Emily's Ghost

by Stockenberg, Antoinette

  Emily smiled, picturing the gaudy crystal around Hattie's thin and wrinkled neck. "It'll always remind me of her. But Hattie has a niece; shouldn't I hand it over to her?" She did not add "eventually."

  "Not at all. And I nearly forgot. Hattie was pleased with the research you were doing into her family history. We were going through her things -- her niece wanted none of it -- and found a box of, oh, letters and memorabilia, some of it dating back a way. Would you have any interest in it?"

  "I'm sure I would," Emily answered, although it seemed to her that Hattie would have mentioned anything relevant to Talbot Manor.

  So they struck a deal whereby Emily would go through the papers and return anything specifically dealing with the history of Martha's Vineyard. It was a long shot that Talbot Manor would be involved, but the next morning Emily was on an early ferry out of Woods Hole. This time there was no Lee Alden in a baseball jacket and Pennzoil cap to greet her, just a crush of hot and sweaty tourists wanting to get away from the mainland. Nor was there any sign of Fergus. Emily wondered if he'd ever show himself to her again after their mutual declaration of frustration.

  She stood at the rail while the ferry sliced through a dull, flat sea hazed over with the sticky stillness of summer. It seemed a lifetime ago that Emily and Lee had sat and talked on the foredeck. At the time all she could think of was the fact that she'd made passionate love with the man. The funny thing was that even without him next to her on the foredeck, it was all she could think of.

  This is not good, Emily Bowditch. Your emotions are all over the map. Try to make up your mind who or what it is you want in life, will you? She watched idly as a teenage passenger held up the standard potato chip to a flock of circling gulls. One of them broke away from the pack, swooped down in a precision strike, and flew off with the chip in its beak.

  That was the kind of certainty she wanted.

  By the time she shook hands with the director of the Home for the Aged, Emily was limp from the heat. She wasn't the only one; in the sitting rooms and on the veranda the elderly residents of the home were scattered about like water lilies, neither toiling nor spinning, speaking very little and then without much energy. When she and the director paused for a moment at the bay window with the view where Emily had spoken with Hattie, the only sound she heard was of the ticking wall clock.

  Hattie's room, pleasant with cabbage rose wallpaper and sheer curtains, was nonetheless empty of the photos and sweaters and fuzzy slippers by the bed that mark a place as home. Hattie had come, and Hattie had gone, and now all that was left for anyone to know her by was a large seaman's trunk of battered pine with sisal handles that stood in the middle of the floor, waiting to be hauled away.

  Emily lifted the lid and saw hundreds of letters, newspaper clippings, photos, and odd papers heaped in a jumbled mess. It wasn't Hattie's style; Emily remembered the precise little motion Hattie had used to take out her change purse and the particular way she had laid her yellow afghan across her withered knees.

  "You're quite right," said the director in a tone of annoyance when Emily made some remark. "Hattie's niece rummaged through it when she came to clear away her aunt's things, and this is how she left everything."

  "I didn't realize there was so much," Emily admitted, daunted by the prospect of going through it all with one eye open for Fergus and the other for the Martha's Vineyard Historical Society. This would be a time-consuming detour. "I don't have a car with me."

  "Don't worry about that. I'll have someone help you get it to the ferry, and you'll have plenty of help at Woods Hole to get the trunk in your car; islanders are like that."

  Ten minutes later the home's handyman was putting a couple of half hitches around rope ties on the trunk and lifting it onto his back like a block of ice. With a stevedore's nonchalance he loaded it into the back of the director's wagon, drove Emily and his cargo to Vineyard Haven, and unloaded them both at the ferry landing. Emily could see the ferry approaching on the other side of the stone breakwater; in minutes the black and white behemoth was backing down smartly while deckhands dropped the spliced eyes of its massive dock lines onto pylons.

  The midmorning ferry was usually the most crowded of the day, and this one was no exception. Passengers were lined up at the ferry's gate, impatient to get ashore. The most impatient one of all turned out to be Becky Alden, Hildie Alden's oldest child, who burst out of the gate like a greyhound at the track. At the bottom of the ramp Becky fetched up on the other side of the rope that separated Emily from off-loading passengers and cried, "I know you! Emily! You're Uncle Lee's girlfriend!"

  "Hi, Becky," Emily answered, laughing despite the stab of embarrassment she felt. "Don't tell me you're all by yourself?"

  "No, but my cousin Jane went on the ferry alone when she was only seven! Here comes Rob, and I don't see Sarah and Mom yet. Aren't you staying with us again?"

  Emily explained that she was not, and Becky demanded to know the reason why. By the time Hildie came along with Sarah clutching her hand, Rob and Becky had pulled Emily out of the line and were holding her more or less captive for their mother's arrival.

  Hildie, who with her blond hair and white dress looked sunshine bright, beamed when she saw Emily. "This is great! I'm all alone at the house. Have lunch with us; there'll be another ferry." No mention of Emily's nighttime escape; just a friendly, open invitation to share a sandwich and iced tea.

  Emily explained that she was traveling with a trunk. Hildie, taking that to mean yes, had a couple of beach boy types load it into the back of a Buick wagon that Lee's housekeeper, Inez, had left in the parking lot by arrangement. The kids piled in and immediately began assembling large kites they'd brought with them from the mainland.

  "The to-ing—and-fro-ing is the worst part, isn't it?" Hildie remarked as she shifted the car into gear. "Too bad islands come surrounded by water."

  Oh, right, Emily found herself thinking. This is really rough. But she contented herself with saying, "You seem to have a system pretty well worked out."

  "I know what you're thinking," Hildie said with a sideways glance at Emily. "But I'm not a poor little rich girl. I worked on the Vineyard during my college summers. After my last year, but before I began teaching, I took a job as nanny for Grace's kids -- she used to stay here all summer long -- and then I met Charles, fell in love, and the rest, as they say, is history."

  "Hildie, you don't have to apologize for it -- least of all to me," Emily said, embarrassed. She added, "Do I sound that much like a Communist?"

  Hildie laughed. "I'm not usually like this. But I'll be the first to admit there's a difference between them and me -- my dad was an insurance salesman -- that's impossible to ignore." She added shrewdly, "I thought I noticed a little of that in you on Grammy's birthday."

  "Uh-oh," Emily said jokingly. "You mean you saw me make a fist every time someone talked about cutting the capital gains tax?"

  "Something like that," Hildie said, chuckling.

  "I suppose you can admit that the difference exists, as long as you don't feel defeated by it," Emily allowed.

  They pulled into the driveway, where they could see Inez behind the house taking down dry linens from a clothesline. From out of the blue Emily had an intense, vivid image of her mother gathering billowing white sheets and burying her nose in them, swearing that there wasn't a softener in the world that could take the place of sunshine. The memory rolled in on a wave of pure love; for the first time since her mother's death there was no pain.

  Lunch was very pleasant. Inez sat with them and gave them a capsule biography of Lee Alden's youth, and afterward they all went outside and tried to fly really big kites in two knots of wind. Little Sarah was the first to become bored and sleepy, then Rob, then Becky. Hildie spread out a blanket under the oak tree, and the children stretched out for their naps there.

  "Just like cod fillets at the fish counter," said Inez. She went inside, and Hildie and Emily chatted in hushed tones in lawn chairs nearby. After a wh
ile Emily was forced to admit that it was time to face up to the ferry ride home.

  But Hildie was having none of it. "Stay, at least overnight," she begged. "We have everything you need here. You're my size; I have clothes that would fit. This way you'll have time to sort through Hattie's trunk real quick and leave the irrelevant stuff behind. Why drag it all back and forth?"

  It was tempting. But. "I'd feel very awkward staying," Emily blurted. "You do realize that Lee and I aren't seeing each other anymore?"

  "You mean, because you were at the séance with him? But that's just politics. After Lee's reelected, you can take each other up again," Hildie said serenely. "Anyway, Lee's not due here until next week."

  So. They knew about the séance, but they did not know about Fergus. Obviously Lee had offered the only explanation that a politically minded family would understand. All in all, Lee had opted for the chivalrous way out.

  "So, will you stay?"

  Emily bit on her lip, considering the offer. "I'd be an awful guest. That trunk is crammed full. I'm very directed when I research anything. The kids would feel slighted."

  "Not at all. They're going to a birthday party later this afternoon, and I have a dinner engagement tonight. We'll stay completely out of your way."

  Sitting there sipping mineral water, watching cottony sails dotting the blue horizon, cooled by the faintest of ocean breezes, Emily realized she was being made an offer she couldn't rationally refuse.

  The two women manhandled the trunk into what everyone insisted on calling Emily's old bedroom, even though she'd spent exactly two hours there, neither of them in bed. Hildie went out and came back with some clothes for Emily, who immediately changed from her skirt and blouse to shorts and a tank top. In the meantime, Hildie had thrown open the single, multipaned door and was standing outside on a tiny brick terrace enfolded in heady midseason roses, all pinks and creams and yellows.

  Emily went out to join her. "This place is too enchanted to be true," she said, gazing at the ocean. A desultory sea breeze had begun to fill in, bathing her cheek in cool, slightly damp air.

  "I keep forgetting how perfectly placed this room is," Hildie admitted. "I never use it because all my things are set up in the bedroom near the kids. And it's too small for Lee; his room has a massive desk that came down from his grandfather's law firm. His mother doesn't care for it because it doesn't have its own bath. So there you are. The best room in the house, and nobody wants it. Well, cheerio. You know where the kitchen is."

  She left, and Emily had to force herself just to come in from the view. How will I ever get anything done? she wondered, pleasantly dismayed. Still, without either Lee or Fergus it was altogether possible that she'd be able to concentrate. After clearing away a chair or two and rolling up a small but exquisite serape from the foot of the rope-twist spindle bed, Emily got down to business.

  She began pulling out papers, photos, and clippings one armful at a time and heaping them on a ladder-back chair. Then she sorted them according to time and place. A good deal of the material related to the Vineyard, but it was nothing that couldn't also be found in various island archives: clippings from the Vineyard Gazette; old church bulletins; commemorative menus and programs from social gatherings. These she tossed. There were also dozens and dozens of greeting cards. Hattie seemed to have saved every birthday, get-well, and anniversary card she'd ever got; it was interesting and a little sad to see that there were no Mother's Day cards. With some regret Emily had to toss the cards as well.

  There were photographs, two shoeboxes' worth, that had tumbled out from their cardboard containers and were becoming bent and ruined in the jumble. Emily began to stack them carefully, out of respect, even though the people captured in them neither knew nor cared that the photos existed. She could no more throw them out than she could toss a litter of newborn kittens. They'd have to go back to the director.

  And there were letters, hundreds of letters, some of them dating back to the twenties and before. Most of them weren't addressed to Hattie, but whether they belonged to other residents at the home or to Hattie's relations, it was impossible to tell. She'd have to take them all and read them all, not because she thought they'd help her but because she'd promised the director.

  By seven or so Emily had succeeded in completely carpeting the wide-board floor of her room with neat, compulsive stacks of history. She stood up and stretched. A streak of pain went rippling through her spine; she'd been bent over for hours. The household had been true to Hildie's word and left her unmolested, and as a result, Emily had no idea what the feeding arrangements were. She made her way timidly to the kitchen, where Inez was emptying the dishwasher.

  "Ah, there you are," the housekeeper said. "I wanted to bring you a supper tray, but Hildie said to leave you alone under pain of death. That wouldn't be your stomach grumbling, would it?" Inez asked cheerfully.

  Emily nodded sheepishly, and Inez sat her down on a high chair at the butcher-block island dominating the center of the room. "I'll make you an omelet, dear," she said. "While we talk."

  "Are the kids all asleep already?" Emily asked, surprised.

  "Lord, yes. It was an exhausting day. Pony rides, sack races, they did it all." The housekeeper chopped some onions into a pat of butter sizzling in an omelet pan. "Especially that Becky; she runs everyone ragged. But I'll tell you a secret: She's my favorite. Smart as a whip. She does have a tendency to sass, but then again she usually feels awful about it later and brings me treats."

  Inez cracked two eggs into a bowl, whisked them around briefly, and dumped them in the pan. "I think Lee is partial to Becky as well. He likes the way she speaks her mind. I suppose that's what happens when you're surrounded by yes-men all day long." She looked up pointedly at Emily. "Isn't that your impression, dear?"

  "Oh, definitely," Emily said, to be polite. In general it was true. In the matter of Fergus it was not true.

  Inez laid out a plate of French bread and a beautifully browned omelet smothered in a cheese sauce and then excused herself, leaving Emily to enjoy a view of the herb garden at twilight. When she was finished she rinsed out her dishes and left them in the rack, boiled herself a cup of tea, and went back to what was no longer a fun or even an interesting task. It was too irrelevant, too distracting from the business at hand. And it was too hot to work.

  Back in her room she took one last tour of the rose terrace before darkness set in. The fragrance was even more pronounced at night; she went around and smelled every plant, wondering if Fergus was around to enjoy her enjoyment. After a few minutes she went back inside and scooped up yet another armful of Hattie's mementos. As before, she pulled out the photos first to spare them further bending and mutilating.

  And then, quite simply, her heart stood still. In her hand she held a sepia-toned studio photograph that was a variant of the one she had found stuck in the drawer of the desk in the tower of Talbot Manor. Same fern, same family, different pose. In this shot both parents were looking adoringly at the infant in the mother's arms; the father's face was obscured. One of the boys was smiling tentatively, and one remained formal and impassive.

  Emily turned the photo over. Her hand began to shake. The names of the subjects were written clearly in a woman's hand on the back: John Talbot, Celeste Talbot, Hessiah, Stewart, and -- a complete surprise -- James. So! She'd been right all along, and the first feeling that roared through her was one of triumph. But little James with his timid smile was a puzzle. There was no mention of him in Celeste Talbot's obituary. Was he even her child? Had he already succumbed, as so many children of the period did, to fever and disease?

  In a blaze of enthusiasm Emily dove back into the trunk for another armful of memorabilia. If there was one photo, there must be others. She shuffled through the photographs feverishly, looking for more evidence of the Talbots. Before very long she sat back on her heels.

  Waitaminnit. Hattie Dunbart should link back to Mayor Henry Abbott, not to the Talbots. So why was the Talbots' photo
among the Abbotts' keepsakes? It's not as if they were family. Would a bridge partner ask for and keep so personal an item as this?

  Oh, hell's bells, she thought, dazed and confused. It was like unwinding a coil of hopelessly tangled line. This is what happens when you rush a job, she thought, illogically annoyed with Hildie. I should've gone home with the trunk.

  She was still sitting back on her heels, staring blankly into space and trying to remember what was in her computer, when the door was swung open with no warning.

  "My God. You are here."

  Chapter 22

  Emily jumped up in panic, sending papers flying in every direction. She felt as if she'd been caught breaking and entering. Like a fool, she instantly blurted, "Hildie said I could stay."

  Lee Alden's grin lit up his eyes, lit up the room, lit up every one of her nerve endings. "If Hildie says so, then I guess it must be all right," he said with good-humored irony. "Hi."

  "We thought you weren't going to be here," she added. That, of course, explained everything.

  Lee was leaning against the doorframe now, arms folded across his chest, completely filling the doorway. He was wearing a navy polo shirt; she could see damp circles under the sleeves, as if he'd been running.

  "I see my sister-in-law has clothed you," he said, casting an attentive eye over Hildie's shorts and scanty tank top. "But has she taken the trouble to feed you?"

  "Oh. Yes. Sure. Inez made an omelet," Emily said in a rush, then fell to her knees and began haphazardly scooping the stacks of papers back into a common pile much the way Hattie's niece would've done. "I'm so embarrassed about this, Lee," she said, hardly daring to look at him. "It seemed like such a good idea at the time. I had no idea you might be dropping in-–"

  "Dope. You're the reason I'm 'dropping in,'" he said, unfolding himself from the doorway. "I called a little while ago, and Inez told me you were here." He came into the room and crouched down in a catcher's pose, facing her. "So I hopped a flight with a pal to the Edgartown Air Park, then forced him practically at gunpoint to drive me across the island."