It didn’t seem like the right time to bring up the baby, so I didn’t.
TWENTY-THREE
Emotional Overload
Sitting there in Minnie’s living room the day following her memorial service, I pictured her occupying the other end of the sofa that first time she invited me in to see the place. I clearly remembered that day, examining every inch of the room for clues, even taking notes. I was looking at things in the room a lot differently now.
“We’re alone now, you and me,” I said to the room.
In going through her things, I found several boxes of rocks—small, smooth rocks of varying shapes and colors—hundreds of them. I pulled a large one from the bottom of one of the boxes and found these words written on it in black marker:
I rummaged around and found other rocks with writing on them, mostly words of endearment, obviously written by a young child. Maybe by Minnie’s daughter?
As I sat on her bed sorting through the rocks, I noticed the position of the framed photo of Minnie’s late husband and daughter on the end table next to me. I had thought before that it had been placed at an odd angle. But now I realized there was a good reason for its position—when Minnie sat in her favorite chair, it was directly facing her.
Bookshelves flanked the fireplace, and at the end of a short row of books was a photograph I hadn’t noticed before. I took it down for a better look. Even though it was a black-and-white, I could tell the gardens on either side of the cobblestone path were brilliant with color. Then I glanced at the tapestry hanging over Minnie’s favorite chair. It contained the same image. When I took the tapestry down from its hanger, I saw a note pinned to its back.
GRAMERCY GARDENS
MARCH 18, 1960
I was very familiar with Gramercy Gardens—it had been developed when I was a junior in high school, and my French class had volunteered a month of Saturdays to help with the plantings. In fact, we had been the ones who named it. The word gramercy has a French origin and means great thanks. The garden had been dedicated to Chicago servicemen and women who’d lost their lives in World War II.
I examined the tapestry more closely and wondered if Minnie had made it herself. March 18, 1960. A chill darted down my back. That was the day my parents had died.
* * *
Minnie had been gone four days when Brenda, my contact at the Clerk of the Circuit Court’s office, called me to tell me one other person had filed a request to become administrator of Minnie’s estate and that she would get back to me when a decision was made as to who would be appointed. I asked her the other person’s name.
“You know I can’t tell you that, Grace.”
I explained the situation.
“I really can’t tell you that,” she whispered, “but if you were to come by here and happen to see any documents on my desk that revealed his name when I had my back turned, I would never even know.”
“I’ll be there in an hour,” I told her.
* * *
I wasn’t sure why I wasted my time driving to City Hall. I knew before I got there whose name I would see on Brenda’s desk.
When I arrived, there was a short line. Two people let me go in front of them—at least the crutches had one benefit. When I reached the front of the line, Brenda turned her back to me. I gazed over the counter at the top of her desk where Berghorn’s name had been boldly written on a piece of paper. Brenda turned toward me and mouthed that she would meet me outside in twenty minutes when she was on her break.
It took me fifteen minutes to reach our meeting place. I stood outside and watched the steady flow of people rush past—employees on their way to work, salesmen on their way to what they hoped was a lucrative sales call, lawyers on their way to court. When Brenda arrived a few minutes later, I first explained the crutches and then my concern about Berghorn being administrator.
“I have to be really careful what I say and to whom, Grace. You know how political everything is here.”
“I know.”
Brenda didn’t say anything for a long few seconds.
“I know the judge who’s going to handle this. Do you want me to see what I can do?”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe he can be influenced.”
I looked around to make sure no one was within earshot. “As in offering him a bribe?”
“Are you aware of the three I’s that everyone involved in our judicial system is expected to withhold?”
“No.”
“Impartiality, independence, and integrity. Well, let’s just say some of our magistrates may come up a little short in one or more of the three I’s.”
“No kidding.”
“Don’t look so surprised. This is Chicago—not all areas of the judicial system are that judicious.”
“I could never be a part of that.”
“I was just trying to help.”
“And besides, I have no money.”
“Believe me, this would be such small potatoes compared to what goes on here, no money would be involved. It would just be a little favor.”
“Okay, I’m in.”
“I gotta go. I’ll call you when I know something.”
“I owe you, Brenda.”
“Lunch sometime?”
“You got it.”
* * *
Minnie had been gone less than a week, and I hated the emotional roller coaster I was on. What if I had wakened her earlier that day? Maybe she’d still be alive.
The burden of handling Minnie’s affairs compounded the situation. She hadn’t left behind a huge estate by any means, yet there seemed to be an endless stream of things I had to deal with in one way or another.
I was grateful that Minnie had kept all her important papers in one place—her underwear drawer. It pained me to be in her dresser drawers, invading her privacy like that. Her smell was in those drawers. By combing through her things, I had learned that the house was mortgage-free, and she had been receiving pension and social security benefits ever since her husband and daughter had died. I had also found the key to a safe deposit box at North Community Bank.
I missed her terribly and didn’t realize until I had explored her private possessions how much I had needed a Minnie in my life.
* * *
Brenda came through for me. The week following Minnie’s death, she called to tell me I would be getting a letter any day advising me of my appointment to be administrator of Minnie’s estate. That was the good news. The bad news was that the court had received a check in the amount of $1,000 to serve as earnest money for purchasing Minnie’s house.
“Who submitted it?”
“Waddershins Trust. Does that mean anything to you?”
“It sure does. It’s Elmer Berghorn. So how does this work, Brenda? Can he buy it without my approval?”
“In the letter you receive, there will be a date and time for a meeting with someone from probate court who will go over your role as administrator. Nothing can be done before that.”
So now Elmer was after Minnie’s house. What was with that man?
* * *
The probate court was in a section of City Hall I’d never been in before. I hobbled up and down three staircases before I found Mr. Averill’s office. He waved me in.
Norman Averill was middle-aged, wore his hair a little long, and sported a Madras tie. Not exactly the image I would have expected for someone in his position. The top of his desk had nothing on it except for one file folder, a pad of paper, a pen, and a framed photo of Andy Warhol. I hoped for the best.
He began by telling me about my duties and responsibilities, which for the most part included contacting any professionals with whom Minnie had had a relationship, paying outstanding bills, identifying and distributing all her assets, and filing tax returns.
“Are you sure she has no heirs?” he asked me.
“She told me that when she lost her daughter and husband, she was left with no family.”
“Are you positive she
had no will?”
“She kept all her important papers in one place. I found no will.”
“Did she have a lawyer she used for anything?”
“She never mentioned one.”
“I ask because maybe she had a will but just didn’t keep a copy of it, but her lawyer would have a copy. Since one of your obligations is to contact professional relationships, be on the lookout for a lawyer. The county will get her estate if she has no heirs and no will, and I shouldn’t be saying this as a government employee, but I’d hate to see that happen.”
“I appreciate that.”
He ruffled through the papers in Minnie’s file and then peered at me over the top of his glasses.
“There’s someone interested in buying her house.”
“Oh?”
“It’s a Canadian trust named Waddershins. Does that name mean anything to you?”
I must have given him a blank stare a little too long.
“Miss Lindroth?”
“I’m sorry. Yes, it does. I used to work with the man who owns that trust, and he is also the man who bought my parents’ home immediately after they died.”
“There are people who do that. They watch the obituaries and scoop up real estate at cheap prices. It may not be ethical, but it’s perfectly legal.”
“As administrator, would I have to sell it to him?”
“You are required by law to advise us of any offers, and if your friend died without a will and without heirs, the county will make that decision.”
“What if there are two people who want to buy it?”
“It would likely go to the highest bidder.”
“I see.”
He gave me the paperwork I would need to prove I had power of attorney over Minnie’s estate, and we agreed to meet in two weeks after I had the opportunity to talk to Minnie’s professional contacts.
I thought about Berghorn on the walk to my car. Regardless of his motives, I’d be damned if I stood by and let him buy the house.
A moral dilemma floated in and out of my brain on the drive home—what to do with the Irish money. Whose was it anyway? Minnie clearly had said she didn’t consider it hers, so in my mind, the state shouldn’t get it because it wasn’t part of her estate.
I’d be lying if I said the thought had never entered my mind that no one would be the wiser if I just kept the money for myself. I could live comfortably on it for a long time. But a strong sense of integrity that had been instilled in me by my mother kept me from thinking about that seriously. And besides that, I knew the guilt would do me in.
Henry Sikes had told me on the phone when he thought I was Minnie that O’Gowan had won big money in a sweepstakes. That told me it belonged to his heirs—like the woman who had written to Minnie claiming to be his sister. Maybe that’s why she had been trying to find him—the money.
How hard should I look for his heirs? All I had was a fifteen-year-old address for his supposed sister. How much time and money was I expected to spend before feeling I had done all I could? How far did I have to go—travel to Ireland and knock on every door?
One thing was for sure, and that was I had to find where Minnie had hidden the bills and get them into a safe-deposit box, like she should have done right from the start.
When I arrived home, Tymon was waiting for me on the patio.
“I was thinking about eating out tonight. Want to join me?”
I hadn’t planned anything for dinner. “Sure.”
He drove us to Milano’s, a little neighborhood Italian restaurant not far from Minnie’s. As soon as we sat down and ordered a glass of wine, he rested his elbows on the table and said, “I hope you aren’t going to be mad at me for this, or worse yet, mad at Minnie.”
I studied his eyes—it was something serious.
“Minnie told me Anna wasn’t really your aunt.”
I wondered just how long he had known this, how long he had been playing along. Minnie had first met him four months ago in February. He knew the whole time and didn’t say anything? My opinion of him dropped a few notches. Of course, Minnie had played a role in this too.
“When did she tell you this?”
“When you were in the hospital.”
The end of April. So he’d known for a little over a month.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“She asked me not to, and I respected that.”
“What else did she tell you?”
“I know that you’re trying to get to the bottom of who your real mother is, and that you think it was Anna. When Minnie died, I knew I had to tell you what she had told me. I waited a week thinking that was a respectable length of time.”
“So there was a baby.”
“Yes. There was a baby.”
“A girl.”
“Yes, but no one knew about her.”
“Henry did.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Henry was a busy body. No one else knew.”
“But you did.”
“She couldn’t hide it from me. I was in her home often.”
“She was hiding it?”
He nodded.
“Why?”
“I don’t know for sure. She asked me not to tell anyone about her, and I didn’t...not until the police after she died.”
“And what was their reaction?”
“They said they had talked to everyone—the boarders, neighbors, even where she banked—and no one mentioned a baby. I tried to tell them Anna was a private person. I insisted she had a daughter who was now missing.”
“And...”
“They dismissed me. Probably thought I was some kind of crazy person.”
“I don’t understand why she would keep that such a secret or how she even was able to keep it a secret. The baby must have cried.”
“I’m afraid I may have helped her hide the child when she asked me insulate the walls and ceiling of the baby’s room.”
“Insulate them?”
“So her cries couldn’t be heard.”
“That’s crazy.”
“I didn’t ask questions.”
“She never went out with her? Didn’t sit out on the patio? Go for walks?”
Tymon shook his head. “Not that I ever saw.”
“I don’t get it.”
“I think she was either too ashamed to have had a child out of wedlock, or the father had something to do with it.”
“Something to do with what?”
“Hiding the child.”
“Why do you say that?”
He hesitated. “Because I think the upstairs boarder Al may have been the child’s father, and Al was married.”
I gave that a moment to sink in. I was then more uncertain about Tymon than ever and didn’t know whether to believe anything he was telling me.
“You’re upset,” he said.
“No, I’m not upset.”
“Yes you are. You’re wondering whether or not you can trust me.” He paused a moment while he stared into my eyes. “And I’m wondering if you’re the daughter of the only woman I ever loved.”
Now I was upset.
“And what exactly would that mean?” I asked.
“Nothing really. It just means—”
“You wouldn’t have said that if it didn’t mean something.”
Tymon squirmed in his chair. “Just that I can finally put a finger on what it was about you that has intrigued me so.”
Good God—what was he saying?
“No, intrigued isn’t the right word,” he stammered. “Attracted. No, that’s not it either. I’m not very good with words, but do you know what I mean?”
“No. I don’t know what you mean.”
He didn’t say anything—instead he stared down at the table, perhaps searching for the right word, perhaps trying to think of a way out of this.
“From the very first time I met you, I felt some kind of connection. That’s the word I was looking for. Does that make any sense?”
&
nbsp; “Not really.”
“I have a picture of her in my wallet. Would you like to see it?”
I nodded.
He fished out his wallet and handed a faded photo to me.
“I told her I was trying out my new camera on different things and asked her if I could shoot her. Pretty sneaky, wasn’t it?”
I couldn’t take my eyes off the photo. She had some kind of turban on her head—the kind you might wrap around your hair after a shampoo—and was looking directly at the camera. That was the first time I had seen the whole of her face, unencumbered by her hair, a hat, or anything else. Except for being thinner than my adopted mother, she looked so much like her, it was frightening.
“Gracie?”
I carried with me a few of the photos from my parents’ attic. I fetched the one of a man holding a baby and handed it to Tymon.
“Could this be Al?”
He studied the photo for several seconds. “Could be. That was a long time ago, and you can’t see much of his face here.”
I looked again at the photo of Anna he had handed to me. She and my mother had such similar physical characteristics, they could have been sisters. I closed my eyes and tried to retreat to a place in my brain where things made sense. Could they have been sisters? If so, would that explain some things?
“Grace?”
“I’m sorry. I can’t get over how much she looks like my mother, the mother who raised me. It’s uncanny.”
He didn’t respond.
I handed the photo back to him.
“Did she ever mention having a sister?” I asked.
“Not to me.”
We finished our dinners in silence.
I tried to carry on a conversation with Tymon on the drive home, but it was evident he didn’t want to talk. The investigator in me tried to come up with a possible reason for that, and then it occurred to me that maybe Tymon hadn’t told me everything about his and Anna’s relationship. It occurred to me that maybe it had gotten romantic at one point. It occurred to me that he could be lying about the upstairs boarder in order to cover up the truth. It occurred to me that he could be my real father.
Regarding Anna Page 17