Part 8 (1/2)

I nodded, remembering the story my mother had told me about what had happened while my father was in Vietnam. My grandmother had died when I was seven, and all I could conjure of her was a fluttering sleeve of a polyester print dress, her eyebrows arching as she laughed, and the fleeting dark red color of her fingernails.

”She didn't like to swim,” I remembered, suddenly.

”No, she did not. She made sure we learned, though, me and Marty.”

”You know, the strange thing is, there was a note with these articles. It seemed like it had been written by a member of the family-it was written to your grandfather, in fact-but it wasn't signed. It was pa.s.sionate, though. A note about a girl named Iris, being sent away.”

He didn't answer for a moment, and when he spoke, it was slowly.

”Well, I suppose it's no secret that every family has its skeletons; you know that by now. There was some sort of scandal, way back when. My grandmother's sister, maybe? I'm just talking from what I've gleaned, growing up, overhearing a bit of this or that. It's probably as much conjecture as truth. But something did happen that got hushed up. Had to be hushed up, that's how I understood it, for the sake of the family. It never interested me much, to be honest. I'm much more concerned with the here and now, with what's right in front of my face.”

I thought about what was right in front of us, this building with its layers of the past, and all the things that had gone unspoken for so many years.

”What happened?” I asked, the words slipping out despite my best intentions. ”What happened between you and my father?”

When Art finally met my eyes his face was anguished, grief welling up, the creases on the side of his mouth deepened, his eyes darkened with pain.

”I will not speak ill of the dead,” he said. ”That is one thing I will not do. But I'm sure you've heard only one side of the story. Your father was a good man, but he wasn't easy. He especially wasn't easy for me. Maybe I wasn't easy for him, either. I don't think we'd have gone into business together if it hadn't been expected of us from the time we were born. Still. What I did back then, while he was off fighting the war-it was wrong. I can't undo it. But I can make a place here for you and for Blake. I was-I am-absolutely serious about that.”

I didn't know what to say; his impa.s.sioned remorse caught me off guard. I wanted both to defend my father-against what, I didn't quite know-and to comfort my uncle, who seemed consumed by the past in ways I hadn't ever considered. My emotions were so intense and so conflicting I didn't realize right away that he hadn't really answered my question, not at all.

”I can't work here,” is what I finally said. ”If that's what you mean. I appreciate the offer, I suppose.”

He nodded once, ran his hand through his bristly gray hair.

”Just think about it, Lucy. There's always a place for you here. Remember that.”

I told him I would and then I stood up, saying good-bye, touching the papers I'd found, just to be sure they were still in my bag.

”Don't be a stranger, Lucy,” Art called as I left, and I waved.

A few customers had entered the store and were browsing in the aisles. To my surprise, Blake was behind the counter, listening intently to a woman describing the kind of plumbing supplies she needed. When he finished filling her order he came over, smiling, rolling his eyes a little at the situation. I thought of Yos.h.i.+, who had been so pleased when I told him about Blake's impending parenthood. When we'd talked of children it had always been in an abstract sort of way, and now I found myself wondering what Yos.h.i.+ would be like as a father.

”What's up?” Blake asked.

”Yos.h.i.+ says h.e.l.lo,” I said. ”He's going to try to smuggle in some rambutans.”

Blake laughed, and I told him briefly about the letters in the cupola and the windows in Keegan's studio and the church. Again, I didn't mention Rose. Blake was interested but distracted, too; he kept glancing around the store to see if there were any customers in need of help. Then Zoe came in, ringing the little bells on the door, and when she saw me she ran over and hugged me with the exuberance of early adolescence, then started talking a mile a minute about a play she was in. She'd grown so tall since I'd last seen her, and wore dangling earrings, and once in a while she spoke of herself in the third person-”Zoe is so excited!”-as if she were posting on Facebook and not talking to me in person. She looked a lot like Joey, with the same intense Jarrett eyes, her dark hair. Blake smiled, raised his eyebrows slightly, and drifted off.

I promised Zoe I would see her again before I left and she said she was coming to the solstice party with her parents. Then I left Dream Master and walked back into town, got a sandwich and drink from the grocery store, and sat on a bench by the outlet while I ate. Light made dancing patterns on the water and a few seagulls hovered on the concrete seawall, waiting for crumbs. I tossed them little pieces of bread, thinking about my discoveries at the church and my conversation with Art.

When I finished eating, I wadded up my lunch papers and tossed them out, pausing in the shade of an oak tree to look at the pictures I'd taken of the Wisdom window on my phone. The resolution wasn't very good, but still the imagery was vibrant, striking. Had Rose designed them? And who had she been?

Yos.h.i.+ had sent several messages regarding his flights. I didn't call because it would be after midnight there by now, but I went to my saved messages and played the two he had left, telling me about a job he'd heard about, one I might like, and that my students missed me and he did, too. I closed my eyes and played them again, listening to the cadence of his voice.

Keegan had left a voice message, too, about the windows in the chapel. I tried to call him back, but he didn't pick up.

When a break came in the traffic, I darted across the street and slipped into the library, which had once been a private home. Built of gray stone, it had a deep front porch facing the lake and a wooden screen door that creaked and slammed shut behind me, causing the librarian, a young man with short hair, to glance up. I pa.s.sed the bulletin board thick with flyers: lost cats, town meetings, a poster from the white deer consortium, an open meeting of the Iroquois coalition. I sat at one of the long cherry tables where I used to do homework. Now there were computers at every seat. I typed in ”Frank Westrum.” To my surprise, several articles appeared. Though I couldn't trust them all, I read the first entry with some excitement anyway. Westrum had existed, clearly, and as more than a local artist who'd faded obscurely away.

Frank George Westrum, 1868-1942. Gla.s.s artisan. a.s.sociated with the studios of La Farge, where he apprenticed 1894-1901. Married Beatrice Mansfield in 1896, and in 1919 moved from New York City to Rochester, New York, to open an independent gla.s.s studio. Consultant to Corning Gla.s.s. Two children, Marcus Westrum b. 1896 and Annabeth Westrum b. 1897.

At the end of the article there was a link to the Frank Westrum House in Rochester. A photo came up of a stained-gla.s.s window, a simple sphere in shades of ivory against a dark square background. A long-stemmed tulip followed the inner curve of the sphere, the leaves fluid, as if floating, the single red flower blooming. The patterns did not match the border pattern on the windows in Keegan's studio or the church, but stylistically the resemblance was clear. Below was a single paragraph.

Home and studio of gla.s.s artist Frank Westrum from 1920 until his death in 1942, this house contains 27 striking examples of his stained-gla.s.s work in wide variety, from the grand windows in the stairwell to modest transoms. Sold to private owners in 1945, this dwelling was purchased by the Frank Westrum Preservation Society in 1968, on the 100th anniversary of his birth. The Society is dedicated to the collection and preservation of his body of work, which exemplifies the resurgence of the art of stained gla.s.s and the influences of William Morris, Charles Rennie Mackintosh, and the Art Nouveau movement. Open May through September, Tuesday and Thursday, 2-5.

I read this over twice, thinking of the window with its cascades of vines, its animals and swimming fish, its brilliant colors, and its row of familiar lacy moons along the bottom. Rochester was about an hour away; I'd have time to get there. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, making an ever-changing pattern on the glossy table. The librarian gave me an amused, perplexed smile when I asked him what day it was, just to be sure.

”Wednesday, last time I checked.”

So much for making it that afternoon. And anyway, there was my mother's party.

On an impulse, I went back and typed in ”Beatrice Mansfield.” Sometimes I hated the Internet, which made it possible to give in to every momentary distraction or flight of mind. But to my surprise she, too, was listed with a brief entry.

Beatrice Mansfield, b. April 23, 1873, Seneca Falls, NY. Design school in New York City. Married gla.s.s artist Frank Westrum in New York City in 1896. Active in the fight for women's suffrage, corresponded with Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Amelia Bloomer, Margaret Sanger, early mentor to Vivian Branch. Two children, Marcus and Annabeth. Died April 10th, 1919, of influenza.

Nothing came up when I typed ”Rose Jarrett,” however; not a single thing. When I checked the library's online catalog-the card catalog of my childhood, with its oak cabinet and thick rectangular cards in neat rows, was long gone-there was nothing there about her, either.

I sat back in the chair for a few minutes. The ceiling fan clicked softly above me, stirring the warm air. An older couple, probably retired, sat in stuffed armchairs by the bay window, reading magazines and looking up to chat with each other now and then. A group of teenage girls drifted in, moving together like a flock of beautiful birds. It was so calm and tranquil here, and I considered just staying for the afternoon, finding a good book and a comfortable chair. Those were some of the simple pleasures I'd imagined when I decided to make this visit. Yet the past kept welling up, as persistent as a spring, and my curiosity to know what had become of Rose and her daughter, and how their lives might have helped to shape my own, now became as insistent as hunger. It was partly the pure mystery of it, a desire to put all the pieces into place and solve the puzzle. Yet it had to do with my own life, too, all the scattered fragments that might come into focus if I had a clearer lens. All these years I'd taken such comfort in my wandering life, but really I'd been as anch.o.r.ed to the night my father died as Blake had been, circling it from afar, still caught within its gravity. Now Blake was moving on, and my mother was, too; the feeling I'd been fighting all day, this feeling of being adrift by myself in a vast dark s.p.a.ce, engulfed me for a moment.

I closed my eyes, listening to the fan and the squeak of the screen door as it opened and fell shut with a sharp slam, the soft, excited voices of the girls, the rustling pages of the paper. The air smelled of new leaves, leather, and wood and bloomed with quiet. I stayed, finally. I stood up and crossed the room to the librarian, who looked up, smiling, as I started to talk, telling him the story.

Chapter 7.

WHEN I GOT BACK TO THE HOUSE, AFTERNOON LIGHT WAS already pouring into the west windows, polis.h.i.+ng the lake with a golden sheen. The solstice party would start at seven o'clock and last until the sky faded into blue dusk and then deepened into twilight, revealing its stars one by one. Avery was bringing the salads and dessert and I'd stopped to pick up some groceries, mostly drinks and chicken to grill. I parked near the side porch, hauling the bags up the wide, weather-beaten steps. The grocery store, expanded twice while I'd been gone, had been disorienting, full of artisan breads and cheeses and high-end deli items, with a tank of lobsters, a salad bar, a sus.h.i.+ bar, and a hot-foods bar. Tourists sat at little tables with cups of coffee as I wandered, disconcerted, amid the unfamiliar aisles.

The screen porch door was unlocked. I pulled it open with my foot and dropped the bags on the wicker sofa, searching in my purse for the key. A package wrapped in dark red paper was propped against the main door to the house, and a note was taped to one of the windowpanes.

Here's the recipe for my grandmother's rhubarb pie, and a little something I thought you might like. My regrets about this evening, I'm sorry I can't come. Will call, my fond regards, Andy I s.h.i.+fted the groceries inside and put them in the refrigerator-the plump chicken b.r.e.a.s.t.s, so unnaturally huge, as large as whole chickens would be in other parts of the world, the numerous bottles of wine and sparkling water. I left Andy's note and the red package-it was light and soft-on the counter where my mother would see them right away. Then I went back outside to get the books I'd checked out from the library and the photocopies I'd made from their microfilm collection, souvenirs of my afternoon journey to the past.

The librarian had been very helpful, directing me to some histories of the feminist movement in the general collection, as well as to a local history of the village, all of which I'd checked out. He'd also showed me how to pull up periodicals on their rather ancient microfilm machine, and I'd spent a couple of hours scanning old editions of The Lake of Dreams Gazette The Lake of Dreams Gazette. Finally, in the reel marked 1938 to 1940, tucked between articles about the threat of war in Europe and reports of local crop yields, I found a brief article about the dedication of the chapel in Appleton, the small village that had later been razed to build the depot. There was even a photograph of Frank Westrum standing outside the arched doors, bearded and thin and dressed in a suit, looking seriously into the camera. The rector, Rev. Timothy Benton, stood with his wife, and an unidentified woman was by his side. Though the donation of the funds for the windows had been made anonymously, in a later article the Gazette Gazette reporter had discovered that the patron was local, one Cornelia Elliot of The Lake of Dreams, widow of a prominent doctor and a veteran of the fight for women's suffrage. ”A sensibility which will perhaps explain,” the article, written in 1938, stated archly, ”the very unusual-indeed, the quite droll and eccentric-nature of her gift.” reporter had discovered that the patron was local, one Cornelia Elliot of The Lake of Dreams, widow of a prominent doctor and a veteran of the fight for women's suffrage. ”A sensibility which will perhaps explain,” the article, written in 1938, stated archly, ”the very unusual-indeed, the quite droll and eccentric-nature of her gift.”

I thought of the Wisdom window, with its rich colors and harmonious design, its human figures reaching upward, hands turning into leaves, into language. Extraordinary Extraordinary was one word that came immediately to mind. was one word that came immediately to mind. Vivid, lush, Vivid, lush, and and gorgeous gorgeous followed, but not followed, but not droll droll or or eccentric. eccentric. I wondered what the rest of the windows looked like-a chapel full of such art would have been stunning, I imagined. I'd gleaned from the librarian and a few more references he'd found that Frank Westrum had been hugely out of favor in those years, his work finding its way into thrift shops and jumble sales, so maybe that explained the comment, and also why the church had left the windows when the chapel was closed. I looked closely over the next months and years, hoping for something to elucidate the article, but found nothing. I wondered what the rest of the windows looked like-a chapel full of such art would have been stunning, I imagined. I'd gleaned from the librarian and a few more references he'd found that Frank Westrum had been hugely out of favor in those years, his work finding its way into thrift shops and jumble sales, so maybe that explained the comment, and also why the church had left the windows when the chapel was closed. I looked closely over the next months and years, hoping for something to elucidate the article, but found nothing.

After a couple of hours my eyes ached from scanning the tiny type, so I took a break and went back to the desk to ask the librarian about Cornelia Elliot. He started nodding in recognition before I'd even finished, asked me to wait a minute, then unlocked the special collections room, which was no more than a closet behind the stairs. He came back with a brown booklet, the paper cover brittle and stained, the t.i.tle in sharp black: Recollections of a Dangerous Woman, Recollections of a Dangerous Woman, by Cornelia Whitney Elliot. Cornelia-who went by Nelia, he explained-had been a well-known and controversial figure locally at the time. She had self-published only fifty copies of this memoir, so they were rare. I couldn't check it out, but he could photocopy it for me for fifteen cents a page, if I wanted. by Cornelia Whitney Elliot. Cornelia-who went by Nelia, he explained-had been a well-known and controversial figure locally at the time. She had self-published only fifty copies of this memoir, so they were rare. I couldn't check it out, but he could photocopy it for me for fifteen cents a page, if I wanted.

I did.

So I had this to read, along with some records I'd photocopied from the town clerk's office: the certificate of marriage of my great-grandfather Joseph to Cora Evanston, in December 1915, and records also of Cora's birth and death, as well as of the death of her first husband, Jesse, who had fallen from the roof of a barn, suffered for weeks, and died in late May 1915. A brief, yellowed obituary had been clipped to this death certificate. That meant Cora had married my great-grandfather only seven months after her husband died, which was startling. She was seven years older than he, which was surprising, too. Everyone, including Rose and Iris, was listed in the local census taken that year, but in the following census, taken in 1925, Rose was gone, and Iris's last name was Jarrett, not Wyndham. I'd made photocopies of all these doc.u.ments, too.

I carried all these papers in from the Impala-they were hot from sitting in the backseat in the sun for so long-and spread them out on the dining room table. I opened wide the French doors to the patio, letting in fresh, damp air from the lake, then went upstairs to collect the papers I'd found in the cupola. When I came back down, I noticed that the answering machine was blinking with three messages, and I paused to press the PLAY b.u.t.ton. There was a message from the orthopedist regarding my mother's next appointment, a call from a contractor regarding an appraisal for a new roof, and then a man's voice floated into the room.

”Andy here. Guess I'm missing you again. Ha-that sounded a little weird, didn't it, kind of too much like a country music song. I meant we weren't crossing paths yet, but maybe I meant it the other way, too. Anyway, I wanted to make sure you got my note. Happy solstice, Evie-a very happy solstice to you.”

He cleared his throat then and hung up without saying anything more. I played the messages again, listening to the timber of his voice, his choice of words, trying to picture his face. Gravelly and low, his words were careful and a little formal; he sounded ill at ease, maybe even nervous, at leaving a message for my mother, and that was endearing. I imagined him as a large man, someone comfortable in jeans, comfortable in his own skin. I listened to the messages again so I could consider his voice once more, thinking how strange it was to find myself examining my mother's suitor, wondering about his character, even his intentions. When his voice ended the second time I pressed SAVE, then poured myself a gla.s.s of wine and sat down with my treasure trove of papers. It was the photocopy of Cornelia Elliot's little book I reached for first, published in 1927 and dedicated to her older sister, Vivian Whitney Branch.

Vivian Branch. I closed my eyes, seeking the connection, then remembered the Internet biography I'd found, and searched through the papers to find it. There it was, in the brief note about Beatrice Mansfield-she'd known Vivian Branch. Here was a connection, and an exciting one, too, for Vivian Branch was a name I vaguely recognized; someone in my high school history cla.s.s had done a presentation about her. She'd been a nurse as a young woman, and had become very active in feminist circles in New York City at the turn of the last century and beyond; she had known a number of first-wave feminists, as I recalled, but I hadn't realized how deeply she'd been involved in the suffrage movement, or that her sister had lived in The Lake of Dreams. Was it possible that Rose had known her? I turned the dedication page over and began to read: Readers of this little book will no doubt wonder as to the history and perspective of its author, Cornelia Whitney Elliot. Let me say that I write this as a woman 57 years wise, who has witnessed much in this new century of ours. I write to leave a legacy to generations which will follow me, a first-hand account of the struggles I and my sisters in suffrage faced in obtaining for all women the right to vote. Already a new generation is rising for which this right is never questioned, but is, instead, a fact of life. They can hardly imagine the time, so recently past, when their voices would have gone unheard. While they cannot be truly grateful, having never been deprived, nonetheless they can learn-they must learn-to appreciate the history of their good fortune through the experiences of those who not only witnessed history, but made it. It is for that purpose that this little book is written.