O. Henry's Pen
A short story
“You spent what?” Clarissa slammed her hand on the dining room table. The plates, glasses, and silverware jumped, as did Harry.
“More wine?” Harry tapped the Merlot bottle and forced a tepid smile.
She squeezed the goblet, the glass on the verge of cracking.
“Okay, okay. No more wine.” Harry extended his hand to her fusilli and pesto. “Why don’t you finish and we’ll talk later?”
Clarissa shoved her plate forward where it collided with Harry’s plate, chipping them both. “I don’t want to talk later. I want to throw your pen out the window.”
“That would be a little extreme. So, please don’t.”
“A four thousand dollar pen. Are you insane?”
“Three thousand nine hundred dollars.”
“You’re missing the point. You’re unemployed. You’ve been out of a job for six months and aren’t doing anything to get a new one—”
“I’m a writer, Clar.”
“You’re a writer who’s never been published, so you’re not a writer. You’re an ex-software engineer who’s delusional about being the next Stephen King.”
“I have been published. What do you think the Baltimore Review is?”
“It’s a publication that maybe has two hundred readers. That’s what it is.”
“They’re going to read my story at the library next month.”
“They read Fifty Shades of Grey at the library.”
“The editor said my story was the best she’d seen all year.”
“You’re still missing the point, Harry, so let me clarify. You’re not working. You’re…you’re dabbling. I’m supporting both of us on my pharmacist’s income. Our mortgage. This dinner. The wine.” She pointed to the television. “Our Netflix subscription.”
Their cat, Glitter, wandered by.
“Her food, too. And the vet bills. Electric bills. Gas for the car. Do you get it? While I was possibly okay with your trying to write a novel while you earnestly looked for work, I am not okay with your sloughing off and playing pretend writer and buying a four thousand dollar pen.”
“Three thousand ni—”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“This pen belonged to O. Henry, one of America’s greatest writers.”
Clarissa folded her arms across her chest. She balled her hands into fists so tight they steamed the air. “What does that mean?”
“O. Henry's pen inspires me. Can you imagine what it would be like to have the original smallpox vaccine or Fleming’s first antibiotic at your pharmacy? Wouldn’t that inspire you?
“That makes no sense.” Clarissa threw her napkin onto the table and skidded her chair backward with enough force that the legs against the floor were like chalk against a blackboard. “I’m going to bed. You can write the great American novel or whatever. Good luck with that.”
“Fine!” Harry tossed his napkin to the table, too. He grunted. Harry huffed over to the sofa, plopping onto it. He picked up the Moleskine notebook off the end table and cracked it open to the blank, first page.
Harry traced his finger along the silver art nouveau filigree that overlaid the pen's black barrel. What a gorgeous writing implement. No wonder O. Henry created such beautiful stories. Harry closed his eyes and imagined himself sitting at a wooden slant-front desk in 1905, the words spilling out, Della and James holding hands behind him, barely formed apparitions, taking on more clarity and color with each sentence until they were a living, breathing couple. They are the magi.
I can do this. I can be O. Henry.
Flashes of lightning cast his shadow on the wall, a crisp outline of a writer with pen and notebook. Harry turned to the storm. A raven, darker than a moonless night, sought shelter from the pelting rain on the window sill.
Harry sipped a long breath and brought the pen’s nib to the page. He held it in a single spot for several minutes as the blue ink bled on the paper.
Something’s wrong with the pen.
Harry pressed the pen harder against the paper, piercing through four sheets. Maybe it’s the paper that’s not working.
Harry cocked his head to the side and sniffed the paper, which smelled of almonds. The problem isn't the paper. He touched the nib to his tongue, tasting bitter ink.
Harry stroked his chin. Cold flowed through his veins. What should I do? The raven tapped its beak against the glass, opened its mouth, and spoke to Harry.
Harry nodded.
I’ll drink the ink! I'll drink O. Henry's life force.
Holding the pen with the nib aimed up, Harry twisted it, separating the two parts. He peered into the barrel. The ink spun like a whirlpool in a bottomless ocean. He brought the barrel to his mouth, tilted his head back, drank the ink, and died.
In the morning, Clarissa found Harry’s cold body on the floor in front of their couch. The medical examiner told her, “This is classic cyanide poisoning: blue lips, evidence of cardiac arrest, the broken coffee table, probably from a seizure...” The medical examiner's voice floated through the living room, but Clarissa no longer heard his words.
The medical examiner declared Harry's death an accident. He was forty.
A week after Harry’s funeral, Clarissa brought his pen to Donovan’s Antiques in downtown Baltimore. She wanted it out of the house.
The sign in front of Donovan’s Antiques read Est. 1849, and to Clarissa’s eye, it looked like the shopkeeper was the original owner.
“Donovan’s Antiques at your service,” he said as the bell above the door tinkled, announcing Clarissa’s arrival.
Clarissa handed him her late husband’s pen.
As he scanned it with a loupe, his eyes went wide. “How much do you want for this? I’m not sure I can afford your price, but maybe we can make a deal.”
Clarissa shrugged. “I don't know what O. Henry’s pen is worth.”
“O. Henry?” The shopkeeper shook his head. “This wasn’t O. Henry’s pen. This pen belonged to Edgar Allan Poe.”
If you enjoyed this, I think you’ll also like my story, Andre and the Alien.
Brilliant twist at the end Bill! This is one of your finest stories. Loved it!
My first thought was "O. Henry is Bill's inspiration. That's why he writes the kind of stories he does." Then the raven tapping made me think of Poe, but I dismissed that thought, so the ending snuck up on me. Great story!