When May Morgenstern is bequeathed a collection of letters, little does she realise that she will bear witness to a story that will take her across continents, into the lives of iconic writer Henry Miller and heavyweight boxer Sonny Liston, and on the hunt for a dangerous truth. In this extract, we are introduced to May and the beginning of her new adventure.

Extract taken from The Girl, The Crow, The Writer and the Fighter
By George Paterson
Published by Into Creative

That’s enough, thought May switching off her small television. She took a towel from the radiator and wrapped it around her wet, still soapy head. As exciting as it had been to take flight and see, if not experience Las Vegas, May was glad to be back in Auburn. Comfortable. Where the milk is sour and the piles of washing reach to the sky. Good to be home. No work and a night of nothing much in particular from the comfort of her own bed. Music on, coffee percolating. Nothing like a warm cup on a blustery day, ain’t that right May?

She missed Elie. They’d only known each other for a few years but the old lady had brought some much-needed colour to her days. As for her nights, sure, she had the occasional date but not many since Connie left for Portland. She was a fully-fledged junior school teacher now. Good for Connie. She’d come back for the holidays, when she could, but the truth was that there weren’t too many unattached young bucks of their age left in Auburn and even fewer who frequented The Columbus.

May returned to Elie’s bequeath.

Here goes.

She loosened the strap, before placing the box on her bed to open. Released, the leather binding was no longer stiff and taut as it had been while protecting its precious cargo. May slid it off and left it on the floor, spent.

Open the box.

May placed her fingernail under the hooked clasp and with a crisp pop, the box was opened. The smell of cut wood and old paper instantly filled her nostrils. The envelope at the top was not sealed. It contained a handful of monochrome photographs.

First out, a cowboy. Or maybe he just looked like one. Square jawed, Stetson, handsome. There was a name imprinted on the bottom righthand corner but it was a little obscured. Chas. Langdon? A clue? May turned it over.

‘My darling Elie, only three more weeks until I am able to dust off this dirt and return to your loving arms. Stay true for me as I am for you. Your beloved, Clifford.’
Photo Likeness made by Chas. Langdon, Artist. Temperance, TX

So that’s Clifford? What can I say, she thought, the old lady had taste. Another photo of the same man then one of him with a much younger Elie. May touched the frayed, fading picture of her friend and sighed.

So beautiful.

‘Prettiest girl I ever saw.’

In the box, beneath the photographs was a book, bound in thick leather and held shut by a twisted clasp. May opened the front cover and read the following, handwritten inscription…

‘Dearest E,

It has been so long since I made it down the coast to see you. I feel a great sense of guilt about that, but I know you’ll understand that there are certain physical inhibitors which certainly do not excuse my absence but may mitigate. You have your mother’s eyes…

Many years ago, I made a request of you and, given that I feel the cold chill more with each passing year, the time to deliver is nigh. On certain things, my memory isn’t what it once was but with regards this I am crystal clear; our critical moment has arrived.

Stay well my sweet. Wherever the spirits take us…

H.’

Not what she was expecting.

C was for Clifford but H? This was an entirely different kettle of cod.

Who was this H and what was he to her? May thought. Another lover? A brother? No, you don’t refer to a sibling as ‘my sweet’ now, do you? And why if she deemed me important enough to be her only confidante during her dotage AND the sole beneficiary of her last will and testament, why didn’t she tell me about H? May picked up the handful of letters from Clifford and scoured them for any references to H.

‘I was sorry to hear about Henry’s fall. I hope that it wasn’t too serious. He was something. I know that he didn’t care much for me and in those awkward, early days, I perhaps felt a little uncomfortable about your relations with him. I believe he grew to understand that my intentions were honourable. Next time you write him, pass on my regards and tell him that I’ll gladly let him bum a smoke from me when he recovers.’

At that moment, a thrash of rain struck May’s window. The almighty howl which accompanied it, startled her.

So, H is Henry. But who is Henry? Returning to the book, May pored over the inscription, hoping that perhaps a clue would present itself.

Nothing.

She quickly thumbed through the rest of the book, at least a couple of hundred pages of varying sizes, written in pencil, in blue and black ink, but clearly by the same hand. May returned to the start.

‘There was never a grand plan. None of this was intended. Doors opened, I walked through. Gates locked, I climbed over. I guess that this behemothic conundrum we call life comes like one of those waves that rises from the bowels of the Great Pacific, crashing into the cliffs and coves near my cottage. Sometimes you sense it coming, sometimes you don’t. I’ve found that when the wave comes, it’s prudent not to worry about the one certainty; getting wet. Don’t argue with me on this. Remember, if it’s old, it must be right! Ha! Without wanting to sound like some sub-Kerouac, coffee house beat poet, I guess that the only wisdom I’m qualified to impart is just… ride the wave. Or ‘Embrace the moisture’. No, scratch that. Go with the first line.’

May turned the page…

‘I first saw her on the corner of Macon and Ralph, outside the yellow brick house where Mrs Ottmaier gave piano lessons, a dime an hour. She was fifteen, I was two years younger. Decades on, I recall her every detail. The emerald-coloured coat, her flame coloured hair tied up beneath a wide brimmed hat, protecting her alabaster skin from the late summer sun. She had a parcel of meat for her father, cut the way he liked it by Unger the butcher. Both men were quite important figures in Bushwick. Most of the neighbourhood, like my own family, was German but the Seawards, your mother’s people, were old English, Social Register types. One of her great uncles served as a Senator. They had class.

The same cannot be said of the Militz family who lived nearby. The father was loud and coarse – not MY type of coarse, of course! – and was an unforgiving taskmaster for the engineers and the apprentices who laboured under his tutelage. I wasn’t in their direct orbit but was friends with a few boys who ran with their youngest, Casper. An indulged boy, always with spending cash, he tended to attract those who didn’t mind prostrating oneself for ready tidbits. He was tall, pasty, heavy set and like his father, had a capacity for vindictive and cruel behaviour. Very different to his neighbour, and the object of my ardour, Cora. She was truly precious. Kind and thoughtful. One day, I shall speak with her father, I thought and ask for her hand. I had an inkling that’s what happened but I didn’t know exactly why. I was so young, I just wanted to be close to her. To see her was to voyage in the blue and uncharted firmament. My one true love. My dear Elie, I cannot begin to tell you the things I’ve seen and done in this wretched life but the purest and most Godly truth I’ve ever known was a smile from the lips of Cora, your virtuous mother. I wished dearly that I could have been there for her and stopped Casper but I wasn’t and that regret I’ll take to the grave.

The burghers of Bushwick made sure that the Militz family – and their business – bore a terrible price for what happened but to the boy himself? It was as if he’d snapped a shoelace. A minor inconvenience. After backing him with everything they had, his family was sinking. And in the face of that, he cast them aside and sailed on, surrounded by bootlickers and backers, impressed by his hard shell and seeming invulnerability. He did business with both the Shapiro’s and the Amberg brothers but never once spent a night in the Tombs or was dispatched to Sing-Sing. Your mother though was sent upstate to recuperate from the ordeal – and to prepare for your arrival.’

The paper, turned up and dry around the edges, felt fragile, as if it was not long for this realm. May turned the page carefully and read more.

The Girl, The Crow, The Writer and the Fighter by George Paterson is published by Into Creative, priced £16.99.