Under the Skin (34 page)
Authors: Vicki Lane
How long ago it seemed. I hadn’t been particularly eager to see the pictures or to meet this old buddy of Sam’s—a man I’d heard of for years but had never met till the memorial service and then only briefly.
I leaned against the dryer and watched him continue to excavate his past. “I kind of remember something about pictures. But what I mainly remember is how rude I managed to be to you that first time.”
“Not rude, sweetheart—but definitely cautious.”
Phillip winked at me. “You were … intriguingly aloof. And I love a challenge, so—” He pounced on something near the bottom of the bin. “Eureka! Here it is!”
Brandishing a manila envelope, he stood and handed it to me. “Take a look. There should be a picture of four guys in swim trunks.”
It no longer hurt to look at pictures of Sam. A little twinge, perhaps, but Sam’s loss was something I’d finally come to terms with. I would always love him but he was part of another time now. I couldn’t say it to anyone, without sounding heartless, but I no longer missed him with that horrible, hollow longing that had permeated the early days of my widowhood. Now he was only a sweet and tender memory—like a faded dried rose that retains a whisper of its living fragrance.
So I shuffled through the little collection: Sam and Phillip shooting hoops, Sam and Phillip and three other sailors in front of some sort of brick building … Here it was: four men in bathing suits, standing on the edge of a large boat of some kind and squinting into the sun. Sam and Phillip, a tall black guy, and a wiry young man with gaudy tattoos on his chest.
“That one was taken in ’Nam. Check out the back.”
Nellie Bly
Friday, May 20, 1887
Nellie Bly, known to all at the Mountain Park Hotel by her birth name Elizabeth Jane Cochrane, sighed and laid her knife and fork across her almost empty plate to signify that she had finished her meal. At once, George, the ever-attentive waiter, whisked the plate away and returned with a pitcher
.
“Mo’ water, Miss Cochrane? Cain I temp’ you folks wif dessert? They got some mighty fine rhubarb pie. And there’s fresh strawberries, come on the train this morning—all the way from Georgia. Oh my, strawberry shortcake! Lemme bring you folks a little taste.”
Laughing, Nellie Bly waved him off. “Get thee behind me, George! Not another bite!”
Addressing her companions at the table, she continued. “Don’t you see that this place is nothing but a fiendish snare? They put you to marching and dancing, swinging Indian clubs, playing strenuous sports and doing even more strenuous calisthenics—all in pursuit of good health and an elegant figure—and then …”
She cast an expressive glance around the high-ceilinged dining room where the chink of silver on china played an accompaniment to the low hum of well-bred conversation. Courtly black waiters in tuxedos and
white gloves flitted back and forth, bearing trays heavy laden with delectable dishes in mounded plenty
.
“And then! Three times a day they put the most delicious foods known to man before you and hire devils like George to sing the praises of the cuisine. I appeal to you, Doe and Theo, is this fair to frail womanhood—that we should be expected to exercise our willpower in addition to our muscles?”
A ripple of laughter ran round the table where Nellie Bly, the three DeVines, two portly middle-aged gentlemen, and a pair of women who appeared to be mother and daughter were seated
.
Lorenzo DeVine leaned toward the vivacious, dark-haired young woman. “Surely a being as sylphlike as yourself need not deny herself the joys of strawberry shortcake? Allow me to suggest a solution …”
Raising a manicured finger, he caught the waiter’s attention. “George! One shortcake, two forks—and be generous with the whipped cream.”
“I declare, your sisters are monstrous poor friends—to desert me in favor of their afternoon naps.” Nellie Bly smiled up at Lorenzo DeVine. “Ah, well, I suppose that I
should
go for a walk after such a dinner, but I believe I’ll exercise myself in a rocking chair on the veranda for a while. There’s a delicious breeze …”
“Allow me, Miss Eliza.” Lorenzo proffered his arm and together the two strolled through the light-filled lobby. Persian carpets in glowing reds and blues muffled their tread as they wound their way through the spacious room. On every side, comfortable chairs and settees of cushioned wicker were placed in convenient groups for gossip, reading, or slumber and not a few of the guests took their afternoon rest in these congenial surroundings
.
The veranda offered a view of the little golf course
where a few men in knickerbockers were ambling along the short fairways or bending over putters on the close-cut greens. Nellie Bly seated herself in a rocker well away from the other guests and patted the empty chair beside her
.
“Now, as your punishment for leading me into temptation with that ambrosial shortcake, you are to sit here beside me and be amusing. What have you scheduled for the afternoon?”
Taking up a wooden paddle from the table at her elbow, she perused the printed schedule affixed to one side and began to read aloud
.
“ ‘Three
P.M
.
—
Corrective and Medical Gymnastics followed by Games and Folk Dancing.’ ” She quirked a teasing eyebrow. “And will you be participating, Mr. DeVine?”
“Not I,” he returned. “I must save my strength for the lecture on Spiritualism and the Life Beyond that the management has persuaded me to give this evening. At the moment, however, a stroll about the grounds with a fair companion is what I chiefly crave. And then I have a golf match at four with a Mr. Parsons who demands satisfaction for the trouncing I gave him yesterday.”
“Do you, indeed?” said Nellie Bly, favoring her companion with a brilliant smile
.
The Mountain Park Hotel & Sanitarium Daily Program for Guests
(The following schedule is optional. There is no charge except for those treatments, entertainments, and sports marked by an asterisk.)
6:30
A.M
.—Morning shower. Treatment room.
7:15
A.M
.—Calisthenics and breathing exercises. Gymnasium or lawn.
7:40
A.M
.—Morning worship.
8
A.M
. to 9
A.M
.—Breakfast.
9:15
A.M
.—Corrective Gymnastics and Games. Walking and Mountain Climbing.
*9:00
A.M
. to 1:00
P.M
.—Men’s Treatments.
1:00
P.M
. to 2:00
P.M
.—Dinner.
2:00
P.M
. to 3:00
P.M
.—Rest Period.
3:00
P.M
.—Corrective and Medical Gymnastics, followed by Games and Folk Dancing.
*3:00
P.M
.—Treatments for Women.
*4:00
P.M
.—Tennis, Golf, Horseback Riding, Boating and other sports.
6:30
P.M
.—Supper.
7:30
P.M
.—Marching and Folk Dancing.
*8:00
P.M
.—Moving Pictures, Lectures and Concerts, etc.
9:30
P.M
.—Rest
Seeking Closure
Sunday, June 3, and Tuesday, June 5
I
flipped the picture over. Written on the back in faded ink that had been blurred by a moisture ring in one spot were the words:
Red Goodweather. Phil Hawkins. Boner Bonham. Jonesy (the Hawk) Jones
.
Phil. Of course
. It came rushing back: Sam talked about traveling with
Phil
and some of the others to the Vietnam Memorial in DC—the Wall. It wasn’t Phillip that Sam had been worried about.
It wasn’t Phillip!
“This Hawk fella you and your aunt Dodie are all worked up over—he was with our unit early on in ’Nam. Crazy guy—got the nickname when he fell asleep while he was sunbathing bare-ass naked. Literally. His butt was burned bright red and someone said something about a red-tailed hawk and before long, everyone started calling him the Hawk instead of Jonesy. An interesting guy—could talk your ear off and knew all the angles. Way too smart for his own good.
“He ended up with a dishonorable discharge and some brig time too—the creep was selling Navy property to the Vietnamese on a scale that finally couldn’t be ignored. And it was Sam who figured it out. Not till he was out of the service, but he managed to get hold of someone with major pull who eventually reeled Jones in.”
“That would have been the Old Gentleman—Aunt Dodie’s husband. He’d been retired from the Navy a good while but I’m sure he still knew people …”
I studied the picture more closely. Sam and Phillip, both so young and untroubled, both so happy …
“Did your friend Del think that this Hawk had something to do with what happened to Sam?” I asked.
Phillip looked up from the messy piles of paper that he was shuffling into some kind of order before returning them to the container. “You know, that’s something none of us ever considered. We’ve been pretty sure all along that we knew who the guy behind it was … and he was more or less untouchable because of his position in government … still is. But if Jones was involved and we can find him …”
Again, he rocked back on his heels and squatted there, thinking hard. “I’ll give Del a call. See if going after Jones might get him anywhere …”
He stood and dumped the rest of the papers back into the container. “You understand, Lizabeth, it’s a real long shot that Del will be able to prove anything—most likely nothing will change.”
My heart, that most irrational of organs, was brimming with joy as I wrapped my arms around my soon-to-be husband. “Nothing … everything … what matters now is getting this wedding planned.”
“Lizzy?”
Gloria’s voice sounded from the top of the stairs. “Lizzy? What in the world are you two doing down there? Are you all right?”
“Better than all right, Glory. I’ve got a picture to show you …”
Later that night I had finally opened the mysterious red mailer from Aunt Dodie. There, just as she had said, was a letter from Sam with a reference to a person called
the Hawk. There was also a duplicate of the picture of four men—though in this photo, there was an arrow drawn in ink pointing to the so-called Hawk. On the back, in Sam’s precise printing were the words
This is him
.
Reading the letter had been bittersweet and I was happy to hand it over for Phillip to send on to his friend at the Pentagon. After all this time I could see little chance that justice would ever be done but there was always a hope.
Sunday had been a day of revelation … and liberation. Gloria and Phillip and I had talked … explained … apologized … and done it all over again till all that was left was love and laughter. By Tuesday all the doubts and what-ifs were laid to rest; at last I was able to turn my thoughts to the wedding—a wedding only two weeks away. Phillip had arranged time off for five days; his children had made their plans, as had mine. Nearby friends had been invited and I’d even asked Dodie, though I hadn’t been surprised when she’d declined, saying that at her age the trip would be too difficult.
I’d managed to dissuade Gloria from flying her fancy florist friend in for the occasion, telling her that Laurel particularly wanted to take charge of decorating and that there would be plenty of flowers on the farm for her to use.
“What about food then?” Gloria had asked as we sat at the dining table, making lists of Things That Must Be Done. “I could have The Mountain Magnolia do the catering. Let’s see …”
She pulled a notepad to her and began to scribble. “Poached salmon is always so elegant—perfect in this warm weather with the cucumbers and sour cream and little rye loaves. Quiche is good—do it in bite-size shells,
I think, with little roasted cherry tomatoes … and Ina has a divine strata recipe—”
“Ina?” I asked. “A friend of yours?”
“Ina
Garten
, Lizzy! The Barefoot Contessa—cookbooks, television—I would have thought even
you
would have heard of the Barefoot Contessa! Now, what do you think—champagne and mimosas—or have mimosas been done to death? And—”
Her pen was moving busily, filling the notepad. I hated to do it but I had to interrupt.
“Glory, Rosemary and Laurel and Amanda have already offered to do the food. They’re actually looking forward to—”
Undaunted, she flipped the notepad pages and continued. “Your hair, then. I could get Nigel to style it—maybe next week take you in for him to figure out your look. And he could come out the morning of the wedding and do a comb-out. Did you know he used to be a stylist at the spa in Hot Springs? He could make you look
fabulous
! And I’ll do your makeup.”
I laughed and reached over to squeeze her hand. Somehow my sister’s interfering little ways that had kept me on edge since her arrival seemed now nothing more than humorous, even lovable, idiosyncrasies.
“You know me, Glory: no hairstyling, no makeup. I’d hate for Phillip not to recognize his bride.”
Her face fell—and for an instant I saw the child I’d locked out of my room because I wanted to read in peace, the little girl whose new pink dress I’d made fun of, the teenager I’d been too busy to worry about, the sister I’d let down again and again.
“Isn’t there anything I can do?” she pleaded. “I’d like to feel that I had
some
part in the wedding.”
Gloria’s voice trembled—just slightly. She seemed on the edge of tears but looked down to busy herself with brushing invisible dog hair from her crisp linen cropped
pants. An idea seemed to dawn and she brightened. “Tell me, Lizzy, what are you going to wear for the ceremony?”
I hadn’t the heart to tell her that I’d planned on winging it with whatever I could find in the back of my closet. I knew there was a nice-looking long skirt and a pretty blouse that would work—but instead of disappointing Glory yet again, I summoned my better angel.