Roger decided he liked it and could sell it for a good price. He asked me to empty the bookshelves so he could move it. June and I never liked to read the same kinds of books. She was into mass-market paperbacks of mysteries or spy thrillers. Me, I preferred stories about the human condition and the struggles of life with pretty covers and blurbs by well-known authors.
On these shelves I found a collection of thick, old, worn novels with stiff black bindings and faded gold lettered titles.
Look Homeward Angel by Thomas Wolfe.
I flipped open the front cover. Inside, old newspaper articles about Thomas Wolfe, the author, were pasted. A story about his return to Lancaster, Pennsylvania to connect with the other branch of the Wolfe family had several entries underlined in pen.
June often told me Thomas Wolfe was her cousin. I did a little research on him and the dates didn’t seem to match up. I ignored the notion she could actually be related to a famous writer as another of her airs of pretentiousness. It made her feel important to rattle on about him so I let her. He was born in 1900 and she, not until 1921. Maybe I’d find the connection she insisted existed and I never quite believed, inside these family treasured volumes. I leafed through a few more of the books. Old and yellowed newspaper clippings fell to the floor.
I read Look Homeward Angel at her insistence and absolutely loved it. Thomas Wolfe was a story telling genius but unfortunately his life was cut short in his thirties by tuberculosis in his brain. His novels are considered classics but are not nearly as well known as Hemingway or Fitzgerald.
“Are you done in there Miss Linda?” Roger called out. “I’m ready to take the dresser.”
“Not quite,” I answered, gathering up a stack of the books to carrying them to my special place in the other room. I wanted to sit and look through the books alone and unbothered by the commotion going on all around me, but Roger had a truck to load.
I dumped out the contents of three drawers onto the guest bed and cleared the bookcase of the rest of its books. For the first time since I arrived here, I felt excited about something. I would have a lot of reading to do. Books could do that to me, any kind of book, old, new or something in between. These books sparked a bond, something I’d been searching for, for a long time.
It surprised me she hadn’t left these books to someone on her list. I suspect June knew me well enough to know I’d take them no matter what she wrote on the dreaded list. The books themselves had broken bindings and lots of handwritten notes in the margins so were probably not worth much in their current condition, but the family history contained on the pages was priceless. I was not a Wolfe, but I had a connection with June that made us feel like family even if her blood didn’t run through my veins.
I had quite a collection of old books, more than twenty volumes by or about Thomas Wolfe stacked in the corner by the time I moved them all. I caressed the old faded covers hoping some of the author’s brilliance would enlighten my creative muse. More importantly I wanted to curl up on the sofa that Roger declined to take, and start reading. Engrossing myself in a Thomas Wolfe novel was sure to stop the world racing around me. I wanted to read, learn and enjoy all that his talent could impart on me, a working author striving to become the caliber of a best selling writer. On some level I was a student of literature of all kinds. I decided right then, they were going home with me.
Each time I passed the linen closet on the way to hide my stash of books, it called my name.
“I know. I hear you,” I said.
The diversion of the bookcase over, it was time to start on the linen closet. It was small and wouldn’t be such an overwhelming task to me while still on my antique book high. The folding metal door screeched when I pulled on the handle.
“Oh, that sent shivers up my spine!” Tina yelled out.
I yanked at it again before it loosened up and allowed me to see what had been hidden behind closed doors. Frayed edge towels and sheets stuffed the wire shelves exactly what should be stored in a linen closet.
“Sarah, do you want any towels?” I shouted over the sound of pots and pans clattering.
“We always need extra towels for cushions,” Tina answered for her.
It appeared to me Tina had all the answers. She sat on the sofa, in June’s worn and faded spot, supervising the proceedings, laughing and giggling every time her mother shouted, “Look at this! Do you want us to take this?”
I stopped what I was doing to see what she had.
Sarah placed a large wooden silver chest, I never saw before on the kitchen counter. I flipped up the lid. Wrapped in faded blue anti tarnish cloths was a sterling silver service for twelve, of knives, forks, spoons and every kind serving piece imaginable from a dressing spoon to a fish server to set of long handled ice tea spoons. Having researched sterling silver flatware sets belonging to my mother and Richard’s mother, I knew this was another one of those things whose value would not match its beauty. As we age, things we hold dear lose value, just as our minds deteriorate holding onto wisdoms a younger generation will never understand.
I thought about her question for a minute, “You can take it.”
Sarah inventoried the pieces and wrote it down on her list.
I went back to the closet, hoping I could get at least one task completely finished today in the hubbub of activity that surrounded me instead of half of many. Pulling out a stack of poorly folded, worn and frayed sheets, a book fell out landing on the floor with a thud.
Startled, Tina cried out, “What was that?”
“Just a photo album.” I opened it up to see a picture of Steve’s daughters, Alex and Lauren as little girls all dressed up in frilly dresses, sitting on a bench with their cousin, Luke. Luke is close to twenty years older than the girls. He’s tall and lanky and looked like a giant next to the children. My heart warmed at the sweetness of the photo.
I flipped through a few more pages of family snapshots, remembering us all at different phases of our lives. We were skinny, had big hair and wore some really ugly and outlandish clothes. The kids were little, cute and always smiling in the photos. Memories turned the clock backwards, a welcome relief in the middle of the day. When I was ready to close the book, I turned the pages back to their original position. And then I noticed it. In the upper left hand corner of the inside cover, a name, In June’s handwriting. “Steve”.
I pushed open the folding door a bit further for a better view inside. Seven more photo albums of varying colors, blue, green, burgundy, all the same size with the word “Photos” embossed in gold on the front cover. I opened each album after pulling them from their hiding place. Inside each front cover, a name, one for me, each of my sisters and brother. The remaining four contained the names of June’s niece and three nephews.
All those pictures sent in a birthday card or Christmas card to an old woman to show her how cute and smart, educated and well traveled we all were, had been saved. This was our way of making sure she could see our children grow up since she lived so far away. I had often wondered how June spent her days, and neatly filing away summer vacation pictures of her stepchildren had never crossed my mind as being one of her activities.
“Ooo. Can I see?” yelped Tina. “I love looking at pictures.”
“Tina, don’t you go bothering Miss Linda. She’s got work to do too,” Sarah chimed in clutching a plate and a newspaper in her hands.
“It’s okay. I don’t mind.” I handed one of the albums to Tina. She eagerly opened it and examined each photo closely as if she personally knew the people in the pictures.
I set the other albums next to their respective boxes and went back to trying to empty the closet. A spot of color on the top shelf caught my eye as a welcome change to the dull white linens on the lower shelves.
On my tiptoes, I reached to pull down a patchwork quilt. It landed in my arms. I unfolded the coverlet, releasing a musty odor of years of
being hidden in darkness. I didn’t find the pattern particularly attractive, but I admit knowing nothing about quilting. June spoke of these quilts, watching her mother hand stitch them when she was a child, but I’d never seen them. Varying sizes of pink and white triangles were framed by large solid squares of a mustard yellow with black flecks like pepper and trimmed in a darker shade pink. Maybe it was a less faded version of the same hue.
“Can I see the quilt?” Tina had snuck up behind me and peered over my shoulder. “I love quilts. Momma, we can sell this one easy.”
“Tina. What did I ask you to do?” Sarah made her way from the kitchen to see the new treasure. She fingered the edge between her thumb and forefinger. “This is on old one, handmade.”
“I know. June’s mother made it.” I looked into their faces, wide eyed and tentative awaiting my answer. “I’m going to take these to June. They might help to make her feel more at home.”
The crowd around me dissipated.
Another quilt remained wedged on the top shelf. I reached up to get it down. It felt much heavier than the one that reminded me of the food at a baseball game with its color of hot dogs and mustard with all the trimmings. On a white background, lay a multi colored pattern of hexagon shaped pieces. Larger than the first, I carried it to the bed to unfold it. As I did, a surprise revealed itself. A flimsy shirt sized white box, the kind they used to give away years ago at the department store as a gift box. I spotted it, ‘Linda’, written on the top in the corner.
Could it be? The box of personal papers June wrote in her letter to the lawyer? I stared at it; afraid to even touch it, not knowing what family secret might be lurking inside. She wanted her possessions of value to go to my siblings, her niece, nephews and goddaughter. I was the one who drove her to the store, took her out to dinner and the movies, while the others all lived a thousand miles away in different directions. There has to be something in the box, she feels is far more valuable than anything else she owns.
Bantering between Sarah and her daughter interrupted my thoughts.
“I like this basket, Mama. Can I have it?” asked Tina.
“You know we don’t take anything. Ask Miss Linda if we can buy it,” responded Sarah.
Through all the mother daughter chatter, Roger never spoke. He worked methodically, hoisting heavy furniture onto the dolly, rolling it down the Chattahoochee covered hallway clicking and clacking as he went. Most of the larger pieces had disappeared leaving the marks of crushed carpeting where they’d once rested. The apartment slowly began to release itself of its possessions.
The basket in question sat at Tina’s feet. I had no special attachment to it but instead of offering it to them right off, I waited for one of them to speak.
“Can we buy the basket from you?” Sarah asked.
“I don’t want it. You can have it,” I said.
“No, we don’t take anything. We run an honest business.” She tucked a ten-dollar bill in my palm.
“Sarah, it’s really not necessary,” I said.
“For us it is,” she answered.
Working side by side with this family all morning, little by little, I relaxed. They were kind and genuine in their own folksy way. I began to let my guard down and the fear of Roger driving off with June’s things never to be seen again had dissipated. Now that Sarah had shown me honesty that came from deep in her heart, I felt safe and comforted. I’d made a good choice in helping June.
I slipped the bill in my pocket. Tina grinned from ear to ear without saying a word.
The box lay on the bed, still and silent, exerting some kind of wild energy keeping me away from it. I picked up the corners of the quilt and slid the mystery box onto the bed without touching it.
“The difference between a mountain and a molehill is your perspective.”
Chapter Thirteen
Dad and June moved to the east coast by the time our next summer visit rolled around. They lived in an apartment on East 59th Street and Sutton Place, a long block from the East River, in New York City on the 16th floor. With a view of the city, at night we watched the lights come on in the Empire State Building and the top of the Chrysler Building from the tiled terrace that ran the length of the apartment. The living room was big, bright and roomy with wood floors and windows on two sides.
New York City, with its never-ending noisy car horns and loud fire engine sirens, was a far cry from the green suburbs of Cleveland. Steve and I got used to apartment living in Seattle with swimming pools and fitness rooms, but here the buildings were crowded together in a jungle made of concrete. This summer would be different than the others.
June’s furniture looked different in the city. Some new pieces had been added to the odd assortment of contemporary pieces mixed with antiques. A glass coffee table sat on a heavy gold-flecked curly cue base. A ceramic tulip and a Royal Dalton Toby mug decorated the top along with the latest Women’s Wear Daily Dad hadn’t read yet. My mother had Royal Dalton figurines so I knew what they were, and I wanted badly to pick up the tulip and examine it, but was afraid. These were all still June’s things and I still wasn’t certain if I could touch them without being told no.
Down the hall were two bedrooms and two bathrooms. Dad and June’s room was large and Steve and I slept in what they called the den. This is the room we watched TV in at night. Dad had a chair, his and his alone and June shared the red pull out sofa with us when we were visiting. When it was time for bed, we pushed the other furniture to the side and pulled out the mattress. Steve and I would dive in from the foot since mere inches were left on either side of the room. We lifted Maggie and Molly, the poodles, onto the bed for our goodnight kisses.
The big city amazed Steve and me, being kids from the suburbs. The steamy asphalt streets packed with cars and the sizzling concrete sidewalks crowded with people moving at a frantic pace. I never heard so many horns honking at the same time. People walked their dogs letting them poop on the sidewalk. It took me most of the summer to learn to vigilantly watch every step I took when out in the concrete maze.
During the day on the terrace, where we hung out in between trips to the grocery store for more Dr. Pepper and big bags of potato chips, both things Mom never allowed us, June showed us where the celebrities in the neighborhood lived.
“Hermione Gingold lives in that building,” she pointed out.
I had no idea who Hermione Gingold might be but June thought she was famous and worth noting.
“Oh, really,” I responded.
“And over there, is David Brinkley’s apartment. See the window with the lamp,” she said.
I knew David Brinkley and his partner, Chet Huntley. At the time, in 1969, every television set in America tuned them in for their evening newscast.
“Hopefully tonight we’ll run into Gordon McRae when we go out for dinner. I think your father wants to take you to the Mayfair. If Gordon comes in for a drink, he’ll sit at the piano and sing,” June told us.
Once again I wasn’t quite sure who Gordon McRae was but I did know Meredith McRae from Petticoat Junction fame, one of my favorite TV shows. I figured they must be related so I felt excited about seeing a celebrity in person.
June became animated when talking about the sightings of famous people she’d heard about from the cashier in the grocery store or her hairdresser on the corner. I didn’t recognize the names of most of the ones she talked about, but I listened carefully just in case she heard something about The Beatles appearing on Ed Sullivan show and I could bug Dad for tickets since we were in New York.
The Mayfair was located on First Avenue and 53rd Street, and it was Dad’s favorite place. Dinner out meant I changed into a dress and combed my hair. Steve put on pants and a collared shirt. No shorts allowed. June also put on a dress, high heels and a string of pearls.
As typical kids, Steve and I raced down the hall to see who could hit the elevator
call button first. He usually won. He had longer legs. Dad walked behind us, laughing at our antics, while June locked the apartment door.
The Mayfair was a dark restaurant and bar with rich walnut paneling on the walls, black leather upholstery on the booths and chairs, dimly lit with reproduction gaslights on the wall. Hardly a place for impressionable young teenagers, but it’s the kind of place Dad loved to enjoy his martini while June smoked her cigarettes after a long day of putting up with us.
We ordered dinner before the keys on the piano began to tinkle. Words to a song glided through the air.
“It’s Gordon McRae,” June squealed.
If it hadn’t been in the days long before smart phones and selfies, June would have taken a picture of him. She positively glowed. She lifted her drink in the direction of the piano when he finished. He lifted his back. Dad grinned happy to see his Junie having a good time. Steve and I half-heartedly applauded to be polite. The music was definitely not the Rolling Stones.
Gordon McRae launched into The Surry with the Fringe on Top. I knew the words this time so I sang along in between bites of a perfectly cooked T-bone steak and a baked potato loaded with bacon, cheddar cheese and butter.
To this day I have a pretty broad repertoire of Broadway songs in my head. Susan loved to play the piano and sing. Her sheet music consisted of the latest and most popular hits such as The Music Man, Oliver, West Side Story and My Fair Lady. Whenever she wanted to play, she called for the chorus. We never dreamed of refusing since she was the oldest after all. She played and Martha and I would belt out the tunes. Actually Susan would belt them out and drown us out. She had an Oklahoma song book too, because the words came easily to me as June’s heart throb performed the title song for the bar patrons.
Nothing much made my brother happy at anytime, at least not that I could see. He effortlessly blended into the wood paneling at The Mayfair. Although we always went to my father’s for the summer together, I have very little recollection of him saying anything, being anywhere or even giving a damn about Gordon McRae and his rendition of Oklahoma. That’s how our summer visitations unfolded every year until we were too old to go. Dad went along with whatever June got excited about. I wanted to try every new pizza place or ice cream parlor she read about in the New York Times, and Steve tagged along never voicing an opinion.
A Bittersweet Goodnight Page 8