Midnight at the Blackbird Cafe

by Heather Webber

  I followed, wondering if she, too, was related in some way to Faylene—her manner of speaking was quite similar.

  She looked back at me over her shoulder, saying, “We’re working on digitizing our newspaper collection, but it’s tedious work and sadly we have limited funds. The newspapers we’ve recovered from that year are on microfiche. Are you familiar with the machines?”

  “I’ve seen one. Does that count?”

  She laughed quietly. “It’s a sight better than some who come in here. They’re easy enough. It won’t take long for you to catch on.”

  We wove through a warren of bookshelves, past an aisle devoted solely to DVDs and Blu-ray movies, through the children’s section, where it was story time. I smiled at the small, enraptured faces as a woman read with great theatrics about a boy named Eddie who’d lost his teddy. I fought the urge to sit down to have a listen.

  During the vast time I’d spent in libraries, I’d discovered they weren’t as quiet as people believed. There were almost always librarians speaking in hushed conversations. There were muffled footsteps on the carpet, the crackling noise of pages being turned, and children speaking loudly because they hadn’t quite learned how to use indoor voices yet. People coughing, sneezing. The heating or cooling systems groaning. The melody was comforting and soothing.

  As we approached a wall of private rooms, which, according to the sign posted on the wall, were used for study groups or community meetings and could be reserved, the chatty librarian said, “You’ll have to wait your turn. The film from that month is currently in use.” She gestured through a window into a room that held a single microfiche machine, a table, two chairs, and a copier.

  I stared in disbelief at the person sitting at the scarred wooden table, peering at the screen before her.

  Natalie.

  She must have sensed someone watching her, because she looked up suddenly. A red flush crept up her neck as she gave me a halfhearted wave.

  “Oh, do you two know each other?” the librarian asked.

  “She’s my aunt,” I said as casually as I could manage.

  “Natalie is your aunt?” Her eyebrows dipped. “Are you related to Matt?”

  “Matt?”

  “I guess not,” she said with a small laugh. “Matt is Natalie’s husband. Was. May he rest in peace.” Her head tipped to the side as she studied my face. “But if you’re not on Matt’s side of the family … Oh my God. Are you Anna Kate?”

  Small towns never ceased to amaze me. “I am. Anna Kate Callow.”

  The librarian grabbed my hand—not to shake but to hold. She clasped it tightly. “I’m Mary Beth Sheehan. It’s good to meet you. Zee was a wonderful woman, may she rest in peace. She was a regular here, and we miss her so. It was such a shock to learn she had a granddaughter. I went to school with your mama. No one even knew she was pregnant when she left town.” She tsked. “Such a tragic shame what happened.”

  I didn’t know if she was referring to my mom being pregnant, her leaving town, the car accident, or my mother’s or Zee’s deaths. It was possible she meant all of it.

  I tried to free my hand, but Mary Beth held on tight. I disliked the grip more than hugging. “Were you friends with my mother?”

  “Not especially. Eden was a quiet sort. Kept to herself a lot. Didn’t have any best friends to speak of, unless you count AJ and Aubin. Have you met Aubin Pavegeau yet? He’s a bit of a hermit these days.” She dropped her voice. “He was in a bad car crash years ago, lost his wife—may she rest in peace—and he never quite recovered. Anyway, he and AJ were thick as thieves growing up. When Eden started dating AJ, it was only natural she became part of their friendship. You have her eyes. Such a pretty color, that green. Oh! It’s so good to meet you.”

  “Thank you.” I finally freed my hand and hooked a thumb toward the door. “I don’t want to keep you when you probably have other things to do, so Natalie can show me how to use the microfiche. I’ll come find you if I have any problems.”

  “Sure, sure.” Mary Beth grinned. “You know where to find me. Oh! I am pleased as all get-out that you’re in Wicklow. You’ll love it here. I just know it. Come see me on your way out, and I’ll set you up with a library card.” She gave a full-body wiggle of happiness before pivoting and walking away.

  Natalie had a wry smile on her face when I finally opened the door and stepped inside. I took a deep breath, blew it out.

  “Bless your heart,” Natalie said, pure syrup.

  “Is Mary Beth related to Faylene? She has to be, right?”

  “She’s Faylene’s first cousin. Their mothers are sisters, though Faylene’s mama is passed on a fair time now.”

  “May she rest in peace,” we said in unison and couldn’t help laughing at each other.

  As I pulled up a chair and sat down next to her, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed. It felt good.

  I tried to mind my own business, but couldn’t keep from saying, “No doubt you heard Mary Beth mention your husband just now, and Faylene did earlier, too, at the café. I’m really sorry.”

  Her hand fisted, released. “That’s kind of you to say so, Anna Kate, but I really don’t like talking about it.” She wrinkled her nose. “Mostly because I hope he’s not resting in peace at all.”

  Pain flashed across her face. It was so unlike everything I knew of her to this point that I immediately knew Matt Walker had hurt her terribly. I hated him instantly. “I see. Then I hope he’s rotting to pieces in eternal squalor.”

  She looked over at me, and ever so slowly, she smiled, a bright smile that filled her eyes with warmth, making them look like melted chocolate ganache. Her shoulders loosened as the tension faded. “That’s the nicest thing I’ve heard in a long time.” She let out a light laugh. “And I shouldn’t have said what I did. It’s just that I’ve been stuck in the angry stage of grief for quite a while now.”

  “I understand that,” I said. “I’ve been there myself, but I’m guessing there’s a little more to your anger than mine.”

  What was I doing? This was all much too friendly. Yet I couldn’t stop from trying to help her through her pain. “If you ever want to talk…”

  Sometimes being a Callow stunk, plain and simple.

  I did not need to help everyone.

  I didn’t.

  Stupid heritage.

  Oblivious to my inner turmoil, she stretched out her long, tan legs next to the table. She had on sandals with a slight heel but hadn’t once complained of aching feet during her shift, even though I could see an angry blister near her left baby toe. I was beginning to believe she was part Stepford after all.

  “Thanks, Anna Kate. Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime. Only not today. Or tomorrow. Or the next day.”

  “Well, you have until the end of July before I move back to Massachusetts for medical school. Plenty of time.”

  Her eyebrows went up. “Medical school? Family doctor, I’m guessing.”

  I knew why she’d taken that guess. It was because my father was supposed to have become a family doctor, going into practice with Doc Linden to continue the Linden legacy. “I’m not sure yet.” Family medicine didn’t appeal to me. Most traditional medicine didn’t, if I were being honest. “I’m drawn more toward integrative medicine, osteopathy, or homeopathy.” My mother wouldn’t approve, but it was the only way I was going to make it through medical school.

  Natalie nodded, but I noted her frown and the way the skin pulled together between her eyes.

  “What’s that look? Do you not believe in natural medicine?”

  “Oh! No, I do.” She pressed her hands to her chest.

  I noticed she did that a lot—when she was being earnest.

  “Let me guess. Your father doesn’t.”

  “My mother and my father. I think the term ‘quackery’ has been said a time or two about the subject.”

  “Well, it’s good then that it isn’t their decision.” And suddenly, it made sense to me why my mother had
shied away from holistic medicine. I’d bet a zucchini plant that my dad hadn’t believed in natural medicine either. She’d denied her heritage to give his importance.

  No wonder she and Zee were always snippy with each other on the matter.

  “Very true,” Natalie said. “It’s important to follow your own path.”

  She said it with such conviction that I suspected she was saying it more to herself than me. Mind your own business, Anna Kate, I told myself, even while biting back a dozen questions. I wanted to know the details of her childhood, how it had been living with the Lindens, how she knew Bow and Jena so well, and, mostly, I longed to know everything, every last detail, about my dad. I needed to change the subject, so I said, “I’m a bit surprised to see you here.”

  She glanced at the newspaper article she’d been reading. “I feel like a kid who got caught with her hand in the cookie jar.”

  I glanced at the headlinec that had been zoomed in on.

  CAR CRASH KILLS WICKLOW STANDOUT

  Leaning in, I studied the face of Andrew James Linden in a photograph that looked like it might have been one of his senior pictures. Dimples framed a wide smile. Downturned blue eyes sparkled with mischief, and freckles dotted his nose and cheeks. His gingery blond hair was cut short and styled in gelled spikes. “My mother only had one or two photos of him. I’ve never seen this one.”

  “I’m surprised she didn’t have more. Didn’t they date for years?”

  “Three years, since the start of sophomore year in high school.” I stared at the photo, wishing for things that were impossible. “My mother wasn’t much for picture taking. Or having her picture taken. Do your parents have any photos of them together?”

  “Not that I’ve ever seen,” she said.

  “They probably would have ripped my mother out of them anyway.”

  After a moment, she said, “Probably so.”

  I admired that she didn’t try to sugarcoat it. “Why are you looking at these old articles?”

  She leaned back in the chair. “All my life I grew up believing Eden had gotten away with murder—it’s all I ever heard. But last night I heard my parents arguing, and Daddy claimed the crash had been an accident. Mama said it was murder. I don’t know much about what happened that day—I was only a toddler—but it was unsettling to know that the crash might have been an accident after all. Since I really don’t want to ask my parents for more details, I came here for more information. Unfortunately, most of the articles are generic. Lots of ‘the crash is still under investigation,’” she added, using air quotes.

  I scanned the article. It had been a sunny day when the car veered off a back road and hit a tree. The passenger, Andrew James Linden, died instantly. The driver, Eden Callow, had been taken to the hospital and was in serious condition. Preliminary reports showed that no drugs or alcohol had been involved and that speed hadn’t been a factor in the crash. An interesting tidbit was that it had been my dad’s car. So why had my mother been driving?

  Natalie said, “Is it true Eden couldn’t remember the crash? My mother always said it was convenient amnesia on Eden’s part.”

  “It’s true. She only knows what people told her. Do you know why my mom would have been driving the car?”

  “No idea. But my mother is absolutely convinced they had a fight about him going off to college and leaving Eden behind, and in a fit of rage, she drove off the road, aiming to kill them both, only Eden survived.”

  It was the same story Jena had told me. “Mom wished she hadn’t survived. If she hadn’t been pregnant with me, I think she’d have found a way to join him much sooner than she did. She loved him more than life itself, and because I was a part of him, she loved me enough to raise me until I could take care of myself.”

  I tried to tell myself that sharing this information wasn’t overly personal, that it was our history, but it felt like a lie.

  Natalie set a hand on my arm. “She didn’t … she didn’t kill herself, did she?”

  “Not purposely, no. But she never went to the doctor, and ignored the warning signs of the blood clot that led to a heart attack. I figured her heart finally had enough grieving and just gave in. But the thing is, she always claimed that she’d never, ever hurt my dad on purpose. That they loved each other and planned to get married. She doesn’t remember how that car ended up in the trees, but she knew it was an accident.”

  “Why did she leave Wicklow so soon after the accident? My mother always said it was because of her guilty conscience.”

  How I could so despise a woman I’d never even met was a mystery to me.

  “She left town because of me. What would your parents have done if they’d known she was pregnant with AJ’s baby?”

  She paled. “They would have tried to get full custody.”

  “Exactly. They had the money, the resources, the clout, and the emotional desperation…”

  Natalie let out a weary sigh. “Tell me this, Anna Kate…”

  I glanced at her, waiting.

  “Why are you here today? Why did you want to see these old articles?”

  Rubbing at an ink stain on the tabletop, I said, “Mostly for the same reason you are. I want more information. My mom rarely talked about the accident, but when she did…”

  “What?”

  “I couldn’t help thinking there was more to the story. I think I have the right to know what truly happened that day.”

  “If anyone does, it’s you. So what now?”

  “Maybe there’s more information on the police report?”

  “Probably. But that was twenty-five years ago—long before most police stations became computerized. Do departments keep paper reports that long?”

  I looked at my father’s smiling face on the computer screen and once again felt a tug of sorrow. “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”

  11

  “Excuse me,” the reporter said to the young woman hustling between tables.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, her brown eyes bright with youth, yet dim with a sorrow that told him she’d already had a hard life.

  “I was just thinking I might need to stay the night in town, so I can see these blackbirds for myself. I saw the motel was full. Is there any other place to stay nearby?”

  “There’s a few places taking people in,” she said. “Let me check around, and I’ll get back to you.”

  “I’ll be here,” he said.

  Natalie

  “Sixty-six, sixty-seven.” I stared at the stack of money on the table. I’d earned nearly seventy dollars in tips at the café today, on top of the hourly wage Anna Kate had paid me.

  It was a start.

  I put five dollars into Ollie’s piggy bank, put twenty in my wallet, and tucked the rest into an old metal watch box that I hid in my underwear drawer. Which, I quickly realized, was probably the first place a burglar would look, so I then moved it into the bathroom, under the sink. Much safer there, mixed among shampoo, soap, and bath toys.

  I’d done some checking around and found a one-bedroom apartment in town that ran at four hundred dollars a month, not including utilities. I’d need first and last month’s rent as a deposit before I could even think about moving out of the little house—and out from under my mother’s iron fist. I’d need to eventually find a full-time permanent job as well.

  Taking a deep breath to quell rising panic, I told myself finding another job was a worry for another day. For now, I’d squirrel away as much money as I could. The thought of building a nest egg appealed to me so much that I took the twenty out of my wallet and put it into the watch box, swapping it for a ten-dollar bill. Then I swapped that for a five.

  Ollie sat on the floor of the living room, in the green Tinkerbell costume my mother had bought for her to wear to tonight’s moonlight movie. Pushing a dump truck loaded with blocks across the throw rug, Ollie didn’t look the least bit tired, even though it was closing in on bedtime.

  Taking a moment, I simply watched
her play and thanked my lucky stars that there had been no drama with the swimming lesson this morning. According to Mama, Ollie had taken to the water like a fish and had stayed in the pool with her long after the lesson had ended. All of which had been reported with a smugness I could’ve done without. It had taken every last ounce of maintaining some semblance of peace, as phony as it was, to keep my mouth shut. To simply say “Thank you, Mama, for keeping Ollie all day.”

  I took another deep breath to settle my suddenly queasy stomach and tamp down my anger. Ollie was fine. Happy. Alive. No harm, no foul.

  But how many lessons would it take for me to be okay with Ollie being near water? How long until the paralyzing fear subsided? Because right now, I didn’t see an end in sight.

  Out the front window, I noticed my father walking toward the little house and suddenly had second thoughts about going with my parents to the movie at the courthouse tonight.

  It seemed easier to stay here. Easier, that is, than dealing with everybody’s condolences and questions and Mama’s frostiness.

  I pulled open the door before Daddy could knock. He stepped inside and handed me a plastic grocery bag.

  I peeked inside. “What’s this?”

  “Window alarms. I thought they might help set your mind at ease after this morning.” He bent and opened his arms wide, and Ollie went running toward him.

  “Gaddy!” Ollie shouted.

  It was her shorthand for “granddaddy.” I was learning that toddlers were quite inventive at creating words.

  “Well, aren’t you the prettiest thing I’ve seen all day,” he said to Ollie, fluffing the gossamer petals of her costume’s skirt. “You know what’s missing, though?” From his pocket he pulled out a hand-carved, scarred green tractor, its finish worn thin from use and time.

  Her face lit up. “Tactor!”

  He said, “That tractor was mine when I was a boy, then AJ’s. I thought it was time to pass it on to someone who would love it as much as we did.”