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Authors: Stefanie Matteson
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his watch. “I don’t think we have time. The hearing starts in twenty minutes. In fact, I’d better go up and pay now,” he added as he picked up the bill. “This one’s on the State of Maine.”
Excusing himself, he went up to the cash register.
Charlotte was still thinking about the blacklist era. “The writers who continued working were the lucky ones, even if they were only paid a pittance,” she reflected to Pyle after Tracey had left. “Many of the people on the blacklist ended up killing themselves, or drinking themselves to death.”
“Like Mrs. Richards almost did,” he said.
Charlotte nodded. She was reminded of the bottle of rum in Iris’ pack. She suspected it was more likely to have been an offering to propitiate the alcohol demon than the Indian god.
As she thought about the rum, she suddenly realized the answer to the question that was lying at the back of her mind. The link between Iris the screenwriter and Iris the nurserywoman was Thoreau’s essay, Civil Disobedience , which had inspired the Civil Rights activists and countless others to stand up to the Government in the name of justice. Thoreau had chosen to go to jail (if only for a night) rather than pay a tax to a government that supported slavery. Iris had chosen to sacrifice a lucrative career rather than testify against her colleagues. “Under a government which imprisons any unjustly, the true place for a just man is also in prison,” Thoreau wrote. Unlike the Hollywood Ten, Iris hadn’t been imprisoned, but she had created her own prison of sorts in this central Maine mill town.
At first, at any rate. It appeared that it hadn’t remained so, that she had, in fact, created a rich and rewarding life here. Charlotte could imagine her seeking out Thoreau’s words as consolation for her lonely stand, and then, taking comfort from the solace they offered, being drawn into the simple life he espoused. Something of the same sort had also happened to Charlotte as a result of her on-stage boat rides with Henry David in On Walden Pond . She had taken a more moderate course in her pursuit of the simple life, her experience at living in the woods being limited to her mountainside retreat, and there was much of Thoreau she couldn’t abide, starting with his admonition to “beware of any enterprises that require new clothes,” clothes being one of her great passions. But she found it interesting that both she and Iris, neither of whom could claim any natural propensity for rusticity, had discovered the Philosphers’ Stone in Thoreau’s prescription for the simple life.
She wondered how many other Thoreauvians there were. A good many, from what Pyle had said about the pilgrims to Hilltop Farm. The only other one she had ever known was Linc, an appreciation for Thoreau being a natural for a rugged individualist with a love of the outdoors. He could cite Thoreau chapter and verse. She still remembered the marked-up Heritage Press edition of Walden that he’d always carried around with him. It was one of his things that she wished she could have had when he died, but it had gone to his ex-wife or his sister, like everything else. To them, she thought with some bitterness, the book had probably meant nothing.
Dismissing her morbid thoughts, she took advantage of Tracey’s momentary absence to pump Pyle for information: “Lieutenant Tracey has indicated that there might be some cause to think Iris’ death wasn’t accidental,” she said. “Do you know anything more about it?”
But Pyle wasn’t biting. “Nope,” he said as he drained the dregs of his coffee. “But I doubt it was really murder. The M.E. is such a publicity hound that he’d try to give that impression just to get a good turnout.”
“I guess we’ll find out in a few minutes,” she said.
5
The hearing before the Mount Katahdin Tragedy Board of Review was to be held at the Eastern Region Headquarters of the state forest service, which was located in a cluster
Excusing himself, he went up to the cash register.
Charlotte was still thinking about the blacklist era. “The writers who continued working were the lucky ones, even if they were only paid a pittance,” she reflected to Pyle after Tracey had left. “Many of the people on the blacklist ended up killing themselves, or drinking themselves to death.”
“Like Mrs. Richards almost did,” he said.
Charlotte nodded. She was reminded of the bottle of rum in Iris’ pack. She suspected it was more likely to have been an offering to propitiate the alcohol demon than the Indian god.
As she thought about the rum, she suddenly realized the answer to the question that was lying at the back of her mind. The link between Iris the screenwriter and Iris the nurserywoman was Thoreau’s essay, Civil Disobedience , which had inspired the Civil Rights activists and countless others to stand up to the Government in the name of justice. Thoreau had chosen to go to jail (if only for a night) rather than pay a tax to a government that supported slavery. Iris had chosen to sacrifice a lucrative career rather than testify against her colleagues. “Under a government which imprisons any unjustly, the true place for a just man is also in prison,” Thoreau wrote. Unlike the Hollywood Ten, Iris hadn’t been imprisoned, but she had created her own prison of sorts in this central Maine mill town.
At first, at any rate. It appeared that it hadn’t remained so, that she had, in fact, created a rich and rewarding life here. Charlotte could imagine her seeking out Thoreau’s words as consolation for her lonely stand, and then, taking comfort from the solace they offered, being drawn into the simple life he espoused. Something of the same sort had also happened to Charlotte as a result of her on-stage boat rides with Henry David in On Walden Pond . She had taken a more moderate course in her pursuit of the simple life, her experience at living in the woods being limited to her mountainside retreat, and there was much of Thoreau she couldn’t abide, starting with his admonition to “beware of any enterprises that require new clothes,” clothes being one of her great passions. But she found it interesting that both she and Iris, neither of whom could claim any natural propensity for rusticity, had discovered the Philosphers’ Stone in Thoreau’s prescription for the simple life.
She wondered how many other Thoreauvians there were. A good many, from what Pyle had said about the pilgrims to Hilltop Farm. The only other one she had ever known was Linc, an appreciation for Thoreau being a natural for a rugged individualist with a love of the outdoors. He could cite Thoreau chapter and verse. She still remembered the marked-up Heritage Press edition of Walden that he’d always carried around with him. It was one of his things that she wished she could have had when he died, but it had gone to his ex-wife or his sister, like everything else. To them, she thought with some bitterness, the book had probably meant nothing.
Dismissing her morbid thoughts, she took advantage of Tracey’s momentary absence to pump Pyle for information: “Lieutenant Tracey has indicated that there might be some cause to think Iris’ death wasn’t accidental,” she said. “Do you know anything more about it?”
But Pyle wasn’t biting. “Nope,” he said as he drained the dregs of his coffee. “But I doubt it was really murder. The M.E. is such a publicity hound that he’d try to give that impression just to get a good turnout.”
“I guess we’ll find out in a few minutes,” she said.
5
The hearing before the Mount Katahdin Tragedy Board of Review was to be held at the Eastern Region Headquarters of the state forest service, which was located in a cluster
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