THE HONORABLE ISAAC C. MONTAGUE
HONOR IS SKIN DEEP
(F, 3682 words)
Bob Brown

We buried Mother in the old Greeneville Methodist Cemetery. She died suddenly while reading her horoscope. It was not a sad occasion for mother was 97 and had squeezed all the good out of life that one person could hope for. Not to be irreverent, but everyone seemed to have a good time. My sister, Isabell, said, “Will, we ought to do this more often.” But that’s not the story I want to tell. As long as Mother lived we wouldn’t have known about the letter. That letter. The letter that would shake some nuts out of our family tree.

Of course we’ve had our share of eccentrics in the family. There were the sisters, Aunt Ruby and Aunt Edna, with their constant squabbling over who talked the most and said the least. In truth, neither one said anything that made sense. It was just a jealous competition for airtime with them. And there was Uncle Charlie who enjoyed watching our revulsion with his articulated burp after important dinners. I think his profession was practical jokes, at least that’s the only thing I remember about him. He could always snare at least one victim on his battered whoopee cushion. After which he would sit stiffly and slowly scan the family with pinched lip, as though he was searching for the uncouth culprit. I’m sure Shakespeare could’ve used him in Much Ado About Nothing.

The sturdy trunk of our family tree has always been United States Senator Isaac C. Montague. Never mind that he died in 1890, he is still the only person before or since that ever scratched the surface of notoriety in our family. His service in the Senate set the standards for hard work, decency, honesty, compassion for the downtrodden, and…, well, all of those things. The Senator, so honorable, so noble, so pure was he, that none amongst us would ever dare suspect that a few grains of salt might be stirred in with the sugar.

When I would get in trouble as a child, Mother would say, “For shame, for shame! Senator Montague would never have done that.” So there you have it. The Senator was the ruler that we were all measured by. He is the ageless glorified stanchion of the Montague clan’s tree. The rest of us are mere leaves perched on a top bough for our instant in the sun. In season we flutter to the ground to be raked to the compost pile. A fitting fate for Uncle Charlie and the rest of us. But a romping good time we’ve had on the way, and that has it virtues too—no regrets here. But let me not get ahead of myself.

As Mother’s oldest son, it fell to me to dispose of the mountains of antiques and household items that had been accumulating in Montague Mansion for 140 years. This three-story monstrosity with intricate wood do-dads plastered all over it must have been the envy of high society in 1860, when the Honorable Senator built it. It was even pretty hot stuff when I grew up in it over fifty years ago. It’s definitely old and dated now and the neighborhood hangs in shrouds of gray. Ten years ago Mother shrieked in stark terror when I suggested she sell the place and move into a brand new townhouse. She cried in agony, “The Senator would never forgive me!” She’d have you believe that the Senator would be waiting for her at them pearly gates to scold her for being a naughty girl. So that was the end of that.

My two sisters, Isabell and Anabell, would not be any help. These two Bells have long since moved to Pittsburgh and Seattle to raise families of their own, under the stern guidance of Senator Montague no doubt. Of course the two Bells would criticize my every move, but they were too far away to object much, and anyway, Mother made me executor of her will. I’m 71 and a retired widower, so I resigned myself to the task of disposing of the house and its furnishings as my full time job for the duration.

The Bells and I did make a quick tour of Montague Mansion after the funeral. We’ve all gone modern and none of us wanted all of those old black antiques and tattered lace doilies that lay on everything in sight. Isabell’s husband, Steve, wandered around fingering trinkets and repeating ad nauseam, “Whatever you all decide is fine with me.” Anabell’s money-grubbing spouse, Arnold, was only interested in how much Anabell’s third of the estate would come to. He was hung up on, “How long’s it gonna take to get rid of all this stuff, Will?” Arnold’s trait, of arguable value, is that every spark ignited in his tiny mind blazes up in plain view. With Arnold, what you see is what you get, ready or not. Like I said, the Bells will raise holy hell over the way I handle things, but I’ll just politely listen and do what I want to do anyway. We decided to meet again after everything is disposed of and we would distribute the proceeds of the sales at that time.

So much for chitchat. The letter is what this is all about. I decided to start in the attic of Montague Mansion and work my way down. No electricity had ever been installed in the attic, so I lit an old lantern that hung beside the stairs with a match from a box mounted on the wall. Frankly, my heart sank when I climbed the stairs. One quick turn around convinced me that this might take the rest of my life. A Smithsonian assortment of the 1800’s junk soaked up all of the light for as far as my flickering lantern could shine. There were nineteenth century furniture, clothes racks, trunks, boxes, books, pictures, a hobby horse, a moose head with one eye missing, and God knows what else… Dusty curtains of history closed in on me from every direction and snuffed out my resolve to start working. I can’t do this, I thought. Maybe it’d be better to start in the basement—with a match. Just kidding, of course. I compromised by going to Krispy-Crème for a coffee and donut. That made sense to me.

But start I did. I returned on a rainy day with a box full of plastic garbage bags and a clipboard. I felt like I should take something more than garbage bags; that explains the clipboard. The rain would keep the attic cool and I couldn’t do much else on such a dismal day anyway. Eight large dust-covered wooden boxes were the first things to catch my eye. They sat beside an ugly kitchen cupboard that had one whomp-e-jawed door hanging by a single hinge. It was obvious that the boxes had not been opened since the day they were hauled to the attic. I blew the dust off of one box and read a yellowed label. It was shipped in December of 1876 from Senator Montague in Washington, DC to Senator Montague in Greeneville, Tennessee. I found an old carpenter’s tool and I can’t tell you what the tool was designed for. Whatever, it worked fine for prizing open one of the boxes.

A few honorary awards were on top along with some rolled up certificates that had engravings of nineteenth century trains on them. The rest of the box contained bundles of papers and letters. I untied a couple of bundles and read about a dozen letters. The first few were interesting simply because they were old. The next few were okay, but the last ones were the same old stuff, and old or not, I was bored. The Senator, my Great-Grandfather, had brought home every piece of correspondence that he’d had in his eighteen years in Congress. Perhaps some university would like to have these for historical analysis. I made a note of that. That’s what clipboards are for. I didn’t open any more of those boxes.

However, one box was different and sparked my curiosity. It was a small enameled dull brown metal box that was locked. No key was to be found, but it was a cheap simple lock and after a few minutes of jiggling with an old hairpin it popped open like it had a Genie inside that couldn’t wait to get out. The box was littered with things like gold watch chains, cufflinks, Mason Pins, campaign buttons, fancy stock certificates, and one envelope with an unbroken wax seal.

The faded ink pen writing on the envelope was neat and I could tell that Senator Montague had painstakingly scribed the following:

Important

To whom it may concern.

Do not under any circumstances open this letter until

ten years after both my wife Martha and myself have died.

Senator Isaac C. Montague.

Important

Ominous instructions indeed. Now I’m not normally given to excitement over antiquities, but this letter had more than a little attraction. Maybe it was because it was written by my mentor, or tormentor, of my strict upbringing. I fingered it while listening to a steady rain tapping the roof.

I didn’t need a calculator to figure out that both the Senator and Martha have been dead for more than ten years. The old boy died in 1890 and I think that I remember that Martha died in about 1898. Obviously neither my parents nor my grandparents had found this letter, or it would already have been opened.

I confess that my heart quickened a bit as I opened my penknife and was about to make a neat cut through the wax seal. I paused to let a tinge of guilt pass. Guilt? Why? For trespassing into the Senator’s private affairs? Not likely, I’d trespassed before with a free conscience. Was it fear that the Senator would be instructing his heirs on proper conduct and I would surely fail any test of his? Not that either—well, maybe. The real reason, I think, was that the two Bells were in the back of my mind. They would love this intrigue. Okay, I thought, we’ll be meeting again after the house and furnishings are sold, I’ll open it then.

 ********

Everyone met at my place. I brewed a pot of coffee and laid out two-dozen Krispy-Crème donuts. One dozen for Arnold and the other dozen for the rest of us. Anabell jumped me first.

“How could you sell all of Mother’s and Grandmother’s old jewelry? Those things were worth a fortune and I’ll bet you practically gave them away. How much did you get, anyway? And the hobbyhorse I loved when I was a child. I wanted to give that to one of my grandbabies.” Not mindful, of course, that her youngest grandbaby is a two-hundred pound thirty-year-old stock broker.

Not to be out done. Isabell raked me over the coals about some piece of furniture and some cut glass stuff. I couldn’t remember what she was talking about. I just said, “Yawl had much rain in Seattle lately?”

She wheeled around, threw up her hands, and yelled, “You’re hopeless, Will. Anabell lives in Seattle, I live in Pittsburgh. You spell that P-I-T-T…, oh never mind.”

Arnold asked, “How much did you get for all that old stuff, Will?”

Anabell’s husband, Steve said, “Whatever you all decide is fine with me.” Surely there are a few opinions a smoldering deep behind Steve’s bland face, but maybe not.

After the dust settled, I had everyone be seated while I leaned back against my desk. I held up the letter and explained where I found it.

Arnold said, “Open er up. Let’s hear what the old boy had to say.”

Anabell sprang forward as if she’d sat on a pin. “Hurry, I’m dying to hear what’s in it.”

“I don’t think we ought to open it,” Isabell said, “It’s been sealed so long, it should stay sealed.”

“Whatever you all decide is fine with me.” Steve informed us.

I opened my penknife and made a nice neat cut through the wax seal. There were several pages. Anabell came over next to me and leaned sideways to inspect the letter. I asked, “Do you want to read it, Anabell?”

“No, no, no. You go ahead.” She returned to the edge of her seat.

“Here goes then.”

June 27, 1887

Dear reader,

I trust that you are one of my dear relatives. I have started this letter many times only to burn it in the end. Even at this writing I am uncertain whether what I am about to reveal would not be best left undiscovered.

My greatest pride has always been my unblemished record for honesty and decency. The information that I will reveal here, if circulated, will disappoint my relatives and friends, but I am driven by a compulsion to set the record straight. I am in possession of knowledge that no living person has the slightest inkling.

In the fall of 1868, a lovely girl named Billi Anne…  

“Ohhh,” moaned Isabell “I knew we should never have opened it.”

“Go on. Don’t stop, Will.” said Anabell.

 “Leab ’m a-loan n leb ’m weed.” Arnold said, with a mouthful of donut.

“We ought to burn it.” Isabell said. “But don’t let little old me stop you. Go ahead Will. If you must?” You could almost hear the crack propagating across Isabell’s wall of conscience.

In the fall of 1868, a lovely girl named Billi Anne Branson sought employment in my office. Billi Anne possessed the kind of beauty that brought a pause with all men and inflicted a pang of jealousy with all women. I confess that I would have brought her within my employment if she had been devoid of any talents. Thus, she became the cleaning lady for my offices.

I soon found to my delight, Billi Anne was very intelligent and efficient. At busy times she began to help file papers and perform other office type duties. She anticipated my every desire and obviously strove to please me in every way. If she had been a man I would have made her a secretary in an instant, for she was better than most of the men. She never spoke of her background other than to say that both parents had died while she was very young. We became fast friends and to a degree I may have become a surrogate father for her, my being over twenty years her senior.

In the course of events, it developed that my home was just two blocks beyond the rooming house where she lived. On dark winter nights I would escort her to her abode since it was on the way to my home anyway.

It should be noted here that Martha never liked Washington and was seldom in attendance at my home, she preferring to remain back in Tennessee. I say this to explain that winter nights spent alone, except for my cook and housekeeper who retired early, did often leave me lonely and slightly depressed. Certain evenings were brightened when Billi Anne would walk on to my home where we would have dinner and afterwards discuss books, etc. Since I had traveled a great deal and she had never traveled, she became enraptured with my stories of faraway places. She loved my stereoscope pictures of Paris and London. On occasions of close proximity, I’m embarrassed to say I was smitten with the excitement of a schoolboy. I daresay I enjoyed her company more than she mine.  

“Ha, ha. The old boy had the hots for Billi Anne.” Arnold was loud, as usual.

Isabell said, “Shut up Arnold, you don’t know anything.”

“Arnold’s my husband,” interrupted Anabell. “I’ll tell him when to shut up. Shut up Arnold! Go on, Will.”

The propriety of having such an object of beauty in my un-chaperoned company did concern me for I  treasured my spotless reputation. I did endeavor to keep the visits to a minimum although they did occur with more frequency than I care to recount.

Many men tried to gain favor with Billi Anne. Why she chose to spend evenings with me, I cannot explain. In spite of her great desirability in the eyes of all men, she was quite reserved and I think that she was not impressed by the immature boldness of most would-be suitors. I’m sure my home provided a serene intellectual setting that suited her taste.

Occasionally one young man would stop by my office at quitting time and they would leave together. I could find no specifics against this young man, but did find myself feeling annoyed that he could steal my Billi Anne away so easily, and also with her for having consented to go with him. My severest criticism I administrated to myself for the unhealthy thoughts that I might have had any right of ownership of beautiful Billi Anne.  

With a big swoop Arnold slapped his knee. “Hot damn! I told you old Isaac had the hots for Beeeuutiful Billi Anne. Ha, ha.” For this outburst Arnold received stern looks from the two Bells. Steve looked at everyone, one at a time, with that silly little puckered grin he was so good at.  

This state of affairs went on for some months, perhaps a year. The conclusion of this doomed relationship came rather abruptly in the fall of 1869. One day Billi Anne sent word that she was not feeling well and would not report to work. I wanted to go to her and offer my services, but refrained from doing so because of my distaste for some of the questionable characters that resided in her rooming house. I was afraid that they might misinterpret my visit and spread stories that would cast a shadow on my reputation. I sent a note of condolence instead.

Billi Anne did report to work on the third day. During the day I observed that the luster seemed absent from her usual bright and cheerful face. As was often the case, she was the last employee to leave that evening. She came into my office with the most stressed expression and said that she very much wanted to speak with me. I really do not like to hear people’s personal problems, but we had formed such a close friendship that I felt I could not refuse. I begged of her to let me escort her home and she could tell me on the way.

Outside we were greeted with the most unpleasant conditions. A cold rain had ceased for the moment, but it was very dark and foggy. Obviously embarrassed, she proceeded to select her words carefully and haltingly as we walked. She said that a circumstance had arisen that would alter her life in a most serious way. I will not belabor her round about way of describing her dilemma. In a word, she was with child.

I didn’t look up, but I heard the two Bells sigh “Ohhh.” in unison, and a “He, he.” from Arnold. Steve was probably dozing by now, but I was satisfied that whatever we decide would be fine with him.

I think that I had only thought of Billi Anne as an incredibly beautiful goddess whose sole purpose was to be savored like fine wine, impervious to contamination by earthly sinners. I was filled with mixed emotions of shock, anger, sympathy, and disappointment. It was as if a veil had suddenly dropped from in front of this maiden, exposing her as a real live person—like the rest of us.

We were on a short bridge that normally traversed a mere trickle of water, but due to recent downpours it was now a cauldron of raging rainwater on its way to the Potomac River. She stopped and buried her head into my topcoat. I was most uncomfortable. We must not be seen in close embrace, so I looked around to ascertain that the fog shielded us from everyone’s view.  What was I to do? She persisted in talking incessantly but I did not wish to hear more.

She looked at me and pleaded, “Oh Senator, what must I do?”

It was her face that paralyzed my mind. How could it have happened so suddenly, it was the face of an ordinary person. I wanted desperately to disentangle myself from this whole sordid affair. A fleeting thought flashed through my mind. A solution for all her problems is within my hands. I could pick her up and fling her into the raging torrent. No one would know. I suppressed the notion.

I asked her if the young man wouldn’t consent to take her as his wife?

Her answer was most surprising. She said, “What young man?”

“The young man that picked you up at the office. The young man who is the father of your child,” said I.

“Oh, that is not possible, Senator. I never had the slightest affection for that young man. Don’t you understand? You’re the only person that could be the father of the child I bear.”

As you may imagine, this news was immensely overwhelming. I had a nauseous vision of my whole life’s endeavor crumbling into a heap of disgrace. My misery was intense. To my everlasting shame, what I did next was on impulse. May God have mercy on my soul? It was over in an instant. It seemed oh so prudent in my moment of torment.

Make of me what you will,

Senator Isaac C. Montague

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