As an author, instead of creating elaborate back stories for my characters, I prefer to sit them down and interview them. I set the scene, I have a vague idea of their back story, and have them “answer” questions I’ve pulled from many places. I try to answer those questions without thinking too much about the answers—so in essence, it’s a bit of a free writing exercise. But it’s also very interesting some of the answers my characters will give me.
Ninety percent of this interview never made it into the book, but that’s not the point of this exercise.
This was Mathew Knight’s interview.
**********
Getting Dr. Mathew Knight to agree to an interview at times felt like I was asking for an audience with a major world leader. I can’t say he’s secretive, but he is certainly reticent and was very reluctant to agree to this. And, he had some firm rules and terms for this interview. In hindsight, I suppose having one’s life turned upside down and feeling as if everything is out of one’s control does lend itself to seeking control in any manner possible later.
I first met Knight in the formal parlor of the home he currently shares with his wife, Abigail, and his son, Ethan. Ethan was a subject that was completely off limits. I had a glimpse of Ethan when I first entered the home and I mentioned he was a cute kid. Knight absolutely bristled and repeated that Ethan was not to be a part of this interview in any manner.
Ninety percent of this interview never made it into the book, but that’s not the point of this exercise.
This was Mathew Knight’s interview.
**********
Getting Dr. Mathew Knight to agree to an interview at times felt like I was asking for an audience with a major world leader. I can’t say he’s secretive, but he is certainly reticent and was very reluctant to agree to this. And, he had some firm rules and terms for this interview. In hindsight, I suppose having one’s life turned upside down and feeling as if everything is out of one’s control does lend itself to seeking control in any manner possible later.
I first met Knight in the formal parlor of the home he currently shares with his wife, Abigail, and his son, Ethan. Ethan was a subject that was completely off limits. I had a glimpse of Ethan when I first entered the home and I mentioned he was a cute kid. Knight absolutely bristled and repeated that Ethan was not to be a part of this interview in any manner.
Abigail brought a plate of freshly baked sugar cookies, two tall glasses, and a pitcher of what I discovered was lemonade made with hand-squeezed lemonade. Opulent fare for the time.
The first question I wanted to ask Knight went totally out of my head when I looked around the room. Opulence wouldn’t even begin to describe it: red velvet flocked wallpaper, the pattern repeating in the wallpaper of gold foil fleur delis; a black bar that stretched the width of the room and curved in a graceful “s” shape while behind the bar, the wall was a single mirror that stretched from the ceiling to the jet black wainscotting. The built-in fireplace had been constructed of what appeared to be native stone and was flanked by floor to ceiling bookshelves. More remarkable was the crystal chandelier and I wondered how that had survived not only the war, but roving bands of soldiers who had stolen anything not nailed down.
Knight casually said, “Before Abby and Sam—he was her husband before me and he died in the war—bought this home, it had been a brothel.”
Fortunately, I didn’t have anything in my mouth at the time. It wasn’t the shock the home had been used a brothel, but how nonchalant Knight was about it. I decided to start the interview at that point and asked if he was ready. Knight leaned into the wing-backed chair he was seated in and just nodded.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll start with a hard question first. How did you injured your arm?” I gestured to his left hand, which had the appearance of a gnarled oak branch.
“How much do you know about prisoner of war camps during the War of Northern Aggression?” Knight’s baritone was nearly flat in his response.
I noted he probably wasn’t a Union sympathizer. “I know about Andersonville and Elmira—both places were the definition of hell on earth.”
“Apt description.” He looked away from me, at something over my shoulder, but I had the distinct feeling he wasn’t even looking there. “I didn’t injure my arm. It was injured when I tried to prevent a guard at Camp Douglas from clubbing a prisoner who had passed out in the snow. The guard made his point with a bayonet and pinned me to a wall.”
I cannot even imagine and offering sympathy didn’t seem to be a course of action. I make a mental note to check out Camp Douglas. For some reason, I want to say it was located in the town I was born in—Chicago. “Let’s try another question. How did you meet Abigail?”
The first question I wanted to ask Knight went totally out of my head when I looked around the room. Opulence wouldn’t even begin to describe it: red velvet flocked wallpaper, the pattern repeating in the wallpaper of gold foil fleur delis; a black bar that stretched the width of the room and curved in a graceful “s” shape while behind the bar, the wall was a single mirror that stretched from the ceiling to the jet black wainscotting. The built-in fireplace had been constructed of what appeared to be native stone and was flanked by floor to ceiling bookshelves. More remarkable was the crystal chandelier and I wondered how that had survived not only the war, but roving bands of soldiers who had stolen anything not nailed down.
Knight casually said, “Before Abby and Sam—he was her husband before me and he died in the war—bought this home, it had been a brothel.”
Fortunately, I didn’t have anything in my mouth at the time. It wasn’t the shock the home had been used a brothel, but how nonchalant Knight was about it. I decided to start the interview at that point and asked if he was ready. Knight leaned into the wing-backed chair he was seated in and just nodded.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll start with a hard question first. How did you injured your arm?” I gestured to his left hand, which had the appearance of a gnarled oak branch.
“How much do you know about prisoner of war camps during the War of Northern Aggression?” Knight’s baritone was nearly flat in his response.
I noted he probably wasn’t a Union sympathizer. “I know about Andersonville and Elmira—both places were the definition of hell on earth.”
“Apt description.” He looked away from me, at something over my shoulder, but I had the distinct feeling he wasn’t even looking there. “I didn’t injure my arm. It was injured when I tried to prevent a guard at Camp Douglas from clubbing a prisoner who had passed out in the snow. The guard made his point with a bayonet and pinned me to a wall.”
I cannot even imagine and offering sympathy didn’t seem to be a course of action. I make a mental note to check out Camp Douglas. For some reason, I want to say it was located in the town I was born in—Chicago. “Let’s try another question. How did you meet Abigail?”
It’s absolutely startling how quickly his expression changed. The hard drawn lines soften and what might have even been a smile flashed across his features. “I responded to a help wanted advertisement about a year ago. Tonica was requesting assistance in the form of a competent physician.”
“So, Abigail was a patient, first?” Abigail also couldn’t be Ethan’s mother.
“No.” He shook his head to further accentuate his answer. “Before I agreed to come here, I required we be married by proxy. She agreed to that.”
That wasn’t what I was expecting. “Why a marriage by proxy?”
“Ethan.” I’m surprised, after his insistence that Ethan not be brought into this interview or the subject of any question, Knight brings him in. Knight continued, “I had made myself persona non grata with some dangerous people and if anything happened to me, Ethan would be taken care of.”
“Dangerous people?”
His sight drifted again to that point somewhere distant over my shoulder. “In Georgia. I didn’t subscribe to their way of thinking.”
Not sure if he’s referring to those enacting Reconstruction or the “carpet-baggers” who followed in their wake, I asked, “You were opposed to Reconstruction and everything that comes with it?”
“No, but that's an interesting assumption. I don’t subscribe to the views of those opposing everything that comes with Reconstruction. As a physician, I’m rather opposed to taking a life and especially taking a life as a form of brute intimidation.” He took a drink from the glass at his elbow, waiting for me to digest that information.
I found myself struggling to find a follow up. I’m interviewing an utter enigma—an enigma dressed in a black frock coat, a red silk waistcoat over what appears to be a linen shirt, deeply pressed trousers, and a long black string tie; a former Confederate who wasn’t opposed to the rights being granted to a marginalized population. I should have done some more research into this man. I tried to get the interview back on track. “Abigail isn’t Ethan’s mother—”
He cut me off. “Ethan isn’t a topic of this interview.”
“I know. I was going to ask about Ethan’s mother.”
“Georgianne is dead and she’s in my past. I prefer that is where she remain. Leave it there.”
“Fair enough.” Whether or not I want to leave it there, he effectively slammed that door shut, too. “What’s the hardest part of being a doctor?”
He thought about the question, and it seemed he was looking for the best way to answer me. Finally, he said, “If the blacksmith makes a mistake when he’s shoeing, he can pull the shoe off and reset it. If a carpenter makes a mistake, he can cut another board or shim it into place. If I make a mistake, it can be fatal. I don’t like making mistakes. At the same time, I have to remember, I’m not God. I don’t hold the power of life and death in my hands. It doesn’t change how deeply I am affected when I face losing a patient.”
Somewhere in this room, a clock begins tolling the top of the hour. He had promised me one hour and that hour was up. He started to rise, his expression nearly one of relief, as if a torturous task had been completed.
“One last question, Dr. Knight. Where did you receive your medical training?”
“In Lexington, Kentucky, at the University of Transylvania.”
**********
Lucky me—when my graphics artist and I started looking for images for this book, we found one with a cover model in a red silk waistcoat. 😊
“So, Abigail was a patient, first?” Abigail also couldn’t be Ethan’s mother.
“No.” He shook his head to further accentuate his answer. “Before I agreed to come here, I required we be married by proxy. She agreed to that.”
That wasn’t what I was expecting. “Why a marriage by proxy?”
“Ethan.” I’m surprised, after his insistence that Ethan not be brought into this interview or the subject of any question, Knight brings him in. Knight continued, “I had made myself persona non grata with some dangerous people and if anything happened to me, Ethan would be taken care of.”
“Dangerous people?”
His sight drifted again to that point somewhere distant over my shoulder. “In Georgia. I didn’t subscribe to their way of thinking.”
Not sure if he’s referring to those enacting Reconstruction or the “carpet-baggers” who followed in their wake, I asked, “You were opposed to Reconstruction and everything that comes with it?”
“No, but that's an interesting assumption. I don’t subscribe to the views of those opposing everything that comes with Reconstruction. As a physician, I’m rather opposed to taking a life and especially taking a life as a form of brute intimidation.” He took a drink from the glass at his elbow, waiting for me to digest that information.
I found myself struggling to find a follow up. I’m interviewing an utter enigma—an enigma dressed in a black frock coat, a red silk waistcoat over what appears to be a linen shirt, deeply pressed trousers, and a long black string tie; a former Confederate who wasn’t opposed to the rights being granted to a marginalized population. I should have done some more research into this man. I tried to get the interview back on track. “Abigail isn’t Ethan’s mother—”
He cut me off. “Ethan isn’t a topic of this interview.”
“I know. I was going to ask about Ethan’s mother.”
“Georgianne is dead and she’s in my past. I prefer that is where she remain. Leave it there.”
“Fair enough.” Whether or not I want to leave it there, he effectively slammed that door shut, too. “What’s the hardest part of being a doctor?”
He thought about the question, and it seemed he was looking for the best way to answer me. Finally, he said, “If the blacksmith makes a mistake when he’s shoeing, he can pull the shoe off and reset it. If a carpenter makes a mistake, he can cut another board or shim it into place. If I make a mistake, it can be fatal. I don’t like making mistakes. At the same time, I have to remember, I’m not God. I don’t hold the power of life and death in my hands. It doesn’t change how deeply I am affected when I face losing a patient.”
Somewhere in this room, a clock begins tolling the top of the hour. He had promised me one hour and that hour was up. He started to rise, his expression nearly one of relief, as if a torturous task had been completed.
“One last question, Dr. Knight. Where did you receive your medical training?”
“In Lexington, Kentucky, at the University of Transylvania.”
**********
Lucky me—when my graphics artist and I started looking for images for this book, we found one with a cover model in a red silk waistcoat. 😊
