by Gayle Roper
I pulled out a black-and-white of my mother and father who smiled at me from the beach at Ocean City, New Jersey. It had always saddened me that I couldn’t remember a single thing about them. In fact, I didn’t even think of them as my mother and father. They were Trey and Caroline, the names Mom and Pop always called them when they spoke of them. With a jolt I realized that I was now older than my parents had ever been. They had both been twenty-nine when they died.
I reached blindly into the now almost empty photo box, and my fingers closed over an envelope. I lifted it out. The old-fashioned, Palmer Method handwriting on the front read John Seward’s papers.
Curious since I thought Ward and Mr. Havens had all Pop’s papers, I extracted the contents. I took the topmost page and unfolded it.
Commonwealth of Pennsylvania it read across the top in a swirl of Gothic letters.
Stunned, I read the paper and then the accompanying letter. When I could finally find my voice, I turned to Rainbow.
“Baby!” I said in disbelief. “We’re not really Bentleys!”
Chapter 4
There were eleven Biemsderfers listed in the phone book. I took a deep breath and reached for the phone. My heart was thudding faster than Thumper’s hind foot.
I hated to admit it, but I’d been disappointed in my meeting with Todd Reasoner. I’d expected him to be clever enough to tell me just how I could get the information about Pop’s family in spite of the general consensus about the difficulties—no, the impossibilities involved.
“Go here and ask this question of that person,” my fine new attorney was supposed to tell me. Or better yet, “Just give me a minute to tap a couple of computer keys, and I’ll have everything you need.”
Talk about naïve, but that’s what I’d hoped for, expected, wanted so badly I believed sheer desire would make it happen.
Instead he hadn’t even offered me hope. I sighed so loudly that Rainbow raised her head from her pillow to check out my level of distress. Apparently it wasn’t high enough for concern because she quickly put her head back on the pillow and went back to sleep.
I had to face the fact that Todd was probably right about finding answers. Probably? He was right. He was, after all, the lawyer. And everyone involved in the original adoption was dead by now.
“You’ve made yourself this sweet, cozy little world, Cara,” Ward told me the night we discussed my plans. “Only good things happen where you live. True love always wins there. And if something goes wrong, you just rewrite it.”
It was embarrassing to admit even to myself, but I had come to Lancaster with a plotline firmly in place for my adoption search. For me, doors would open. For me, answers would appear. I, in true Bentley fashion, would be in control of the situation. Wasn’t that what Marnie had said? I liked to be in control just like Pop and Ward?
“You can control your writing,” she told me. “The trouble is, you can’t control life.”
Of course I knew that on some level. I wasn’t stupid. And I had gone online before I came up here, looking up Pennsylvania adoption law. It stated clearly that the adoptee had to approach an uninvolved party like the agency through which the adoption occurred or the state itself with a request to meet the natural parents. Then this impartial party would contact the natural parent or parents on the adoptee’s behalf. If there was a reciprocal interest, the plans to meet would be made. If not, that was it. Closed door.
But that law assumed the parties involved were still living. And because in my case they weren’t, I wanted Todd to work miracles to find the answer I sought.
I might as well face it. Neither Todd nor I were going to walk into the Lancaster County Courthouse and be given the information. If it was out there somewhere, I was going to have to search for it in creative ways.
Not that I thought Todd Reasoner was a total washout. Far from it. I smiled softly. I remembered his broad shoulders, his chiseled jaw, his bottomless brown eyes. I actually heard myself sigh again.
I froze, appalled, afraid Rainbow would look at me again, only this time she’d sneer at my adolescent attraction. I sounded just like one of my heroines. I glanced guiltily at Rainbow, but she slept on, deaf to my indiscretion. I sagged in relief and then straightened my spine. Time to take Step One.
Besides, how did I know his eyes were bottomless? I hadn’t even been that close to him.
But I knew they were.
Taking a deep breath, I turned to the phone book and the page I’d opened to in the B’s. A snippet of a psalm came to mind: “God sets the lonely in families.”
Father God, I ask that you set me in my family. Help me know where and how to go about this search.
I put my finger under the first Biemsderfer, an Alan with one L and no E, and dialed. As the phone rang, I muttered, “Res ipsa loquitor,” using Todd’s ridiculous Latin quote as a good-luck talisman, sort of like, “You go, girl.” “Res ipsa loquitor.”
“Yeah?” demanded a teenage girl with no telephone finesse whatsoever.
“May I speak to Alan Biemsderfer, please?” I asked nicely, just to show her how it was done in polite company.
“Sure,” she mumbled around a couple of cracks of her chewing gum. “Hey, Dad!” she screamed, the phone probably mere inches from her mouth. “It’s some lady for you.”
I shook my head to still the roar careening about my skull. If I were related to this particular set of Biemsderfers, phone etiquette would be among my first efforts at communication, believe me.
In a short time Alan Biemsderfer picked up an extension and asked in a decibel level much more conducive to conversation, “Yes?”
My stomach flip-flopped and my palms became so sweaty I had to grip the phone extra tight lest it slip from my grip. Once again foolish hope ballooned inside, pressing the air from my lungs. Maybe he was a long-lost cousin.
I took a deep breath and launched into my spiel. I was pleased and amazed at how normal my voice sounded. “Mr. Biemsderfer, my name is Cara Bentley, and I’m doing some genealogical research. My grandfather was born Lehman Biemsderfer here in Lancaster, and I’m trying to trace his family. That’s L-e-h-m-a-n.”
“What is this?” Alan asked. “One of those things where you’re supposed to buy your family tree and crest or something?” His voice bore the cynicism of someone barraged by telemarketers. Hadn’t he heard of the No Call program?
“No,” I said earnestly. “I’m trying to trace my grandfather’s origins. Seriously.”
There was a small silence. “Well, maybe you are legitimate, maybe you’re not, but either way I can’t help. I’ve never heard of anyone in our family with the first name Lehman.”
The way he emphasized first name ever so slightly made me sit up straight. “How about middle name?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm. Wouldn’t it be a miracle, a true God thing, if he actually knew someone who had both Lehman and Biemsderfer in his name, even if Lehman weren’t a first name?
“Nope,” he said. “I’ve only heard of Lehman as a last name. There are lots of Lehmans in this area. Maybe you could try them. Now, I’ve got to go.”
I thanked Alan and hung up. I felt unrealistically disappointed and was mad at myself for it. When would I become realistic about this stuff? I grinned wryly. Not today. I quickly dialed Biemsderfer, Beatrice.
“I don’t answer questions on the telephone,” a testy voice stated.
“But—” And just that quickly I found myself talking to dead air.
Next was Biemsderfer, Edward.
Mrs. Edward answered. “Sorry, Ed’s not here. Can I take a message?”
I explained about tracing Lehman Biemsderfer.
“Gee, I don’t know much about the family history. Ed and I’ve only been married a couple of years, and I’m still learning all the ins and outs, you know? But if you want someone who can help, you ought to talk to Ed’s Great-Aunt Lizzie. She’s your woman.”
I scanned the phone book. “I don’t see an Elizabeth in the listings. Or shou
ld I be looking for a Mrs. Someone?”
“No, she’s not in the book,” Mrs. Edward said. “She’s in a nursing home someplace. I’ve never even met her. I just hear them talking about her. And her last name’s not Biemsderfer either. I think it’s Martin. Her mother was a Biemsderfer though. You could call Ed another time and ask about it if you want.”
I thanked her and we disconnected.
Biemsderfer, Gerhard and Biemsderfer, K.M. were not home. Biemsderfer, Marlin, Jr., said, as soon as I mentioned genealogy, “Aunt Lizzie. She knows it all.”
“Where do I find her?” I asked.
There was a silence. “I don’t think I should tell you. No offense, but I don’t think I should.” And he quietly hung up.
I tried Biemsderfer, Marlin, Sr., and an elderly woman answered.
“I’m trying to trace my family,” I said.
“Isn’t that lovely, dear.” Her voice was sweet and slightly breathless. “I hope you can. I wouldn’t want to be alone. I don’t know what I’d do without my boys.”
“I’m looking for someone who may be able to give me information about my grandfather, Lehman Biemsderfer.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know anyone in the family with the first name Lehman.” She sounded truly sorry for her lack of information. Again I heard that slight emphasis on first name.
“Maybe you know someone where Lehman is the middle name?”
“No, dear. I’m sorry. I only know people with Lehman as the last name. There are lots of Lehmans in this area, you know.”
I sighed. The nice thing about Biemsderfer was that it was fairly uncommon, unlike Lehman. I was genuinely thankful for an unusual name simply because the process of elimination wouldn’t be so lengthy. “The man I’m trying to trace was born a long time ago. Lehman was born in 1918.”
“Nineteen-eighteen? Why that’s almost as old as me. I wish there was someone left around here who is as old as me. It gets lonely. Everybody keeps dying or going into one of those awful nursing homes. Retirement homes, they call them nowadays, but they’re just death traps, whatever their name. Everyone who goes there dies. I made the boys promise me never, never! I’ve been a widow for almost ten years, you know. Too long. And they made me move to a smaller house. But that’s okay because it wasn’t a retirement home. I always say I’m not homesick, I’m dog sick. They wouldn’t let me bring Bingo with me. We called him Bingo after that song the grandchildren liked to sing.” And she began to quaver, “B-I-N-G-O, and Bingo was his name-o.”
I stared at the list of Biemsderfers remaining uncalled, and wondered how to get away from this lonely, slightly fey woman without being rude. Then an idea struck.
“Say, Mrs. Biemsderfer, how many sons do you have?”
“Five.”
“And do they live locally?”
“Three do. And so do five grandsons.”
“Can you give me their names?”
“Alan, Gerhard, Marlin Junior, Link, Edward, Duane, Wesley, and Peter.”
I glanced down the list of names again. Alan, Edward, Gerhard, Peter, and Wesley were all there. Duane and Link were not. They were probably younger grandsons who still lived with their parents and didn’t have their own landlines.
“Thanks. You’ve saved me from making some phone calls, I think,” I said.
“You know,” she said, sounding suddenly very alert and authoritative. “The boys never had any interest in genealogy. They said it was boring. But that Alma is a different story. She’s close to obsessed. At least I tease her that she is.”
“Alma?”
“My daughter. She’s taken courses on genealogy, and she spends hours on that Internet looking for more information. ‘I got another leaf,’ she’ll say, whatever that means. She’s done all types of family studies, and she’s made this very complicated family tree. Goes way back to William Penn’s time, even back to Germany before that. That’s when the first settlers came to this area, you know, back in the early seventeen hundreds.”
“No, I didn’t know.” My mouth began watering for a view of that family tree. “Tell me more about Alma and her tree.”
But before the next breath was drawn and a sentence spoken, the clouds of mental fog rolled in again, blocking the sweet sun of sanity from Mrs. Biemsderfer. Even the sound of her voice became different, slow and tremulous, breathy.
“When Lizzie was a little girl—she was my favorite cousin—our families were good friends, and she and I used to play together a lot. We’d sneak away and play down by the river on the farm. That’s the Conestoga River, you know. We always got into trouble because the adults thought we would fall in and drown. But they didn’t tell us that was their reason. They always said, ‘You’ll get yourselves too muddy down there.’ I guess they didn’t want to scare us.”
Her voice was warm with reminiscence. “Once Lizzie did fall in, but I pulled her out. Then we had to take off her dress and wash it in the river so that she wouldn’t go back to the house with a muddy dress. We never thought about the fact that a soaking wet dress might give us away.” She laughed like a child might, high and giggly.
Feeling like Alice down the rabbit hole, I said desperately, “But you know of no Lehman Biemsderfer?”
“No, dear.”
“And no one in your family gave up a baby for adoption?”
“My grand-niece did about two years ago. I was so sad when she got pregnant, but kids today don’t seem to mind, do they? It’s not like it used to be, believe me. I didn’t even know that men and women did such things when I got married. I thought it was only animals. I’m a farm girl, you know. I didn’t know where babies came from, maybe kissing, I suppose. Nice girls never knew in my day.” She sighed. “But,” and I could hear a smile come into her voice, “Marlin taught me everything I needed to know. He was a very good teacher.”
I thought she and Marlin must have enjoyed their marriage quite a bit. Five sons and a daughter were some indication.
“Did you know he’s been dead almost ten years now? The boys are so good to me. They made me move, but they didn’t make me go to a retirement home. I don’t get homesick, I always say. I get dog sick. They wouldn’t let me bring him with me, you know. His name was Bingo, after that children’s song.”
I knew she was going to break into song again any second so I cut in desperately. “Mrs. Biemsderfer, how can I get in touch with Lizzie? Or Alma?”
“Lizzie lives in one of those retirement homes, poor thing,” she said.
“Where’s that?” I asked.
Mrs. Biemsderfer didn’t answer me. Instead she said, “Call Alma. She can help you. Sometimes my mind wanders, I think. But Alma can help.”
I scanned the phone book but I already knew there was no Alma Biemsderfer. I took a minute to mourn all the Biemsderfer women who were no longer known by this name and therefore impossible for me to find easily.
“Alma Stoltzfus,” Mrs. Marlin, Sr., said.
Stoltzfus. What a unique name. I flipped to the S’s and stared in horror at all the Stoltzfus names. Apparently it wasn’t so unique after all, at least not in Lancaster. “What’s her husband’s name?” I asked.
“Arthur—Art. They live in Camp Hill.”
“Camp Hill?”
“Yes. It’s near Harrisburg, just across the river a bit. That’s the Susquehanna, dear, not the Conestoga.”
“Do you have her phone number?”
“Of course,” she said. “It’s here somewhere.”
I heard her put the phone down and pictured her wandering about her house, looking for her address/phone book. When the wandering went on for several minutes, I realized that Mrs. Marlin wasn’t going to give me Alma’s number. She had, in fact, forgotten about me.
Just then the phone was picked up, and I thought for a brief flicker of time that I had misread the genteel woman. A quick click of the receiver as she hung her phone up disabused me of that idea. I smiled sadly but was thankful neither Mom nor Pop had gotten so mentally confused. Th
e physical deterioration had been bad enough to watch. I couldn’t imagine witnessing a mental decline that took away the person you had loved for so many years.
I stared at the phone for a few minutes. Should I call Alma Stoltzfus, or was that name and its potential help just the imaginings of a confused mind? But the old lady had seemed very aware during that brief part of our conversation. I shrugged. Why not call? I had spent the morning talking to a bunch of strangers. Why not one more?
I dialed information and wrote down the number of an Arthur Stoltzfus in Camp Hill. I hoped the name wasn’t as common over there in Dauphin County as it was here in Lancaster.
In a short time I was connected with Alma Stoltzfus, nee Biemsderfer. Once again I explained what I was looking for.
“Lehman Biemsderfer?” she said. “Never heard of anyone named that. Lehman’s usually a last name.”
“Yes, so I understand.” I found I was gripping the phone again like it was my life line and I was a drowning person. I forced my hand to relax, and it actually did for about five seconds. “Your mother told me you had a family tree. I thought maybe it could give me some help. You know, all the branches of Biemsderfers.”
I held my breath. Was this where she told me she couldn’t exchange family information over the phone? After all, sensible, middle-aged women were usually cautious.
“You know,” she said warily, “I hate to give out private family information on the phone.”
I sighed. What a surprise. And I couldn’t blame her.
“After all,” she said, “how do I know who you are? How do I know you’re trustworthy? How do I know you aren’t trying to pull some scam?” There was no animosity in her voice, just a reasonable understanding that the world is full of con artists and nasty people.
“I sympathize with your concern,” I said. “I know I’m reputable, but how can I convince you?” I thought for a minute. Too bad I couldn’t tell her I was a Bentley of Bentley Marts, though come to think of it, why should she believe that? “You could contact my attorney,” I suggested.