No. 59
Chas. In 1895 (The Prize)
Stewart King c/o
John C. Davant, Attorney
501 Cleveland St.
Clearwater Florida
December 7, 1939
Dear Stewart,
Today is Thursday. In 1895 Charles and the other railway postal clerks had a routine of coming into the tavern most Thursdays. They sat at one of the tables and of course drank no liquor. They came for the cooking. They ignored the shadowy figures at the card tables.
Even so, these clerks carried loaded firearms to protect the parcels and were observant. They noticed me like most men did, but it was different with them. They looked at my eyes, sometimes they noticed my shame-filled face. They knew. Like brothers-in-arms, not suitors, but as apostles, priests, deacons, veterans, and lawyers who used to be Pharisees, they knew.
And one Thursday, without my knowing, some chaos was created for my benefit. My brothers got me out of there.
Back to the letters.
These letters and telegrams were written by Charles in the 1880s. I found them at the mansion while unpacking things. And, with my heart moved by anything in the hand of Charles, I asked your mother if I could read them. I was amazed by my boldness, Even more amazed that I kept reading them, storing them by my nightstand.
When I asked your mother if I could keep his letters in my room, she asked, “How old are you?”
“I’m 27, Ma’am.” And with that I stuttered.
She said, “He is 51.”
Then, blinking a few times in mental wince-work, the way I do, rubbing my lips with the back of my hand to pump the breaks on hope, she said, “Cute,” which I took to mean, “Yes.”
With this first grace—and later with her allowing me to ask her more questions about Charles, and her providing really good answers, well, your mother gave out provisions in good timing, only after my chores were done, so that I could find out what Charles really meant, what he was referring to, about his wife and kids, about his time at sea, and her husband's time at sea, and I was able to keep a part of him around and pray for him, like she did, I’m sure, like we all did, almost with a fever, in detail, wishing what he wished, despising what he should despised, and we followed his dreams, for how up and down they went, and I kept these things in my heart and I ran up and down the spiral steps, wondering when another letter would be shared with me by your mother or when he might come through town.
There was a second grace—through these letters I was able to get to know her, too, and she asked me about my kin, and about the veterans in my family, and how I came to America, and our shared love of the Virgin Mary, and for liturgy and we began a sisterhood, also, with affection for our arrangements, washing, and routines.
Back on that day of my rescue, that shocking moment in the saloon, it was more than marvelous. I could never explain this to you, when you were a boy, because of my tripping of the tongue, my humiliation, and your overall determination to leave us. But how I wanted to tell you that Jesus is real, He saved me! Not your uncle Charles, but the Holy Spirit working through him and through those railroad postal clerks working in tandem, as men of virtue do, well, I pray to this day that you and your brothers will be like those clerks and pull losers out of saloons, if they want to leave.
On the day Charles told me to run, I was taking a bath, which of course was not part of their plan at all. I was hurriedly using the same water I had prepared for my employer moments before. In the middle of his leisurely soak. my master was called away by some men on the porch (and very angry about it) and he stormed out with only a blanket around his bottom, calling back to me to wipe up the floor and to boil more water.
Instead, I quickly undressed, slipped into the warm water, which, oh my goodness did not need to be any hotter, and scrubbed all over in terrific haste for my own rare washing.
Suddenly I heard Charles knocking on the door for me to escape with him, to your mother’s house, to a new life. If only I would act it out.
—Miss Minnie
2025 Copyright Christine Friesel
