The Other Scarlet Letters

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, okay? Don't sue me.

It is well known that Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote The Scarlet Letter. What isn't well known is that in parallel universes, no less than four writers- two crime writers, a science fiction novelist, and a man who wrote realistic (if unusual) fiction- also wrote the same story. Here, then, are their versions (one chapter from each.)

Double Adultery

James M. Cain, author of Double Indemnity and The Postman Always Rings Twice

I had no intention of doing anything wrong when I went to her house. Just a preacher visiting the sick. Nothing else had even crossed my mind.

I knocked on the door.

Hester Prynne answered.

"Yeah?"

"I heard you were sick."

"I am."

"Let me in."

Hester opened the door and let me inside, acting like she didn't care one way or another.

She had a sweet face. Not glamorous, but still sweet. I liked her eyes, which were dark. She had her long black hair pulled into a loose braid, coming undone. Her plain gray dress could barley contain her curves.

She pored me a cup of tea and asked me to sit down. I made myself at home.

"So, what's wrong with you?

"Pardon?"

"You're supposed to be sick."

She looked me in the eye.

"Oh, it's nothing serious. I guess I'm just lonely, with my husband gone."

"Is that why you called me at this unreasonable hour of the night? Because you need a man?"

She didn't answer. But I did. I pulled her towards me and kissed her, hard. She barley responded.

She just walked towards her bedroom and gave me another look.

I should have walked out right then.

The Invisible Letter

H. G. Welles, author of The Invisible Man and The Time Machine

The strange woman arrived at exactly midnight. The innkeeper was still up, but just barely.

"I would like a room, please. I don't know how long I'll be staying."

"Ya got a name, do yer?"

"Hester Prynne."

The innkeeper wrote in his book.

"Yer want me ta take yer coat?"

She recoiled at the question.

"No, I'm cold."

"Ah'll be puttin' more logs on th' fire."

"I still want to keep my coat."

The innkeeper shrugged, and handed her a key with a room number.

The woman walked towards her room, then turned around.

"One thing more: I do not wish to be interrupted for anything. Do you understand?"

The innkeeper nodded, but he didn't understand.

Rumors abounded regarding the stranger. Why was she so reclusive, and why would she never take off her coat? Mrs. Hibbins said she was a lunatic, while it was Mr. Wilson's opinion that she was horribly disfigured.

For the most part, she stayed in her room, but one day she went into town to receive a package. The woman was followed by a small crowd of curious villagers. She finally turned around when she reached the scaffold.

"You fools! I have never done any of you wrong, but you insist on hounding me. Do you really want to know why I wear my coat?"

She climbed up the steps of the scaffold.

"See for yourselves!"

Her body was solid, but on her chest, there was a shape- a capitol letter "A"- that seemed as if it had been cut out, and was completely see-through.

Pearl in the Rye

J. D. Salinger, author of Catcher in the Rye and Franny and Zooey

My parents were phony bastards, if you want to know the truth. I know that sounds harsh, but so was pretty much everyone else. I really mean it. In this entire town, I could probably name two people who weren't phony- I can't think of any right now, though. It was a pretty crumby town, to tell you the truth.

Anyway, my mom had me out of sin, although she wasn't too keen on letting me know. Her husband was missing, so I was the product of adultery. They gave her a bunch of bull about how wanton she was, and made her wear the letter "A" to show that she'd sinned and all of that crap. So then she got all saintly in order to prove them wrong. It kills me.

My dad still hasn't confessed about who he is, not even to me, but it's obvious it's that preacher who's having a nervous breakdown. You'd have to be a moron not to figure it out- which I guess is why the town still hasn't.

Anyway, at this time I'm telling you about, I'd pretty much gotten fed up with both of them. With the whole goddamned place, actually.

So I decided to just leave. I wasn't sure exactly where I was going, but I didn't care.

I didn't really own that much that I needed. Just a little money and a couple of dresses. I was packed pretty quickly.

I left a note for my mom, just so she wouldn't have a heart attack or anything. I basically wrote that it wasn't her fault, I'm stifling here, I need to find who I am, and all of that crap. I felt petty bad, to tell the truth, but I just couldn't stay there.

I was planning to somehow get to Rhode Island. When I got to the end of the town, I turned around and yelled

"Sleep tight, you morons!"

Then I kept going.

The Big Shame

Raymond Chandler, author of The Big Sleep and Farewell, My Lovely

Roger Chillingworth was ugly. Old, hunchbacked, and smelling of sickening herbs.

"My wife had an affair" he said- he had a creaking voice.

"I don't do divorce work."

He waved me aside.

"I don't plan to divorce her, Mr. Marlowe. I was away for years, for all she knew I was dead. I want him."

"The boyfriend."

He nodded.

"The town made my wife wear a red letter 'A' on her chest. But he can go about his life, free of punishment."

"I charge twenty-five dollars a day, plus expenses- mostly whiskey and gasoline."

The man tossed some money on my desk, along with a picture.

"That's her" he said. "Her name's Hester."

The picture showed some sort of Mediterranean goddess. Her hair was dark, her skin was gleaming, and her eyes were deep. She seemed the type you could bring home to your mother, yet she could have made a preacher forget god. I wondered what she was doing with my client.

This would be an interesting case.