The Bar Harbor Retirement Home for Famous Writers_And Their Muses

by Terri-Lynne Defino

  “Well, I guess it’s getting late,” Cecibel said. “Good night, Dr. Kintz.”

  “Good night, Miss Bringer. Remember, my door is always open should you need anything.”

  Cecibel nodded and left him rumpled and exhausted, leaning against his desk. She really did like Dr. Kintz, far better than the last two doctors heading up the Pen. They didn’t care much about their patients, as long as they stayed medicated and out of trouble. Whatever rules Dr. Kintz referred to had never been enforced before. Maybe he didn’t even know Sal left to do his drag shows almost every weekend.

  But of course he did. Sal—Miss Wispy Flicker—made a show of parading through the dining room whenever he had a gig. He embodied a fine balance of Shelley Winters, Carmen Miranda, and Liberace, with all the grace of Gene Kelly thrown into the mix. There was no not noticing him, and that was the whole point. Whatever his past, he’d come by his present honestly, fabulously, and proudly. And yet he claimed Dr. Kintz, who sought nothing but the truth and well-being of everyone in the Pen, put him on probation because of his alter ego.

  It was getting close to eleven o’clock. Might as well be two. Residents typically in bed by nine and up with sunrise slept like the dead. If they didn’t, there was medication for that, freely given by staff who worked the night shift for the peace and quiet of it. Only the safety lights illuminated the hallways of the Pen, from the ground up. A muted sunrise. The dining room was pitched in darkness even darker for the rainy night.

  Cecibel stood in the doorway, arms crossed against the chill seeping into her skin through clothes still damp. Something wriggled through her, something she didn’t much like. Suspicion. Understanding. Curiosity mingling, swirling like cotton candy. Sticky, like a web.

  She backtracked to Dr. Kintz’s office, already dark, past it to the door she knew led to the basement. Locked. Of course. She pulled her ring of keys from her pocket, careful to keep them quiet even though she was more likely to run into Cornelius Traegar’s ghost than any living person.

  Flashlights, plugged in and always charged, lined the wall at the top of the stairs. Plucking one from its holder, Cecibel breathed in deeply. Musty. Dusty. As all basements were. This one was a cavern she’d rarely descended into. Wine cellar. Winter larder. Storage cubicles. Ancient, undiscardable furniture no one wanted. More than likely a fortune in antiques and kitsch from bygone days; literary memorabilia and random souvenirs postmodern anthropologists would orgasm over. And the records room where, whether chart or file, Cecibel hoped to find whatever part of her past Dr. Kintz had access to.

  It wasn’t locked. There was no need when the entrance was. The records were categorized by year first, name second, an inefficient system no one had changed since the beginning, when it made more sense. The chances of anyone digging through such information was far too slim to worry over. As far as she knew, Cecibel wasn’t breaking any rules, not even one she didn’t know about. She was entitled access to her own medical or employment records anytime she wished. Asking Dr. Kintz wasn’t an option; not unless she wanted to get into things with him. Which she didn’t.

  The records room was a grotto within the vast cavern under the Pen. The oldest records, dating back to 1949, took center stage along the far rear wall, the years reaching out from there like too many fingers on a hand.

  1955.

  1968.

  1973.

  Cecibel followed the years to 1990, the year she left the facility farther south, against Dr. Marks’s recommendation, and started working at the Bar Harbor Home for the Elderly.

  Nothing.

  Nineteen eighty-seven. The year of the accident that might not have been an accident at all.

  Nothing.

  But what she did find, because it was sticking out a little, as if recently returned to its space, was Finlay Pottinger’s file. Nineteen eighty-five. The year he came to the Pen as a handyman’s assistant. Twenty-six years old (Fin was older than she thought) and fresh from Bolduc prison in Warren, Maine. Medical records and psychiatric history dating back to his teens, to the trial that sent him away for nine years. Nothing she didn’t know, including the fact that Dr. Traegar hired him personally. A typewritten letter from the prison warden confirmed it.

  . . . good behavior.

  . . . shining example to the other men.

  . . . paid the price for his actions with grace and humility.

  The flashlight dimmed. Cecibel gave it a good shake. It flickered before burning bright again.

  It is with Dr. Plesanti’s recommendation I send him to you, satisfied he will be well cared for and gainfully employed in an institution safe for both him and society. I thank you for taking an interest in your hometown boy. He deserved far better than he got . . .

  Safe. For both him and society.

  Words made a difference. Olivia and Alfonse, Switch and Judi had taught her that in the notes and scribbles within the margins of the brown notebook. Dr. Plesanti wrote in an institution, not by one. Not simply employed, but cared for.

  Cecibel closed the file, slipped it back into place. Completely, and not haphazardly as it had been. A rule broken, certainly, but she would never tell. Her thoughts scrambled, she tried to remember when Sal had come to work at the Pen and knew only that it was before her, around the same time Fin had.

  She found him in 1986. Another broken, unspoken rule. Salvatore Ramos. Hired as an orderly. Became on-site manager in 1992. Performance reports. Probation warnings for minor infractions like Mr. Gardern getting into the toilet paper. The only medical records were from the bronchitis he was susceptible to, and a sprained ankle in 1996. The only personal information was his stage name—Wispy Flicker—written in red pen and circled with a heart.

  The flashlight dimmed again. This time it didn’t brighten when Cecibel shook it. Slipping Sal’s file back into place, she hurried out of the grotto, to the caverns, to the steps like a mountain rising out of the depths. She slammed the flashlight back into the charger, caught her breath, steadied her nerves.

  Three resident staffers, two of whom were required to sign in and out, and one who was—she was pretty certain—not.

  In not by.

  Employed and cared for.

  What words hid in her file—chart?

  She stepped over the threshold and into the peaceful night, closed the door and locked it. Her missing file, Fin’s found one, and Salvatore’s. Alfonse’s blood-sugar episode. Dr. Kintz. The kiss, the rain, the movie she and Fin would never speak of. She left thoughts like a breadcrumb trail through the hallways of muted sunrise until, reaching her room, she closed the door on all of them.

  Cecibel changed into pajamas, brushed her teeth, her hair, and didn’t look once in the mirror. She wished for the sleeping aid so freely given to ancient patients; no one worried about addiction as long as it made them sleep through the night. And then she cried into her pillow because such a thought woke the ghost she’d failed to leave outside. One she thought, so foolishly, she’d left behind long ago.

  Chapter 24

  Bar Harbor, Maine

  July 16, 1999

  There are days not even chocolate can make palatable.

  —Cornelius Traegar

  “It’s not up to you, Olivia.” Alfonse sighed for the hundredth time, a taxing thing for a man with his lung capacity. “Switch says the story leads to Aldo.”

  “But it could just as easily—”

  “Enough now. Darling,” he added, and patted her hand for good measure. “I am fine. My blood sugar went low because I was too busy pouting over Cecibel cutting our time together short to eat the afternoon snack I was supposed to. It’s been a week. Switch is done with his piece, and now it’s my . . . Aldo’s turn.”

  “You are a pigheaded man.”

  Were those tears in her fiery eyes? Alfonse chanced a darted glance Switch’s way, but Switch was again looking at his watch.

  “I am, my love.” Alfonse picked up her hand and kissed it. “And I’ll not be dissuaded. It fee
ds me, these words of ours. You know that.”

  “I do.” She pursed her lips. “All right. But if you need more time . . .”

  “I won’t.”

  “And you better be sure to lead it back to Cecilia.”

  “As the story dictates. Raymond”—he tapped Switch’s arm—“she’s not coming. She’s forgotten.”

  “But I just saw her a little while ago. She said she’d be here.”

  “It might as well have been a month ago. Ten years.” Olivia heaved a deep breath. “It’s so sad. To be that young and already losing your mind.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Oh, Raymond, please. Must we stand on nicety, among us?”

  “I will bring it up to her later,” Alfonse said. “At dinner, perhaps. Ask if she’d like to transpose Switch’s chapter now or both mine and his when I’m finished. She’s always good about getting it done quickly.”

  “Have either of you seen the file yet?” Olivia asked. “Not that I’m doubting her abilities, but . . . well, I’m doubting her abilities.”

  “I have,” Switch answered.

  “As have I,” Alfonse echoed. “She’d show you if you asked, Livy.”

  “I don’t want to see it. Not until it’s finished.” She took the notebook from Alfonse’s lap, caressed the cover. “There’s magic here. The hand, the pen—or pencil, in Switch’s case—the page. No keyboard, typewriter, or computer will ever be able to capture that magic.”

  “Only because it’s how we started,” Switch said. “Ask any new writer and they’ll more’n likely tell you otherwise.”

  “But it’s so . . . mechanical.”

  “I bet that’s what the old storytellers said when people learned how to write things down, too.” Switch winked. “It’s the creative process itself, Livy. The stewing in your brain that brings places, people, and the things they do to life. Not the means of recording it.”

  “‘We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams . . .’”

  A knock at the door turned them all to it. Alfonse checked the time. Four twenty, on the dot. “That’ll be Cecibel,” he said. “Damn. I wanted you lot out of here by now.”

  Olivia was already at the door. “Alfonse was just kicking us out,” she said. “Oh, Judith. There you are.”

  “Look who I found.” Judith pulled Cecibel into the room. “I thought we could all have tea together.”

  Cecibel allowed herself to be led, mouthing I’m sorry. She was sunshine spreading brilliant fingers to catch him in her hand. Alfonse smiled and shook his head, silently telling her all was well as long as she was there.

  Judith gave no sign that she was supposed to have been there an hour earlier. If she noticed Switch, Alfonse, and Olivia already had teacups half-filled with cooling tea, she didn’t say. Making cups for both herself and Cecibel, she drew them all into her chattering. The weather. The poorly edited novel her book club had chosen. Switch’s lovely garden, and the mint she hoped to beg from him.

  Alfonse wished them all away, wanting more than anything to bask in Cecibel’s light before taking pen to paper. But he loved them, too, loved their banter, their wit, their memories, and soon he forgot to be vexed.

  “Well, if I’m getting dinner, I have to jet.” Cecibel pushed off the arm of Alfonse’s chair an hour later. She kissed his upturned cheek, then Olivia’s. “This was really fun. I’ve missed it.”

  “If Alfonse didn’t keep you all to himself—”

  “Now, now, Olivia. Sheathe your claws. There’s enough of me to go around.”

  “It wasn’t you I was lamenting, dear. Such an ego.” Olivia patted his hand, then held hers out to Cecibel. “Come, my dear. We can walk to the dining room together. I want to make sure the poissonier understands this time that salmon isn’t to be cooked through. Barbarian. Honestly, where did he go to school?”

  Cecibel took her sunlight with her. Alfonse shivered just a little bit. He’d sit all day alone tomorrow just to be certain he wouldn’t have to share her. It was worth a day of boredom. Maybe he’d even get a little writing done. An hour or so in her shared company might just be enough to start.

  “Well, goodness, that was a close call, wasn’t it?” Judi edged forward in her chair. “I wasn’t sure what to do.”

  Alfonse exchanged a glance with Switch. “Do about what, my dear?”

  “Cecibel, of course, and the notebook. Isn’t that why we’re all here?”

  Another exchanged glance, this time a smiling one.

  “You’re a bit late, Judith,” Switch said. “We’d already finished with that by the time you got here.”

  “Three o’clock, didn’t we say?” She looked at her watch. “Oh, dear. I must have read it wrong.” Shoulders slumped, but she wagged a finger, grinning elfin all the same. “You thought I forgot.”

  Switch shrugged. “It happens.”

  “More often, with me. Well, it was a lovely little time together, wasn’t it?”

  “It was,” Alfonse answered. “Since you are here, would you like the notebook now with only Switch’s chapter to transpose? Or after I’m finished? I won’t be starting before tomorrow.”

  “I’ll take it now, then, as long as you all still trust me, and have it back to you at breakfast.”

  “Don’t be daft, woman,” Switch grumbled. “Of course we trust you.”

  “Breakfast tomorrow is perfect,” Alfonse said, reaching for the notebook on the desk. On the settee? The coffee table? “Where did it go?”

  Switch got up, turned over a cushion. Judi checked the sideboard where the electric kettle sat.

  “It was here.” Alfonse pointed to the side table next to his chair. “Olivia took it from me and set it there.”

  “Olivia, huh?” Switch arched an eyebrow.

  It took a moment, but Alfonse caught on. “Do you think . . . ?”

  “Have you ever known her to give up? Ever?”

  “Damn, I should have known better.”

  “I’m a bit lost here,” Judith said, “and not because of Alzheimer’s.”

  “Olivia must have swiped it,” Switch told her. “There was a little . . . scuffle over who should write next.”

  “What did the story dictate?” Judith asked. “Aldo or Cecilia?”

  “Aldo,” Switch answered. “Absolutely.”

  “Then I’ll get it from her at dinner,” Judith said. “You’ll have it back in your hands tomorrow, Alfonse. Mark my words. No one thwarts an editor on the warpath.”

  Alfonse let it go at that. Wisely, so did Switch. Easier to let her believe it was a creative difference than have her worry, too, over failing health that was only getting worse.

  Switch and Judi left him to get ready for dinner, not that he had anything much to do. He gathered the teacups and set them on the sideboard where housekeeping would take them, clean them, and return them again. It felt good to move around a bit, something he hadn’t done much of in the days since he collapsed. Muscles left to atrophy rejoiced rebellion against struggling lungs and heart. Leaning a hand to the window, clutching at the front of his shirt, Alfonse gazed out upon the sunset sky, the reeling gulls, the sea grass buffeted, always buffeted by the ocean wind. And there he saw her, his sunshine, his light, running across the painted landscape of his folly. Braid bouncing. Jacket flapping. Something small and brown clutched to her chest.

  Chapter 25

  Paterson, New Jersey

  December 20, 1959

  Enzo

  It was impossible not to watch him. The graceful, manly way he moved. A sailor accustomed to rolling his gait to the swell of the sea. His crooked smile, endearing, not gangster. The way he avoided Cecilia while never letting her out of his sight.

  Enzo knew him from the moment he walked in the door, his blond and blue-eyed sister only punctuating that sentence with an exclamation point. Cecilia’s gasp. The sizzle crackling the air like his good wool suit in winter. If he had any doubts, which he didn’t, his wife’s ardor on the stairs would
have dispelled them. Al DiViello was the one. The man Cecilia imagined when they made love. Patsy’s father. The one and only person Enzo Parisi understood completely, because they both had what the other wanted, and could never, ever have.

  He’d seen his wife slip out the kitchen door, Al a few moments later, and though his heart crackled around the edges, it didn’t split in two. Cecilia loved him, even if she loved their daughter’s father, too.

  His mother had a plaque hanging in the upstairs hallway—

  If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it’s yours. If it doesn’t, it never was.

  Sunset over the ocean, gulls reeling in the rays. Kind of cheesy, but he’d always appreciated the sentiment when he thought it only applied to kids growing up and leaving home, not his wife leaving him for another man. But the principle held. Enzo was, unlike the beloved-but-nevertheless-Neanderthals who raised him to manhood, evolved enough to grasp that a show of apish jealousy was the only thing that could tip Cecilia’s love and loyalty. The past needed to be settled. He’d weather it bravely. His pride had never mattered to him as much as she did.

  He watched the kitchen door anyway, sweating in his suit and trying to pretend he was having a good time at his in-laws’ party. Enzo hid a choked gasp of relief in his gimlet when she returned too soon and too put together to have engaged in a quickie behind the garage. Still, he didn’t dart to her side, but held up his drink and winked when she caught his eye. Strained as her own smile was, it softened her frenzied gaze. She blew him a kiss. Enzo thought he’d cry, but didn’t. He wasn’t a Neanderthal, but he was still a man.

  They rarely stuck together at parties. It had always been their way. Far more fun to mill about, collect gossip, and share it later in bed. Tonight would be no different. If it was, she’d know he knew, and that was the one thing he didn’t want to share. Enzo watched Al instead, and Tressa. Mostly Tressa. She was hard to miss, in any case, a snowflake in a swarthy sea. And while many of the women wore red party dresses, no one wore it like Tressa did.