by Laini Giles
“Hi, honey.” He gave her a hug, trying not to ruin the hairstyle he could tell she’d obviously spent hours creating.
“Mom’s P.O.d about something,” she shot back, ejecting herself from the embrace with typical teenage ennui. She flopped down onto the couch and crossed her arms in defiance. “I had to get out of the house.”
“What’s she upset about?”
“School, what else?”
“What about school? We’ve talked about this before. What’s going on?”
“Can I please just have a beer?”
“You’ll have a soda,” he said, crossing to the fridge and pulling out a Pepsi for her. Bringing her the can and a glass, he stood there for a moment, expecting answers. “All right, Shan. Cough it up. Tell me.”
“I skipped algebra yesterday. The principal called her. It’s no big deal. I just freaking hate algebra. I went shopping with the girls, and the stupid shopkeeper called the truant officer. It was just one period.” She rolled her eyes.
“Shannon, don’t start skipping school. Seriously.” Frustrated, he ran a hand through his hair, trying to figure out what to say to her. He loved her so much, but he found it so difficult to relate to her these days. More so now that she resembled her mother in looks and temperament.
“Why? It’s boring.”
“I know that. Math wasn’t my favorite subject either. Can I impart some paternal wisdom that I have gained in all my years?”
She snorted, and he took that as a yes.
“Algebra is bullshit.”
“Duh,” she said, and he had to mentally smack down the disciplinarian in himself.
“I’m serious.”
She looked at him and her face was unreadable. “Really?”
“Yes, Shan. The truth is that algebra is useless. Knowing you as I do, I’m aware that you will become an artist or a writer or a journalist. You like using words to get your point across. Very sarcastically, I might add. I also know that you get As in English and art. Your mother and I are very proud of you for that.”
She looked cynical.
“However…here’s the thing. Algebra is a necessary evil.”
She rolled her eyes again, and he looked up, beseeching whomever was up there to give him the strength he needed to deal with her.
“I know it’s boring, and I know you don’t give a flying flip what x and y are or if they’re squared or cubed. But you have to take it to graduate, and chances are, you’ll have to take it and pass it in the future in college. You might even have to take calculus or trig too. Haven’t you talked about going to Cornell? Well, you’ll never do it by skipping classes. You just can’t. Cornell wants the best of the best. When my dad and I had this same conversation years and years ago and I asked him what algebra was for, do you know what he told me? Shipbuilding.”
Her mouth dropped open.
“Now, I know you don’t have any blueprints for the Mauretania on your desk at home. The school district knows it too. But the truth is that you have to take it and pass it before you can move on.”
She sat for a moment, seeming to really think about what he’d said.
“Do we understand each other?” he asked. “I don’t want to have this conversation again. You have to go to class. And I don’t care if you get As. Let me rephrase that. As are nice. I love As. But I just want you to do your best. You can’t do that if you’re not sitting in that seat. And I may not care about As, but I know Cornell sure does. Got it?”
Shannon broke out into a smile and put her hand on his knee.
“Thanks, Dad. You always explain things so I can understand them.” She leaned over and hugged him, then sighed.
“Why can’t things be the way they used to? I wish you still lived with us.”
“I know, honey. You don’t know how sorry I am.”
“Mom just gets crazy. Zero to hysterical in ten seconds flat. I can’t think with all the yelling. I won’t skip algebra again. Can we go to Purity’s and get an ice cream now?”
After they had ice cream and he deposited her back at her mother’s place, Frank pulled the Crown Vic to a stop in front of his mother’s house, a pretty bungalow in the East Hill neighborhood. Navy shutters and a deep blue front door accentuated the pale cream exterior. Although it looked small from the outside, it was spacious inside, with a full finished basement that contained an entire extra bedroom suite.
It had experienced much modernization during the last century, and his father had done much of the work himself. The house sat back from the street, with a healthy, expansive lawn and flowerbeds drenched in deep shade. His mother had planted hostas and lady ferns around the perimeter of the house. Up until she got sick, her garden had been Maude’s pride and joy.
As Frank strolled up the front walk, Walter the cat hopped down from a nearby stone retaining wall. He made a beeline for where Frank stood at the front door. Like all cats, Walter knew where his bread was buttered. When old lady human was not there, visiting tall guy meant dinner and a scratch or two.
“Come on, buddy.”
Walter made himself at home, purring and serpentining his gray fluff between Frank’s pant legs. Frank went to the pantry for a can of whatever Maude had on hand for his dinner and found one last can of Friskies Seafood in Sauce, which he dished up and set on the floor. Walter began devouring what was in the bowl, and Frank had an awful thought as he watched him eat.
What happens to Walter when Mom goes?
Diana was allergic, and he knew how particular Seth’s wife Angela was about lint and fur and dust in their house. Frank loathed cats, but if no one took him, Walter would end up at the pound, and that couldn’t happen. Maude loved this damned cat. He wondered if Linda or Russ might be in the market for a new pet.
Walter, for his part, enjoyed his dinner, unaware of the strange U-Turn his seventh life was about to take. He began his dainty after-meal bathing ritual, using his front paw to launder the rest of himself. Frank scratched his forehead, which he seemed to appreciate. He moved his head so that Frank could work his way over to the neck and then onto the breastbone. Walter preened, milking his cuteness factor for all he was worth. Frank hated to admit it, but the cat could be a fun companion at times. He was more independent than a dog, at least. If nothing else, Shannon would never forgive him for letting anything bad happen to Walter.
Frank glanced at the room he knew so well, with its lavender blue couch and chairs, and then into the bedroom his parents had shared for years before his father’s death. In the closet, up on a shelf, his mother kept a book full of nostalgia. That was where he needed to look. Suddenly, he was craving anything and everything about his family. It didn’t even matter if it pertained to Libbie. He just needed to feel close to them all somehow. It seemed essential to know everything he could.
He took the album from its place on the shelf above the clothes rod and sat down on the bed to examine its contents. Walter, evidently in the mood for company, followed him into the room, where he hopped up on the bed, kneaded the spread to get the consistency just right, and settled down for a nap, his purr engine in high gear.
The first page of the album contained clippings for his mother’s graduating class in 1917. A graduation program listed the valedictorian, salutatorian, and the schedule for the ceremony, including Elgar’s “Pomp and Circumstance” for the recessional. Things hadn’t changed much, it seemed.
Obituaries for his grandparents were glued into the book. While they were what he was searching for, looking at them was a real downer.
“Harriett Bardwell Morgan
Ithaca— Mrs. Harriett Bardwell Morgan passed away yesterday morning after an extended illness. She was born in Fairfield, Connecticut, April 8, 1864, to Charles Bardwell and his wife, Jennie Van Kirk. She attended the Litchfield Finishing School in Fairfield, Co
nnecticut, and in 1896 married DeWitt Clinton Morgan, an attorney who is well known in this city. One daughter, Maude Morgan Conley of Trumansburg survives her. Another daughter, Libbie, went missing in 1916. Her whereabouts are unknown. Obsequies will be at the home on Stewart Street Saturday morning with ladies from the Rebekahs assisting in receiving callers. Mrs. Morgan will be buried Saturday in the Ithaca City Cemetery.”
“DeWitt Clinton Morgan
Ithaca— Mr. DeWitt Clinton Morgan, a well-known attorney of this city, passed away late last night after an illness of several years’ duration. He was born September 12, 1860, in Old Saybrook, Connecticut, to Levi Cornelius Morgan and his wife, Phoebe Baldwin. After attending Cornell here and studying law, he decided to settle. He married Miss Harriett Bardwell in 1896, and they became respected members of the community, Mr. Morgan practicing law here for many years. He had the marvelous home on Seneca Street near Stewart built for his new wife in 1896, and it has become a grand addition to our architectural community.
Of Mr. Morgan, his old partner, Mr. Amasa LaBarr, commented that he was ‘one of the most skillful arbiters of law in the state.’ Judge Eli Van Riper, who sat on the bench for many years, called Mr. Morgan ‘a stellar individual, one to whom justice and integrity were paramount.’ Many Ithacans remember Mr. Morgan with fondness.
One daughter, Maude Morgan Conley of Trumansburg, survives him. Another daughter, Libbie, went missing in 1916. Her whereabouts are unknown. Services will be held at the Ithaca Methodist Church on Friday at eleven o’clock. Mr. Morgan will be buried Friday afternoon in the Ithaca City Cemetery.”
He hadn’t expected either of the clippings to tell him much more than he already knew, but at least he was being thorough in his search for more information. In addition to the brittle yellow obituaries, he also found an invitation to his parents’ wedding and the clipping from the paper.
“Morgan-Conley
Ithaca—
Saturday morning, the marriage of Sarah Maude Morgan to Robert Harrison Conley occurred at the Morgan home on Stewart Street. The company of invited guests was not large, yet those fortunate enough to be present report one of the most pleasant gatherings of the season. The room was decorated with garlands of orange blossoms and beautiful arrangements of white roses. The costumes were elegant, and the ceremony was brief but pleasant, the repast fine and list of presents large and unusual in merit and value.
A fine orchestra helped to entertain the party, playing several choice selections, including Lohengrin’s Wedding March for the processional. Later, Clara Armbruster and Phoebe Hill put all in a pleasant mood with their comic songs.
The young people have each been residents of this place for a long time and have many friends here who have the best wishes for their happiness and future prosperity. They began housekeeping in their fine new residence, and there was no break made in the practice of law, which he has so faithfully practiced. A formal wedding trip to Niagara Falls will follow later this summer. The Journal joins in hearty congratulations and trusts that in the years to come, there may never come a moment when either will regret the step they took on Saturday June sixteenth.”
When Frank was done reading, he looked over at Walter, who was sprawled over the bedspread. Walter let out a lazy yawn and stretched a little more. Frank rubbed his belly, and the little fellow rolled over on his back and scooted across the spread backwards in enjoyment. Frank considered impromptu cat ownership.
Chapter Fifteen
Ithaca, New York
June 1916
Breakfast was quiet. Maude read her copy of The Secret Garden, even though Harriett had a rule about no books at the table. Today, however, Harriett was preoccupied with directing the servants in their duties. The Morgans were entertaining several other attorneys and their wives that night, and Harriett wanted everything to be just so before their arrival. Libbie watched with amusement as her mother harangued poor Juliana about the linens, the flowers, and the courses to be served at dinner, while Jack, their part-time butler, polished her mother’s silver tea service until it glistened.
“Now Juliana, we’ve decided on the Chicken Lyonnaise, tomato aspic, creamed carrots, green turtle soup, jacket potatoes, and some fresh fruit and cheese. For dessert, I’d prefer the pear tart to the brandied nectarines that Mr. Morgan mentioned to you. Several of our guests are teetotalers and may not appreciate liquor in their dessert. We’ll serve the others an after-dinner brandy or cognac instead. Will that be sufficient to get you started?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Juliana said with a half curtsy as she retreated back to the kitchen to plan the cooking marathon that would ensue when she returned from the market.
Libbie finished her poached egg, buckwheat cakes with marmalade, and fruit compote and then made her way upstairs. No one knew of her plans, but she was meeting Tom Estabrook at the nickelodeon later. Their walk several days before had been pleasant but had only left Libbie clamoring for more.
This afternoon, they were buying separate tickets and then sitting together in the darkened theater. She was thrilled even thinking about it. She wasn’t sure she liked the choice of films—something called Civilization that Tom was interested in seeing. It was all about the brutality of war or some such. But Libbie supposed it might prepare her for what she would see overseas once she and Olive arrived. She didn’t recognize any of the actors, either. She’d hoped that Lillian Gish might be in it, or Theda Bara. But she supposed she could sit still to watch it anyway.
When she purchased her ticket and the usher showed her to her seat, the theater had not yet begun to fill. The Palace was a recent addition to Ithaca’s architectural milieu. It stood at the intersection of Green and Aurora, near Six Mile Creek, and a grander theater the city had never seen. The owners had built it to accommodate vaudeville shows, but they had added a screen for flicker capabilities as well. The builders had modeled the stone masonry work on the Italian palaces of the Renaissance and constructed a huge proscenium arch over the screen. Casts of cherubs and angels decorated the arch, and deep indigo velvet draperies hung alongside it. The ceiling was the most beautiful of all, with fake paint effects resembling a sky with clouds and glistening stars. It still smelled of new paint and plaster.
Mr. McGillicuddy sat at the piano in front of the stage, entertaining them all with current melodies before the show started, then he started a tinny sort of tune more in keeping with the film. Libbie pulled out the hatpins securing her headwear and set it with care on the seat beside her, in keeping with the “Ladies, please remove your hats” frame on the screen.
At that moment, the usher showed Tom to a seat behind her. As soon as the man retreated to assist another patron, Tom moved up a row and sat down next to her. When he smiled, her heart fluttered a bit.
“I’m glad you made it,” he whispered.
“Me, too.”
They watched in silent fascination at the flickering black and white images for a time, and then he reached for her hand in the dark. She grasped it and smiled, even though he couldn’t see.
After the flicker, as they sat next to each other on the streetcar, Libbie looked over at Tom under hooded lids. He was nervous and twiddled his fingers, trying to steal a glimpse at her while pretending not to. She had never seen a boy so anxious. But she had also never seen a boy so handsome. He seemed unaware of it.
They had taken a stroll down Seneca Street after the film. It wasn’t a long walk, as the neighbors would have gossiped, but then they caught the streetcar, and it didn’t matter much anyway after that. Tom told her of his mother and father, and of living on the farm with his aunt and uncle, and of his sister and her adorable twin daughters. Libbie listened with one ear, as she found his stories of rural life frightfully dull.
“I want to see where you live,” she’d said, turning to him.
It didn’t seem proper to Tom at all. With no chaperone
, what would the neighbors say? What would Mrs. Protts say? He found that he was frightened and hoped it wouldn’t look as if he had compromised Miss Morgan’s honor, when that hadn’t been his intention at all. In fact, she was rather insistent on seeing his room.
“They don’t have to know,” she whispered, reading his thoughts. But he noticed she was shaking too.
As they stepped out of the car at his stop, they walked up Linn Street, wanting to hold hands but knowing they couldn’t. They could have been brother and sister for all anyone knew, except for the disparity in the quality of their clothing.
The nondescript two-story clapboard house owned by Mrs. Protts loomed up ahead, with shadows beginning to collect across the afternoon lawn. The dark green shutters framing the two front windows gave it a bit of a brooding look. Tom could have sworn that the house was frowning at them. He surveyed the garden as they walked up the hill, but there was no landlady in sight. During the spring and summer, like now, she was always out cutting flowers or harvesting her small batch of vegetables. After a few moments, he heard her voice warbling a shaky tune from the back summer kitchen as she rinsed something she had dug up. Perhaps they could enter the building unseen. He didn’t know how they did it, but they made it down the corridor, with its peeling green paint, and entered his spare little room. Although he had straightened it before his departure that morning, it was still the rented lodging of a poor man. He was even more self-conscious about it after seeing the luxurious parlor in the Morgan home.