Mr. Bithersbee

By Stephen Shore

There are good people out there. Surely, you've met some. If you'd like to meet another—especially if you haven't met one in some time—you must meet my friend, Mr. Bithersbee. Mr. Bithersbee is a literary novel by Stephen Shore.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Shore
• Release date: Apr 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005227135

Stephen Shore

A lifelong resident of New England, Stephen Shore has worked in public education and in business. As an undergraduate, he studied history, music and education at Bridgewater State. Steve was a Graduate Fellow, in the History Department, at Northeastern University. As a single parent, he has raised two fine sons and—through their acquaintances—a plethora of quasi daughters and sons (the characteristics and namesakes of many appearing in his novels).At this writing, Steve has all three novels in the Annalea Series in publication. He also has published a mystery/crime novel entitled, Sinful Images, and his first western novel, How I Became an Outlaw, by “Chili Beans” Bartlett. He has recently completed a literary novel, Mr. Bithersbee. Another novel, A Hare in the High Grass, is nearly finished, and other works are well begun. Steve obviously lives to write.

Book preview

MR. BITHERSBEE

by Stephen James Shore

Copyright Stephen James Shore 2021

Published by WriteAbout StephenJShore

Intellectual Properties Unlimited

Smashwords Edition

There are good people out there. Surely, you've met some. If you'd like to meet another—especially if you haven't met one in some time—you must meet my friend, Mr. Bithersbee.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

Not to be reproduced or otherwise used without the express permission of the Author.

MR. BITHERSBEE

By Stephen James Shore

Index

Mr. Bithersbee

Chapter I - The Leather Chair

Chapter II - Bithersbee’s

Chapter III - Amanda

Chapter IV - What Would She Do?

Chapter V - Phineas

Chapter VI - Mr. Bithersbee’s Plight

Chapter VII - Where the Heart Speaks

Chapter VIII - Amanda’s Place

Chapter IX - Wottle

Chapter X - Esmirelda's Confession

Chapter XI - Is There an Actor in the House?

Chapter XII - Guffers & Company

Chapter XIII - Coffee With Mr. Wottle

Chapter XIV - The Pot and the Kettle

Chapter XV - A Hunch I Cannot Ignore

Chapter XVI - 10 AM

Chapter XVII - It is Time For All of Us to Depart

Dedication

This book is for Sarah ~

Mr. Bithersbee's first and most loyal friend.

Stephen James Shore

MR. BITHERSBEE

By Stephen James Shore

Chapter I

The Leather Chair

Mr. Bithersbee owned a leather chair. He rented two rooms, furnished; but he owned a leather chair that he alone sat in. Mr. Bithersbee was known as a gentle, kindly and generous man. Acquaintances who stopped by were always offered refreshments. A friend could count on Mr. Bithersbee for a small, cash loan—when needed. He never passed a beggar without tendering a few coins, and a tender smile. But he never offered to let you sit in his leather chair. And—somehow—you knew better than to ask.

Mr. Bithersbee only shared his two rooms with a stray cat who’d wandered in some years ago, and only left on occasional, overnight sprees. The cat never sat in his leather chair.

Should you ask Mr. Bithersbee about the name of his cat, he would tell you he did not know. And in his subtle and gentle way he would reprimand you—or rather, correct you. He did not own the cat. He would not own a cat—or any animal—as he would not have a servant, nor serve another in any compulsory capacity.

He did not know the cat’s name. He did not speak Cat and, therefore, could not inquire into the cat’s name or background. But Mr. Bithersbee did not care about such. If discussed at all, the cat was referred to—by Mr. Bithersbee—as the cat. He never called the cat, or disciplined the cat, or instructed the cat. The cat was not his pet. Should you chance to hear him talk to the cat, you would hear him address the cat as you. Just as—in normal conversation—he would address you as you.

If you pressed for the information, Mr. Bithersbee would inform you that the cat was a long-term guest, who was welcome for so long as he chose to be. There were no restrictions on the comings and goings of the cat, nor reparations expected for the shelter, warmth, comfort and food proffered to a guest. This made perfect sense to me, for I—as others of the human species—had once stretched Mr. Bithersbee’s hospitality to limits quite beyond those ascribed to mutual conduct of human decency and the propriety of social obligation. Once appearing at his door, quite destitute and most despondent—hoping to beg enough coin to get through the next day—I was ushered inside and provided a cot, coverings and sustenance, in the warm shelter of his two-room abode for as long as I required.

I required such for all the winter months. Mr. Bithersbee put no restrictions on my comings and goings; I was provided my own key. Nor were any reparations expected, or accepted—when finally offered. Cramped together in his cozy but restricted lodgings, I marveled most at how Mr. Bithersbee never once gave word nor sign that I was an intruder: invading the private space of his only sanctuary from the demands and encroachments of the outside world. I certainly appreciated all of his kindnesses and I exploited his resources—by virtue of my great need—but I never sat in his leather chair.

So I could understand how Mr. Bithersbee would never feel possessive about the cat—would never presume to dominate the cat. The cat was simply one of nature’s creatures—a benign soul who could benefit from what Mr. Bithersbee had available. He was not an imposition, so he was not a bother. I believe the cat respected this. I know I did.

Mr. Bithersbee was not a wealthy man. No, not by any measure a wealthy man. But Mr. Bithersbee was never a poor man, either. Money seemed to flow through Mr. Bithersbee, much as with a bank. It was loaned out to those whose need was greater than his, and repaid by those who became able to do so. Sometimes with interest, but this was only accomplished if Mr. Bithersbee had forgotten the amount originally provided. He did not look to profit from the exchange of currency. And unlike a bank, the recipient of a loan was someone deemed by Mr. Bithersbee to be needy, not necessarily credit-worthy.

How Mr. Bithersbee could survive while continually engaging in such generous pursuits was something that at first perplexed me. Oh, he had an income—a regular income: a most modest, but regular, income. The resolution of this perplexity was, for me, the realization that Mr. Bithersbee’s lifestyle was somehow even more modest than his sincerely modest means. Perhaps the only man to live as modestly as Mr. Bithersbee and yet have great wealth was the fabled Ebenezer Scrooge.

Of course, Mr. Scrooge made great wealth and parted with the smallest portions of it most grudgingly: and only as survival necessitated it. Mr. Bithersbee would not have understood Mr. Scrooge. And Mr. Scrooge would only have recognized Mr. Bithersbee as a Bob Cratchet gone mad. Of course, Mr. Bithersbee would have simply explained that Mr. Scrooge confused financial irresponsibility with moral responsibility.

Mr. Bithersbee went about his business quietly and unassumingly. He was not one to go about lecturing on the morals or principles of other men: fictional or fabric. But when he sat in his leather chair, he became as a philosopher upon a throne of intellectual prerogative. This philosophical prowess did not come spewing forth unannounced and unsolicited. But should you be solicitous—and persistent—as regards a matter in which Mr. Bithersbee had knowledge, then he would regale your mind with the sympathetic logic of his mind. And—rewardingly—he knew of many things, common and uncommon.

Mr. Bithersbee’s seemingly unbounded scope of knowledge was a product and result of his means of income. At the first, he received a small, annual allowance as his inheritance from an uncle: an industrialist of some note, and greater repute. That man had no particular affection for Mr. Bithersbee, who was only fifteen when his uncle died: and who was geographically as distant from his uncle as he was distant in age—and would become more so distant in sentiment and philosophy.

No, that uncle had no fondness in his heart for Mr. Bithersbee, or any of his relatives. But he also had no children—and no intention of allowing his accumulated wealth to be bequeathed to state or church, or squandered on various charities. So trust funds were established for the various nieces and nephews. These trusts were endowed by the sale of the uncle’s businesses, properties and investments, at the time of his death. No one—kith, kin or companion—received outright ownership of any of his businesses (which no one but he was capable of managing) or his personal and real properties (which no one but he was worthy of owning).

Each recipient was provided an annual allowance in an amount deemed adequate by the uncle to keep body and soul from parting company, prematurely. Females were allotted an infinitesimal increment above the pittance provided for males, for no specified reason. The meager and capricious amount designated by the uncle for those purposes would likely have been inadequate to those purposes even in his lifetime, but there was no calculation or legal device for increasing the allowance over time. The amount provided was originally inadequate, and with time became farcically so. Much like the token gift you receive once a year—at the appointed season—from a great aunt you’ve never met. The gift is quite small and of minuscule value, but you are family and, therefore, must receive something.

Mr. Bithersbee, however, was more fortunate than the rest of the recipients. He often commented on how he was blessed, and how he hoped the others weren’t jealous. Mr. Bithersbee was very bright and inquisitive as a lad. Not that this would hold any interest for his distant and emotionally remote uncle. But he showed promise at school and appeared—to those who knew him as a child—quite capable of using education to substantiate his future. Perhaps he’d himself become a teacher, or a man of letters—perhaps even a professor, at least a lawyer.

But when his father—his mentor, his inspiration and his best friend—committed suicide, after the failure of his own business and the disgrace of being unable to provide for his own family, young Bithersbee withdrew emotionally and intellectually from the chaotic and irrational world of people into the logical, comforting, intriguing and stimulating world of books.

It took me quite a long time to understand my father’s pain, Mr. Bithersbee once told me, reflecting on the matter from the comfort of his leather chair, and, therefore, to forgive him the pain he’d caused the family. He was the most intelligent—and the most sensitive—man I’d known. I could not fathom the selfishness that would drive him to such an act. I believed that, certainly—even through his personal anguish—he should have known his action would cause great despair and be the final ruin of the family.

Well, sir, perhaps you have not forgiven him, I presumed to hypothesize. "Perhaps time has alleviated your anger and diminished your memory to a point where you think you have forgiven him."

No, no, my friend. Mr. Bithersbee chose to gently correct my presumptive analysis. "‘Though I can certainly understand why you’d think that, it was not time healing the wound. And I’m glad of it. Such healing leaves a scar on the surface: a constant reminder of the trauma just below the surface. What healed my heart without scarring my psyche was insight. Sadly, what brought about this understanding was yet another tragedy: the consumptive disease that denied my mother of all her energies, her great drive and enviable fortitude, her selfless ambitions for her children and—ultimately—her will to live, tuberculosis.

Watching... studying her decline—realizing and fearing the likely outcome—I began to notice parallels between my mother’s physical declension and my father’s mental descent. Both—it seemed to me—were the result of irreversible diseases which crippled the spirit and thus predisposed the outcome. To see my mother so changed by suffering—to struggle so valiantly, yet be defeated so utterly—brought me to understand and forgive my father’s weaknesses. They were both human and—as such—too frail to withstand the overwhelming challenge. And by such challenge, we are all overwhelmed—ultimately.

The good fortune about which Mr. Bithersbee felt a little guilty came also as a result of that tragic illness which struck down his mother. He remembered the letter that initiated it. And the singular phrase within the letter which he spied over his mother’s shoulder as she wrote it. That singular sentence which confirmed his greatest fears—and moved his uncle to perform a slightly charitable act for the only time in memory. Her words, Harold, you must finally do this for me, for I am dying.

Since his father’s death, Mr. Bithersbee’s world had been books and ideas—not people and society at large. At the onset of his mother’s illness all of that changed, ‘though he knew not why at first. His mother used to press him to apply himself more in his schoolwork—no matter how mundane he found it—and to socialize with his peers. Then suddenly, her emphasis shifted from schoolwork and friends to occupations: odd jobs to bring home money, and ever-increasing chores and responsibilities at home.

The disoriented but obedient young Mr. Bithersbee tried very hard to please his mother. He was successful at doing so at home, but less than successful at bringing money home. He tried every sort of job available for a youngster at that time, but he just wasn’t very good at anything. He would become so bored as to be unable to focus on the simplest of repetitive tasks.

But finally—after the letter—things changed for Mr. Bithersbee. Oh, at first these changes seemed far from positive to Mr. Bithersbee. The uncle did not send money, and the family was forced to leave the little country cottage that had been their home since his birth. But the uncle did make some arrangements on their behalf. Conveniently, he owned two businesses in the nearby city, a paper mill and a book bindery.

At the former, he made arrangements for the mill’s doctor (who was on his payroll) to attend Mr. Bithersbee’s mother—at no charge. This—according to Mr. Bithersbee—was a great gift. He believed this care prolonged her life: giving them nearly a year together that they’d not otherwise have had. (I believe this, alone, accounts for why Mr. Bithersbee always refers to that stingy old codger as a dear, saintly man.) They’d not been able to afford doctors, nurses, medicines, poultices or potions since his father’s passing.

But from the latter—the book bindery—would come an equal gift of considerable benefit to Mr. Bithersbee’s future. The bindery was a going operation which the uncle had purchased, not founded. As such, he had no need for the management staff on site. All his businesses were managed from a central office located near his dwelling, half a country away. Only supervisory staff was maintained on site, and these were just workers/overseers.

In this great building—two expansive floors of wide-open space, in the manner of a vast warehouse—there were two small offices on the first floor which opened directly onto the main street. The three-room office had served for management, while the two-room office had contained all the clerical staff. At the time of the Bithersbees' great need, all of these rooms were abandoned and filled with litter from the book bindery process.

The rooms of both offices were offered to the Bithersbees as lodgings, in return for a modest monthly rent. Fortunately, the uncle’s notion of a reasonable rental fee was as unrealistic as his notion of what constituted an adequate living allowance. Of course in their predicament, the Bithersbees could not have raised a penny a day for rent. But arrangements were made for young Bithersbee to be indentured at the bindery: his wages being set to equal the amount due for rent each month. This meant the permanent demise of his formal schooling.

Mr. Bithersbee’s work at the bindery started from the very moment the family arrived at the site. But his initial labour did nothing to reduce rent due. It was left to him—and him alone—to remove the mounds of filth and refuse from those neglected rooms, so that the family might have shelter and not spend another night lodged out in the street. Consideration of his mother’s serious condition made him clean with a fervor.

With a wheelbarrow and a cart generously loaned from the mill, young Bithersbee sifted, piled and loaded the accumulated crud and crap from those rooms and made several arduous journeys over the next few days to the city dump—on foot and unaided. But as he himself told me, I was most happily engaged in the task, as every dustbin filled, every dump trip taken, every room cleaned, meant I made progress for my mother’s benefit.

And nearly everything found went to the dump: from dog-eared ledgers to pieces of indiscernible mechanical appliances, to matter and material quite unmentionable. But amidst all of this, young Bithersbee found what he considered to be a treasure trove: items which he could never relegate to the trash heap. Under so much rubble—compressed near to the point of collapse—that air and moisture could never reach them, he found boxes and boxes of printed material (mostly books) which had been processed through the bindery, stored safely in the offices and forgotten. Perhaps that was the commercial limbo of runs for which a client had not yet paid—and perhaps, never did pay.

Whatever the provenance, these books were literal treasures to Mr. Bithersbee. He’d had to leave his own beloved book collection at the cottage when they left. Little could be carried, and only things of certain importance to the family as a whole could be taken. After his father’s death, those books had become his world. Then he’d become arbitrarily exiled from that world. No doubt, only his great love and overwhelming concern for his mother prevented his being traumatized by the event.

But now, now whole new worlds would open up for him! Was this not a magnificent gift? It does much to explain Mr. Bithersbee’s philosophical bent when you hear him describe a fortunate accident as a magnificent gift. When first I heard him describe it thus, I thought to question him. In what way a ‘gift?’ And proffered by whom?

But I thought better of it. Mr. Bithersbee’s intellect conceptualizes on a much higher plane than I am capable of attending. To pose such questions would cause him to provide long and tangential explanations—for my edification—and defer completion of the story which initially fascinated me.

‘Though his beloved mother’s fragile hold on life lasted less than a year from their arrival at the bindery, she retained somewhat of a grip until very near the end: due to her son’s diligent attention to her care and the needs of the family. With her passing, the family was allowed to retain those rooms as their lodging, so long as Mr. Bithersbee worked off—or paid—the modest rent. And young Bithersbee worked very hard—day and night—at the bindery, to fulfill his obligations. At its most prosperous point, the bindery ran three shifts—operating twenty-four hours a day. Young Mr. Bithersbee could be discovered toiling away during any one of these shifts, six days a week.

He was a hard worker, but not an impressive one. As he says, himself, I still wasn’t very good at anything. I’m sure my supervisors thought me less than a moron; for they had been forced to take morons off the street, (considering the pathetic wage his uncle was willing to offer) and had successfully taught them the skills needed to operate and maintain at least one machine. In all my time there, I could not claim as much.

Young Mr. Bithersbee had tried his hand—several times—at every operation, process and purpose available in the confines of that busy bindery. Always to no avail, and often fortunate to escape with the hand he’d tried still attached to his arm. It was the same situation—the same problem—as before, when his mother’s illness first put him to work. Boredom would seize hold of his intellectual capacities long before the monotonous processes of repetitious operations had begun to hold sway.

Often, he told me, during the repetitive droning of operational procedures—by means of training—the glazed-over expression on my countenance indicated how distant my mind had become from my body: which alone was held captive by the speaker and the machine to which I would be shackled for an interminable time. I guess I was fortunate, ‘though. While others remained bound to their machines for multiple shifts, year-after-year, I seldom completed a shift on the same machine. If I did not do outright damage to the machine or the product, I usually impeded the process to an extent that progress ceased to occur. This was not intentional, I assure you. But it was inevitable. I did learn a good deal about cutting and stitching and gluing and pressing and all aspects of binding, in general. But as for an education: I could have learned as much on a one-hour walking tour of the plant, as I managed to accumulate over several years labouring there.

According to Mr. Bithersbee, his supervisors eventually gave up on the prospect of making him a skilled employee. He was kept busy as an odds-and-ends worker: an errand boy and an untitled custodian. He was only put on a machine to finish a shift if someone failed to show for work or was removed due to accident.

I found that situation much more agreeable, Mr. Bithersbee told me. "I had multiple tasks, each in a different location of the building, and each of relatively short duration. I was then less likely to be shown up by a moron, ‘though not completely so. I would still, on frequent occasions, discover my mind so far removed from the task at hand as to forget to push a broom forward, for several moments at a time—or forget the destination of my errand and wander past it, aimlessly. And to worsen my reputation among my fellow workers—if that were possible—I became known as an idler.

"Well... you see... it was a bindery, after all! I was surrounded—nearly inundated, but definitely titillated—by the printed word: stories, facts, ideas, suppositions—mundanities, marvels and miracles—all tempting me to ingest their wisdom. Daily, I was most often found perched high on a stack of pallets—engrossed in a similarly tall stack of documents—expanding my constricted world view. They would say I was ‘caught’ at this, but I say I was ‘found’ because I was not stupid and I certainly realized they would eventually stumble on me ignoring my work and wasting time, lost in words. And they truly didn’t understand this. Many of my fellows couldn’t read at all. And those who could, did so out of necessity: finding it uninteresting as a pastime."

Mr. Bithersbee informed me that he remained unperturbed by his seeming inadequacies. "Believe me, every task I have ever undertaken was initiated with the intention of doing my utmost to succeed. But if you’re cognizant of your interests and abilities, you soon realize when something is wrong for you—or if you are wrong for it. Only a fool believes that truth can be made out of living a lie. I don’t believe I could have been so convincing a fool.

I also don’t believe I could have been motivated by myself or others to have done more or better than I did. The only possible motivation that I can conceive (not that it would have made a real difference in my performance) would have been monetary—for the family had many needs. But my wages were ‘tied’ directly to the amount of the rent. I was never offered—nor brought to expect—a penny more in earnings, so long as I worked there.

On occasion—perhaps with intention of teaching him a lesson—Mr. Bithersbee would be expelled from the plant. He was so seldom free from his compulsory occupation, that he took great advantage of his parole time. While he truly prized his new collection of books and documents, he had multiple copies of everything. Hardly a man of business, he did somehow devise the means to hawk his wares on the street.

Obviously, he observed, you’ll not get rich offering Shelley, Keats or the Bible on street corners, broadcasting like a newsboy. But there are other ways to build up a clientele.

Mr. Bithersbee used his free time to exploit those attributes for socialization that his mother had urged on him sometime before. He went ‘round to shops, parks, saloons and the like, striking up casual conversations with congenial strangers. Once he knew people’s likes and interests—and had achieved their confidence—it was not difficult for him to determine their choices in reading matter, and to then offer them something select for a fraction of its retail value. In time, this led to repeat customers and many sincere friendships.

Mr. Bithersbee’s success in this was a result of personality, attitude and philosophy: knowing himself—never lying to himself. Like everything else I’ve done, I’d’ve tried sales to provide for the family. But I’d’ve failed as a salesman; that’s not who I am. As I came to know the people with who I had dealings—and became familiar with the particulars of each individual life, I came to believe that I was providing a service. And I could not let them down; as I would not let the family down. At this, I could be successful! Fortunately for Mr. Bithersbee, he never equated success with wealth.

Besides his initial stash of discarded volumes, Mr. Bithersbee managed to acquire a continual restocking of salable books from production overruns, client bankruptcies and abandonments, and other contingencies that allowed the shop steward to unload such waste into Mr. Bithersbee's hands for mere pennies per pound. And with every opportunity, as time passed, Mr. Bithersbee found a ready customer for every printed bargain he could obtain. So life continued similarly for Mr. Bithersbee for a number of years, well into his mid twenties: so long as siblings still needed his support as a surrogate parent. The extra income Mr. Bithersbee was able to bring in provided these siblings with new used clothing and more meat—less need for potatoes—to fill their dinner plates. But most importantly, it enabled him to send back to school those