The Forgers by Bradford Morrow Read Free Book Online Page A

vague suspicions about Diehl during the couple of years I knew him before those ominous letters began arriving, it wasn’t until Meghan invited us both over to celebrate her thirty-fifth birthday that an awkward truth surfaced. As it happens, Yeats was Meghan’s favorite poet, and though she’d been born in Ireland she had never visited it as an adult. Her lifetime dream was to see Yeats’s grave in Drumcliff one day, row out to the lake isle of Innisfree, climb up to the foot of Ben Bulben, sample beer-battered codfish and chips with a pint of Guinness in Sligo. While I couldn’t quite pull off giving her that for her birthday, I did get in touch with a Dublin dealer to purchase a signed limited edition of A Vision, privately printed by T. Werner Laurie in 1925. I thought it would make a perfect placeholder of sorts until a trip to Ireland was more feasible. Following a homey dinner of turkey and trimmings, leftovers from Thanksgiving, I handed my girlfriend a flute of champagne I’d just uncorked and gave her my gift.
    â€œOh, I love this,” she exclaimed with an excited hug and kiss, after sipping the bubbly and opening the package. “It’s my favorite prose book by Yeats, although I can’t claim to completely understand it. His gyres always made me dizzy, but now I’ll have to give them another go.”
    When her brother muttered something about great minds thinking alike as he offered her his present, we all knew what it was. Not A Vision , his birthday present was a pretty copy in dust jacket of an early trade edition of the Collected Poems , autographed by the poet on the title page.
    â€œNow all you’re missing are the plays,” he said.
    â€œDon’t forget the autobiography, the letters, and essays. Yeats contains multitudes,” was her beaming response. “This is amazing. You guys must have worked it out together.”
    We assured her that we were as surprised as she.
    â€œWell, what a wonderful coincidence. Thank you both so much,” she said. “Absolute best birthday presents ever.”
    After Adam left, Meghan insisted, not for the first time, that her brother and I ought to be better friends. “Do you need more proof than the gifts you just gave me? You think alike, you’re both bibliomaniacs, both a little reclusive, and both a bit nuts, just like me,” she said, as we washed and dried dishes.
    When she retired to the bathroom to get ready for bed, I furtively took a look at the autograph in Adam’s gift. I don’t suppose I should have been irked to see that it was a somewhat admirably executed forgery, or so it seemed in the candlelight, but it galled me nonetheless. I, who could have done a better job of it, had gone out and tracked down an authentic signed Yeats, while this was all her vaunted brother could manage? Naturally, I had no intention of telling her. My soul may at times be dirty, but it’s not diabolical. She was happy and that made me happy. But that night solidified my feelings toward Adam. My purpose henceforth was to be outwardly nice toward him whenever he and I were thrown together, but otherwise stay as far away from the man as I could. He set my teeth on edge, let me admit it, and I didn’t like feeling that way. Meantime, Henry James’s letters to me persisted, sporadic and damning.
    â€œYou all right?” Meghan asked, startling me from my unpleasant reverie.
    â€œOh, I’m sorry,” snapping to as the luncheon was breaking up. “Thinking about Adam is all.”
    She smiled, sadly. “What were you thinking?”
    â€œAbout that time when we both gave you those signed Yeats books.”
    As I helped her on with her coat before heading out to the car, she said, with aching wistfulness, “Those are my two favorite possessions in the world.”
    Outside, the clouds had let forth with fine ice pellets that stung our faces like arctic nettles, making me