by Stephen Bly
“All the subjects are women,” Price noted.
“But there’s a hint of tragedy or sorrow in some of the faces, don’t you think?”
“Hmmm, yes. Each one tells a story within a story. When were they painted?”
“They’re all dated between 1965 and 1970. Isn’t that strange? It’s like she attempted a comeback twenty-five years later. How come there wasn’t anything in the art book about these?”
“Perhaps no one knows about them.” A chill ran up her back. Price picked up a large stretched canvas of a young girl in a heated argument with her mother over some lipstick. “This is intriguing … a simple, universal theme, yet an overlay of haunting poignancy. Such a winsome quality. It expresses the bond of family, but with all its potential for sudden change. And sadness.”
Tony picked up another and hauled it out toward the light, examining it more closely. “We’ve got to talk with Melody’s grandmother. We’re not going to be happy with this project until we do.”
After an hour of studying the pictures, Tony and Price hiked up the stairs to the bright lights of the kitchen.
“If we can get permission, how about including some photos of these paintings in chapter six or seven?” Tony asked.
“We haven’t finished discussing chapter five.” Price scooped the pages off the dining table. “I can’t believe you said this was too cluttered.”
“It’s too busy, too disjointed, too distractive. We need to tighten it, that’s all.”
“I believe it reads quite nicely, just as it is.”
“Everything ever written could be tightened some. You know that.”
“Not this chapter. You know, Mr. Shadowbrook, I’m not quite sure why I’m even here. The girls need me in Scottsdale. You obviously don’t.”
“Of course I do. Don’t get so defensive. We’re professionals..”
“Tony, you really don’t enjoy co-writing projects, do you?”
“That’s not true. I love having you along. I absolutely detest researching a project on my own, you know that.”
“Oh sure, you like having me here. But I wonder, is it for my wit or my dimples?”
Tony walked into the living room and plopped on the sofa.
“Well?” she asserted.
“I’m thinking.”
“Then you can sit right there until you decide. This doctor’s going to bed.” Price stole away in a funk.
What’s wrong with me?
Tony didn’t totally deserve that outburst. It was something to do with the paintings. They were troubling, unsettling in how they depicted so perfectly the fragility of human relationships.
Lord, protect me and Tony.
Chapter 6
The construction of the bridge in 1954 brought an end to Fox Islanders’ one hundred years of dependence on boats for their existence. In the early days most families had their own small craft, but everyone relied on the freight and ferry services of commercial companies to bring supplies … and to deliver Island-grown produce to the Tacoma markets. The powerful currents of the Narrows ensured that larger boats carrying people and goods to the mainland would always be needed. From English imported beaver in 1835 to the City of Steilacoom in 1954, supply boats and ferries formed an important part of the daily cycle of life on the Island.
Many of those life cycles ended at a grassy, tree-lined knoll near the corner of Island Boulevard and 6th Avenue.
Price, Tony and Melody meandered among the tombstones of the Fox Island Cemetery. Looking more like a park for picnickers than a resting place for the dead, the plot of ground piled with pines, firs, and bushes and rimmed with a low, loose railing of long, skinny tree trunks. A gentle semblance of a boundary.
The July sun straight above them, morning dew still clung to the grass. The toes of Price’s purple-trimmed white tennies soaked in the moisture.
“When I was a little girl,” Melody was saying, “I would cut through here on my way to Shelli’s house. I thought it was a really brave thing to do, sort of a sign of maturity: ‘I can walk clear through the cemetery by myself! ’ I wonder why kids are so afraid of cemeteries?”
Tony led the way, notebook in hand, careful to avoid stepping on markers or bumping monuments. “I suppose there’s always a fear of the unknown … and death is the ultimate unknown. That is, if you choose to ignore the Bible’s teaching on the matter. Melody, are these some of Harvey Peterson’s relatives?”
“I think so.”
“He really did lose several in the war.”
Price shot some pictures of a tall centennial time capsule and the inscriptions on several gravestones, then rejoined Tony and Melody.
“You know, Dr. S., every time one of Grandma’s friends dies, she refuses to go to the funeral. It’s like she won’t admit they’re gone.”
“I think it’s probably to Satan’s advantage to keep everyone scared of death. If he can convince us death is the worst thing that can happen to us, then he’s got the leverage, the control in our lives.”
Melody brushed loose wet grass off her sandaled feet. “Dr. S., what’s worse than death?”
“Hell.”
“Oh … yeah.” Melody tossed her long dark hair, her expressive eyes hidden behind smoke-gray glasses. “You’re the only professor I’ve ever known who thinks of that as a literal place.” She stopped at a large raised marker. “Now here’s a sad story. The Zimmers lived in that white house down from Grandma’s. Mr. Zimmer was real sick for several years. He picked out this stone with his name on one side and Emaline, his wife, on the other, so they could be buried side by side. Well, right after he died, Emaline moved to Bremerton and married a high school sweetheart. He died last year, and everyone says there’s a big stone in Bremerton with his and Emaline’s names on it. What we’re all wondering is, which place will she be buried?”
Price took a photo of the marker. “Perhaps Emaline will get married again.”
“Wow, I never thought of that. That would really make it complicated.”
“Maybe they could cremate her and put a little of the ashes at each site.”
“Tony!” Price squealed.
“Yeah, wouldn’t that be something?” Melody said. “‘Where’s your mother buried?’ they’ll ask her kids. ‘At Seattle, Bremerton and Fox Island.’”
They hiked up the crest of the knoll and passed most of the flat markers. “I’d sure like to know all their stories,” Price said, “but a name and date don’t tell us much.”
“Did you see the Japanese marker over there?” Tony pointed back across the lawn. “I’ll bet Harvey Peterson has a great explanation of that one.”
“Auntie Jill’s buried over there … at the wrought-iron fenced place. It’s our family plot, you might say.”
The fence stood five feet tall with paint peeling around the only section like it in the cemetery, ten by twenty feet. Melody squeaked open the iron gate. “My great-grandpa and great-grandma are buried here. They both died of the flu in the late ’30s, four months apart.”
Tony hunched down and examined the stone. “How old were the twins at the time?”
“In high school. They lived with an aunt for a while, then left for Radcliffe. Here’s Auntie Jill’s marker.”
“So they shipped her body home for burial?” Tony quizzed.
“Oh yeah. Grandma Jessie said the undertaker in Iowa took care of Auntie Jill, then she accompanied the casket on the train. The car they wrecked was totaled, so she rode in the baggage car next to the coffin all the way home. She said they were the longest two days of her life.”
Tony jotted a few lines in his notebook. “Talk about feeling lonely and lost. I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose an identical twin.”
“Why does it say just ‘J Davenport,’ instead of her full name?” Price photographed the three-foot-high polished black granite monument.
“Grandma Jessie said she was so grief-stricken she couldn’t bear to see Jill’s name spelled out. She always promised she’d
get someone to finish it, but she’s never done it.”
“So the girls lost their parents before they graduated from high school, then Jill died in ’42. No wonder your grandma still struggles with her death. There was no one in the family left.” Price stooped to investigate the remnants of withered flowers in a green glass vase. “That was some fancy bouquet. Looks like gladiolus. Funny how they turned dark magenta when they died. I’m used to white and light-colored ones. Did you put them out here?”
“No, they must be left from June. Grandma Jessie always has some sent out on June 2nd. But she never comes to the grave.”
“They look fresher than that to me. Isn’t that a card attached to one of the stems?”
Melody stooped to retrieve the faded card, then jumped as if stung by a bee. “Oh, wow!”
Tony reached for her arm. “Are you all right?”
“It’s him,” she shouted.
“Who?” Price glanced around. “Where?”
“No, look, the name on the card. It’s that Bennington guy.”
Price took the card from Melody and read it, “To Jill … I’m sorry. Lloyd Bennington.”
“He didn’t happen to leave his address or phone number, did he?” Tony put in.
“Hey!” Melody seized the card back. “This florist is in Gig Harbor. They go to our church and I used to baby-sit for them. Do you suppose they have this guy’s address or something?”
Price leaned close to the wilted mass of spikes, as though to draw some revealing scent from them. “It’s certainly worth a try.”
“Oh, man, I’m going to add this to my novel. Mystery guy flies in from Maryland, visits the grave, leaves flowers … then flies home to die. Am I talking bestseller or what?”
Price led the trio back to the car.
An hour later, the Shadowbrooks scampered around the house changing from damp denims to black Wranglers for Tony and washed aquamarine silk for Price. She sorted through her earring box searching for turquoise and silver. “Do you think Melody will find a lead on Bennington?”
Tony pulled on a black-and-white sunburst western shirt. “I don’t know, but she’s right about one thing. I think there’s a story to be told.”
“Like, what’s the real reason he’s so sorry that it would nag him to the grave? Should I wear the sedate round ones or the Melody-sized ones?” She held both samples to her ears.
“Definitely the long ones. I was thinking the same thing about Bennington. He wasn’t just sorry she died. He was sorry when he thought she might still be alive.”
“And it can’t merely be a conscience stirred over a jilted girlfriend, could it? Why, if I had to go back and apologize to every guy I ever dumped…”
“There you go bragging again.”
“But I probably did them all a great favor.” She looked him all over. “Are you wearing your black boots?”
“No, the python belly.” Tony dug through the closet. “I thought you told me they were all creeps.”
“The guys I dumped? Mostly creeps. Do you think I ought to wear boots?”
“I don’t care, but your white boots with the turquoise chain would be dynamite with that dress. So, only some were creeps?”
She plopped on the bed and tugged on one boot, then lay back on the comforter. “Well, there was this one creep. Sort of.”
Tony noticed the dimples shined. “What I can’t figure, Professor, is how did such a selective and discriminating beautiful young woman fall for a plain, older man like me?”
Price stood, picked up a perfume bottle from the dresser, and sprayed a playful squirt toward him. “Oh, Mr. Shadowbrook, you remind me so much of my father.”
He breathed in deep and closed his eyes. “If I hear that one time today, I’ll quit signing autographs forever. But, please, wear some of that.”
Price dabbed a mixture of Skin Musk and Baby perfume behind her ears. “I think it’s a nice compliment, actually. But that usually only happens when you’re pushing your westerns. Today will be the travel home and AARP crowd. Speaking of which, we’d better get going if we’re going to make it to Bellevue on time.”
“Bellevue? I thought we were signing in Seattle.”
“Bellevue’s a suburb. I hear it’s an upscale, yuppie sort of place. Liz says the store’s in a great location. She’s sure we’ll like it.”
“Yeah? She’s the one who said I’d love midtown Manhattan.”
“Most people do. Try to be nice and smile at the little old ladies.”
“I’ll be my typical charming, witty, debonair yet rugged and rustic self.”
“A delightful change from ‘We’ve been here five minutes already, when can we leave?’”
“Did I ever tell you this self-promotion stuff is one thing about writing that is very difficult for me?”
“About once a day for the past twenty years.”
“I thought maybe I mentioned it.” He kissed her on top of her head. “Nice scent blend … clean, not too strong, perfect for the occasion. What’s it called?”
“Chapter Five.”
Tony broke out in a laugh. “Hey, it didn’t smell that good.”
He jammed on his cowboy hat, held the front door for Price, then answered the ringing phone.
“Tony? Peter Frankal here.”
“Hi, Pete. How’s the world-famous art director?”
“Let me pick your brain on the cover for the next River Breaks western. We’re trying to design the spring catalog. You’re going to set Standoff at Rifle Ridge on the Yellowstone River, right?”
“Pete, I’ve got to call you later. I’m heading out the door for a book signing in Seattle, and we’re running late. Liz will skin us if we keep them waiting.”
“But… well… when can you call me back?”
“Tomorrow morning. What time do you get into the office?”
“Can’t do it tomorrow. Got to meet with an artist in Philadelphia. Then there’s the weekend and I need some ideas for Monday’s meeting. Are you sure you don’t have a minute? Give me twenty and we’ll get what we need. You’ve got that much for old Pete, don’t you?”
“Nope. Petey, call me back when you get a chance. I’ve got to run. Bye.”
He locked the front door and joined Price in the old white Oldsmobile. “Business?”
“Why does that always happen? They never call me when I have time to talk. Then they slap on some historically inaccurate cover that doesn’t even resemble the story, and I have to live with it the rest of my life.”
“It’s a good thing it doesn’t bother you.” Price scooted over to the middle of the seat. He slipped his arm around her shoulder.
“Did I ever tell you I like bench seats better than bucket seats?”
“About once a day for the past thirty years. Now, come on, famous author, let’s go meet our adoring public… both of them.”
Tony fiddled to find a country and western radio station, while Price surveyed the Island as they approached the bridge to the mainland. If she could give him a special present, it would be that one bestseller. He worked so hard at the craft. He never compromised his standards of excellence or ethics. Maybe that’s why he’d always be her favorite writer.
Lights were still on in the house when they returned around midnight. Melody met them at the door. “Oh, wow, here you are. I was getting pretty worried. I thought you’d be home in time for supper. I didn’t know a book signing would last so long.”
“The publisher’s rep lined us up with some bookstore folks and a long dinner at the Space Needle,” Price reported.
“Isn’t it totally awesome up there? The view always takes my breath away.”
“It took my appetite away, that’s for sure.”
“Are you afraid of heights, Dr. S.?”
“No, heights don’t bother me. It’s fear of falling off heights that’s troubling. You didn’t have supper waiting for us, did you?”
Melody managed a weary smile. “Oh no. But don’t worry about me. I scraped
up some leftovers out of the fridge. Hope you didn’t mind.”
“Nope,” Tony said. “Why, just the other day, Price and I commented how you have become like part of the family.”
“Boy, that’s really neat. You know what, Mr. S.? I never knew my father very well. But if I could pick out my own father, I’d want him to be just like you.”
Tony seemed at a loss for words, so Price said, “You didn’t need to stay up for us, Melody.”
“No big deal. I wanted to talk to you.”
Price used the bootjack by the door to slip off her boots. “Why don’t you go boil some water? We’ll kick off these dressy things and meet you in the kitchen for a cup of something hot.”
“Oh, sure. You want me to boil the water?”
“Go for it,” Tony said.
When Tony and Price returned in jeans and sweatshirts, chocolate, tea and packaged espresso mix lined up behind three mugs. The chrome teapot whistled a jarring note.
“It’s like a tea party.” Melody beamed as she fussed with the mugs and pot. “How was your autograph signing?”
Price tugged her green sweatshirt sleeves up above her elbows and dipped the Earl Grey bag five times. “Not too bad. Nice crowd, don’t you think, Tony?”
“People came for the grand opening, the drawing for free books, lattes and biscotti, and as long as they were there, why not buy a Shadowbrook book and get an autograph?”
“How many did you sell?”
Tony sipped on his coffee. “About 195 for a two-hour signing.”
“Is that good?”
“We’ve done worse,” Price said.
Tony snorted. “A lot worse. I once did a signing in Chicago when only elderly women showed up. They wanted to see what I looked like, if I really wore a cowboy hat, and to garner another autograph for their collection. But they didn’t buy a book.”
“Wow, what a bummer.”
“It keeps me humble.”
Price pulled off her earrings and rubbed her earlobes. “But it was a good evening. We visited with a couple book distributors and several store owners… important contacts. And they’re all looking forward to Fox Island coming out next May. It should do well up here.”