by Nero Blanc
Belle stood and walked to the kitchen, purposefully ignoring the spreading view of blue lagoon and tranquil air. Another group of pelicans hovered in the distant sky; she averted her eyes and instead set the tea kettle on the stove. At least, the stainless steel container was a familiar sight, as were the teacups: the remnants of her great-grandmother’s Blue Willow pattern and the only visible evidence that her father had once had previous attachments—and an existence prior to Sanibel and Mrs. Deborah Hurley. Belle stared at the aged blue and white china; again, she felt tears swimming into her eyes.
The kettle boiled. She carried her tea past the dining area, past the screened veranda, past her father’s bedroom, and into the shuttered room he’d obviously used as a study. She hoped his collection of books and scholarly pamphlets and treatises might provide solace—or at least familiar surroundings in which to begin to gather her thoughts.
But again, she was surprised. As she switched on a lamp, what arrested her glance was not her father’s beloved books but a grouping of photographs that nearly covered the wall above the desk. They were pictures Belle hadn’t seen before: her parents in their youthful prime, then her father alone in middle age surrounded by academic types draped in university robes or accoutered in somber jackets and ties. And then there were a number of him as an older man in the company of people whose backgrounds and livelihoods were impossible to discern.
In one photo her father looked as if he’d been deep-sea fishing. He was standing shirtless and uncharacteristically tanned and fit in the back of a large power boat. In another, he sat at an open-air restaurant dotted with palm trees; several empty beer bottles littered a stained tablecloth while the backdrop was a blur as if a large number of people were dancing. The shadow of the photographer lay across the table while her father gazed up in apprehension, his expression the dismayed scowl of a man who’s been caught where he shouldn’t be.
Belle drew back and dropped her eyes as if she’d glimpsed some unsavory part of her father’s life, then she returned to her perusal of the portrait gallery. Among the entire collection, there was not one picture of Theodore A. Graham’s only child; the framed photo Belle had sent of Rosco and herself on their wedding day was nowhere visible.
A knock at the front door disturbed whatever unhappy thoughts this discovery might invoke. Belle stifled an impatient groan, crossed the living room, and opened the door to find Deborah on the threshold. She looked as if she’d been crying hard.
“Can I come in … Belle?”
Reluctantly, Belle stood to one side. She knew she should attempt to be gracious and consoling, but thoughtfulness wasn’t in the cards at the moment. Instead, her tone turned irritable. “You wouldn’t know where my father put a picture taken on my wedding day, would you?”
Deborah shook her head, drew in a quavering breath, then added a sorrowful: “Ted could be a pretty secretive person … I mean, there were lots and lots of things I didn’t know … But I do remember him saying you were married …”
Belle raised her eyebrows. She was tempted to utter a snide and probably withering comment, but counted to ten, opting for a more subtle: “Well, I gather there’s a good deal of information that wasn’t shared with me, either.”
Deborah walked to the couch, automatically replacing a ruffle-edged pillow Belle had tossed aside. “I can’t believe he’s gone …”
“He is.” The words were more unkind than Belle had intended.
“I mean, Ted was so … so vital, and … and energetic and everything …”
Belle found herself gritting her teeth. “Just what did you do for my father, Deborah? If you don’t mind my asking—”
“Please … call me Debbie … That’s what your … I mean, that’s what everyone calls me …”
“Okay. Debbie.” Belle struggled to maintain a civil tone. “And what precisely was it my father hired you to do?”
“Oh, this and that … answer letters, you know … stuff like that …” Debbie sniffled and drew in another grief-filled breath while Belle’s heart hardened. “And I helped research that paper he was writing—”
“Ah, yes … Father’s monograph on the Olmec civilization.” Belle didn’t believe a word she was hearing. Her spine grew straighter, her jaw tighter.
“That’s why your dad hired me … On account of my research capabilities … He said I was real good at digging up facts. When I was at Rutgers, you know up in New Jersey—”
“You met my father back in New Jersey?” Surprise made Belle’s voice turn even more brittle. “When he was a professor at Princeton?”
“No. No. Of course not, silly! I was just a little kid when he was up there doing his teacher thing. Ted and I met down here. After Mike was transferred T-A-D from the Bayonne facility—”
“Mike? T-A-D?”
Debbie Hurley tilted her head to one side and studied Belle. “My husband. Mike Hurley. T-A-D: Temporary Assigned Duty.” Then she changed the subject, adjusting her demeanor to simulate a chatty, hostess mode. “This view’s really fabulous, isn’t it? I mean, Ted just loved to stare out the windows or hunker down on the veranda out there. I’d catch him goofing off almost every day …”
The idea of her disciplined father “goofing off” or gazing vacantly into space was as troubling as the nickname “Ted”—and nearly as upsetting as his hiring a “research assistant” whose grasp of language was so slovenly and imprecise. Professor Graham had never been a charitable soul—especially when it came to educational standards.
“But I guess that was on account of the birds—”
“The birds?”
“Yeah … You know … ’Cause he liked counting all the birds … He had those huge binoculars of his with him all the time—”
“My father was a bird-watcher?” Here was another piece of information that didn’t jibe with the parent Belle remembered. In fact, in her recollection, he’d been the very opposite—“neophyte ornithologists” was the term he’d employed to dismiss those whose hobby was “birding.”
“Oh, big time! I mean, that’s why he kept that notebook with him every living second … Like, you know, to count the anhingas and turkey vultures and bald eagles and stuff. I swear, he never went anywhere without it … I mean, he even packed it when he went off to see you. Said the migratory ospreys would be—”
“It wasn’t among his effects.” Belle’s tone remained perplexed and flat.
“One of those cardboard-covered composition books? You know, the kind school kids use … with the sort of black and white marbly cover? ‘A Murder of Crows,’ that’s what he wrote on the outside—”
“What?”
“You know, like a name for a bunch of critters: a ‘siege of cranes,’ a ‘rafter of turkeys’—”
“Yes, I’m aware of those phrases—”
“Well, Ted told me neat stuff like that … a ‘cast of hawks,’ a ‘skein of geese,’ and other stuff … He knew everything about ‘ornithology.’ That’s when you study—”
“I know what it is.” Belle could only stare at her father’s assistant. Migratory ospreys, she thought, anhingas, turkey vultures: Who was this man Debbie knew as Ted? After a long and silent moment, Belle produced a baffled: “The notebook wasn’t in the suitcase the police returned to me.”
Debbie shrugged. “Hey, no biggie … Maybe the cops swiped it or it fell out of his bag … Like I said, he only used it to—”
Belle stiffened. “Members of Massachusetts police forces are not in the habit of stealing possessions from the dead—or from anyone else. Especially composition books.”
Debbie’s sad face finally brightened. “Oh, golly! Sorry about that! I should have my head examined. You married an ex-cop! Ted did tell me that. I can see why you’d be sensitive on the subject.”
When Deborah Hurley had finally babbled her way off into the sunset, Belle returned to the kitchen and made herself another cup of tea. She wasn’t hungry in the slightest—not even for the deviled eggs that were her favorite
treat. She knew that reasonable people ate meals at regular hours, and that her body was probably experiencing extreme deprivation. But reasoning was of little use today; Belle’s psyche felt too battered to handle the cheery world of welcoming restaurants and friendly waitresses.
Instead, she opted to take her chances on what she could scrounge in her father’s kitchen. She opened a cabinet, spied a lone can of celery soup, and began hunting down a can opener, pulling open drawers that contained a few paper napkins, a set of flatware that looked brand new, a few mismatched knifes—or nothing. Both her father and her mother had lacked any interest in the domestic sciences.
Belle shook her head. “No wonder I can’t cook,” she muttered under her breath.
Finally, she unearthed the target of her quest. It was in the drawer of a side table in the dining area. Beside the opener, carefully wrapped in tissue paper, was an object she recognized as a picture frame. Belle picked it up and began to unwrap it, imagining she’d found her missing wedding photo, but discovered, instead, a very different memory.
It was a crossword puzzle she’d created for a long past Father’s Day: an homage to famous Princetonians—Dr. Theodore A. Graham among them. She’d conceived the gift cryptic as an amusing diversion, something to be enjoyed and then tossed away. Instead, the man who’d been so disparaging of her choice of work, who’d been so sparing with compliments, who’d been so unknowable and aloof, had not only saved it, but framed it.
FATHER’S DAY
Across
1. Cheer from 48-Across
4. Cleverness
7. Yours and mine
10. “To___is human”
13. Burton co-star in “Look Back in Anger”
14. Fuss
15. Simian
16. “___for Two”
17. Famous class of 1965 Senator
19. Famous class of 1939 dropout
21. Begat
22. Lamenter
23. Pride of 48-Across
29. Born
30. Cupid
31. Prickleback
32. Part of UCLA
34. Picasso’s homeland
37. My Dad!
41. Spoiler
42. Pinch
43. Col. sports grp.
44. JFK arrivals
45. ___alai
48. Orange and Black Cats
54. Composer Edward
55. Mr. Lanza
56. Famous class of 1932 Actor
59. Famous class of 1771 President
61. Fate
62. Get a gander
63. R-V man?
64. Superlative ending
65. “___or no?”
66. Aves.
67. Gosh
68. ___Hoo
Down
1. Roasts
2. Show up
3. Court call
4. “Coming Home” writer Salt
5. Chemical suffix
6. Diversion
7. Woodier
8. Whomp
9. Library option
10. Summer in Salses
11. Mr. Buttons
12. Mr. Charles
18. Calendar abbr.
20. Gun grp.
22. Title for 37-Across
24. Courage
25. Arab chieftain
26. Wife of Jacob
27. Ms. Horne
28. Put-down
32. Army bed
33. Summer cooler
34. Discharge
35. 34-Across Mrs.
36. Bud
37. Snare
38. Rime
39. Needle case
40. Env. letters
44. Washington and Virginia
45. See 49-Down
46. Melodic
47. Gets it
49. With 45-Down, home to 48-Across
50. Teacher’s pets?
51. Shore bird
52. Gambler’s lament
53. Godard’s “Le___Savoir”
56. Fox feature
57. One of ten
58. Aliens; abbr.
59. NYC arena
60. Dined
To download a PDF of this puzzle, please visit openroadmedia.com/nero-blanc-crosswords
CHAPTER 7
Waking the next morning, Belle experienced a jolt of confusion as to her locale. She’d slept on the office couch—a foldaway she hadn’t bothered to transform into its bed position; and she realized before she’d even lifted her head from the pillow that she was in alien territory. As her eyelids popped open, she found herself staring at her father’s rogues gallery of photos, and cognizance swiftly returned. She was on Sanibel Island for the first time in her life; she was there to pack up her father’s books and papers, and place the apartment on the market.
She sat up; the day spreading before her seemed suddenly endless, and she wished once again that she hadn’t been so pigheaded about performing this task alone. Rosco would not only have been a help, he would have been an enormous comfort. He would have put his arms around her when she needed a hug, interjecting humor and patience—a quality she often lacked. Above all, he would have told her he loved her, and that things were going to be just “peachy.”
But then Belle felt herself bristling at the notion of requiring support. A frown furrowed her brow. She was a person with a major independent streak. “Okie-dokie,” she muttered aloud. “Up and at ’em.”
She showered, dressed, put on water for tea, wondered why there wasn’t so much as a cereal box in the cupboards, then drifted into the dining area as she waited for the kettle to boil. There, on the table where she’d left it, was the framed crossword puzzle.
She smiled and picked it up, feeling a small sense of pride at her work: Her father’s name in full at 37-Across; his title PROFESSOR at 22-Down; and at 19-Across, the last name of a man better known as a Harvard grad. That John F. Kennedy had been enrolled in the Princeton class of 1939, and had left for health reasons, was a piece of trivia she’d been inordinately pleased to discover.
Belle murmured a couple of the answers she considered among her more arcane and clever—“Mary URE at 13-Across; STU for 63-Across: R-V man?”—before returning to the tea kettle. Then she finally raised her eyes and took in the breadth of the apartment’s stunning view. An enormous bird with chocolate brown wings swooped past; all at once—and not happily—she remembered Deborah Hurley’s insistence that “Ted” had been an inveterate bird-watcher.
Belle grimaced; the expression grew steadily more irritable as she became aware of someone pounding on the door. She banged her cup down on the kitchen counter and strode through the living room. She didn’t feel like entertaining her father’s “research assistant” again.
“Yes, Debbie. What is it?” Belle uttered the cranky words before the door was fully open.
But instead of Deborah Hurley, Belle found a man in his later middle age. He had graying hair that hadn’t seen a barber in some time, a barrely physique suggesting physical strength but also a total disinterest in anything remotely athletic, and skin so deeply tanned it looked cured like leather. He wore a T-shirt dotted with rust and paint stains, shorts that had probably once been blue canvas, and rubber flip-flops whose thongs were the color of grape jelly.
“Who are you?” His terse speech matched his appearance. This was clearly a man who didn’t believe in standing on ceremony.
“If you’re looking for Debbie, she’s not here. I’m Dr. Graham’s daughter, Annabella … Belle. And you are?”
Instead of responding to her question, the man regarded her curiously. Belle thought she noted a fleeting twinkle in his eye—almost as if he were happy to see her. But the expression vanished so rapidly, she decided she’d been mistaken.
“Ted around?”
“No … No, he’s not.” Belle hesitated; she intuited that this man and her father had been more than passing acquaintances, and she wasn’t sure how to break the difficult news. “You’re … you’re a friend of my father’s?”
>
“You might say that.” The man rocked on his flip-flops; they made a scrunching noise on the concrete passageway: a combination of rubber and small shards of stone or shell.
“And your name is?” Belle put out her hand.
The man shook her hand for the briefest of seconds, then resumed his hesitant silence as if wondering whether or not to relinquish his identity. “Folks call me Woody.”
“Well … Woody … I’m down here because my father … because my father died on his way up North to visit me …”
Woody didn’t utter a sound, but the sudden stillness of his body told Belle he found the news very disturbing. She searched his face, and watched an emotion too fleeting to successfully categorize pass over it. Anger? she wondered. Or betrayal? Then she remembered what Sara had said about grief assuming various guises.
“My … Father was on the train—”
“Anybody with him?” The question was abrupt, suspicious. A scowl matched the tone.
“No … Well, other passengers, of course … But no one he knew, or we would have learned of Father’s death the moment it occurred. A conductor discovered—” Belle stopped herself. There was no need to burden this man with the grim details. “Apparently heart attacks can happen like that.”
“Your father was healthy as an ox.”
“I’m sure he looked that way, but he complained that his back was often—”
Woody snorted. “The back? Huh, just didn’t like to do what he didn’t want to do …”
Belle didn’t respond. Supposedly, the “bad back” had kept “Ted” Graham from attending her wedding. Finally, she said, “Would you like to come in for a minute? I’m sure my news can’t be easy to accept—”
“Ahh, no … No time.” Woody began backing away.
“But I’m sure Father would have wanted you to—”
“Maybe I’ll see you around.” Woody glanced at his watch, but the move seemed overly presentational. “Gotta run.”
“Is there somewhere I can reach you …? I mean, perhaps you can tell me other people I should contact. I’m afraid I don’t know who Father—”