Silent Pretty Things

by O. J. Lovaz

  Anna stayed out there another minute before retreating into the living room, where she threw herself on a big white sofa, with her back resting on a large fluffy beige pillow. There she picked up where she had left off with her research and, in a matter of seconds, found what she was looking for—Michael’s bio.

  “Michael Donovan joined our institution in 2007…” She skipped a few lines. “Michael’s passion for preserving and promoting our local history is evident in the various articles he has published…” She skipped again. “Under Michael’s leadership, the library and archives department has become a key enabler…” She stopped there. Flattering but too institutional.

  They had a nice picture of him, though—black suit with a white shirt and a red tie. His dark hair was shorter and nicely styled, though too formal for her taste.

  Yesterday, his attire had been more casual—black pants, an aquamarine dress shirt, and no tie. His hair slightly ruffled, as if he had been caught in a gust of wind, and he must have not shaven his beard for at least three days. It all gave him a sort of scruffy charm and an air of spontaneity.

  Anna leisurely checked out content posted online by her friends, including a remarkable travel video about the Russian city of St. Petersburg. Time slipped away from her, and now, she’d have to hurry. Almost invariably, time resolves to accelerate as soon as one presumes to have lots of it. This reminded her of the words she had exchanged with Michael the evening before. “Time is never on our side,” he’d said, or had she said that?

  When Anna arrived at the historical society, she found only four other vehicles in the lot. She parked her white Volvo sedan next to a red convertible Mustang. Might be Michael’s—he’d look great in it.

  She went inside feeling either excited or jittery, maybe both, and reminded herself she was there first and foremost to unearth the past.

  Anna went upstairs and saw Michael speaking to a girl and a boy, at first glance both under ten years of age and not one year apart. A man stood beside them, presumably their father. She cracked the glass door open and slipped in as quietly as she could, but the door chime revealed her presence.

  Michael glanced at her and continued with his commentary; the kids completely absorbed in the story. “So, you see, this is not just the stuff of movies. Possibly as many as a thousand women disguised themselves as men to fight in the Civil War, in both armies.”

  “How come they didn’t get caught?” asked the girl.

  “Well, sometimes, they did get caught and were expelled or even sent to prison. But lots of them never got caught. You see, a young woman could easily pass for a boy by just getting a short haircut and putting on men’s clothes. And soldiers never took their clothes off; they didn’t take baths or anything. When they had to, you know, go to the bathroom, they just went in the woods where no one could see them.”

  “Ugh, that’s icky!” blurted the boy.

  Michael laughed. “Yes, you’re right about that.”

  “Thank you, that was very interesting,” the father interjected.

  The kids thanked Michael with genuine smiles on their cute little faces. In another moment, they were heading out, asking their father to please take them to the gift store.

  Anna was now alone with Michael.

  “Hey there,” he said casually as she approached.

  “I see you’re a natural teacher.”

  Michael stuck his hands in his pockets as if cold. “It’s easy with kids. They still have that natural curiosity.”

  He was clean-shaven with his hair brushed back, but a few strands were already beginning to defy orders, falling over his temples. She imagined him under a full moon with the wind blowing his hair and felt tempted to get her hands in there and mess it up.

  Michael sat down and pointed at the computer screen. “I have your pictures right here, the ones from St. Mary’s basketball championship in 1984.”

  “Oh, great. Let’s take a look.”

  “That was the first and last time they won the tournament. They haven’t made it to the finals again since, so it was kind of a big deal. And your dad was part of that team—that’s something!”

  Anna couldn’t care less. “Yeah, it’s something,” she said and sat next to Michael. On the screen, ten picture thumbnails. Michael opened three photos taken during the game. In one of them, her father was taking an open shot to the basket. He’d been a massive young man, taller than the five other players shown in the picture, broad-shouldered, with a very muscular, athletic physique. His face displayed the high stakes and the intensity of the moment, hardened with focus and determination.

  The next three photographs had been taken at the postgame celebration. Her grandfather stood amidst the crowd in one of them. He would have been, if her math was right, about fifty-one years old at the time.

  Then came a photo of her father and her mother, kissing under the bleachers—Anna recognized her instantly from pictures she’d seen in family photo albums.

  “Whoa, that’s my mother!”

  “What a precious find!” Michael beamed a triumphant grin at her.

  “Yes, it’s remarkable.” Her words choked down to a mumble.

  “Something wrong?”

  “It’s just”—she hesitated—“I thought Mom was in college when she met Dad.”

  Maybe she shouldn’t have told him that. One reveal can lead to another.

  “Did they attend the same college?”

  “No, my dad never went to college. He started running the properties my grandfather put to his name right after high school.”

  Michael’s face lit up. “A living inheritance—how lucky for him, to be set for life like that.”

  “I guess so. He had it easy. That’s for sure.” Set for life? That was one way to look at it. Living a cheap imitation of his father’s life—that seemed more accurate, and pathetic.

  “So, he was already wealthy when he began dating your mom?”

  “Yes, I guess that’s right,” she said, wanting to cut short that subject. Why would her mom not want to tell her that she’d dated him in high school?

  “Well,” Michael kept on, “he still wasn’t rich in high school.”

  “It doesn’t really matter, does it?” Surely, Michael would take a hint now and drop it.

  “Right, it doesn’t. If anything, it shows that your mom liked him even before he had all that money,” he stated, as if arriving at the logical answer to a math problem.

  He probably meant no harm by it, just one of those ill-advised remarks that people can make with the best intentions at the worst times. A moment of silence would suffice to make him abandon that thread of conversation.

  “Let’s see another one,” she suggested and pointed at a picture thumbnail. “I believe my father is in this one. I think I see him there.”

  Michael brought up the photograph. Sitting on a patch of grass, her father wore his St. Mary’s sweater and a gold medal around his neck. Another young lady had her arms wrapped around him from behind, her hands on his chest, her lips kissing his neck.

  The image struck her like a freight train. She felt her face instantly freeze in shock, desperate not to let any emotion show through.

  That wasn’t just any girl.

  Michael started to say something, but he stammered and stopped.

  She couldn’t think straight. Michael must have already inferred that her father had been a player, a stone-cold womanizer like many men before and after him, but she had managed not to reveal the most awful part—that girl in the photograph was her mom’s sister.

  Aunt Marlene. It was her, without a doubt.

  Anna broke the silence abruptly. “You can close it now. I don’t need to see any more pictures.”

  Would Michael have the sense to not ask her about it?

  The memory from Sunday at her parent’s house came rushing back to her like an angry nightmare. That morning, she’d been in the kitchen making an omelet, and her father had left his mobile phone on the counter nearby.
The phone vibrated and startled her. She laid her eyes on it by mere reflex.

  A text message had popped up from her aunt: “You and I are both to blame for this, and we shall be judged in the end.”

  Alarmed, Anna hastened to finish her breakfast and hustled into the living room.

  A few minutes later, her father came upstairs from the basement, went straight to the kitchen, picked up his phone, and stared at it for a moment. Anna pretended to be watching a TV show while spying on him out of the corner of her eye. With the phone in his hand, Victor glanced at Anna with a grave frown, but she fixed her gaze on her food, pretending to be oblivious to her surroundings.

  Anna had not yet mentioned the disturbing incident to anyone. She could tell her older brother, Frank, who had always been her confidant, accomplice, and personal hero. But Frank could be very volatile and had not been on good terms with their father for a very long time. His father was to him the very incarnation of evil, a loathsome man who’d done nothing but wrong them their whole lives.

  How quickly then would Frank come to the worst possible conclusion if he knew about the message? If he saw that photograph? He would become prosecutor, jury, and judge, right then and there, the hot-headed crusader that he was.

  And what could Frank, in such a wrath, be capable of doing? It all led to a very dark place.

  As if awakening from a trance, Anna realized how somber and pensive she must have appeared to Michael a moment ago. “Thank you so much for taking the time to help me with this silly search of mine. I really don’t want to waste any more of your time,” she said in a dignified tone and stood up.

  It would be best for her to leave at once and not risk revealing anything more to Michael; yet she couldn’t help feeling disappointed, as she had expected this encounter with him to end up much differently.

  Anna shuffled her feet toward the door, as though being pulled against her will by an extraneous force.

  Michael spoke, “I, um,” he stuttered. Anna stopped and turned around. He continued. “I had hoped to take you out to lunch. Are you hungry?” His face didn’t show much confidence.

  She probably hadn’t seemed very friendly a moment ago.

  Maybe she could clear her head and enjoy Michael’s company. Chances are he wouldn’t even mention the photograph.

  Or would he?

  Was it worth the risk?

  Yes, it was. There was something about him. A warmth. It was strange, she’d just met him, but she felt at ease with him. And his cute awkwardness was just delightful.

  “Um, sure, I could eat,” Anna responded with a deliberately revived smile. At least for now, she would lock her woes inside a black box and hide the key.

  “Great!” Some color returned to Michael’s face, and he stepped closer to her. “I know a great place for lunch just across town, by the district court, Emma’s Bistro. You might know it.”

  “I love their paninis.”

  “I worship their Reuben sandwich. I might also try to interest you in sharing a bowl of loaded nachos.”

  “And you might succeed.” Anna held his watch-bearing wrist and lifted it closer to her face. “It’s a quarter to noon. We could still beat the crowd,” she said to Michael, who wore an amused expression, never pulling his arm back. She set it down slowly, savoring the moment.

  “I’ll drive,” Michael said eagerly. He taped a note on the glass door, and they left.

  His red Mustang awaited outside—felt good to be right.

  With juvenile enthusiasm, Anna asked if they could open the convertible top—he was happy to oblige. Instantly, the wind began messing up his hair, giving him a markedly relaxed appearance, much to her delight. Her hair, too, was blowing in the wind wildly, and she scrambled to gather it all into an improvised ponytail.

  On their way to Emma’s, they drove through the picturesque town center, with its historic buildings, chapels, antique and specialty stores, taverns, and coffee shops. Michael commented casually on the history of some of the buildings they drove by: one had been the county jail until 1946, another the site of a horrific massacre in 1972, and yet another rebuilt after it burned down in 1968, an incident suspected to have been a case of racially motivated arson.

  Impressive as it was that he knew all these facts, it seemed as if there was only room for tragedy and gloom in the town’s historical archives; or was it maybe him whose selective memory, consciously or unconsciously, latched on to dreadful events? Surely, the town must have had some history beside hateful crimes and prisons.

  Ah, she was probably making a fuss out of nothing, overcomplicating things again. The guy just wanted to show off a little, not the worst thing.

  They got there by noon. The place didn’t look like much at first, but the interior was surprisingly appealing, featuring a classic look with dark-wood dining tables, perhaps mahogany, and an elegant cocktail bar. Instrumental jazz was played. Less than half of the tables occupied—just perfect.

  A very friendly waiter, Wendy, offered them something to drink; both wanted a beer. A Reuben sandwich for Michael; Anna went with the pesto chicken panini. She let Michael order the loaded nachos as an appetizer.

  It was way too much food, but what’s life without the occasional excess? Every so often, she liked to do something to prove she was truly free, even from the limits of reason.

  “So what do you do when you’re not visiting empty libraries?” asked Michael. They were briefly interrupted by Wendy, who brought them two tall glasses of icy cold beer.

  “Cheers.” Anna clinked her glass with his. She sipped her beer, a local brew chilled to perfection. “I’m a school psychologist.”

  “Really, a psychologist? Oh no!” Michael exclaimed mirthfully.

  “I’m basically a school counselor. But, yes, you should worry,” she joked.

  “I better hide that crazy boy inside my head.”

  “Oh no! Does he whisper terrible things to you?”

  “Mm-hmm. Always wanting to do reckless, daring things.” Michael adopted a playful air.

  “Oh, do tell more. Like what?”

  “Well, he dared me not to let you go today without at least getting your phone number.” He flashed her a cute smirk.

  “Well played. Yes, you can have my phone number.”

  His eyes lit up.

  “So, what reckless, daring things have been tempting you? I want to hear more about that,” Anna said spiritedly, inviting him to jump in with both feet. As long as she kept him talking, she wouldn’t have to talk about herself.

  “Oh, I don’t know about reckless. Courageous, perhaps.” He took a big gulp of beer and confided, “Mostly, I think about quitting my stupid job, getting the hell out of here, starting a new life journey.”

  “Is that what you want? I mean, you’re the director of archives at a respectable institution. That doesn’t sound bad at all.” She hated how conventional that came out.

  “A title is all it is. I go there every day and mostly do nothing. I’m a glorified librarian every day, a guide somedays, and an inconsequential local history writer every two or three months. What title would you stamp on that job description?”

  Anna didn’t answer that question, but his job would have driven her insane.

  “Why don’t you do it then? Why don’t you quit?” she asked.

  He looked at her like a man who is gathering the courage to open a door, not knowing what lies behind it. The nachos arrived. They asked Wendy for another round of beers.

  “All right”—Michael’s face twitched uneasily—“the thing is, I feel constantly in conflict with myself. Let’s call these conflicting perspectives the boy versus the man. Do you like that?”

  “Sounds like we are going deep. A psychologist’s treat.”

  “Well, I aim to please. So, the boy is the dreamer within; an inspired, audacious creature; the best part of me, stubbornly resisting extinction. The man, on the other hand, is plagued by doubts and justifications built over the years. While the man fears
defeat and heartbreak, the boy anticipates success and adventure. The man remembers past mistakes, while the boy only remembers times of unbridled happiness.”

  “You could easily pass for a psychologist yourself, or a philosopher, or both. But what you’re saying in such an apt and eloquent manner, Mr. Donovan, sir, is that you’re afraid.” This had just started to get interesting, and nothing was more attractive to her than a bare soul.

  “You’re so right. I’ve been afraid of failure. When I first landed this job, I had big plans. After saving money for a couple of years, I was going to get into a PhD program, become a college professor, conduct research, publish my work in academic journals, and maybe even do some field research. Heck, I wanted to become the guy Indiana Jones is at the beginning of his movies, before the Nazis try to kill him. This damn thing was supposed to be temporary. Rotting away in a library was never my plan.”

  “But you’ll do it, I see it in your eyes. The boy is gaining the upper hand.”

  “I like that. I like that very much.” Michael’s countenance was much like that of a sinner absolved by a priest, ready to pray ten Hail Marys.

  Experiencing his vulnerability and his strength at the same time was addictive. Here was a man who had already decided to change his life, even if he didn’t quite know it yet. In his head, thoughts were already in motion that would inevitably lead to conclusive action, and she was witnessing that revolution. She was not just attracted to him—she was intrigued.

  After sharing their sandwiches, Michael and Anna drove back to the historical society. Along the way, Anna asked if he knew of any houses where anyone famous had lived. Michael was able to point out a tiny blue house where a very popular three-term mayor of the town had lived for twenty-five years and a brick house where a famous ballet dancer, who was at present a member of one of the leading classical ballet companies in New York City, had lived with her mother until the year 1999 or 2000, that he couldn’t remember precisely. It was a relief to learn that great people and success stories were also part of the history of their town, and that Michael knew about them just as well as the gloomier facts he had recited before.