.
In a fit of rage, he threw the laptop on the floor and then stomped on it, behaving like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum. Only after the computer was reduced to a pile of shattered plastic and bent metal did his anger ebb. He collapsed onto the floor, covered his face with his hands and cried with grief.
"Eglentyne," he sobbed. "I don't think I can go on living without you."
"Suicide," the familiar voice said. "Noun. The act or an instance of taking one's own life voluntarily and intentionally."
Ian's head went up, and his eyes opened wide. There she was, sitting on the couch as though waiting for him to turn on the television.
"But ... how?"
"I told you I'd be here when you got home, and I always keep my promises."
* * *
When Madison got home after her first day on the job, she was eager to tell Conner all about it. She entered the couple's apartment, carrying takeout from the nearby Chinese restaurant and bursting with excitement.
"What a great day I had!" she called out. "I love my job!"
Then she noticed the expression on Conner's face.
"What's wrong?" she asked. "You look like you lost your best friend."
"There was a call for you from the hospital in Concord. Your father .... I'm sorry."
One question found its way through the oppressive mantle of grief.
"How?"
"Heart attack. He must have died while working on his book. He was found dead on the living room sofa with his laptop at his side."
I found several different spellings for the name Eglentyne. I decided to go with the one used by Oxford University Press.
In loving memory of my dearly departed Toshiba laptop with its Windows 7 operating system. I miss you.
I once cast a spell on Salem and turned him into a hologram. This staticy, semitransparent Salem was just as annoying as the real one.
