Part 3 (1/2)

”It is indeed. You're just in time for the solstice. It's the day after tomorrow-everyone will want to see you.”

”Oh, the solstice party-that's right.” All the years I was growing up, my parents had star parties whenever there was a minor celestial event-an eclipse of the moon, an alignment of planets, Venus drawing close. The adults brought telescopes and had bonfires on the sh.o.r.e and we children ran until we were so tired we fell asleep on blankets on the gra.s.s or curled up in the hammock. I remember being carried inside from those parties, my father's arms so strong around me, falling into the softness of the bed, sleepy and safe, into clean sheets that smelled like wind. ”I forgot about the solstice.”

”Then you've been away too much,” she said.

”So you say,” I replied. ”Every time I come to visit.”

”Oh, don't be so sensitive,” she said, and finished her coffee. ”Sweetie, I need to go to work today. I wish I didn't, but I've missed so much time with the accident. So here-take these.” She slid a set of keys across the gla.s.s-topped table, the bones of her hand moving visibly beneath her skin. ”The Impala,” she explained, though I knew. ”It's all tuned up, ready to go. There's an extra house key, too.”

”Thanks.” I remembered my father taking us for drives on Sunday afternoons, hours when we'd meander with no particular destination, taking in the bursting forth of spring or the trees with their autumn leaves, golden or orange or fiery red against the deep blue sky. ”Blake says you might sell it?”

She nodded. ”Probably. It's hard to let it go, but it's time. No one in the family wants it, and it's silly to have it just sitting out in the barn.” She paused before she spoke again. ”I'm thinking of selling the house, too.”

I didn't answer right away. ”Seriously?”

”I know-it must be shocking. For a long time I couldn't think about it. Your dad is so much a part of this place. And what you said yesterday is true, he loved the lake, and the marsh, especially. So it's hard. But look at this place, honey. I've become pretty handy over the years, believe it or not, but I still can't keep up with it all. I've been thinking about it for quite a while, but it was talking about the gardens in the ER-how beautiful they'd once been-that finally made me realize how far gone things really are. You see something every day, and you don't notice. But when you really look”-she gestured to the tangled jungle of vines and weeds and flowers, the peeling paint on the porch-”I have to admit that it's beyond what I can handle.”

”But wouldn't you miss living here?”

”Of course I will. But I won't miss the responsibility. Or the taxes! Anyway, I'm just starting to think about it, honey. No need to panic.” She smiled. ”It would probably take a couple of years just to clear the place out.”

”It might take a couple of decades, actually,” I said, trying to keep my tone light. ”There's so much stuff everywhere.”

”Well, you don't want it,” she said thoughtfully, and I realized she really was quite serious about selling. ”You're off gallivanting around the world, and Blake can hardly leave his boat for dry land, much less take on the upkeep of this place. Still, it'll be the end of an era.”

I didn't say anything for a few seconds, trying to sort out how I felt. Everything my mother said made sense, and yet I hated the thought of someone else living in these rooms, even though it was true that I didn't want to live in them myself.

”The end of several eras,” I mused, thinking of Blake and Avery with a baby on the way, which I could not mention. ”Oh, speaking of old stuff, I found something last night that I want to show you.”

Upstairs, I collected the pile of dusty pamphlets I'd left on the table by the bed. When I came back my mother had been deadheading the flowers, and spent blossoms were piled on the stone wall; she was talking on her cell phone, laughing.

”They're beautiful. They're right here in front of me. Thanks so much-so thoughtful. And your st.i.tches? Oh, good. Tonight? I'm sorry, I can't. My daughter just got in and I don't know our plans They're right here in front of me. Thanks so much-so thoughtful. And your st.i.tches? Oh, good. Tonight? I'm sorry, I can't. My daughter just got in and I don't know our plans.”

I splayed the papers and pamphlets out against the gla.s.s table, trying to pretend I wasn't listening in on my mother's conversation. In full daylight they looked older and more worn, the paper brittle, the edges stained, the dust of decades woven into the fibers.

”Your secret admirer?” I asked when my mother finished.

”Andrew,” she said, flipping the phone closed. ”He's very jovial this morning.” My mother put the phone down so she could pick up a leaflet.

”It's okay if you want to have dinner with him tonight.”

She looked up and smiled, amused. ”I know.”

”Okay with me, I mean. You don't have to entertain me twenty-four- seven, that's all.”

”I know, sweetie. Thank you.” She went back to the pamphlet. ”My goodness-this was published in 1913.”

”Interesting, isn't it? I found these in the cupola this morning. Stuffed away in a window seat.”

She met my gaze, her eyes pale gray and curious. ”I didn't realize any of those seats opened.”

”There's a little keyhole below the lip of the seat facing the lake. With the cus.h.i.+ons gone, you can see it. Dad's tools are still on the ring.”

”Ah-you picked the lock?”

”I did. First try.”

She smiled, her expression suddenly wistful. ”Your father would have been very proud.”

I looked out at the lake until I could speak again. ”Mostly, that's why I tried to open it-just because he'd taught me how. Nothing inside but dust, though-and these.”

We sat at the table and leafed through the papers, drinking our coffee. It was an eclectic collection. There was an obituary for the last pa.s.senger pigeon in Cincinnati, Ohio, in 1914, and beneath a drawing of her was the word extinct extinct. There was a page listing all the births in the county in March and April 1911-I scanned it, but none of the names seemed familiar. I found the wedding announcement of my great-grandfather to Cora Evanston, who was noted in the article to have shaken hands with Teddy Roosevelt when she was five years old. She was the widow of my great-grandfather's cousin, Jesse Evanston. The rest were pamphlets, most published in New York City between 1911 and 1914, though there were a couple of flyers from much earlier, and some from other cities. Two little magazines were devoted to the work of women artists. One flyer, more intense in tone, advertised a rally in support of the right to vote for women, to be held in Canton, New York, in May 1914, with Carrie Chapman Catt as the featured speaker. ”Just think,” I said, handing that one to my mother. ”Maybe a suffragette lived right here in this house.”

”Maybe so,” my mother said, pulling a pair of reading gla.s.ses from her pocket. ”Well, this was certainly the area for that sort of thing. I'm trying to remember-I think the house was built in the 1880s, and then fell into disrepair for a while.” She waved her hand at the verdant chaos in every direction. ”Not unlike now, perhaps. That's how your great-grandfather got it for a song, or so the story goes. I think he bought it around 1925 and set about restoring it.”

At the bottom of the stack, several more newsprint articles were held together with a rusty paper clip, the paper so brittle it crumbled at the edges, the type blurry.

”Listen to this,” I said, touching my mother's hand. ”From 1913. It's hilarious.

” 'Fortunately, we have come to realize that healthy outdoor play is as good for the little girl as it is for the little boy, and the ideas of our grand-mothers' day-that boys were to play ball, ride horseback, swim, shoot, etc., while the girl's play was restricted to sedentary pursuits, such as sewing, doll-playing, etc.-have been placed on the relic heap, and the girl today keeps pace with her brother in physical freedom and activity.' ”

My mother laughed. ”Well, I'm glad I was born when I was,” she said. ”No way could I have made you play with dolls all day, Lucy.”

”Imagine living in this house and not being able to swim in the lake.”

”I bet they snuck out and swam anyway.”

”I hope so.”

Between the last two articles I found a small envelope, square, made of heavy paper, the size of an invitation. The flap was tucked, not glued, and inside was a single sheet of paper, folded once. A dried flower, mostly brown but faintly purple in the center, slipped out and crumbled into fragments as it touched the gla.s.s-topped table.

The handwriting was faded, pale brown, the letters slanted, sharp, and certain.

21 September 1925 If Iris is to leave your household, Joseph, then I beg you, do not have her go to strangers, but have her come to me, or if she will not, send her instead to the address I enclose, to Mrs. Alice Stokley, a friend of my friends here, who will provide her with schooling and employment suitable to her age-she is only 14.

My heart aches to write this. I understand the expenses you list of clothes, books, and housing, but I cannot see how the money has not been enough. I have sent all I have. If you say it is so, then it must be, though today I cannot sign this note with love, R.

I read the words over and over, trying to puzzle out a meaning, my image of a well-dressed suffragette quickly fading. Joseph must certainly be my great-grandfather, the dreamer, who had climbed the church tower to view the comet. But who was R, the writer of this note? And who was Iris? The letter was forceful, intimate; this was no pa.s.sing acquaintance.