The Map in the Attic

by Jolyn Sharp

  The Pointer Sisters made good time paddling back to Stony Point’s beach, and Annie was relieved to find her grandfather waiting for her. Charles Holden seemed to sense that Annie was rattled, for he suggested she wait in the car while he helped load the kayaks onto the trailer that would cart them back to the boathouse.

  Safe and sound once again at Grey Gables, Annie sat with her grandfather on the porch swing and grilled him about shipwrecks off the coast and pirate ships. Charles Holden had an encyclopedic knowledge of sea lore, and he told Annie the story of the great Irish pirate Grace O’Malley.

  “Did she steal stuff?” Annie asked, sipping lemonade from a tall glass.

  “Aye,” he said, rubbing his chin and looking out at the ocean. “Salt, wine, silks.”

  “Did she ever come over to America?”

  “Probably not. But we have our own pirates and buccaneers to enrich our history.”

  “What about shipwrecks?”

  “We’ve got those too. Good captains—and pirates—would have known the particulars of the coast, the coves and sandbars, as well as the tides and currents of the sea. But even so, nature is capricious, and the best ships didn’t always navigate as nimbly as was needed.”

  “So the beaches might be haunted …?”

  At that her grandfather laughed, and his laughter was infectious. Annie realized then that she wasn’t being rational, but she enjoyed imagining what sea life was like, especially from her vantage point on dry land.

  Annie recalled that day very clearly. It had been one full of lessons, some of which she only appreciated much later in life. Now sitting in front of the fire with Boots on her lap, the history lesson from her grandfather was resonating for some reason. It must be that odd map, she thought, but how was that connected to pirates or shipwrecks? “Or am I just nuts?” she said aloud to Boots, who reacted by jumping down and pouncing on a felted mouse toy.

  5

  The Stony Point Historical Society managed some of the exhibition space in the new Cultural Center on Main Street, where it also had a small office. As Annie entered the center and stood under an ancient Penobscot canoe that hung from the ceiling—part of a traveling exhibition on the handicrafts of Maine’s native inhabitants—she was surprised to find no volunteer guide greeting her. Visitors were unusual that early in the morning, Annie knew, but her footsteps seemed to echo loudly on the wooden floor. She could hear loud voices—an argument?—drifting in from a back room as she wandered around the exhibit and read the information provided.

  The Penobscot Indian basket-weaving display was particularly interesting, with examples of all sizes and purposes. Handwritten note cards fixed to the wall offered further information, but the animated conversation disrupted her concentration. Then laughter rang out, and Annie exhaled and relaxed a bit. Had her recollection of the trip to Caleb’s Cove tweaked her nerves? Annie’s ear picked up more subtleties of the conversation, and she realized she was hearing mostly one excited voice—a man’s. Not an argument, it seemed. The loudest laughter belonged to a woman; Annie guessed it was Liz Booth, the president of the Historical Society. Annie surmised that the hidden gentleman was working hard to amuse Liz, or convince her of something.

  The beautiful and functional baskets were inspiring, and Annie was almost ready to sign up for a class on basket weaving when a surprised Liz emerged from the back and greeted her.

  “I’m sorry … I didn’t hear you come in. We have got to get a cowbell or something for the door!”

  “I don’t mean to interrupt,” Annie said, but something in Liz’s manner suggested that she welcomed the interruption.

  “We have an unusual exhibit—for us, that is,” said Liz, gesturing toward the baskets, “because it’s cosponsored with another museum. We pooled our resources and knowledge, and we’ve been thrilled with the results. But you’re just in time to see it: the baskets are about to come down so they can travel to other area museums for the tourist season.”

  “It’s quite informative, but actually, I’m here about something else. I have an unusual item I was hoping you could tell me about.” Annie dug into her felted tote and felt the now-familiar roughness of the back of the muslin.

  Liz guided Annie over to a desk in one corner and cleared off a stack of newspapers to make room.

  Liz’s response to the embroidered muslin contrasted with the members of the Hook and Needle Club. Rather than exclaim, Liz stared thoughtfully at the embroidery for the longest time, offering no comment. Feeling awkward in the face of her silence, Annie told the story of how and where she had found the piece, and shared the conclusions of the Hook and Needle Club. Annie even produced the cartoon map that seemed to replicate the lines of the embroidery.

  Liz nodded slowly to acknowledge Annie’s words but remained silent. Finally, she craned her neck around and called toward the back room, “Hank, you’re awfully quiet. You still here?”

  “That I am,” came a disembodied response.

  “Well, I think you’ll want to see this.”

  A thin, wiry man, short and energetic, with untamed gray curls covering most of his head, almost bounded out of the back room. Liz introduced him as Hank Page, adding, “He’s helping us create a computer archive of our records. Hank, Annie is Betsy Holden’s granddaughter.”

  “Ah,” he reached out and shook Annie’s hand, cupping his left hand over hers. “The Holdens were good people.”

  Liz turned to the embroidery. “Annie brought in this. What do you make of it?”

  Turning his attention to the desk for the first time, Hank nearly jumped. He seemed to be quivering with energy, and he stepped close, patting his pockets until he located a pair of reading glasses. While Hank bent over the muslin and looked at it carefully, examining the Xs and the notations on the back, Liz explained to Annie that Hank was a retired accounting professor and amateur local historian.

  “I think it’s a map,” Annie repeated to Hank, holding out the cartoon map.

  He nodded without looking up or at what Annie had in her hands. “I do believe it is, yes … hmm … most unusual.”

  Finally he took off his reading glasses, folding them up and slipping them into his shirt pocket. “I can’t speak to the quality of the embroidery, though it does look to be very fine. But yes, it appears to represent the local coastline. A map of sorts, as you say. The contours—well, the details look to me to be just right. We can compare it to something more authoritative, but my sense is that this is a remarkably accurate representation.” He shook his head in admiration. “At this point I can only guess at its origin.” Hank chuckled modestly. “My first guess is that it was made in the nineteenth century, when there was a lot of shipping traffic in this area. Perhaps it was a young woman’s gift to her sailor beau or husband, or something a young wife did to keep occupied during the months her husband was away at sea … but it definitely needs some study.” He glanced questioningly at Liz, who nodded in confirmation of all that he’d said.

  “I’m sure that would be a welcome project for the Historical Society, Annie,” she said. “In fact,” she seemed to work out the idea even as she spoke it, “if you would be willing to loan it to us, we could display it, even build a nice exhibit around it, while it is being researched.” It was her turn to give her colleague a questioning look. “Now that the baskets are done.”

  Hank nodded vigorously. “Oh, indeed, indeed. That’s a wonderful idea. Our members treasure personal links to local history, and I believe this might just be something very special for the community.” He turned to Liz. “We’ve got that ship’s log and navigation charts. And the seascapes …”

  “Yes, and this could be the centerpiece,” Liz said, picking up his enthusiasm. But she stopped herself and turned back to Annie. “Though, only if you’re willing, of course. Naturally, we’ll give you credit for the loan of the piece. However you’d like to have it worded …”

  “Well, not just yet!” Annie said, somewhat taken aback. “I mean, I’d love to
have you display it, if you really think it justifies the attention. But, well, Grace Emory at the library did suggest I show it to someone at the Maine Folk Arts Center in West Waring—”

  Liz and Hank spoke simultaneously:

  “Oh yes, that could be helpful.”

  “I wouldn’t waste my time there!”

  Annie frowned in surprise at Hank’s sudden vehemence, but Liz diffused the tension with a playful punch on his shoulder. “Hank doesn’t often see eye to eye with the director there,” she said.

  Hank smiled ruefully. “It’s not really that, but I suppose it won’t do any harm for Gus to take a look.” He looked back down at the embroidery spread on the desk and then pulled a cell phone from his pocket. “Would you mind if I took a picture of it before you go?”

  Annie gestured for him to go ahead, and he began to carefully weight down the corners of the muslin with a few snow globes, a paperweight, and an old metal stapler.

  As Hank worked, Liz offered to call ahead to the Folk Arts Center on Annie’s behalf. “You’ll find them a bit more knowledgeable than we are, I’m afraid, about decorative arts periods and trends in Maine, though we’d be happy to help you research this piece. Hank especially. He’s written some wonderful tracts about our area’s significance in American history. He’s a careful researcher who really knows how to find a story in all the arcane minutia and records left behind.”

  “Now, Liz,” he murmured deprecatingly as he turned the piece over to photograph the back.

  “The Pages have lived in this area since, well, you tell her, Hank.”

  “Jacob Page was a commodore in the Navy in the War of 1812, and he settled here afterward to become a somewhat successful trader with a small fleet of ships. But he was originally from Massachusetts, so to that extent the Pages are, to use the common phrase, ‘from away.’ ”

  Liz laughed and explained to Annie the inside joke is reputed to have come from a rather contentious town meeting many years ago where a tie vote was broken by counting which side had more native Maine votes. “Back then, if you couldn’t trace your local ancestry back to before the Revolution, you were a newcomer.”

  “There!” Hank peered at the images on the screen of his cell phone, thumbing a tiny button to cycle through them. “Newfangled technology comes in handy some days. Do you have an e-mail address? I’d be happy to send you a copy.”

  Before Annie was allowed to leave the Cultural Center, she was presented with a copy of each of Hank’s tracts and pamphlets, which he autographed for her with an old fountain pen dipped in India ink. Annie knew, though, that her grandparents had copies of most of these booklets. Nevertheless, she was glad to have made Hank’s acquaintance and glad to have the help researching the embroidery. She sensed she would be less likely to go in circles with a couple of experienced historians at work with her.

  6

  On Thursday Annie called the Maine Folk Arts Center in West Waring and made a Friday appointment to talk with the head curator, Gus St. Pierre.

  A cold rain had blown in, so she spent most of Thursday reading, with Boots curled up on her lap. From her library books, Annie learned all about the craze for weaving in the forties. The illustrations of tablecloths with intricate overshot patterning were especially compelling. The patterns of the weave had an undulating aspect that recalled the embroidery piece, but the weavers were working a design that had regularly repeating motifs. These patterns were not intended to represent something real in the way that Annie’s embroidery did.

  In her mind, Annie called it her embroidery, but she didn’t really feel that it was something she owned; she thought of it as belonging to the public, the way a Picasso, regardless of who owns it, may be seen and loved by many. Perhaps the eagerness of Liz and Hank to display it had influenced her. But as she considered this, Annie also began to better understand her own need to learn more about the piece. To own such a work carried a measure of responsibility, she thought. It may have been stitched in private, but it was meant to be looked at, admired, even studied. In fact, Annie doubted that the artist had worked in private. One thing she did know about needlecraft is that it is handed down from one generation to the next. It is taught—by grandmothers, by stitching groups. In those tight, sinuous chain stitches might reside a history of a friendship forged when two people sat down to pass on the craft.

  ****

  Friday was a beautiful spring day, if still a little chilly. As Annie stepped out onto her porch, the yard and the lilac bushes were teeming with robins, chickadees, towhees, and a couple of red-winged blackbirds. Making up for lost time yesterday, Annie thought, and she headed toward her Malibu.

  The drive inland was lovely too. The green of spring was struggling to erupt, despite the chill weather. Soon New England’s vernal explosion would be upon them.

  West Waring was a small town built around a green. A simple two-story white clapboard church at one end was encased in scaffolding; apparently the steeple was being repaired. At the other end of the green was an ornate brick building with a mansard roof, pointed Gothic windows, and a round tower. It had once been a school, but now the Crossman Complex, as it was called, housed a number of offices, including the Maine Folk Arts Center. Despite boasting a block-long row of brick commercial buildings, the town exuded a sense of stillness. Annie thought of that moment in church between the ending of a prayer and the spoken “amen.”

  Annie found parking along the street near the church and enjoyed a window-shopping stroll in the sunshine as she made her way to the Folk Arts Center.

  A brightly colored flag announced the Center, suggesting a museum taking up all three floors of the Crossman Complex, but in reality the Folk Arts Center occupied only one side of the first floor of the building. Lawyers and real estate agents, a dentist, and a hair stylist occupied the remaining floors.

  Annie opened the glass door of the Folk Arts Center and was a little surprised to find that it was really more of a gallery than a museum. The long, narrow space was light and airy. Tapestries, oil paintings, and watercolors hung on the walls, and in the center of the room was a large sculpture made of polished driftwood. Along one side was a glass display case of expensive jewelry for sale. She’d barely had time to turn around when a tall, thin man stepped up and introduced himself as August St. Pierre.

  “I’m Annie Dawson, from Stony Point. My, what a lovely place!” Annie gestured toward the artwork on the wall. She hoped she didn’t betray her feelings of disappointment that it was so small. “Liz Booth spoke highly of what you’ve done here, Mr. St. Pierre.”

  “Please, call me Gus.” He smiled and bowed his head slightly. “Let me show you around, and then we can take a look at your … embroidery piece, is it?”

  Annie nodded. Gus had wispy blond-gray hair, an early summer tan, and a graceful way of moving.

  “As you enter, the pieces here are all by local artists, and they are for sale,” he began, gesturing toward the works in question. “The Center takes a small commission, which is how we finance our research. Further back, the items on display are not for sale but are part of the Center’s scholarly and educational mission. That large piece over the jewelry case is an Agnes Burke,” he glanced at Annie to see if she responded to the name. When she did not, he continued, “Her work is mostly shown in Boston and New York, but she summers here in West Waring. We are fortunate to have some of her work to display and sell. She has been a good friend to the Center and often drops by when she’s in town.

  “Now, if you’ll step over here,” Gus motioned to the back of the room, “you’ll see our special exhibit on Maine puffins as rendered by local artists.”

  Annie was struck by the whimsical ways the colorful birds were captured. She smiled and admitted, “I’ve yet to see a puffin, believe it or not.”

  “Oh, they are coming back from the brink of extinction, so I expect you’ll see one soon enough, especially if you go sailing out of Rockport.”

  “That will have to wait at least for
a little warmer weather, I’m afraid. I’m still getting acclimated to the weather in New England.”

  “Liz told me you moved here from Texas not too long ago, and that you’ve been cleaning out your grandmother’s home.” Gus ushered Annie into a workroom behind the gallery area. “And here” he said, “is where the magic happens: the research, the conservation, the analysis.” The room was lined with shelves and cabinets, all crammed with artifacts. In the center of the room was a large, not very magical-looking worktable, and Annie placed her felted tote bag at one end and pulled out the muslin.

  “It was suggested to me that you might help me identify this.”

  “Oh my!” Gus exclaimed as Annie spread the fabric out on the table. “It is indeed as lovely as Liz described. You found it, Liz said, in your grandparents’ attic?”

  “Yes. In a box of dishes. I don’t think my grandmother ever saw it.”

  “Hmm …” Gus switched on a powerful lamp on a swinging arm and positioned it over the muslin. He bent over it, examining the embroidery minutely. While he did so, Annie’s eyes roamed over the curiosities that filled cubbyholes along the walls and on top of the filing cabinets. It is a shame, she thought, that some of what’s back here isn’t out front.

  “Humph,” he said, and mumbled something to himself that Annie couldn’t make out. “Well, I have my hunches, but at this point they are just that.”

  “I’m sure your hunches are a lot more educated than mine would ever be.”

  “Well, I would bank on this being a piece of tourist art, of a kind that was popular from around the turn of the century up until about the 1920s.” Gus spoke without looking up from the embroidery.