April 14, 1912
East Hampton, New York
It is with heavy heart that I set pen to paper in this most private of journals. One year ago, my dear wife, Millicent Mavis Fletcher, delivered into our family, our community and, indeed, our world that which should give a man his most joyful moment on God’s Earth. I became, that day, a father.
Just as they did then, friends and relations have been arriving today in an endless parade to our gracious home near the shore. They bring with them felicitations and prayers for health, happiness and long life to my now one-year-old son and heir, Frederick Francis Fletcher.
Why then do I retreat in solitude to the shadows of my library instead of reveling and rejoicing? Why do I find unholy thoughts swirling in my mind and driving me to the point of despair if not madness? Only on these private pages can I possibly give voice to that which must forever remain unspoken in polite society.
I have the ugliest baby on Long Island.
When I first gazed upon my son one year ago this night, I saw little beyond the wrinkled paleness of a tiny head admittedly obscured through the blurry haze of my own, proud tears. In retrospect, I wish that my vision had never cleared and I, too, could look down upon him now with feelings of fatherly affection instead of the revulsion I experience welling up inside me with every glance at his repulsiveness.
Though fancying myself a keen observer of the human condition, I have failed utterly in my attempts to discern whether or not others are aware of this sad fact. I know my dearest wife does not share my opinion for what mother could look at the fruit of her own womb with anything other than maternal joy? It would be an affront to Nature for her to feel any other way.
So I have been provoked through my own weakness of vanity to embark on a most unusual and, perhaps, shameful course of action. I asked our young maid, Miss Hattie Holcomb, to entertain a proposition to which no man of culture and breeding should ever admit. So that history may have a record of my monstrous nature, I set forth below what passed between us earlier tonight when I called her into my study.
“Hattie, you’re my last hope.”
“Sir?”
“I want you to leave this house, Hattie. I want you to leave and never return.”
She flushed and stammered, “Oh, Mr. Fletcher! What have I done?”
“Let me finish, my dear.” Her tears began to flow so I handed her my handkerchief and continued. “Calm yourself, if you do me this great favor, I promise you a life where you will never have to serve again, a yearly income, and my everlasting thanks and appreciation.”
She sniffed and her bosoms heaved. I said a silent prayer for looking.
“But, sir, I don’t know what ….”
Before she could finish, the wailing of my young, hideous son came forth like a cat’s howl from his nursery. Understanding dawned on her pretty face.
I nodded. “Yes, Hattie. You see, I want you to take something away with you when you leave.”
