On Hold
Lynell Timmons took her keys out of her handbag, unlocked the door to her office, turned on the overhead lights, put her large coffee on her desk and hung her jacket on the coat rack. She looked at the clock; it was ten after nine.
I'm late again, she thought, but since her boss was out of the office she was not concerned.
Sipping her coffee, she sat at her desk and kicked off her shoes. It was another ten minutes before she began filing the previous day's correspondence. When she looked at the clock again, it was twenty to ten. It promised to be another long day in a seemingly endless series of long days.
The bored secretary reached for a stack of insurance applications that required her to contact the applicants' doctors for verification purposes.
"Since Maury won't be coming in today, I might as well get started on these," she groaned, reaching for the telephone receiver.
As Lynell had expected, after punching in the doctor's phone number, she received an automated response. While she listened to the menus and mechanically made her selection by pressing the appropriate buttons, she daydreamed about getting another job. The problem was she did not know what she wanted to do. She had no desire to be a teacher since she was not particularly fond of children. Nor did she want to become a nurse and cater to sick people all day long. Being a waitress or a beautician also held no appeal for her.
It might be nice to be an airline flight attendant, she thought. At least I would get to travel for free.
The electronic voice notified Lynell that she was being placed on hold and that a representative would speak to her as soon as one was available.
Christ! she thought with frustration. I spend half of my day on hold.
She picked up her pen and began doodling on a legal size yellow pad that she kept on her desk for just that purpose. Ever since she was a child, she was prone to scribbling on papers when her mind wandered. When she was still in school, she had drawn hearts and daisies; while at work it was usually spirals and stick people.
Lynell had gone through a dozen applications when she realized she had come to the last page of her pad. She looked at the twenty-three pages that were filled not with doodles but with words.
What is this? she wondered as she noticed the sheets of paper contained not just random writing but complete sentences and paragraphs. Why on earth did I do that?
Without giving the matter further thought, she tore up the pages, grabbed her handbag and jacket and went to lunch. Forty minutes later when she came back to the office, she got another yellow pad out of the supply cabinet. She then picked up the phone and dialed.
"You've reached the office of Dr. Milos Cassatt. Please listen to the following menu options."
Lynell reached for her pen and began drawing a series of triangles. Again, she was placed on hold and forced to listen to music that would tranquilize an active volcano. She was not sure how long she had to wait, but the receptionist's voice took her by surprise after only four songs were played.
"Dr. Cassatt's office, Rosanna speaking. How may I help you?"
As the secretary explained the reason for her call, she looked down at the pad of paper.
"Not again," she said aloud when she saw her handwriting covering several pages.
"Excuse me?" Rosanna, the doctor's receptionist, asked.
"Nothing. I was talking to myself," she replied.
After hanging up the phone and stamping the insurance application APPROVED, she took a few minutes to read what she had written.
This reads like a piece of fiction.
The main character of the story was a young woman named Theodosia Southwick who is employed as a governess by a wealthy landowner named Sir Percy Harkens. As Lynell read the narrative, it was obvious this was not the beginning of the story. It was as though she had ripped a chapter out of the middle of a novel.
It doesn't seem like anything I would write.
The language appeared dated and reminded her of literature from the Victorian era.
She folded the pages in half and was about to tear them in two, when she suddenly changed her mind. Acting on an impulse she did not understand, she opened her desk drawer and put the pages inside a manila folder.
* * *
Over the next three weeks, there were nine more instances where, after being placed on hold during a telephone conversation, Lynell had slipped into a trance-like state and wrote more of what she thought of as the Theodosia Southwick-Sir Percy Harkens saga. After the third such occurrence, she realized the writings occurred in sequential order, each one picking up where the previous one left off.
What's wrong with me? she wondered one morning when she opened her desk drawer and saw that the manila folder was bursting with sheets of yellow paper. I seriously think I need help.
But who could she turn to? Her first thought was of Lionel Penn. After all, who would best be able to determine the cause of her bizarre behavior than a psychiatrist? The problem with going to him for help was that therapy could be costly, and she was not sure her health insurance would cover it. Was it possible that her problem stemmed from a physical condition rather than a mental one? Could there be a neurological ailment that would cause someone to black out and not remember what they had done at the time?
Even if I have such a condition, how does that explain what I've written? I've used words I've never heard before and described places and things I'm unfamiliar with. It's as though someone else were writing the story.
With that thought in mind, Lynell unlocked a mental door to a room full of possibilities. The cause for her strange new talent might not be mental or physical; it might be supernatural. If such were the case, there was one person she should consult: Abigail Cantwell, owner of the Bell, Book and Candle.
That Saturday afternoon a nervous Lynell walked through the door of the New Age shop, gripping her manila folder to her chest. The sound of the bell tinkling above the door alerted the owner to her presence.
"Hi, there. It's Lynell Timmons, isn't it?" Abigail asked.
"Yes. Hello, Ms. Cantwell."
"Is there something I can help you with or have you just come in to browse? I have a sale on oils and incense today: buy two get one free."
"No, thank you."
When the customer made no attempt to move, Abigail inquired, "What is it, my dear? Would you feel more comfortable if we went to the back room to talk?"
"Yes, I would," Lynell said with relief. "Thank you."
Abigail called to the teenager who worked for her part-time and asked her to keep an eye on the store. Then she led the secretary to a lunchroom in the rear of the building.
"A cup of tea? I have a delicious Casablanca blend. It's got a very fruity flavor."
"All right."
In truth, Abigail was not in the mood for a cup of tea since she had just finished a large coffee less than fifteen minutes earlier, but she knew the young woman would feel more at ease speaking while the shopkeeper was busy at the counter.
"So what's the problem?"
With the older woman's back toward her, Lynell had no difficulty blurting out the object of her mission. When Abigail finally turned around with two teacups in her hand, the secretary placed the manila folder on the table.
"I've written all this—over a hundred pages—and I don't remember writing a single word of it!"
"And you've done it all while on hold—listening to Muzak, I presume."
Lynell lowered her head and nodded, unwilling to look the other woman in the eye.
"I can see where there might be a perfectly logical explanation for your actions. You may have involuntarily put yourself in an autohypnotic state. The music drones on, your mind wanders ...."
"What would cause me to write, though? I never had the slightest desire to before. In fact, I hated English class in school for that very reason."
"That's something you should probably discuss with Dr. Penn. But, if you have an open mind, you might consider the less logical explanations."
"Could I be possessed?"
"It's possible."
"Oh, great!" Lynell exclaimed. "What will happen next? Will my head spin around like Linda Blair's in The Exorcist?"
"Possession is possible but not very likely," Abigail replied. "By your own admission, these trance-like states only happen under specific circumstances. I'm more inclined to think this is a case of automatic writing."
"What's that?"
"A form of psychic interaction in which a spirit communicates through a medium by means of writing," the shop owner explained.
"So what you're saying is that some dead person enters my mind and uses my hand to write his or her story?"
"That's essentially it."
"How do I get rid of this ... this ... parasite?"
"Automatic writing is a gift. I don't know if it's possible to simply turn it on and off at will. I would imagine, however, that once the story is complete, the spirit will no longer have cause to bother you."
Abigail's words gave the harried young woman little solace.
* * *
When the manuscript reached two hundred pages, Lynell took the yellow sheets of paper out of the manila folder and placed them in a sturdy accordion file. It was clear the work was not going to be a short story.
Whoever heard of writing a novel by hand? I'm surprised I don't have writer's cramp. Two hundred pages and there's no end in sight yet. Hell, there isn't even a beginning.
It occurred to her that maybe the writer could use a hand. After two hundred pages, she knew enough about the characters to write the opening chapters of the book on her own. When she went home from work that night, she opened a Word document on her laptop. Her fingers hovered over the home row of the keyboard as she watched the cursor blinking at the top of the page.
For nearly half an hour, she tried to compose the first sentence. She wrote and rewrote it several times, finally settling on "Theodosia Southwick was born in London in the year 1812."
Who am I kidding? Lynell thought with frustration as he highlighted the sentence and then deleted it. I can't write.
She raised her eyes to the ceiling as though in prayer and jokingly said, "I could use a little help about now."
Her fingers returned to the home row, but they no longer hovered hesitantly over the keys. Normally the secretary typed approximately eighty words a minute, but some unknown force was pushing her to exceed one hundred. Yet even though her fingers flew over the keyboard, Lynell had no knowledge of what she was typing.
It was not until the telephone rang two hours later that she became aware of her surroundings. She stared at the computer screen in awe. The Word document contained fifty-four pages of text. Paying no attention to the ringing phone, she filled the printer's paper tray with white bond and pressed the print button.
This is so much easier on my writing hand, she thought as she placed the printed pages in the accordion folder.
Every night for two weeks this procedure continued. When Lynell came out of her final trance-like state, two words centered and in all capital letters seemed to stand out on the screen: THE END.
* * *
"That's it?" Abigail Cantwell asked when Lynell showed her the accordion folder that was stretched to its limit.
"All except for the beginning."
"Does the author still attempt to write through you?"
"No, neither at home nor at work."
"What are you going to do with the manuscript?"
"I hadn't given it much thought. I can't send it to a publisher. It's not complete."
"I have a strong feeling you might have something of value in that folder of yours. If I were you, I'd take it to the University in Essex Green. Perhaps one of the literature professors can help you."
Following Abigail's advice, Lynell contacted Javier Acevedo, the head of the English department. Rather than tell him the truth about the bizarre circumstances by which she came into possession of the manuscript, she simply told him she had found it in her grandmother's attic.
"And what is it you'd like me to do with this?" he asked.
"Could you just look it over and tell me what you think?"
"It's well-written," Javier said after reading the first few pages. "Other than that, I ...."
The professor reached the part in the story where the main characters were introduced.
"That's odd," he mumbled.
"What's odd?"
"These two names, Theodosia Southwick and Sir Percy Harkens, they sound familiar, but I don't know where I ...."
Professor Acevedo went to his computer and searched the Internet.
"Ah, here it is. I thought I recognized them. Those were the names of the characters in Red McGillvary's last book."
"You're familiar with the author, then?" Lynell asked, eager for any information she could obtain about him.
"Yes. He was quite talented. Wrote dark tales mostly: horror, gothic romances and that sort of thing. People later referred to him as the Irish Poe."
"He's dead?"
"Oh, good heavens, yes! He was born back in the 1820s in Ireland. He eventually immigrated to America, settling near Boston. Being the feisty Irishman that he was, he couldn't resist a good fight. When the Civil War started, he joined the Union Army. He met his death at Gettysburg. Such a shame! All that talent gone to waste!"
"And these pages were taken from his book?"
"Oh, no," the professor replied. "Sir Percy Harkens and Theodosia Southwick are names of characters in his last book. He was killed before he could finish it."
Despite the possibility that Professor Acevedo would consider her a lunatic, Lynell confessed her strange authorship of the novel.
"I'm afraid I'm not the person you should be talking to, Miss Timmons."
"I know," the secretary said, laughing uneasily. "You probably think I ought to discuss this with Dr. Lionel Penn."
"No, no. I share Hamlet's opinion that there are more things in heaven and earth than can be dreamt of in our philosophy. I meant that I'm no expert on Red McGillvary's work. I've read it, and I admire it, but I couldn't tell you if this manuscript is written in his style."
Javier took a phone directory out of his desk and wrote down a name and phone number on a Post-it note.
"Dr. India Willman teaches at Harvard and is considered an authority on Red McGillvary. She might be able to help you."
* * *
India Willman was not nearly as friendly as Javier Acevedo. In fact, Lynell thought she was a first class bitch.
"Professor Acevedo claims you have a manuscript that might have been written by Red McGillvary," India said, her voice dripping with condescension.
Lynell handed the accordion folder to the Harvard professor, who rolled her eyes when she saw that half of the manuscript was written in longhand.
"Why didn't you type all of it?"
"I'm sorry."
Professor Willman shoved the papers back into the folder and placed them on the credenza behind her desk.
"You want me to leave the manuscript here with you?" Lynell asked with surprise.
"Well, you don't think I'm going to sit down and read it now, do you? It'll take me a while to get through it. Leave your number with my secretary. I'll call you when I'm done."
It was more than a week later before Lynell heard from the professor.
"I'd like to know where you found this," India said, holding the folder tightly in her hands.
"Do you think it's the work of Red McGillvary?"
"I'm positive it is. I know his style. Furthermore, I have a copy of his uncompleted work. This manuscript picks up where McGillvary left off. Now tell me where you got it."
"You're probably not going to believe me ...."
"You're telling me you wrote this?" India asked after hearing Lynell's account of the automatic writing episodes.
"Not exactly. Red McGillvary wrote it through me."
"So, let me get this straight. You are not the actual author of this novel. It was written by Red McGillvary using your hands. Much like an artist uses a paint brush."
"That's correct."
"Good," India said and placed the accordion folder in her briefcase.
"If you're done reviewing the manuscript, I'd like it back."
"Why? What are you going to do with it?"
"I don't know, but it belongs to me."
"Since you're not the author, you have no right of ownership. Now I must ask you to leave. I have a lecture in ten minutes."
"I'm not going without my manuscript," Lynell insisted.
"Don't be ridiculous. I'm going to find out who might be considered McGillvary's legal heirs and give the manuscript to them.
"But I ...."
"Please don't make me call security and have you escorted off campus."
Defeated, Lynell Timmons left Cambridge and returned to Puritan Falls.
* * *
Sixteen months later Lynell turned off her computer, wished Maury a pleasant evening and walked out to the parking lot. Since she did not feel like cooking, she went through Burger Barn's drive-thru window and ordered a grilled chicken salad. When she walked through her front door, she kicked off her shoes, took off her dress and put on her bathrobe.
It feels good to be home, she thought as she sat curled up in her overstuffed sofa.
After finishing her salad, she reached for her mail: sales circulars, the cable bill, her checking account statement and a living style magazine.
Lynell thumbed through the periodical, reading the descriptions of movies that were either currently playing in the theater or were soon to be released. She passed over the list of art exhibits and briefly scanned the list of music reviews. Nothing on the next twenty pages interested her.
The last section of the magazine was devoted to books and authors. When the secretary saw a full-page photograph of India Willman, she experienced a familiar surge of anger. Curious as to why the Harvard professor's photograph was so prominent in the magazine, she turned the page and began reading the accompanying article.
"I don't believe it!" she exclaimed aloud when she read that Professor Willman was a distant relative of author Red McGillvary.
A direct descendant of Dahlia McGillvary, the author's only sibling, the professor had discovered an unpublished work by her distant uncle. She sent the manuscript to Random House, and in less than six months from publication the novel was at the top of The New York Times Best Sellers list.
"Why that ... that ... !"
Lynell could not think of a word strong enough to describe the despicable woman.
In spite of her heightened anger, she forced herself to finish reading the article. The last paragraph brought a smile to her face. As fate would have it, India Willman was undertaking a national tour to promote her book and was scheduled to make a personal appearance at the Salem Athenaeum, only a short drive from Puritan Falls.
* * *
The audience applauded when Professor Willman walked up to the podium. Even Lynell clapped her hands as she sat in the back of the room, wearing a pair of dark glasses so that she would not be recognized.
"Thank you," India said with an ingratiating smile that made Lynell want to vomit. "It's so good to be back in Salem. For those of you who don't know it, I was born and raised here."
There was more applause, although it was not clear to the secretary if it was for the professor or the city of Salem.
"I can't tell you what an incredible honor and pleasure it is for me to be here to discuss my six-times great uncle's life and his newly discovered novel."
To her credit, Lynell remained silent through the lecture, despite the urge to jump up and accuse the guest speaker of theft. When the professor's talk was over, the secretary took her place on line with those members of the audience who wished to purchase a copy of Red McGillvary's final book, signed by India Willman. When she reached the front of the line, Lynell put a copy of the book down on the table in front of the professor and took off her glasses.
"Who should I dedicate this ...?"
India stopped speaking when she looked up and recognized the young woman standing above her.
"Hello, Professor. Do you remember me? I was the one who brought the manuscript to you."
"I know who you are," India replied in a low voice.
"I realize you can't talk now," Lynell said, handing her a card with a phone number on it. "Why don't you give me a call and we can arrange a more convenient time?"
"Of course, Miss Timmons," the professor said, her eyes glaring as she pushed the unsigned book toward the secretary.
* * *
"I don't know what you hope to gain," the professor said haughtily when she opened the door of her Boston high-rise apartment to let Lynell inside.
There was no welcome, no greeting of any kind. This was not, after all, a friendly visit.
"I'm not sure myself. Maybe I just wanted you to know that I know what you've done."
The malevolent smile that spread on India's face sent a chill of fear down Lynell's spine.
"I don't think you have the slightest idea what I've done."
"You neglected to tell me you were Red McGillvary's heir. You took my manuscript ...."
"Your manuscript? Since when has a brush been credited with creating a masterpiece?"
"You had it published," Lynell continued, ignoring the other woman's sarcasm, "and are keeping all the money it earns. It may have been your distant uncle's thoughts, but it was my hand that wrote them down."
"Very well. I could pay you for your clerical services. What's the going rate for a typist these days? Do you charge by the hour or by the page? You know what? I'm feeling generous, so I'll even pay you for the ones that you wrote out in longhand."
"It's not just about the money," Lynell argued. "I want the world to know my part in the book's creation."
India's malicious laughter was even more frightening than her smile.
"If I were to make public that Red McGillvary dictated most of his book to a psychic, I'd be the laughingstock of both the literary and academic communities."
Lynell would not allow herself to be intimidated, not even by a Harvard professor.
"If you don't say something, I will."
"Do you think anyone will believe you?"
"They will when they examine the hard drive on my computer and see the dates on all the original Word files."
India's smile quickly faded.
"Why don't you sit down, and we'll discuss this matter civilly."
Now it was Lynell's turn to smile as she walked into the professor's living room and sat down in her eighteen century wingback chair.
"Can I get you something to drink?"
The secretary raised an eyebrow at the professor who was suddenly playing the gracious hostess.
"I'll take a Coke if you have one."
When India returned with the glass of soda, her guest was ready to talk business. The professor was in no rush, however. She walked over to the bar and poured herself a glass of wine.
"Did you ever wonder why Red McGillvary waited more than a hundred and fifty years to finish his novel?"
"No, I never gave it much thought," Lynell admitted. "I assume he's tried before but was unable to find a person he could communicate with, or rather through."
"And of the billions of people that have come and gone since he died, you were the only receptive one."
"What are you getting at?"
"I knew from an early age that I was related to Red McGillvary. That was why I spent so many years studying his life and his works. After obtaining a copy of his unfinished manuscript, I realized I could make a fortune if only the book were completed. I spent years studying with a group of witches in Salem until I was able to resurrect the spirit of my deceased relative. At first, I thought I'd failed, but I was unaware that his talent would manifest itself not through me but through a common secretary. Imagine my surprise when Professor Acevedo contacted me about you."
"You brought him back?" Lynell asked with astonishment.
"Yes, but he is resting in peace now."
A sudden pain stabbed Lynell's head, and she massaged her temples with her fingertips.
"Not well?"
"No. I feel a migraine coming on."
"Maybe you should go get some rest. I'll phone you tomorrow with my offer."
Lynell never made it back to Puritan Falls. The potion India had placed in her glass of Coke brought about a massive stroke that killed her within minutes of her leaving Boston.
* * *
India Willman, who resigned her position at Harvard, sat at a French provincial desk in her Sagaponack beach house, having forsaken Boston for the Hamptons once the royalty checks began coming in. She reached for the folder of correspondence that her secretary had left on the desk. There was a personal appearance contract to be signed, a dinner invitation to the White House and an itinerary for her upcoming trip to Europe.
What's this? she thought when she saw a letter from DreamWorks Studios.
Her excitement rose when she read that the three-time Oscar-winner Steven Spielberg was interested in doing a film version of Red McGillvary's last novel.
Saving Private Ryan, Schindler's List, Jurassic Park, The Color Purple, Jaws ... the list of his hit movies went on and on.
What a feather in my cap that would be!
India got the telephone number from the letterhead and called the director's California office, only to discover that even assistants to Oscar winners put callers on hold. As she listened to the music, her right hand reached for her Mont Blanc fountain pen.
"Hello, Dr. Willman," the assistant said, breaking the spell the professor was under. "I'll put you through to Mr. Spielberg's office now."
When India saw what she had written on the back of the letter, she hung up the phone without even speaking to the director.
"No!" she screamed when she read Lynell Timmons's words: You might be happy to know that it's easy to communicate with your world from this side. I don't need you to be put on hold; I just thought it added a touch of irony to our first encounter. Who knows what you'll be doing the next time I decide to pay you a visit. And rest assured, Dr. Willman, there will be a next time, and then another, and another, and another .... For you see, unlike Red McGillvary, I'm not resting quietly in my grave, and I intend to see that you never have a moment's peace for the rest of your natural life.
Author Fitz James O'Brien, born in County Cork, Ireland, was my inspiration for the character of Red McGillvary. He immigrated to America, joined the Union Army and was killed during the Civil War. Whether or not he left an unfinished manuscript behind, I have no idea.
Salem doesn't mind being placed on hold for long periods of time. He looks at it as an opportunity to catch up on his sleep.
