Chapter 31

Toronto

"What the hell is this, Owen?"

Leslie held up the copy of Martin V. Ingram's "Authenticated History of the Bell Witch," published 1894.

"That's the gift that I brought from Kentucky for Kenneth," Owen said. Owen returned from all of his trips with little gifts for Leslie, Kenneth, and Persis.

"And why on earth is a book about a demon witch a suitable gift for Kenneth?"

"Leslie, it's just a story. A little bit of folklore. It's been around for decades. This Ingram fella – he's a newspaper man, just like me. Born in Kentucky. He heard this old yarn from some locals. He's the first to write the whole thing down. I thought that it would be fun for Kenneth."

"You know what was fun, Owen? Kenneth told the whole story to Persis. Persis woke up screaming last night that the Bell Witch was going to carry her off to her witch cave. You know who had to stay up last night with Persis, Owen? Me."

"I am sorry about that, Leslie."

"It's not just about the kids being scared, Owen. It's dangerous to have stuff like this in the house."

"Stuff like what, Leslie?"

"Evil stuff, Owen. This book is evil. It'll invite bad luck into the house."

"That's silly, Leslie. It's just a story."

"It's an evil story, Owen. Do folks down south really sell tickets to the farm and cave that the witch haunted? No wonder things are cursed down there, Owen!"

"Leslie, do you really think that? You sound less like the head of the St. Andrew's Ladies Guild and more like a medieval peasant!"

"Don't tempt fate, Owen! Haven't we already invited enough misfortune upon this house?

"In what way, Leslie?"

"Why, with poor Floyd's accident, and now – we'll run out of money, Owen!"

Owen sighed.

"I've always taken care of you before, Leslie. Haven't I always taken care of you and the children?"

"You've never gone this long without writing, Owen."

Leslie was right. In all of Owen's other "dry spells" from writing – and there were many through the years – Owen had never gone this long without writing at least something.

Now, though, every time that Owen sat at his desk with pen and ink, he thought of Floyd. Of Floyd's wasted future. Of Owen's own grief. Of Owen's guilt at whatever hand he, Owen, had in Floyd's accident. Owen stared at the wall instead of writing. In fact, Owen stared at the wall while Leslie calmed Persis from the previous evening's witch nightmare.

Owen's face turned red when Leslie continued, "Why did you spend so much on a Pullman car for the entire trip to Kentucky and back?"

Owen said, "Did you want me to ride for two thousand miles with the steerage, Leslie?"

Owen didn't just spend all that money on the sleeper car reservation. He also ate in the Pullman dining car. He tipped the Pullman porter (a former enslaved valet, Owen thought) quite nicely.

During the layover in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, he had one shot of whiskey at the station bar. He toasted his ancestor, Simon Girty. Girty had been born at the Girty homestead directly across the Susquehanna from that station. Seven decades later, Girty died, nearly blind and broken by constant war with the Americans, at his farm in Ontario. Owen smoked a Jose Morales cigar and closed his eyes. If Girty had not fled Pennsylvania, Owen Ford wouldn't exist today.

For goodness' sake, it felt to Owen as if he and Leslie had quarreled about money nearly every week since the Panic of 1893!

Leslie said, "Of course not, but you could've just reserved the sleeper car for certain parts – "

Owen stood up. "Have a nice day, Mrs. Ford."

Owen grabbed his valise. He walked out of his Lawrence Park Tudor style house. He slammed the grained, faux mahogany door.

Owen walked.

Walked where, exactly? Owen couldn't tell you, exactly. He headed towards Yonge Street.

Owen sidestepped the horse dung. He waved but didn't stop at the peanut vendor who called to him. He crossed Yonge Street in between carriages and bicycle riders and streetcars.

Owen walked into the American Hotel.

He walked up to the front desk clerk and said the room number for the room where he and Leslie had made love just weeks earlier.

He asked for the room where Charles Dickens wrote part of The Christmas Carol.

The clerk told him that yes, this room was indeed available.

Owen booked the room.

The clerk inquired if Owen had any luggage to give the bellhop. Owen said no, he had just this one valise. He preferred to carry it himself.

The elevator operator closed the luxury wrought iron doors on the newly installed electric elevator. He took Own to what Owen now thought of as the Charles Dickens room.

Owen locked himself into the Charles Dickens room. H pulled his notepad out of his valise.

Owen wrote. And wrote. And wrote.

Words just came out of Owen.

All night long, Owen wrote.

Owen wrote about Floyd Collins' boy-like dreams. The naivety that lured Floyd into danger in not one, but two different caves – located in two very different parts of North America. Owen wrote about the brave physician who kept Owen alive in the first of these caves. Owen wrote about the economic anxiety that lured Floyd into Mammoth Cave even after his first near-fatal accident. Owen knew that Floyd's family owned land that housed at least one mouth to Mammoth Cave, and that the Collins' hoped to make money from the tourists who wished to tour it. Floyd and his family hoped that Owen's cave book would bring the tourists to them.

Owen wrote until the sun rose. He wrote until he heard the voices and noise of other guests stirring.

Owen packed up his valise. He exited the American Hotel. He walked along Yonge Street.

He headed home to Leslie.

Owen walked into his own home.

Leslie sat on the settee, her eyes red. At some point, she had changed out of the previous day's shirtwaist and bodice that she preferred with her gored skirts. She now wore her favorite blue tea gown. The gown had been one of the first things that Owen purchased for Leslie after their marriage. Leslie treasured the gown as a symbol of her new life in Toronto where she owned pretty things and lived without her constant anger and fear of Dick Moore.

Leslie had in the past told Owen that the gown reminded her of Four Winds Harbour in the summertime.

"Leslie, darling, I am so sorry."

"Owen, I didn't sleep a wink all night."

"Me neither, Leslie. Me neither."