Imaginary Friends

by Janice Law 

Like a lot of small children, I had an imaginary friend. Not surprisingly, since I was passionately fond of animals, mine was a Mr. Fox. On wet afternoons, I would go down the hall to what had once been a chambermaid's room and get into the dressing up box. As this included a moth eaten jacket of some indeterminate blond fur, I assume the contents came from the "big house" across from the estate garage that held our apartment. There was a variety of vintage dresses and hats with feathers and a necklace of green beads.

Attired in this ancient finery, I would make my way back down the dark wood paneled hall, knock on our kitchen door, and greet my mother with the formal curtesy Edwardian Scots women used: Good afternoon, Mrs. Law. 

Mother would, in turn, greet Mrs. Fox, who came in for milk and cookies and what my mom would call a wee natter.

I've thinking about imaginary friends, both childhood and literary lately, because Ray Wilde, one of my characters, seems unexpectedly to be hanging around, moving from a useful if ephemeral narrator ( "The House on Maple Street") to what recently became his fifth outing. He's becoming that peculiar being, an adult imaginary friend, which is one of several relationships writers can have with their characters.

There are writers, way more clever than I am, who know everything about their heroes, who write up their back stories, examine their genealogies, and honestly claim to have created their protagonists from start to finish. I suspect they are people who do not like surprises and who enjoy control over their creations and plots.

I take a different tack. Characters, whether sparked by invention, observation, or historical knowledge– and I have written examples of each– first appear casually. They are useful in presenting a story. They have an interesting voice and suggest interesting adventures, but they are one-offs, imaginary acquaintances, if you like. 

Characters like Eddie and Tony in "The Smart One" (now appearing in Crimes Against Nature) or Grant ( "Up and Gone" in a recent AHMM) whisper in some inner ear and then depart, almost certainly never to return. They are creatures of one particular story and have no life beyond it.

Converted mill

I thought that would be the case with Ray Wilde, my middle-aged private detective whose modest agency I set in one of our old eastern Connecticut mill towns. I needed a narrator for an idea I had about teen athlete steroid use, and it was not Ray, but the house of the title, ( "The House on Maple Street") that really jump-started the story.

Basically, I knew nothing about Ray beyond his profession, his past work as a cop in a larger town, the make of his car, the condition of one damaged knee, and his attitude of tolerant skepticism. I was surprised when he turned up again with a part-time bookkeeper and an older client who turned out to be most unusual. "The Client" later appeared in The Best Mystery Stories of 2021, so Ray rose in my estimation, although I still expected nothing more of him.

Clearly he had other ideas. "The Man from Hong Kong," appearing in the MarchApril issue of AHMM, is where I learned that Ray has interesting friends, quick reflexes, a long disused Glock, and an older home that probably needs work. What about his personal life? Significant others? Family?  I haven't a clue. We are not at that stage yet.

more Ray Wilde territory

Will we ever be is the question. All I know is that he keeps showing up. A story about a man who loves Halloween decorations has gone out and another story is even now in the computer. But Ray's a cagey fellow. Just this week, I learned that he pitched softball in the Twilight League; aside from that, his personal life remains opaque. I think, though, that we are now on good enough terms that I can consider him an imaginary friend, a grown up Mr. Fox.