Chapter 18
Beckett
After June showed him a half dozen entries she had marked, Beckett sat back in his chair and studied the pages.
“What do you think?” she asked, an edge of nerves in her voice. “Am I being completely delusional or does he appear to be
referencing a book that was never published?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never heard of The Forgotten Road but titles are changed all the time.”
“But not entire characters and plot points. I thought I had read everything he has ever published, from short stories to novels.
I don’t remember anything close to this, with magical realism and a doomed love affair.”
“I don’t, either,” he admitted.
Before coming to Wyoming and moving next door to Carson, Beckett had only read a couple of his books. He had read Purgatory River in high school, as it had been assigned reading, and had picked up The Bridge to Nowhere on an airplane.
After he escaped here and Carson basically took him under his considerable wing, Beck had read all of his books and had come
to love every word.
Carson had unmatched insight into the human condition and a beautiful way of clarifying complex concepts.
He had no doubt the man had earned a place among the greatest writers in a generation.
“Who might know about a possible unknown manuscript?” June asked. “Did he have any other confidants from around that time?”
Beckett considered what he knew about the early days of Carson’s career. “I don’t know. He was very private about his work, until the book was done and sent away to his editor. Hemingway famously said it was bad luck to talk about his work, and Margaret Atwood said talking about the writing process while you’re in it is like trying to describe a garden while it’s growing.”
“What about someone at his publishing house? Would they know?”
“Possibly. But I know both his first agent and his original editor have passed away. We had a conversation shortly before
Carson himself died, about how everyone he started out with has gone.”
She looked so forlorn, as if he had ground his heel into a cherished dream, that he wanted to comfort her somehow.
“It’s possible the missing manuscript might be among his papers.”
Her eyes lit up. “Do you think so?”
Did she have any clue the author whose career interested her so much was actually her father? What would her reaction be when
she found out?
Beck hated the deception. She deserved to know why Alison had sought her out in Seattle, why she had brought June here to
the ranch. He wanted to tell her, but he had promised Ali he wouldn’t.
“It could be in his papers,” he said. “But there’s also a chance he burned it. Carson was his own worst critic. If he hated
the way the manuscript turned out, he might have destroyed it.”
What a tragedy that would be for his readers, who would probably embrace any newly discovered book from Carson, flaws and
all.
“Would he really have destroyed it?”
“Who knows? Once I had a conversation with him where he brought up Flaubert, who famously burned every draft he didn’t like of Madame Bovary until he came up with the final version. Carson said he could completely relate. Another time, we talked about Emily Dickenson,
who only published a handful of her thousands of poems during her lifetime, and how her family had discovered she had destroyed
a significant number of her poems before anyone else ever had the chance to see them.”
“How heartbreaking. If he did have another work out there somewhere, I truly hope he didn’t destroy it.”
“I would suggest continuing to keep your eyes open while you’re going through the journals. Maybe you can learn more.”
“I will.”
“Keep in mind that Carson wrote the first draft of all of his books longhand, in the same notebooks he used for his journals.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Yes. He would use black notebooks for his journals and blue for his manuscripts, but I don’t know if he always had that system.”
“Did he have someone else transcribe his writings into a computer file?”
He shook his head. “Nope. He did it all himself, rewriting as he transcribed. I always thought it was a laborious and time-consuming
process and suggested he have someone else at least input his work into the computer but, as I said, he was very private about
his work. Like an artist who keeps his canvas covered, I guess. He didn’t want anyone else to see his words until he judged
them ready for the world.”
He looked at the stack of journals. “Maybe it’s hidden somewhere among his other notebooks and you’ll find it as you go through
them.”
“That would be too easy.”
He had to agree. “It’s an interesting mystery. You can ask Alison. He might have said something to her.”
“I’ll do that.” She looked down at the notebooks then back at him. “I’m afraid I’m becoming a little obsessed.”
He liked the woman, he had to admit, far more than he thought he would when she first showed up at the airport with Ali, looking frosty and remote and yet somehow lost.
“I wouldn’t spend too much time thinking about it. You’re here to relax and heal, not to become embroiled in trying to find
a missing manuscript that may or may not exist. I’m feeling guilty enough that we asked you to look through the journals in
the first place.”
“You have no reason to feel guilty. I’m grateful for the project. I have discovered an uncomfortable truth about myself, that
I’m not very good at doing nothing.”
He had to wonder if she was focusing on the mystery of a possible missing manuscript as a way to distract herself from the
significant health challenges suddenly confronting her. He couldn’t blame her for that.
“I’m sure it’s a challenge for you. It can’t be easy, trying to come to terms with everything.”
She sighed. “I thought I had everything in my life figured out. A great career, financial security for the rest of my life,
a penthouse apartment that I own, free and clear. All the things I dreamed about when I was that seventeen-year-old leaving
my safe foster home bubble.”
He fought the urge to reach out and pull her into a hug, a gesture he knew she wouldn’t appreciate.
“You’ve worked hard for your success. Nobody handed it to you.”
“If you had asked me a month ago where I thought I would be in a year, five years, ten years, I could have told you in exact
detail. I’ve always made a plan for my life and followed it.” She released a heavy breath. “And now I don’t know if I can
plan beyond next week.”
“I can only imagine how difficult the past few weeks must have been for you.”
He thought of his own turmoil and grief when he first arrived in Bridger Peak and how the mountains had somehow healed him. “I can’t say I know what you’re going through. No one who hasn’t been through something similar probably can. But I do understand what it is to have your life turned upside down in an instant.”
Her eyes softened as she turned her gaze to his, and he knew she was also thinking of his wife and the emotionless news stories
she had probably read about her, the brief explanations about what had happened to her that captured none of Soledad’s vivacity
and grace.
“Grief takes time to work through. You can’t expect everything will be fine overnight.”
“I’m alive. That’s the thing. What do I have to grieve about when I’m still breathing? I was given the priceless gift of more
time. Many people who have a cardiac arrest don’t ever get that. Carson didn’t.”
He again had to fight the completely ridiculous urge to pull her into his arms. “You’re alive. But you were also changed because
of what happened, because of your diagnosis. You aren’t the same person you were two weeks ago. But then again, none of us
is, even if we didn’t have a life-changing cardiac arrest. We are all constantly changing, hopefully for the better. And that
makes me sound like I should be making inspirational videos instead of woodworking ones, doesn’t it?”
She smiled a little, he was happy to see, and some of her tension seemed to seep away. “A little. Yes. I think you should
stick to making tables.”
“Good idea.” He paused. “I’m probably starting a new project tomorrow. You said you would like to watch the early stages.
I can’t imagine why anyone would, but then, I also don’t understand why people watch the YouTube videos.”
“Because you’re creating something beautiful, which always fascinates people.”
He wasn’t sure about that, but it was nice to hear her say it. “I’ll be starting about 8:00 a.m. You’re welcome to drop by.”
“Thank you. I will do that.”
“See you then. Come on, Hank. Let’s go home.”
The dog rose slowly from his spot by the empty fireplace. He seemed reluctant to leave and Beck couldn’t really blame him.
At least they would both have the chance to see her the next day. He wasn’t prepared yet to say whether or not that was a
good thing.