by Joyce Magnin
"How did you hear about that?"
He glanced at the house and wrinkled his mouth, which wrinkled his forehead, which furrowed his brow and made him look a wee bit sinister as a shadow draped across his face. "Nate told me. If there's one thing I learned about Bright's Pond it's not the place to come if you have a secret to hide."
"Yeah, I guess you got that right."
"So what do you think?"
"About the treasure? I have no idea. I do know that train robberies were pretty much a daily occurrence in these parts, or more out west a bit. And coal mines had pretty substantial payrolls and such, considering."
Cliff nodded his head. "So it could be true, then."
"Sure. I can try to do some research down at the library if you want? Thinking about looking for yourself?"
"Nah, not really. I was just curious is all. I'd hate it if that poor fella was out there and almost got killed over nothing, you know?"
"That would be adding insult to injury," I said.
Cliff looked past me for a second. "I guess you better be going and I promised Nate I'd lend him a hand today so—"
"Right. Thanks for the ride," I said.
"Think about those lessons," Cliff said. "You're a natural."
I waited until Cliff got to the front door just in case I caught a glimpse of Stella. But she wasn't there. Probably doing her housework or back to spraying Bertha Ann. I dropped the gearshift into drive and pulled away from the curb when I spotted Mickey Mantle loping across the street with a bird in his mouth. "Must be part retriever," I told no one but myself.
Three minutes later I saw Ivy running down the street with her arms spinning nearly like a whirligig and her huge breasts bobbing up and down. I stopped.
"Are you all right, Ivy?"
"Have you seen Mickey Mantle? He ran out of the yard again lickety split like he had something on his mind. I think that boy has a girlfriend."
"Didn't you get him fixed? Wasn't that the deal from the SPCA?"
"Yeah, yeah, but I just couldn't do it. I couldn't let them cut his—"
"All right, Ivy. I saw him not five minutes ago running that way with a bird—looked like a robin—in his mouth."
"That scoundrel. I told him no more birds."
"Maybe it's a gift for his girl. Want a lift?"
"No, I'm better on foot. I know his hiding places. I'll find him."
I waved good-bye and drove to the library. I parked in my usual spot and noticed Stella sitting on the library porch. Now what is she doing here, I thought. Stella was not a library regular.
"Hey Stella," I called. "Didn't I just leave you at your house?"
"That was an hour ago." she said. "Where've you been?"
"I got delayed after I left you. Cliff took me for a ride in Matilda."
She stood as I got closer.
"No kidding. Did you like it? He asked me if I wanted to go but Nate said no, like it's his decision. He said he doesn't want me alone in the cockpit with Cliff."
"What's he think you're gonna do?"
"He's just so jealous of everyone. But that's OK. I didn't really want to go flying."
"Oh I loved it, Stella! It was the most . . . exhilarating thing I have ever done, flying so high with my head in the clouds looking down on the earth, on Bright's Pond. I thought I could . . . could fly forever."
I unlocked the door and pushed it open letting Stella go inside first. Then I flipped on the lights. The rush of book smell hit my face the way it did every morning. Books and dust. The library was in need of a fall cleaning.
"I think I'll ask Sheila Spiney to make an announcement in the church bulletin that I need volunteers to help clean the library. We always have a good turnout."
"Long as there's lemon squares and pie and coffee, folks will help."
I dropped my bag on the check-out counter. My bag was an olive drab canvas satchel I had been carrying for years. It belonged to my father and I could never part with it. Ruth had sewn patches of pretty colors here and there and replaced the snap a dozen times at least.
"So what brings you to the library?" I asked. "Does Nate know you left your post?"
"Ah phooey on him. He can spray the pumpkin all by himself. You know he's got me spraying her down with milk now?"
"Milk? You mean regular old milk?"
"Yep. He claims it's good for her and will help guard against cracks."
"That's just weird."
"Sure is. But, who knows, it might help."
Stella fidgeted with some papers on the counter, mostly government-issue pamphlets and tax return forms. "I've been thinking about what that Gilda Saucer said about Walter looking for buried treasure, and I don't know whether to be mad or glad or just chalk it up to being nothing more than Walter being Walter—always looking for one quick-rich scheme or another."
We talked as I made my rounds, replacing books on shelves, picking up trash, checking in new books.
"But that's his business. It doesn't matter to you that much. Let the man chase his wind mills you know what I mean?"
"Yes, I do, and I believe that, but I was also letting myself think that maybe he was up here looking for me. That maybe he knew I was living nearby and was planning on dropping by, but no, he was up here trying to line his greedy pockets."
I hadn't thought about the situation like that. If it was true then maybe Stella was right about him. Maybe he's still just as big a rat fink as he ever was.
"I was thinking, Griselda, that maybe I could at least find out if there was any truth to her story, you know here, maybe a book or newspaper report about a robbery."
My eyebrows rose at the idea of delving into some research. "It's what they pay me for. We could do some checking. I do know train robberies were pretty frequent out near Harrisburg. They carried the miners' payroll usually."
"Really? So it could be true?"
"Sure. I just wish we had an exact date, something more to go on than 'around fifty years ago.' "
"We can't just look up train robberies in the Britannica?"
"No. I'm thinking old newspaper articles would be the way to go."
"That sounds like a lot of work."
It was, but I felt determined to help Stella figure this out, and I loved digging for the truth. We started by researching train robberies and within an hour managed to find information about three in which the loot was never recovered.
That little discovery only solidified Stella's harsh feelings toward her brother.
"So, it could very well be that the creep was out looking for gold. Sounds about right."
I left Stella alone to read through the microfiche of newspaper articles that went back to 1914. The Bright's Pond Library had many rolls of microfiche but the collection was far from complete. After another hour I asked Stella if it was worth knowing the details.
"I don't know," she said stretching back in the chair. "I think I'm pretty curious now. I did find this article about a train robbery. But it wasn't for half-a-million dollars."
"Let me see."
"This is from an article written in 1924." Stella then read the account of a train robbery in which the owner of the mine, who was accompanying a safe filled with the cash, was stopped and robbed by three masked men. The owner, a man named Deaver, was shot and killed after being forced to give up the safe.
The safe was never recovered.
"You think Walter could have found out about the safe?" Stella asked.
I shrugged. "Maybe, but it's not really all that much money. I mean not really."
Stella pushed her chair away from the microfiche machine and stood. "If I know my brother, it's not just about the money. He likes the thrill. He likes getting his hands on what he considers found money, although that's open to interpretation."
"Truth of the matter is, Stella, that there is no crime in treasure hunting and if we're telling the truth you haven't exactly been breaking any records trying to find him either."
"I know. I know. Guess I'm just a
s guilty as him. Maybe I should have gone looking for him. Maybe I should have taken the high road as my mother would have said."
"Maybe. It's not too late. You can still take the high road and forgive him. God will help you with that. But you know all this don't you?"
"Golden rule kind of stuff, I suppose. I guess I'd want to be forgiven."
I looked into Stella's eyes. I could see both pain and compassion. "Go on," I said. "Forgive him and mend the fences."
"He's in a coma. He might never come out of it. How would he know all is forgiven?"
I scratched my neck. "Now that's a good question, but maybe instead of asking 'what if he doesn't wake up' you should be asking 'what if he does.' "
She shook her head. "So now what?"
"Make your peace with him. You should keep visiting your brother and pray that he wakes up."
I turned off the microfiche machine and looked at my watch. "Geez, you've been at this for a long time. It's nearly four o'clock."
"Oh, crud," Stella said. "I better get home. Nate is going to be madder than jumpin' blue heck. I never got his lunch and now dinner will be late."
"You worry about him too much. He's a big boy. He can take care of himself."
"I know, Griselda. I just want to keep the peace. At least until after the weigh-off."
"Well, blame it on me," I said as she scurried out the door.
Funny how quickly the library could grow so quiet when I was all alone. Even with all the hundreds of books, the many voices and characters moving about on the pages, the stories held between the bindings, the library could be such a solitary place at times. I waited a little while longer in case some of the students came by.
I set about turning off lights and getting ready to call it quits when the library door swung open. It was Mercy Lincoln.
"I brought you your book back," she said. "I liked it. Can I have another?"
Mercy was all of nine years old and just the cutest little thing ever. She wore her hair in pigtails and dressed about as well as any of the backwoods children. That is to say she wore blue jean overalls that looked about six sizes too big—probably an older sibling's or a neighbor's. Her sneakers were worn and filthy with no laces. I made a mental note to tell the SOAP ladies that Mercy needed shoes and socks.
"OK, let's look."
A few minutes later I sent Mercy home with Treasure Island.
"Thank you Miz Griselda. I'll be sure and get it back. I gotta run on home now."
Of all the children in Bright's Pond, Mercy was my favorite.
17
I headed for the Full Moon, excited to tell Zeb about my plane ride. But, Cliff beat me to it. He was already there sitting at the counter yakking up a storm about how I was the next Amelia Earhart. Zeb looked like he was about to explode.
"Hey," I said taking the stool next to Cliff.
"There she is," he said. "The best flyer in Bright's Pond."
Cliff excused himself and headed to the bathroom.
"Really, Grizzy, you really went flying with him?" Zeb asked once Cliff was in the men's room. "All alone in a plane, just the two of you."
My heart sank. "Yes, Zeb. What in heaven's name are you implying?" He must have been talking to Nate Kincaid.
"Nothing." He quickly wiped the counter and went back to the kitchen. "I'm not implying anything. I'm just saying you have to be concerned about appearances."
"Appearances?" I whispered loudly. "There are no appearances."
Zeb tossed the damp cloth into a bucket under the counter.
This was getting to be too much. But, when Cliff returned and casually touched my hand when he sat down I had to wonder if maybe there was a shred of truth to Zeb's concern because my heart skipped a beat.
"So when we going up again, Amelia?" Cliff asked.
I fiddled with the paper napkin Dot Handy had put down. She smiled at me and winked. "I don't know, but I would love to go flying again." I said it loud enough for Zeb to hear me.
Cliff smiled. "You might say that Amelia Earhart had her heart in the air and I say you do too. You took to it like a duck to water."
"Pickup," hollered Zeb. "Come on, Dot, get a move on."
Dot shook her head. "I'm coming. Simmer down." Then she leaned into me and whispered. "You two better get this worked out. He's driving me nuts. Mickey Mantle is not the only dog in love around here."
In love? I had never even thought about it. As a matter of fact the possibility of Zeb knowing how to fall in love escaped me. I looked up at him and his silly paper hat weaving up and down in the kitchen. He glanced at me through the pick-up window. I smiled. He cracked a small grin and went back to his griddle.
Cliff moved back an inch or two. "I didn't mean to start anything. Is Zeb your steady?"
I really didn't know how to answer that question. I mean Zeb and I have been what some folks in town would call an item since high school if you can believe that. But like Ruth was always making a point of—I didn't see a ring on my finger.
"So anyway," Cliff said obviously embarrassed and needing to change the subject. "I heard Stella tell Nate she was investigating about that buried treasure?"
Now I don't know why but something about the tone of Cliff's voice put me on edge. "She was up at the library earlier. We found some information. Not much."
"Yeah, I heard her tell Nate that you helped her find information about a train robbery. Now unless there is some rule about librarians discussing what their customers research, I'd like to hear more about it."
"Not much to say except there was a train robbery about fifty years ago and the money was never found. The article we read mentioned the Sakolas Quarry and that's where Walter had his accident."
I called over to Dot. "Make mine to go." I suddenly wanted to go home and stop talking about being in love and treasures.
Cliff backed off and tried to make nice. He even apologized. "I'm sorry, Griselda. I think living with "The Bickersons" is getting to me. I'm not used to all that arguing. So I apologize if I said something to offend you."
"It's OK, Cliff. It's really not you."
I drove home with my dinner in a sack next to me and started to miss Agnes as I thought about how many meat loaf specials and slices of pie I had brought home to her over the years in sacks just like the one sitting next to me. At least when she was there I never ate dinner alone. I used to think that was a bad thing. So I veered off Filbert Street and headed for Ruth's.
She was home and just sitting down to her dinner—leftover tuna casserole. I was glad I brought my own. Ruth made the worst tuna casserole in the world, which was highly irregular because Ruth could make just about anything else really well—especially lemon squares. I hoped she had some for dessert. I didn't even think her tuna casserole could qualify as food but she seemed to like it. Maybe it was just me, although even Agnes turned her nose up at it.
"So Ruth," I said once we set the table and filled our glasses with iced tea. "I hear you went flying with Cliff."
She dropped her fork on her plate, which caused a tuna filled noodle to jump and splatter on her shirt. She wiped it off with the cloth napkin she had on her lap. "Why do we put these on our laps? The food always ends up on the shirt."
After another bite she said, "Please don't remind me. I have never been so scared in all my born days, except of course when that nice doctor told me and Bubba about his brain tumor. I thought I was gonna die in that airplane—more like a sardine can with wings with nothing but . . . I don't know what holding it up. I was fixing to crash and die in a ball of flames, so I closed my eyes tight, made my peace with the good Lord above, and waited for sweet death. I think I even saw my Bubba waiting for me on the other side of the Jordan."
She took another bite. "He looked good, Griselda—Bubba I mean, better than he had in years."
"Oh, Ruth. I am so sorry it was so miserable for you. I absolutely loved it!"
"You went for a ride with Cliff?"
"Yep, although saying 'wen
t for a ride' makes it sound silly like it's an amusement park ride. I flew, Ruth. I flew in a plane and I never felt freer or lighter in my life. It was like I left all my cares on the ground."
And that was the truth. The only other time I felt anything similar was when I was out on the pond fishing with my father. I could sit out there for hours holding my rod, waiting for that slight tug on the line, waiting until the exact moment to set the hook and reel in a trout as long as my arm. That was freedom to me also.
"Sounds like you should be flying planes." She laughed. But I took her words seriously.
"You know, that's what Cliff said." He offered to give me lessons."
"Oh, no you don't. I was only kidding. I am not ready to lose another friend around here, Griselda. Too many people died now as it is. I won't lose you in a plane wreck."
"Crash. Plane's crash. Trains wreck."
"Whatever. Dead is dead."
"I won't die."
Ruth took a few more quiet bites of her tuna. We sat silently until she mentioned Stella and Walter.
"Oh, it's all over town now," she said. "I heard from Dot Handy and Hazel Flatbush that Walter was a bank robber digging up money he stole years ago. They say he had to wait until the heat died down."
"That's not true. My goodness the way rumors fly around here. I think he was a treasure hunter, that's all. I don't think there was anything nefarious going on at all."
"Ne—what?"
"Nefarious. It means immoral or evil. Wicked."
"Wicked. That's what it sounds like. I can just imagine what Stella might be going through thinking her brother, who we all know already cheated his family, is . . . was out in the world doing . . . nefarious things."
"I don't believe it," I said. "He was not doing anything illegal."
The telephone rang. It was the nursing home.
"How'd they know you were here?" Ruth asked as she handed me the phone.
I waved her off and took the call.
"It was about Agnes," I said when I returned to the table. "They said she had another serious asthma attack and is asking for me."