Brooklyn Graves

by Triss Stein

  The missing window on the side depicted a harbor with tall ships and canoes, and a windmill in the background. I recognized it immediately as New Amsterdam.

  The caption in the book explained that “the chapel was built by Cornelius Konick IV. Konick Avenue and Konick Park are named for him. He was a descendent of one of the earliest Dutch families. They owned substantial property in Flatbush and had a country estate near where the Tappan Zee bridge now crosses the Hudson River.” Of course. That was Tarrytown, right in the middle of the old Dutch settlements. It was Rip van Winkle’s storybook home; Tappan Zee itself is a Dutch name.

  I wondered if the thunderclouds were a reminder of Rip van Winkle and the magic game of nine pins that caused the thunder. And then I wondered if I wasn’t getting carried away by my imagination.

  The book didn’t tell me anything else, but with a name and a picture, I could certainly find out more about who he was and what happened to the family. The Dutch theme in the chapel window suggested pride in their ancestry but it seemed that old Mr. Konick’s money had not insured that he and his ancestors would be remembered here. I could use the museum library for this. And then maybe Dr. Flint would forget about me for a few days.

  My job was important to me for a long list of reasons, but Dr. Flint was not my job, not really, and events in my life were looming much larger right now. I needed some breathing space.

  The shop was almost empty but the helpful young girl at the register was being monopolized by a young man who seemed to be annoying her. I dropped off the book she had given me and left, anxious now to get away.

  Chapter Four

  I pointed myself home. I could scan the photos to Flint from the local copy store and then the plan was crawl into my burrow and catch up on my own work. Chris had after-school plans; I had a good long afternoon. And I did it. I glued my backside to my desk chair and my fingers to the keyboard, and by the time my eyes finally started to blur, I had a good piece of work done. Saved. Backed up. Sent to my adviser.

  As I started to stretch, find a snack, warm up a mug of coffee in the microwave, I was free to think a little about my job, the demanding Dr. Flint and smart-but-clueless young Ryan. I still resented the way I had been arbitrarily reassigned to work with them—what was I, a piece of office equipment? But I had to admit it: Our project, the Maude Cooper letters, was going to be interesting.

  Not so much, the errand running to Green-Wood Cemetery. So, there had been an accident. Evidently a window had become loose in its frame and removed. Was it broken? Did an accident suggest someone was hurt? As long as I was admitting things to myself, I admitted I was curious. And I did know someone who could maybe explain to me what I had seen there. My friend Joe knew everything about old buildings, old houses, old crafts. He renovated nineteenth-century houses for a living.

  I left a message. “Are you free for dinner? I need to pick your brains. I’m buying the pizza.” A second later, I had a text.

  “I have a free hour around 6:00. Does that work? Mushroom and pepperoni.”

  Just like that, I had dinner plans.

  Joe and I connected originally when I needed some very basic, essential work on my new (old) house. We became biking buddies. He did a large renovation for me years later, when I had come into a bit of money. Chris has adopted him as an uncle, which seemed right. I thought of him as the older brother I never had.

  He arrived at my door along with the pizza delivery. He paid and laughed at my protests.

  “You still have that problem with your garbage disposal? I’ll fix it right now, while you tell me what’s on your mind.”

  While he lay on the floor and took a pipe apart, I described my two recent excursions to Green-Wood. “Weird, isn’t it? I live ten minutes away and I’ve only been there once. Now it’s taking over my life. Anyway, here’s my question. I would like to know what I was looking at today. If I tell you how the windows looked, would you know what happened?”

  “Aha! I’ve got it now.” Two turns of the wrench and he sat up. “Maybe. I’ve done a little repair work on windows—so many houses around here have stained-glass for trim—but I’m no expert. However, I do someone who is. We’ll throw it at her if we have to.”

  He washed his hands and we attacked the pizza. I put out a couple of wine glasses and cheap, leftover red wine from the refrigerator. He made a face, asked me how long I’d had the wine and helped himself to a beer. He knows my kitchen as well as I do. Maybe better.

  When I had described everything, showed him my dim photos, and we’d made serious inroads into the pizza, he shook his head. “Not a clue without seeing it. Maybe not even then, but I think my friend might be around tonight. Eat up and we’ll make a visit.” He looked at me with scrutiny.

  “What else is going on? This didn’t make you look so stressed.”

  I finally poured out the news about Dima. I know my voice shook.

  “Damn. Damn, that sucks. I know the guy. Knew him. You introduced me one time. Remember? And then he got me to do some work at the school. Helpful, smart, nice. I like him—liked him—a lot.”

  “Everybody liked him. Everybody. Except his brother maybe.” I told him about my encounter with the apparently evil relative. Poured it all out—my visit to Natalya, Natalya’s conviction that he was somehow involved, and then I stopped myself. “I’m sorry, I’m just babbling away.”

  “Babble anytime.” He patted my hand. “That’s what friends are for. What are you going to do?”

  “Be a friend to Natalya, help Alex any way I can. It’s hard enough just to be fifteen. I have so much on my own plate, but hell. I can’t possibly not think about them.”

  “Don’t forget I have big shoulders. There’s one for you if you need it, while you’re sharing one with this Natalya. Is she normally a little crazy?”

  “Not at all. But she’s sure entitled to crazy right now. Her world just smashed into little pieces. Normally? She’s a little sharper than Dima. I don’t mean smarter but more prickly. You know. Sarcastic, cynical. But fun.”

  Joe was smiling at my words, laughing at me.

  “What? You think that’s what we have in common? What nerve! Okay, maybe. A little. Yes, I appreciate her sarcastic humor. But Dima? He was the kind of person who took care of people. When she was little, he knew Chris didn’t have a father. And Chris and Alex were best friends, so he just included her and then thanked her because he didn’t get to have a daughter.”

  I found myself crying, and Joe wrapped me up in a big bear hug.

  “Pretty tough, isn’t it?”

  “Mmm—hmm. And nothing compared to what Natalya and Alex are feeling.”

  He went on hugging me.

  “Thanks. I’m done for now.” I moved away. “I guess I needed that, but I can’t turn into one of Chris’ drama llamas.”

  “What now? Ready for a quick outing?’

  “Okay, yes. And thank you.”

  A short drive in Joe’s van took us to the area around the notorious Gowanus Canal, being cleaned up but only in fits and starts, and the crumbling industrial buildings around it. We went into one, rang a bell and a rickety industrial elevator, probably an antique, took us to the top floor. It opened directly into a huge room with open space and floor-to-ceiling windows. Once it was a place to make anything from paint and ink to concrete to flour. Now it’s a place to make art. Stained glass in various stages stood up in frames or lay on big tables, tools I couldn’t even name were scattered about, and tucked into a corner, a desk and files made an ad hoc office.

  A tall redhead in work clothes came out from behind the cabinets and hugged Joe. “It’s a nice surprise to have a friendly face this time of night. Two friendly faces?” She eyed me with curiosity. “What can I do for you?”

  Introductions were made, and I explained.

  “That is so intriguing. And you have some photos? Let me take a l
ook.” She motioned us over to the large lamp attached to one of the work tables. I gave her my phone, apologizing for the poor quality of the photos.

  “Yeah, looks like they did something, and obviously took out that window, but no idea what happened. It could be a needed repair, like the framing was working loose. Or, it could be serious damage, like shattering. Yeah, I see the marks on the other window frames. Maybe checking to see if they were still safe?” She leaned back in her chair. She had long legs in dark leggings.

  “The funny thing is I haven’t heard anything about a big piece of work going on there. So maybe it’s not as big as it looks. We’re not such a large local crowd—experts in stained-glass restoration—and you know, with something that old and important, they’d have to go to an expert. These hippie hobbyists with pretensions just wouldn’t be up to the job. Seems like I might have picked up news.” She looked puzzled. “Is this something important to you?”

  “Not exactly. It was just a passing thought. I’ve been loaned to do some work for a real difficult guy, and that’s information he’d, uh, let’s say, appreciate having. He’s a Tiffany expert named Flint.”

  She grinned. “Dr. Thomas? Oh, yeah. I took a class with him one time, getting a little art history background on glass to go with the craft skills. Flint difficult? Hell, yes. So, you’re a friend of Joe’s?” She looked back and forth between us. “I could make a few calls tomorrow. See what I can pick up.”

  “That would be great! How can I say thanks?”

  “Spread my name around your museum. They have glass, and I bet people ask them for referrals too. My bread and butter—and rent and manicures—come from restoration work. My own art isn’t steady income.”

  “I’ll do my best. Do you have brochures?”

  “Sure do, and let me show you around, so you know I know what I’m doing. Over here is my own work.” It was dramatic, angular, almost Picasso-like, a long way from Victorian architecture.

  She saw my surprise. “Yes, I personally go for modern abstract, but this one over here is a restoration piece. Not my own taste, but bills get paid and it’s an interesting puzzle, getting into the original maker’s head.”

  I would have sworn that one came right out of a Victorian church, with its long-haired angels and shafts of sunlight. Then again, what do I know about art, stained glass or otherwise?

  We made our good-byes, and thanks again, and Joe whisked me home.

  “She’s a great girl. I know you’ll hear from her.”

  “It would certainly help my servitude to Dr. Flint, I think, if I did something to show I am capable.” I gave him a little jab. “And how do you know this tall and lovely expert?”

  I was amused to see him turn a little pink, but he only said, “She worked on a job for me.”

  I laughed, thanked him again, and went in to find Chris just coming to the front door.

  “Did you have company? I see pizza boxes.”

  “Joe stopped in, and then we went out for a bit.”

  “I missed him? He should have come in.”

  “We didn’t know you were home.”

  “And what is this all about, may I ask? Are you finally taking my advice about him?”

  “Oh, please. Really. Just because you found that boyfriend at camp last summer, now you think the whole world needs to go two by two.”

  “He is not ‘that boyfriend,’” she said with great dignity. “He has a nice name. Jared, in case you forgot. And I do not think everyone needs to be coupled up. Just you.” She giggled at my indignant exclamation, and then said, “Come on, Mom. I just think you need more of a life.”

  “I have a life. I have school, work, you.”

  “That’s not a life. And Joe is nice and fun and really pretty hot for an old guy. He seems able to get along with you.”

  “As friends. As a friend. That is all. And I don’t take advice from a fifteen-year-old.”

  “Sure, sure. Friends. Ha.” She gave me a hug but I suspected she was laughing at me. “Now I am going to get to work.” That brief exchange was enough family closeness for her. “I need to start my family history project.”

  That truly responsible comment took me a little by surprise.

  “Well, good for you. I forgot to dig out my folder on our family—I’m sorry—but I’ll do it right now.”

  She hesitated before saying, “Umm. I decided to do Dad’s family.”

  Her dad’s family? When she first talked to me about this assignment, she thought she would research my family, all those Jewish great-grandparents who had come from somewhere in the Russian Empire before World War I. I could have helped. I had the names of the towns, some of the stories, a family tree. I could have helped a lot.

  She doesn’t remember her father but his picture has been on her bureau every day of her life. His parents, much older than mine, had been dragged out of the old neighborhood, protesting all the way, into a two-family house with their daughter who lived in Buffalo. Chris hardly knew her widowed grandmother.

  She was looking away from me when she said, “I called Grandma Donato to ask her some questions.”

  “You what?”

  A relationship with her grandmother was a good thing in theory, but in practice it was hard to maintain. There was too little face time and too many phone calls that included weeping for her lost son.

  And today Chris sucked up her courage and called her on her own?

  She saw my face. “Yeah, well, I hadn’t talked to her in a while. And it seemed like a good idea to do it when I actually had something to talk to her about. She had a lot to say, too. I took notes.”

  This felt like a minefield to me. Of course with a fifteen-year-old, anything can become a minefield in the blink of an eye. If I didn’t ask too many questions, would she tell me what I wanted to know?

  “Well,” she said. “Well…” She was silent a minute, then added, “I just felt like…I did have a dad…even if I don’t remember him…and I wanted to…I don’t know…feel like I was connected to him. Alex said last night, his father would always be a part of him, no matter what.”

  Ah.

  “Maybe I’ll go see Grandma Donato? Grandpa said he’d drive me to Buffalo when I have a long weekend. What do you think?”

  More minefields. “But Chris. When I suggested you do that in the summer, you acted like it would be a punishment. Remember? You said you’d die of boredom and get fat because Grandma would make you eat all the time.”

  “Oh, yeah, I did, didn’t I? She probably will, too. But I can handle it. I am much more mature now.”

  “Since the summer? Oh, sure. I also don’t completely understand this sudden thickness with Grandpa since he moved back from Arizona.”

  She stared at me. “I missed him and I love having him back. And you should try to get along better with him!”

  “What?” The unfairness of that stung. “I do try, but he never stops telling me what to do. And by the way, I missed him, too, when he was away, but it was his idea to go out there, not mine.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I remember. You were mad at him about it.” She stood up. “I have homework to do.” She gave me a hug, combined with a pat on the back. “So now that he’s back, get over it, okay?”

  Then she was gone, leaving me to wonder who this wise young lady was, and what had she done with my real daughter. I wanted to pursue these touchy matters. Then again, I didn’t.

  ***

  The next morning I brought two egg-and-bagel sandwiches to work and claimed to be too full for the second. I offered it to young Ryan who looked underfed and unhealthy, and he wolfed it down as a special favor to me. Yes, whatever else I am, I seem to be a mom at all times. A Jewish mom at that, with Italian in-laws. Feeding children is in my DNA.

  I described my excursion to Green-Wood and he said he’d like to come along if there was a next time.
Cemeteries got his imagination going, and this was a famous one. He pulled up some disturbingly weird photos a friend had taken there on Halloween last year.

  And he was impressed at my idea of sorting out what was really happening with the missing window.

  “Dr. Flint loves to be on the inside of everything. He loves it. Even if it turns out there is nothing to be inside of, he’ll love you for helping him be in the know.” He nodded vigorously. “Smart move.”

  Properly fueled, we went to work, Ryan scanning art, me reading letters.

  Maude Cooper wrote home every week, and sometimes more often. I was now well into her second year in New York. While Ryan researched the other objects in the box, I was seeing and charting the progress of her life.

  Maude started taking on small complete projects and promised to send home gifts. She included more sketches, with lovely tulips streaked with flame-like contrasting colors, some watery landscapes, some attempts at designs for forest animals. I could make out a graceful deer, a pheasant, a beaver, or perhaps an otter. I passed the illustrated letters to Ryan to scan and enlarge.

  She still loved her work and her life, but the letters had a more mature perspective. Now she expressed surprise that there was occasional pettiness and jealousy in the studio:

  Some of us have become good friends, and chat and giggle over lunch like schoolgirls, but there is one woman who seems to resent anyone who is young. She certainly dislikes me. And my two best companions have warned me that if I have an elegant design idea, not to share it with a certain other person. She has been known to “borrow” them and Miss Driscoll is not aware of that. I thought it would all be good fellowship and helping other women to succeed—there are so few of us here—but it is not always so.

  She described her first exciting visit to the Tiffany factory in Queens:

  The men there do not like to work with women, I have been told, but under Mr. T’s eyes and Miss Driscoll’s, they were most mannerly. They showed me the frames they are creating for the work.