The Fountain Pen

Henry had always relished his fountain pen. He'd endured gentle ribbings from friends and the occasional injunction to "get with the times" and use a computer, but still he persisted in his singular ways. There was something about the fountain pen that connected him to himself, as though each stroke was a meditation. Maybe it was something about how the ink bubbled up on the page and took a moment to dry: a sort of harness that reigned in his penchant for impetuous writing. Then again, maybe it was the smell of the ink sopping into the course pages of his little black writing book. There was something physical, even temporal about it. The tip of his pen was shaped like a diamond, and Henry liked to think about how both diamonds and ink were made out of carbon, black as his notebook. Like the glittering diamond he'd purchased for his fiancee, the vows he'd written her were born out of intense pressure. But Henry had never read those vows, at least not to Olivia. Some things happen so suddenly and unpredictably. He was stationed in Stuttgart. He didn't even get the chance to say goodbye.

Henry loved his fountain pen. It was slow and methodical. It never surprised him. He was so attached to it that he'd write his emails with it while he waited for the dial-up modem to connect (yes, he'd finally gotten a computer) and then he would type out what he'd written. The extra bit of time he took to write by hand, that was the pressure that made the diamonds pure. Henry wrote exactly what he meant to write: no frills.

On one particular day, Henry received a telephone call.

"Hello?"

Henry wasn't fond of the Telephone. It was a nuisance, and he never knew when it was going to ring. The mail came once a day, and Henry liked that.

"Hello, Henry Blackburn?"

"Speaking"

"Henry, I'm a representative with Wallace, Harding, and McElroy. We need your banking information for a transfer in the amount of $20,000.00 from Hutchinson Investments. Could we set a time for you to come in?"

The bus ride downtown was along the same route he'd taken for years to the hotel. He'd worked there for nearly a decade four days a week since the factory moved overseas. Begrudgingly, he'd made the transition from paper ledgers to a fully computerized system. After each day of mindlessly typing names, dates, notes, and complaints, he would steep his mug of tea and catch the 47 bus homeward. Then opening his little book and touching the tip of the fountain pen to his tongue, he'd record his day. So and so got angry that the continental breakfast ended at ten o'clock, and such and such happened when they refused to check out on time, can you believe it? The tension and stresses spilled out of him like the ink, and sometimes he would write late into the night. He was even known to fall asleep with the book next to his head.

As he traveled along the familiar route, his mind was filled with questions. Was there some mistake? $20,000.00? Who was it from? The bus was traveling against the flow of traffic. He watched momentary snapshots of the bleary-eyed commuters in their expensive cars, some still working on their carphones. He arrived half an hour before closing time.

"Mr. Blackburn?"

"That's me" he said.

"Oh excellent" said the administrator, swiveling her chair to pick up a clipboard of forms. "Please fill these out so we can begin the process, and one of our associates will be with you shortly. Do you need a pen?"

"I have one, thanks." he said.

In a few minutes he found himself in the attorney's office, the smell of cigarette smoke and the 4:00 whiskey hanging in the air. The ticking of the clock, the tapping of the keyboard, the clicking of the mouse. Henry closed his eyes for a moment. There was heat coming from of the oversized beige monitor on the desk carrying the cloying sent of overheated circuitry. the attorney's detached monotone faded into the background, until as if from another dimension he was called out of his wandering fugue.

"...as specified in Olivia's last will and testament. So Mr. Blackburn, just your routing number and a few signatures, and we'll have you off in time to watch the World Series."

A feigned laugh. A hollow smile. Something or other in response.

"Oh, and Mr. Blackburn, there's a letter for you to read as well."

Henry waited till he got home to read the letter, not wanting to be in public. Finally, he sat at his writing desk and broke the seal on the envelope.

"Dear Henry,

You are reading this because the investments have reached $20,000.00 after taxes. When I realized I wouldn't survive till your return I sold our engagement ring and had the proceeds invested with the instructions to give it to you when it reached this number. It's the only way I could think of for our love to keep growing even if I'm not there."

Henry's eyes welled with tears.

"I want you to travel the world and see new things. Travel with joy. If you've found a partner, take them with you. Drink the wine, taste the food, listen to the music. Let your heart dance. Just do one thing for me: write to me and tell me how it was."

He smiled and a solitary tear splashed onto the ink.

"Yours truly, Olivia Fountain."