by Beck, Jamie
“Martin was a good man.” I fold my hands in prayer for a second before interlacing my gnarly fingers. “He and Bobby deserved better from me. I tried to do the right thing . . . every day.” I pick at my scalp. “But some days I just couldn’t feel anything.” I cluck.
“Mom says that you should judge yourself by what you do right, not by your mistakes. She also says that Grandpa was always happy and that she loved being with you guys in the summer. So whatever you think you did wrong, you must’ve done a lot of things right.” She takes my hand and squeezes it. Katy! That’s her name. Annie’s child. She closes the photo albums. “Thanks for letting me borrow these. I have to go home for dinner now, but Mom or I will bring them back soon, okay?”
I nod and pull my blanket higher as she kisses me goodbye.
Katy has a look in her eyes that reminds me of myself at that age—questioning and restless. “Katy, wait.”
She stops. “Do you need something?”
I nod. “If I were your age, I think we’d be friends.”
“Thanks, Grammy.” She cocks her hip, shifting the weight of the albums in her arms. “But we can be friends now, right?”
“Yes, dear. But make me one promise.”
“Bring more pudding?” Her blue eyes twinkle.
“Oh, that too,” I say. “But you’re at that age when a lot of people will tell you who you should be. Promise me you’ll listen to your own heart first.”
Katy sets the books on the kitchenette counter and comes back to give me another hug. “I’m trying really hard.”
I’m glad she didn’t make an easy promise. She’s a serious child, and she’s going to get it right. I pat her hand as she pulls away. “Good girl.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
ANNE
Katy returns and dumps the photo albums on the dining table. “Well, that was interesting.”
“Was Gram able to be helpful?”
“Oh, yeah. She was very informative. Turns out Billy’s last name is Tyler and he’s dead.” My lips part before Katy finishes. “And her dad might’ve had something to do with that. She said he killed Billy, then she backpedaled. It’s hard to tell what’s real with the way she weaves in and out.”
“She accused her father of murder?” I’m gobsmacked.
“I was thinking it was more accidental—like maybe he treated him for something and it didn’t work. But then she acted like she’d been exaggerating. But if he is dead, there should be an obituary, right?”
“You’re right! And now we have a last name.” I pop off my chair to get my laptop from my bedroom. When I return, I say, “I’m nervous. Are you?”
Katy nods.
She hangs over my shoulder while I type “William Tyler obituary Maryland” into the browser’s search bar. After scrolling past the first two, which are more recent, I see one dated July 7, 1950, and bite my lip. “Here goes nothing.”
“Whoa!” Katy hovers over my shoulder, reading my computer screen. “Grammy was married to Billy?”
I’m blinking, rereading William Anthony Tyler’s obituary for a third time.
Tyler.—William Anthony, son of Matthew David and Josephina (Sciotto) Tyler, was born Nov. 28, 1927, in Brooklyn, New York. He was killed in action on Jul. 5, 1950, in South Korea at the Battle of Osan; aged 23. He held the rank of Private First Class, whose specialty was Light Weapons Infantryman with 21st Infantry Regiment, 24th Infantry Division. He was awarded the Purple Heart and is survived by his parents, and his wife, Marie Jean Robson, of Potomac Point, Maryland, and his sister, Angela Tyler Berg, and her son, Benjamin William Berg. In his life he made many friends, who remember him as an honest man. He was a kind and loving husband. Funeral services will be held July 10 at St. Mary’s Church.
I never met Billy—never knew of his existence until this month—yet my heart is leaden. A tragic ending to his life and, judging by the date of his death, his abbreviated marriage. Gram married even younger than I did—she could only have just graduated high school that spring. And now her lack of enthusiasm each Fourth of July makes more sense to me. But why would she blame her father when Billy clearly died in combat?
Her secretiveness points to an elopement. Many women married young in that era, so her father’s objections must’ve been something specific. But what was not to like and respect about a soldier?
Unless she’d been pregnant like me . . .
“You should marry Richard now that you’re pregnant,” she’d told me. I’d worry about my father’s paternity, but he wasn’t born until 1955.
“Does Pop-Pop know about this?” Katy asks.
I shake my head, certain at first, then slowly questioning myself. He’d claimed not to have heard Billy’s name before, but there’s no guarantee that my father would tell me the truth. We’ve never shared the kind of relationship I’ve tried to build with my daughter. “I don’t think so.”
Had Gram’s young widowhood been what Grandpa had been referring to when he spoke of all she’d been through? A war-hero husband shouldn’t have needed to be a secret, so there must be more to this story. That makes me shiver.
“Don’t ask her about this, Mom.” Katy plunks onto a chair beside me, arms flung across the table. I quickly scan them for evidence of more trouble. Nothing so far, although she still pulls at her hair and snaps that dang rubber band often. “She didn’t talk about it for a reason.”
Gram was married to someone else. Was grief what kept her from doting too much on my dad—the fear of loving and losing him, too? Was grief what sent her to Allcot, if she even went there? My thoughts scatter, so I’m hardly listening while weighing whether or not to share this revelation with my father.
“You know, she told me today that if she were my age, she’d want to be my friend.” Katy smiles to herself.
The answers I seek can wait another day.
“Did she? That’s a lovely compliment.” It would’ve been nice to witness that beautiful moment, but it might not have happened if I’d been there.
“It makes me a little sad that we didn’t visit more often when she was healthier—not that I’m trying to make you feel bad. I mean, my schedule is always crazy, and I probably wouldn’t have wanted to come if you’d asked. But now I see what we missed, you know?”
I don’t want to cry, but my heart is so full of happy tears I can’t help it. “I do know. Maybe it’s a lesson that we need to slow down and be in the moment more often.”
“Yeah. Like now.” Katy shoves a fat photo album in front of me. “Can you help me with my project? I need to know about all these relatives.”
“Did Gram fill in some blanks?”
“Some. She got a little spacey for a while, but then she came back. She told me about her grandparents from Germany. I’m so used to it just being you, Dad, and me it was kind of cool to see all these other people that are part of my family—technically, anyway.”
I stroke her hair. “You know, maybe when things settle down, I can try to organize a little reunion. See if I can get together some of my dad’s cousins and their kids for one last hurrah with Gram.”
Katy nods and opens the oldest album. We sift through the pages, selecting images best suited to her vision for the photo-collage family tree. It’s surprising how many faces I recognize thanks to the rainy day when Grandpa and I had picked through these albums and talked about the people in them.
When we’ve finished, Katy says, “I invited Tomás to work on his photography project in our studio next week if that’s okay.”
I blink. “Is he the boy who was with you when you were caught smoking pot?”
She screws up her face. “I told you and Dad he had nothing to do with that. He just happened to be there.”
“Sorry. It’s just—that’s the last I’d heard his name. I didn’t realize you’d become friends.”
My daughter spears me with a look. “He’s in my photography class and he’s really good at it. We’re just friends, though. Like total ‘friend zone’ friend.�
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“Isn’t that what I said?” Always with the eggshells beneath my feet. It’s exhausting.
“You sound like you don’t believe me.”
Now she’s a mind reader, too.
“I do,” I say. “But when you act touchy, it makes me suspicious.”
“I’m not touchy. I just don’t want you to act all weird if you meet him, that’s all.” She slaps the open album closed.
I cross my heart. “I won’t act weird.”
“Like you can control that . . .” She smirks.
“Katy!” I slap her arm in jest.
She chuckles. “It’s okay. You can’t help making a big deal of everything.”
Noted. Sort of.
Motherhood is a tricky road with no map. I’ve taken many wrong turns, but I’m learning, slowly, some new ways to communicate with my daughter. She’s been a little easier around me as a result. “Let’s make a deal. I won’t make a fuss about Tomás if you stop making one about Dan.”
Katy’s mouth twitches. “That’s different.”
“How so?”
She looks me dead in the eye. “Because Dan likes you.”
I flush. “He’s a kind person, and we’re friends.”
“Okay, ostrich.” She neatly stacks the old pictures we’ve pulled out to copy. “Will you return these albums after I make copies of stuff at Walgreens?”
I’m glad to drop the topic of Dan. “Sure.”
“Great!” Katy pops out of her chair, toting the heavy albums. “Smells like dinner should be ready.”
“Go use the meat thermometer to see if the roast is done while I close up all this.” I point to my laptop.
After Katy goes into the kitchen, I turn back to the obituary. Billy Tyler’s sister is likely dead, and I couldn’t call his nephew out of the blue even if I could find him. I keep googling Billy’s name in search of more information, but he is essentially a ghost, like millions before him.
If I die, there won’t be much of a footprint left behind, either. No legacy other than Katy.
That’s always been fine with me, but the closer she gets to flying the coop, the less being her mother feels like it should be the entirety of my entire life’s accomplishments.
On Friday morning, Dan arrives with the goal of wrapping up my master bathroom work no later than Wednesday. As happy as I’ll be when my house is cleaned up, I’ll miss his company. We’ve fallen into a pattern of sharing lunch on the patio lately. He’s told me about his black Lab, Arya, and the first house he remodeled—a bungalow on Orchard—and his dad’s losing battle with lung cancer, and his favorite blog, Wait But Why. Lots of little details that paint a bigger picture of a simple, loyal man who commits to the people and things in his life.
“Good morning.” I pour him a cup of coffee.
“Hi.” The kitchen brightens when he steps inside. Dan hasn’t brought up the other week’s little breakdown or Katy’s cutting since we spoke of it, so I try not to assume it’s the first thing he thinks of whenever he sees me. He sips some coffee while its steam still curls above the cup. “What’s on your agenda today?”
“Well, I’m having lunch with Jackie—a tech-savvy mom on the art show committee—to see which of the auction apps might work. Then I thought I might finally sit down in my new studio, brush the rust off these hands, and paint something.” I shake off the nervous tingles that idea sets off. Since my first attempt at sketching again in a decade, I’m feeling more confident and inspired. More deserving of something of my own despite everything else that needs my attention.
He brightens, setting his coffee on the counter. “That’s terrific. I can’t wait to see what you do.”
“Oh gosh. Today will be more about practicing technique than creating art.” In fact, there will be lots of practicing in the coming weeks.
He nods. “Understood. Still, that’s great. I hope you find some peace in that studio.”
“It’s so beautiful. You did an amazing job. The skylight and glass doors let nature in. It’s perfect.”
“It’s my favorite reno of this job.” He smiles.
“Mine too.” My face feels like banked embers. “You’ve been so kind to us, buying those gifts. I wish I had some way to repay you for everything.”
The room temperature rises in the beats between my comment and his reply. He clears his throat as he runs a hand through his hair. “Well, if you’re offering, there is one thing I’d like.”
He’s very still, as am I—as long as you don’t count the artery throbbing in my neck.
“What’s that?” My shirt is sticking to my back.
“The next time Katy spends the night with her father, join me for dinner.” His brows are arched high in question, his grin hopeful.
I immediately tug at a long curl of hair. “Oh. Well, you know my divorce isn’t even final . . . I’m not sure I’m ready to date.”
He waves the notion away. “No labels. An adult night out, that’s all.”
“A casual night with a friend.” I nod, knowing it is more than that, but comfortable with the boundary for now. “Okay, then. It’s a not-date,” I tease. “Katy is working up to seeing Lauren again, so I’ll let you know when they put something on the calendar.”
“Terrific.” He’s beaming, amber eyes lit from within. “Guess I’d better get to work so you can finally soak in that tub you bought.”
I snap my fingers and point toward the bedroom, laughing. “Yes, get on that, please!”
When Dan leaves, it occurs to me that I should probably talk to Katy about this so she doesn’t feel like her feelings don’t matter. I have a life to live, but I want to move forward in a way that minimizes the risk of either of us ending up hurt.
“This is the one. It’s free and we can set parameters, like minimum incremental bids—maybe one dollar? And we can rig it to ping auction participants when they’ve been outbid, so they can simply increase their bid by another two dollars. The only person who will know what a piece sells for is the one who buys it and the two volunteers in charge of the auction,” Jackie says, her eyes still scanning the software app’s site.
“Of course, we can’t stop parents from talking or sharing that news. Some info will leak.” I twist my lips, weighing the benefits of the auction against the potential downside.
“I don’t see a problem. Every parent will bid on their own kid’s work, so everything will sell. I doubt we’ll see massive bidding wars over anything, either. This is just a fun way to get parents and kids involved in the show. It’s better than charging five or ten bucks’ entry fee, which could dampen the size of the crowd.”
“Good point.” I nod. “I’ll text Samantha this info and see what she says.”
Jackie closes her laptop and sips from her wine. She’s pleasant and probably five to seven years my senior. But like me, she tends toward hanging at the fringes of large groups, which is why we hit it off. In any case, it’s refreshing to be establishing new friendships with people who have no connection to Richard, his clients, our old country club, or even Katy’s friends.
“So have you lived here long?” I ask.
“Ten years, give or take.” She slides her laptop into her gorgeous black leather satchel. “My husband quit the corporate world to come home and run his father’s insurance business. Decent money and he works fewer hours.”
I stir my iced tea. “Sounds like a good trade-off.”
She snickers. “I still miss Chicago. The restaurants. The shows. The shopping!”
“Town has a lot more shops and restaurants than when I was young.” I sip my drink. “I think you’re lucky. My ex wouldn’t consider stepping back from his career to spend more time with my daughter and me.”
Jackie wrinkles her nose, laughing. “You’re right. I should be glad Scott still enjoys my company after almost twenty-five years together.”
The waiter brings our bill, so we each throw down twenty bucks.
“I’m going to ask Scott if he knows of any nice
single men in town.” Jackie stuffs her wallet in the satchel.
“Please don’t. I’m not in the market for that yet.” I think of Dan, though, and smile.
Jackie narrows her gaze. “That smile makes me think maybe you already have someone in your sights.”
“I don’t know. Not really . . . I mean, there’s a guy and he’s nice and there might be something there. But Richard damaged my ability to trust.”
“Makes sense . . . but don’t wait too long or someone else might snap up your Mr. Nice Guy.” Jackie slides out of her side of the booth. “So I guess I’ll see you at the next meeting.”
“Yes. But if you change your mind about trying yoga, you should meet me at a class some morning. It’s really a great way to relieve stress.”
“Stress?” She mockingly chugs the remains of her wine. “Who’s stressed?”
I grin. “Certainly not us.”
When I get home, I bypass the house and head straight to the shed.
With the exception of the slight mess Katy’s left on her desk from the other night, it’s pristine—the perfect canvas for my fresh start. Before I begin, I open my Spotify app and connect to the little Bluetooth speaker. A George Winston playlist will set a nice mood. I grab some paper towels, solvent, and tubes of oils, and then—for the first time in a decade—pull up to an easel and sit in front of a canvas.
It should be easy. That’s what my mind repeats, yet my damp hands and thready pulse tell a different story. Professor Agate is in my head again. “Be fierce and barefaced. Hide nothing.” I stretch my fingers, which suddenly feel arthritic although they aren’t. Beyond the skylight, cumulus clouds populate a blue sky. To relieve the pressure of producing something stunning, I begin with an old exercise in blending techniques—painting clouds.
I first paint the canvas with a base white to start. Next I mix a dab of marine blue and titanium white on the palette, then use the fan brush in a back-and-forth sweeping motion to create the sky. Occasionally I add a heavier sweep of blue or white to avoid flatness and let the light bounce around the background.