Getting Back to Normal (6 page)

“Why don’t you girls sit yourselves down at a table, and I’ll bring them over.”

The only empty table is in the distant corner, which suits us just fine. Mrs. Ploughwright comes over to us a few minutes later, carrying three large albums in her arms.

“Please handle these carefully, as they’re quite old. We’ve put the pages in plastic sleeves to protect the photographs. They might crumble if you were to touch them.”

“Shall we bring them back to you when we’re done?” Tammy asks.

“No, dear. Let me know when you’re finished and I’ll come and put them in their proper place. Oh,” she adds as she’s turning away, “and do remember to sign our Visitors’ Book.”

My fingers tremble as I reach for the albums. “Let’s look at them in chronological order. They’re marked according to years: 1916-21, 1925-34, 1936-42.”

“What happened to 1914 and ’15?” Tammy wonders. “And the other missing years?”

I shrug. “Maybe they were too busy decorating the house and working on the gardens to take pictures.”

Tammy giggles. “Or the dogs chewed up the photos.”

“Or anything,” I say impatiently. “Let’s begin.”

The pictures in the first album are a reddish-brown color. There are lots of outdoor photos of the house and gardens, and of people, of course, dressed in old-fashioned clothes. Someone’s been kind enough to make a list of who’s who in each photo. Naturally, most of them are of Mayda’s great-grandparents, Jonathan and Margaret Shipley, who had Greystone built after they moved here from England, and of Elizabeth as an infant.

In the second book, Jonathan and Margaret’s hair has turned gray and they’ve put on some weight. Most of the photos are of a young Elizabeth—riding a horse, playing tennis, and smiling in group photos with other kids her age.

By the third album, Elizabeth has turned into a beautiful young woman. There are many photos of formal dances, boating parties, and polo matches.

“She led a fairy-tale life,” I muse. I think of Archie because that’s exactly what he wants for his granddaughter, Mayda.

Tammy holds up the album. “Wow, look at that gorgeous gown! And get that tiara! I wonder if the stones are real.”

“Forget clothes for a minute and concentrate on Archie!” I tell her.

“I would, Vannie,” she complains, “but I’ve no idea what he looks like.”

“Tall and skinny, with a long face,” I remind her.

We’re halfway through the album when I spot him in a group picture. “There he is, lounging against a car! See? The one in tennis whites.”

Tammy thrusts her head forward until her nose practically touches the picture. “Wow, he’s gorgeous! You didn’t tell me Archie was good-looking, Vannie.”

I shrug my shoulders. “He’s so quirky, I never really noticed.”

Tammy stares at me as if I’m an idiot. “How can you not have noticed?” she demands. “He looks like Len Wicket!”

I look again. “He does a bit, around the eyes. Let’s see if he’s in any other photographs.”

The rest of the photos are mostly of Archie and Elizabeth. There are pictures of Elizabeth in her wedding gown, and a formal picture of them both. Then come photos taken in Paris and in Switzerland.

“Their honeymoon,” Tammy says. She lets out a deep sigh. “They were so much in love.”

She’s right. In every picture they’re gazing at each other with love and adoration. After the honeymoon come several photos of an infant, then of the child taking his first steps.

“Must be Mayda’s father,” I say.

Tammy turns to the last page. “Here they are again. Elizabeth’s in a long satin gown and get that necklace! It looks like the crown jewels of England.”

I stare at the picture. “And Archie’s in a tuxedo! Do you think that’s the day he died?”

“Could be,” Tammy says. “Hey, where are you going?” she calls after me.

“To tell Mrs. Ploughwright we want to check out some really old newspapers.”

*

Ten minutes later I’m zipping through microfiche. I have to scan pages and pages of a local weekly newspaper until I find what I’m after:

TALENTED YOUNG ARCHITECT DIES IN FREAK ACCIDENT

A tragic accident has taken the life of one of our most promising architects. Twenty-five-year-old Archibald Heatherton Shipley drowned last night on the grounds of his wife’s parents’ estate, Merrymount Gardens. Mr. Shipley was pursuing a thief who, only minutes earlier, had snatched his wife’s valuable new necklace. Doctors conclude that he tripped and struck his head, then slid unconscious into the water. Mr. Shipley, his wife, and their son, Christopher, were at Merrymount Gardens for the gala celebration of Christopher’s first birthday.

I print out the newspaper article and hand it to Tammy. She makes low whimpering sounds as she reads.

“Poor Archie,” she says when she’s done.

“Poor Elizabeth and poor Christopher,” I add. “The end of happily ever after.”

I put the film away and shut off the machine. Tammy goes to tell Mrs. Ploughwright that we’re finished.

“I hope you’ve found all the information you were looking for,” she says as she gathers up the three photo albums.

“We sure did,” Tammy says.

“I’m glad,” Mrs. Ploughwright answers, but she sounds puzzled, probably wondering why we’re suddenly so gloomy.

“It’s so sad,” Tammy comments as we walk back to her house.

“I wonder what Archie meant when he said he died a foolish death.”

“The article didn’t say, so you’ll have to ask him.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Late Friday afternoon, Aunt Mayda comes to take Robby and me shopping. We’re going out in style. Aunt Mayda’s rented an expensive foreign car for the weekend. Seeing it reminds me that Aunt Mayda has tons of money from her inheritance and from her job as a lawyer. Sometimes I forget she’s rich, because she bears no resemblance to those sleek, well-groomed women smiling out from the newspaper society pages. Not with her mousy brown hair falling about her face any old way and her clothing two sizes too large.

Robby makes a fuss about going. Then he says he won’t leave without his action figures. I tell him he can bring two along. He runs inside to get them, which is when Daddy grabs Aunt Mayda’s attention to complain about all the problems he’s having with the craft fair. He goes on and on in detail. When Robby gets into the car, I nudge Aunt Mayda.

Aunt Mayda’s real cool. She interrupts Daddy as smooth as anything. “Roger, I’ve come to take Vannie and Robby shopping, remember? Can we talk about this later on this evening?”

“Sure, I guess. Why not?”

“Unless you’d like to join us,” Aunt Mayda offers. “We’re going for a nice dinner, too. My treat.”

Daddy turns this over in his mind. “No thanks,” he finally says. “I’ve too much work to do.”

“Can I bring you back something to eat?”

Daddy shakes his head. “No, thanks. I’ll heat up a frozen dinner.”

Aunt Mayda revs the motor and we’re off. It’s good to hear Robby laugh as we drive out of MG at top speed. We stop at the main road and wait for cars to pass till we can make our turn.

“Now,” Aunt Mayda says, “shall we eat first or shop first?”

“Eat first!” I say.

“Eat first,” Robby echoes. “I’m hungry.”

“So am I,” Aunt Mayda says. “And I happen to know the perfect place for dinner, if it’s still there.”

She turns onto a narrow, winding road. We go a few miles. She makes a left here and a right there. Finally, she pulls into the driveway of a restaurant that looks like an old wooden house.

“The Thirsdale Inn,” Aunt Mayda announces as we step into a narrow hallway. A staircase rises before us. The flowery papered walls are covered with pictures. Mostly framed photographs, I see when I come closer.

“My parents used to bring me here all the time,” Aunt Mayda says. Her eyes scan the wall. Then she points. “There they are.”

Aunt Mayda’s pretty, blonde mother has her arm around her thirteen-year-old daughter and is smiling out at the world. Her father’s gloomy expression reminds me of a bloodhound. Despite the mustache and balding head, I see the family resemblance. He’s inherited Archie’s thin face and skinny legs.

I frown, suddenly puzzled. If Archie is Mayda’s father’s father, why isn’t her last name Heatherton?

“I’m afraid we’re not opened. Mayda! Is that you?”

A plump, elderly woman crushes Aunt Mayda to her bosom. Aunt Mayda introduces us to Catherine Powett, the owner of the inn.

“We hoped to stop for an early dinner before shopping,” she explains, “but if we’re too early, we’ll come back another time.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Mrs. Powett says, and leads us into a small dining room, to a table in front of a stone fireplace.

“Cool,” Robby says, looking around.

He gets up to examine the colonial household items and farming tools that hang from the wall. Aunt Mayda watches him, a smile on her lips.

“Robby seems more like himself,” she says softly.

I nod. “For now, but he’s had a bad week. Monday, he cried so much in school, Daddy had to take him home. And yesterday, Mrs. Peterson called to say that Robby and his friend Kevin were running all over our lawn looking for Theodore. Daddy was furious. He’d told Robby never to go back to our house for any reason.”

“Who’s Theodore?” Aunt Mayda asks.

“A stray cat Robby started feeding when Mom went into hospice.”

Robby calls to me. “Vannie, look at this! It’s part of a plow!”

“Great,” I tell him.

It’s all he needs right now to keep on exploring.

Aunt Mayda leans toward me from her seat across the table. “And how are you doing, Vannie?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Is the cottage a little less awful?”

“A little.” Then I remember. “Thanks, Aunt Mayda, for asking Casey to put in brighter light bulbs. And for fixing the leak in the bathroom.”

“You’re welcome. Have you prepared any tasty dinners lately?”

I shake my head. “I tried roast chicken, but it came out burned on the outside and raw inside. We’re relying on takeout and frozen meals right now.”

“Sorry I can’t help you. Making a good cup of coffee is about the extent of my culinary talents.”

Her words remind me of Archie’s interest in Aunt Mayda’s social life, so I say, “If you get married, you’ll have to learn to cook.”

Aunt Mayda doesn’t answer. I’m afraid that I’ve offended her. To my relief, she bursts out laughing. “I’m hopeless in that department. Actually, it’s a good thing I’m not married. My husband might starve to death.”

“You could always eat out,” I offer.

Aunt Mayda peers at me closely. “Vannie, are you trying to marry me off?”

I shrug, glad that the light in the restaurant is dim so she can’t see I’m blushing. “I was just wondering. Last Saturday you said you were meeting a friend and going to the movies.”

“Ah hah. Well, sorry to disappoint you, but Tom’s just an old friend and fellow lawyer.”

“I bet he wants to marry you,” I say rashly.

She sighs and I’m giddy with success because I’ve hit a bull’s-eye. “If he does, I can’t help him out in that department.” Aunt Mayda tries to sound flippant, but I hear the pity underlying her words.

She looks so sensible and down-to-earth in her baggy tweed blazer and corduroy slacks, it’s hard to believe someone actually finds her attractive enough to want to marry her. Suddenly I’m curious about her love life.

“Did you ever love someone enough to want to marry him?”

She gives me a bittersweet smile. “There was someone in law school, but it didn’t work out.”

“Maybe you’ll meet someone else someday,” I say.

“Yes, Mother, maybe I will,” she teases.

I think we’re both relieved when Robby returns to the table. He’s followed by a young woman in the white apron and cap of colonial times. She offers us hot popovers and takes our orders.

“Aunt Mayda,” I ask, “what was it like, growing up at Greystone?”

Her face takes on a faraway look. “Vannie, it was heaven. We didn’t give costume balls or any of the grand parties my grandmother went to when she was young. But I adored living in the mansion and never tired of exploring the grounds.”

“Do you remember your grandmother?”

“Certainly. She lived with us until she died when I was twelve.” Aunt Mayda smiles. “Granny was beautiful and kind, but she was always sad because she’d lost the love of her life. My grandfather died when they’d only been married a few years. My father was hardly more than an infant at the time, but his mother’s grief turned him into a sad person, too.”

I think of Archie, who blames himself for their sadness. Again I wonder what he means by his foolish death. How can a death be foolish? I’ve no time to wonder about this because now I want to hear about Aunt Mayda’s childhood memories.

“My mother always complained Greystone was too large for the four of us, three after Granny died, but she sure made up for that.”

“What do you mean?” I bite into the delicious cranberry bread.

“My mother came from a large family and I’ve lots of cousins. They often stayed with us on weekends and during vacations. My mother was a whiz at organizing anything you could think of—a Halloween party, a scavenger hunt, a hay ride, building a snow fort. During the summer, my cousins and I loved to camp out.”