“Hello?  ‘Dis is Lowell speakin’.  May I ask who’s callin’?”  Even though he had a heavy Southern American accent, Lowell spoke clearly and articulately, though more slowly than most.

“Uh, yes … is this Lowell Sterling?” the hurried voice on the receiver replied.  His momentary hesitation probably came from being taken aback by the archaic way the man answered the phone.  With personal mobile phone numbers and prolific phone soliciting, it was unusual for someone to state their name when answering the phone.  It made him wonder what manner of man was on the phone.

“Yes it is,” Lowell answered in his slow cadence, “May I ask who’s calling?”

He was not being rude or impatient.  He knew few people understood proper telephone etiquette of announcing one’s self and properly introducing each other to the mystery voice on the other end of the line.  Just because others felt it unimportant to keep with propriety, did not mean he felt it unimportant. 

“Yes, sir.  I’m Steve Lewis.”  He spoke quickly, though he would not have thought so.  “I’m a senior editor with Future Time publishing.  We’re a speculative fiction imprint of Vitalis Librorum Publishers out of New York.  I’m trying to reach Mrs. Naomi Mase.  Are you her agent?”

“Nope,” he replied, “I’m no agent, I’m just ‘er grandson.”

“Oh, fantastic,” Mr. Lewis replied excitedly, “Can you tell me how I can get in contact with Ms. Mase? Or with her agent if she has one?  I would very much like to speak with her.”

“Well …, she don’t have an agent, and I’m afraid you’re not gonna be able to speak with ‘er.”

“I assure you sir,” Mr. Lewis interjected, not realizing that Lowell had not yet finished speaking, “It would be in Ms. Mase’s interests for her to speak with me.  I’m very interested in discussing a publishing contract with her.  I think her science fiction story has substantial market potential.  I think it will be a best seller.”

“If you’ll let me finish, young man,” Lowell said in reply, “I’ll get to it.  I may not move at the speed of a fancy New York publisher but I do have all the information you need.”

Lowell did not really know Mr. Lewis’ age, but he had a good idea it was more than culture that separated them.

“My apologies,” Mr. Lewis stepped on him again, “please continue.”

“Naomah passed away,” Lowell answered.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry.  I had no idea.  My condolences to you and your family.  Can you refer me to who’s settling her estate?”

“I’m gittin’ thar,” Lowell answered the question.  He was actually growing rather impatient with the man’s constant, hurried interruptions.

“I … I’m terribly sorry,” the editor answered, “please continue.”

“Are ya sure?”

“Yes.  Again, I apologize.  It’s been a hectic morning for me.”

“I appreciate your condolences, but Naomah passed when I was a young man.  That were about seventy years ago.  Unless your fancy phone can reach into the hereafter, I’m afraid you’re not gonna be able ta speak with ‘er.  She got no agent, and ‘er will executed long ago.”

Mr. Lewis awaited an extra couple seconds before replying.

“I apologize, Mr. Sterling.”  The caller spoke more slowly.  Lowell didn’t know if it was a conscious effort or confusion.  “I misunderstood the situation.  I have a science fiction manuscript credited to Mrs. Mase.  Did you write the manuscript and use her name as your own pen name?”

Lowell chuckled across the phone, “No, no, that’s not the case.  Naomah wrote the story.  My grandaughter felt we should’a try to get it published, so she typed id up and talked me inta sending it t’ya.”

“She wrote the story?  Seventy years ago?”

“No, that’s not right either.  It amuses me that city folk think us country folk are slow.  I said that she passed about seventy years ago.  She were too young, just sixty-two years old, when she passed, but she wrote most of her stories as a young lady.  Best we can determine, she wrote ‘em when she went away to that women’s college.  But she’d been tellin’ the stories even as a child.  She were determined to get an education.  Naomah graduated in 1899, so it were better’en one-hundred twenty years ago she wrote those stories.”

Though Lowell had finished, Mr. Lewis jumped back into his frenetic questioning.

“You’re telling me that the original manuscript is more than a century old? This was before the Golden Age of Science Fiction, before Einstein published the theory of relativity!  She was practically a contemporary with Laura Ingles Wilder, yet you say she wrote a story scarcely after H.G. Wells wrote his, that rival his best works?  How much did you change it?  How much did you edit the original story?”

“You ain’t listen’n young man.  I told you, I didn’t do no editing.  As I said, my grandaughter were the one who’d typed it up.  If thar are changes, she made them.”

“Does she still have the original manuscript?”

“No sir,” has Mr. Lewis released an exasperated sigh, Lowell went against his manners and pressed ahead over him.  “These stories, that she used to tell us, became somewhat of a family heirloom.  I keep it here, and I still got ‘er.”

“You have the original manuscript?”

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

“Well, if you were listening as much as you were talking …” he slowly rolled out.

“I’m sorry.  I’m so excited.  This could be the greatest literary discovery of a century.  May I … may I please come see it?”

“Yes, you’re welcome to come look at ‘er, but it don’t leave my house.”

“Of course … absolutely, Mr. Sterling.  I can be on a plane as early as tomorrow.  How’s your week look?”

“Son, my week doesn’t ‘look,’ it works.  And it works during the daylight hours.  You’re welcome to stop by any evening.  Be sure to close the gate after you drive through, so my animals don’t go gittin’ away.”

• • •

If Steve Lewis had known how to impress Lowell Sterling, he would not have worn his Ermenegildo Zenga suit with his Salvatore Ferragamo loafers.  If he had wanted to avoid getting mud on the aforementioned because of a vehicle unsuited to the muddy, unimproved roads of the old family plantation, he would not have secured a Mercedes-Benz SL Roadster for the last leg of the trip.  On this trip, only his Breitling watch served him well — dutifully noting the very, very late hour he arrived.  Remembering to close the gate was the only event this evening not a part of his misadventure.

He had not yet knocked on the door; he was still staring at his watch when it opened.  Lowell looked him up and down.  For a moment, Lowell was disgusted.  Then he supposed he’d be as out-of-place in the Big Apple as Steve was in the Old Dominion.  He was grateful New York offered nothing he cared to acquire or experience.

“The real estate developers only shew up durin’ the day, so you mus’ be Steve,” Lowell said, “You can leave your muddy shoes jus’ inside the door.”  With the door open, he turned on his cane and tottered back into the home.

After removing his shoes and brushing the mud from his pant legs, Steve entered the home.

Steve figured this was the original plantation home, but it was clear there had be major at least one major addition and it had been modernized.  There was electricity, for one.  He realized, when his car got stuck, he’d come to visualize “Gone With the Wind,” and was surprised when he saw power in the place.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Steve began, “that I’ve arrived so late.”

Lowell motioned for him to sit, which he did.

“As you can guess, I’m not much for navigating these roads,” Steve said, “I guess Siri doesn’t keep track of the muddy bits.”

“No, I don’ s’pose it does.”

Silently, Steve was pleased Lowell knew Siri.

“I won’t keep you tonight,” Steve continued.  “I decided to at least find your place, so that I’d know the way.  The light was on, so I decided to knock.  I’m hoping we can try again tomorrow?  After, of course, you day is through.”

“I reckon da’ll work,” Lowell said, “I think it ‘portant you see dah grounds.  Dah home, dah barn, dah old slave house, and ev’n the old family cemetery.  Knowin’ where Naomah growed up ‘ill help ya.”

“Thank you,” Steve replied, “I’m very grateful for you accommodating my … challenges today.”

Lowell regarded his visitor thoughtfully as the family grandfather clock quietly counted the seconds.  He didn’t care for people that grew up in the city.  Their manners were all wrong.  But this man, as important as he thought he was, came to the plantation, and even persisted through difficulties his city upbringing left him ill equipped to face.  Lowell felt he owed this guest his courtesy.

“Are you an honest man, Mr. Lewis?”

Steve opened his mouth to immediately assert his upstanding honesty.  He paused.  He’d already been too eager when he first talked to Mr. Sterling.

“At times I’ve …” Steve started then paused, “At times I’ve taken advantage when I knew was being reeled into a bad deal.”

“Is this a bad deal?”

Steve paused and weighed the risks of being honest.  Yeah, he knew this was a bad deal, but something deep inside insisted he find out.

“I don’t know.  The adage is that if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is.  This, sir, is so good it’s off the charts.”

Lowell nodded thoughtfully.

“I’m willing to make you a deal, Mr. Publisher, if you’re serious about this.”

And there it was, Steve thought to himself, Mr. Sterling was a con man after all; the story was a fraud.  Mr. Sterling knew he was about to lose his mark, and was about to sweeten the deal.  Steve just nodded his assent to hear the deal.

“Come with me,” Lowell said with a groan as he pushed himself out of the chair with his cane, “if you’d please.”

Steve patiently followed Lowell.  It seemed every floor board creaked as they made their way up the stairs.  The banister wobbled, and Steve wondered if the stairs could handle the weight of them both as they groaned at their combined weight.

At the top of the stairs, Lowell opened the door on the left.  He turned on the light.  It was a bedroom, small by modern sensibilities, but would have been respectable in its time.  Central to the room sat a single-person — even by former standards — four-post bed with a canopy.  A nightstand, wash basin, chifforobe, and simple chair filled out the room.

“I don’t e’spect a couple hours ‘morrow even’n will be ‘nough time for you ta figger out if this is too good ta be true,” Lowell reasoned, “That’s her book thar,” he pointed to the nightstand.

“As a matter of fact,” he continued, “thar’s her bed.  Her papa made it from the old oak tree that his papa planted years before, jes a little ways over yonder.

“You can stay dah night, read dah book t’morrow,  and we’ll talk over supper.  So that we do’in’ misunderstand none, that thar book goes no further from dah house than dah stoop.  The water closet is down the hall,” he pointed into what was clearly an expansion to the old plantation home, “and thar’ll be breakfast at five a.m. if yer up.”

Lowell turned and walked down the hallway, cane in hand, presumably to his own room in the old, but newer, expansion of the home.  He paused and looked back.

“Oh, and Mr. Lewis, you’re about to do some’em I reckon you ain’t never done before in your life.”

This suddenly had stopped feeling like a con and was feeling like a murder.  He momentarily wondered how many things Paul Sheldon had never done before he met Annie Wilkes.  Was he living a Stephen King novel?

“After ya get yer belongins, don’t lock the front door,” Lowell said then turned back down the hallway.  With the thump of his cane, and the creak of a step, he ambled down the hallway, “It ain’t necess’ry here.”

If this was a con, Steve didn’t see the angle.

It was late, and he was very tired, so he relented to his fate.  Though by the time his mind caught up with the reality and was going to accept the offer, Lowell had already dismissed himself behind a closed door.

After getting his suitcase, washing up, and settling himself in the room, he began reading the very old manuscript.  He forced himself to stop late into the night.

Uncharacteristically, once he laid his head down, he fell quickly asleep.