Marjorie Hart and the Tree of Life

by Amanda Vink

  For years, Marjorie puzzled over it. Why was her father so interested in the Tree of Life?

  That was the year Marjorie first went to boarding school in England. Boarding school was stifling for her. It was much different than at home, where she spent her days taking books from her father’s library shelves, running around outside, and pulling pranks on the serving staff. Her studies had always been self-directed. At the boarding school, she frequently clashed with the teachers. When her father returned to get her in the spring, Marjorie asked him to never send her back. He promised her he wouldn’t, and he had kept that promise. The following year, Julian traveled throughout Europe—and Marjorie went with him. She lugged her camera all over the continent.

  As Marjorie grew older, she took photojournalism more seriously, and eventually, she began to make a name for herself. While many of her friends married and started families, Marjorie went on assignments she created for herself. She traveled throughout the United States and met fascinating artists, writers, and thinkers. She took portraits of them, and they talked for hours.

  A few men tried to court her. Marjorie enjoyed their friendship—but ultimately she said no when they asked if she would marry them. She couldn’t imagine spending her days inside a large house, sending out and receiving invitations for tea, and overseeing the running of a home.

  Marjorie also had friends who became flappers. These women wore short skirts and kept their hair short, and frequented the finest jazz clubs. In her early twenties especially, Marjorie joined them. She drank cocktails and stayed out until late in the evenings. Back then, she felt like she was on top of the world. Her photographs sold to newspapers and magazines regularly. Her life was full of adventure and charm. It was a riot—and then it all came crashing down.

  It had happened while Marjorie was on assignment in May a year before. She was one of the many photojournalists who had photographed Charles Lindbergh just before he rode the Spirit of St. Louis from New York City to Paris. When she returned to her hotel room after taking his portrait, she found waiting for her a telegram bearing terrible news. Her father’s body had been pulled from the Nile. He had been traveling near Cairo, exploring a few archeological digs and other points of interest in his latest research.

  Marjorie locked herself in her room and didn’t come out for a week. When she emerged, she was desperate for information. She hired a private investigator out of Cairo, but the man turned up nothing. It had just been a terrible accident, he said. For the Egyptians, the Nile was considered the giver of life. For Marjorie, it took it away.

  After a few months, she started working again—then she discovered the breadcrumb trail that led to the golden boy Hugh Wright. Finally, something excited her. Only now, no one would publish her photographs.

  The car stopped. Marjorie was home.

  The building was large and gray. From certain angles, one might mistake it for a castle. The windows were topped with sweeping arches, and a rounded turret protruded from the front. Verdant, perfectly pointed evergreens that could survive a Buffalo winter lined the foundation, pulling water away. In addition, a pathway of purple geraniums led visitors to a dark door made of wood.

  Jenkins opened the car door. “Would you like an early dinner? Some tea, perhaps?”

  “No, thank you,” Marjorie said. “I’m too tired for anything.”

  Good old Jenkins. When Marjorie’s mother died, her father had reduced the staff. They didn’t need so many people for the two of them, he’d told her. But Jenkins had stayed, and Marjorie wouldn’t let him go, as long as he wanted to stay on. He was almost like a second father to her.

  “Do you need anything?” he asked.

  “Well, I need to figure out what to do with these.” She nodded to her briefcase. “Apparently even possessing them puts me into a bit of danger. Nobody will publish them.”

  “I suspect,” Jenkins said, “the opportunity will present itself.”

  “Seeing is believing,” she said, an edge of bitterness in her voice.

  Marjorie was too tired to deal with anything at that moment. She made her way up the stairs with a cool bath in mind.

  Chapter Two

  Marjorie slipped into a silk robe and descended the stairs, where she headed for the breakfast room, her mother’s favorite place. It sat on the east side of the house, inside the turret. Wallpapered in rose and adorned by red oak flooring and a long table, everything looked soft. The smell of toast and eggs made Marjorie’s stomach turn.

  Surprisingly, someone stood at the window. His back faced her, but Marjorie guessed him in his late fifties, based on his salt-and-pepper hair. He wore a white linen suit that looked light and airy. It was creased, presumably from travel. His mustache was just starting to turn gray. When he turned to look at her, his eyebrows raised, as though surprised. “I told Jenkins to let you sleep,” he said.

  “Uncle Charlie!” Marjorie dashed into the room, and they embraced. He smelled of walnut oil and witch hazel—so familiar.

  Standing back, she took in his appearance. He looked tired, thinner than the last time she had seen him. “You know I’d happily get up to see you,” she said.

  “I didn’t mind waiting, old gal,” said Uncle Charlie.

  “Tea? Something stronger?” Already Marjorie headed toward a secret compartment built into the stone of the mantle. She opened it and considered what she had available.

  Uncle Charlie laughed and glanced at his pocket watch. “It’s eleven o’clock in the morning!”

  “Perfect time for some champagne,” Marjorie reasoned. She retrieved a bottle of vintage Blanc de Blancs. It was the color of fresh butter and cool to the touch. “It’s prescription, you know.” She winked.

  “Always do what the doctor orders,” Uncle Charlie said.

  Marjorie put a towel over the top of the bottle and twisted. Pop! went the cork. She poured two flutes, enjoying the sound the gold liquid made as it fizzled, and handed him one. He took it gratefully. He always seems more at ease when he’s holding something, Marjorie thought.

  They both took a sip. The bubbles lingered on Marjorie’s tongue. “What time did the train come in?” she asked.

  “Nine o’clock.”

  It must’ve been a sleeper train. Ever since she was little, Marjorie had been riding the train back and forth from Buffalo to New York City to visit her extended family. The trip could take anywhere from eight to ten hours, depending on schedules. The two stations in Buffalo—at Exchange Street and Terrace Station—were old and congested. For that reason, she always preferred the overnight sleeper train. New York Central Railroad had already undertaken the planning and development of a central station east of downtown Buffalo. Marjorie couldn’t wait to see it and discover what it would do for the city.

  Uncle Charlie also took a sip of the champagne, then studied it like he was making divinations.

  “What brings you to Buffalo, Uncle?” Marjorie asked.

  Uncle Charlie looked up at her abruptly, clearly startled out of his thoughts. “I’ve had a letter from your father. It arrived earlier this week. I don’t know why it took so long getting here.”

  The air left Marjorie’s lungs all at once. Blood rushed to her head. In her ears, it sounded like the beating of insect wings. It was a good thing there was a chair nearby—because she had to sit down.

  Uncle Charlie pulled the letter from the inside pocket of his suit and offered it to her. Marjorie’s hands shook as she took it. The envelope itself was beaten, and the typewritten letters directed its address to the Vale residence on the Hudson. There was no return address.

  The paper felt warm and soft against her skin, but the envelope had weight to it. There was a sharp edge where it had been opened with a letter opener. She gave herself a small paper cut as she tried to retrieve the letter from inside. A line of blood gurgled up from under her skin, and she absently sucked on the wound. The metallic taste of blood settled on her tongue. She unfolded the letter and read it so fast that she coul
dn’t process what it said. She had to read it again, slower.

  Charlie,

  I arrived in Cairo this week, and I’m pleased to report I’ve had a lucky break already. We unearthed something in Memphis. I can’t say too much, but I couldn’t resist writing to you. It’s likely this discovery will bring us closer to the ultimate goal—the Tree! At any rate, it’s one step closer to a cure.

  Keep your hopes up, Charlie. We’re getting closer. I’ve included a letter for Samuel with details I know he’ll be interested in. Furthermore—

  Uncle Charlie spoke before she finished. “He mentions a cure for Mary.”

  Mary was Uncle Charlie’s daughter. Two years before, she had fallen sick with a mysterious illness. None of the doctors the family hired could figure out the problem. Marjorie and Mary had been quite close as girls, frequently visiting each other over the summers.

  “A cure—but a reliable cure?” asked Marjorie. She sighed and rubbed her eyes. She let the letter rest on the table. Unbelievable. After all this time, they were really back to this again. “The Tree of Life is a myth, Uncle. Father looked for it my whole life. He never found it—all he found was another clue.”

  Uncle Charlie picked up the letter. Marjorie noticed how it shook in his hands. “I say, Marjorie, I know it sounds crazy, but anything that could save her … well, I’m willing to give it a try. So is Samuel. He’s preparing to travel to the Near East to look for it.”

  “So why did you come here?” Marjorie asked, not unkindly.

  “Your father’s map,” Uncle Charlie said. “Your father wrote to Samuel about it. If I remember correctly, it came back along with his body?” Realizing his choice of words, he winced.

  “Yes.” Marjorie nodded.

  Her cousin Samuel was always interested in history. When he got older, he wrote to Marjorie’s father about his interests. The two of them formed a strong bond, regularly sending information back and forth by mail. Marjorie wasn’t surprised that Samuel had so much information about this Tree of Life.

  The map in question had been sent back along with the rest of the items on her father’s person when his body was discovered. Marjorie had looked at it all briefly for clues, but finding none, she had put it away. In many ways, the Tree of Life had taken her father from her. She couldn’t fault him for being drawn to the mystery and the mythology, but she had many times wished he had chosen to pursue a topic that was, well, real.

  Marjorie couldn’t imagine why Uncle Charlie had not just written and asked for the materials. They could’ve been sent just as easily. But then, Uncle Charlie didn’t make a trip like this on a whim. He was too practical, never the kind of man to leave home without consideration. Marjorie sensed it was not the time to ask about his motives. Besides, he was family. She would help him in any way she could.

  “Come on, then,” she said, getting to her feet and tightening her robe about her. It wasn’t cold, but she shivered anyway. All this looking into the past unnerved her—it was a chapter Marjorie thought closed.

  Uncle Charlie followed. Together they made their way out into the hall and up the stairs toward the library—her father’s old study.

  “How is Mary?” Marjorie asked as they walked.

  “I think being back at Gracewood helps her,” Uncle Charlie replied. A wave of emotion crested in his voice—this time anger. “I say, it’s better than when they were living in the city. Too damned busy all the time. No wonder she’s ill.”

  Marjorie suspected that his sudden anger was really a cover for a much more rooted emotion. To love is to lose, Marjorie thought. Anyone who loves another must live with the knowledge that one day they will be separated by time and space.

  “Mary loves New York,” Marjorie said gently. “I never saw her more giddy than when she first moved there.”

  “Bless her mother’s soul,” Uncle Charlie said.

  “Yes, that’s right! Aunt Ethel was so against it.”

  Both Marjorie and Uncle Charlie had to laugh at the memory of Aunt Ethel parading up Fifth Avenue. Although Mary resided in a classy neighborhood, all Aunt Ethel could see were vagabonds, as she called them, wandering to and from Central Park. “Here?” she had asked. Her voice was an exclamation point. “You want to live here?”

  “Oh, Mother,” Mary had sighed. But she seemed happy, her forearm laced through her new husband’s arm. Richard was a man of industry, and business kept him in New York.

  “Don’t worry, Mother.” Richard charmed with a dazzling smile. “Wait until you see the apartment.”

  It was quite the apartment, Marjorie had to admit.

  They lived in a fabulous place overlooking Central Park. For New York, it was extremely spacious. It spoke to Richard’s success. Marjorie visited and stayed with them a few times. Her room had plush carpets that she could dig her toes into. Mary dressed in furs and silky gowns. She looked happy—and elegant. Even Aunt Ethel couldn’t help but enjoy their hospitality. She settled onto a daybed and drank nonalcoholic cocktails.

  As the memory faded, they reached the second story. The top stair squeaked as Marjorie shifted her weight, and then again when Uncle Charlie crossed it. “Here we are.” They came to the study—the door was closed and locked.

  Marjorie had to fish for the key, which was placed in the drawer of a wooden console that stood next to the door. Marjorie saw herself in the attached mirror and just about spooked herself. She looked like a ghost, pale in the dim light of the interior hallway.

  Approaching the door once more, Marjorie shivered. She never visited her father’s study. It felt too strange to be there alone.

  Beside her, Uncle Charlie waited. She could feel his eager presence as she placed the key into the lock. With a turn of her wrist, the mechanism on the inside slid into place, the door opened, and they were in.

  Like a proper library, the study was cozy and dark. A fireplace nestled into one wall, although it hadn’t been lit for over a year. There was no doubting Julian Hart had been an academic through and through—and his study reflected that. It was organized based on his own system, which meant generally that no one else could tell where anything belonged. No one except maybe Marjorie.

  Growing up, Marjorie had spent long hours in this room. A worn chair located next to the window became her favorite place to sit with her nose stuck in a book and her father working quietly on his maps and papers. Things felt rather idyllic.

  Every once in a while, Julian would call Marjorie over to look at something—news of a discovery made in Persia, an article sent to him by a fellow researcher, or perhaps an artifact that had made its way to their Buffalo home. One favorite find for Marjorie was Roman coins. She’d started collecting them after Julian gifted her one inscribed with the head of Faustina the Elder, empress from 138 through 140 AD. A woman’s face, complete with a very prominent and pointy nose, peeked on one side. Her hair was a delicate carving of swirls, ending in a soft bun at the nape of her neck. But grooves gifted by time and use hid the details of her eyes. Marjorie kept this coin and many others in a large binder, separated by strips of thin cotton. She returned to them frequently, running her fingers over their worn edges, imagining herself living among ancient rulers.

  Julian would also show his daughter maps he made. A gifted cartographer, his maps were well regarded all over the world—and they often paid for his travel expenses. While marrying into money certainly had its perks, no one would’ve ever questioned Julian’s affection for Josephine. For one thing, he refused to spend her money on his research pursuits. Josephine, however, thought this silly. For Julian, though, his financial independence was a source of pride. Marjorie loved those maps, especially ones of the places they had been together.

  Marjorie stepped into the room, a shiver traveling up her spine. Julian’s study was exactly as he had left it before that fateful trip.

  A large map, halfway drawn, lay across his desk. Every time Marjorie saw it, she imagined her father sitting back down to finish it. His notes and smal
ler versions of the map lay in a pile next to the bigger canvas. A jar of black ink also perched there, although the pens once crowding its well had been cleaned and put away.

  There was also a photo, painfully familiar, at the corner of the large desk. In it, Julian and Josephine sat smiling to each other on a worn blanket on the lawn of Delaware Park. It was a candid shot, which Marjorie had snapped just as the sun started setting. It was not the best picture Marjorie had ever taken—with a trained eye, she could easily see room for improvement. But her father had adored it. He bought a lovely frame for it, and there it sat in a place of prominence.

  Her mother had given Marjorie her first camera after having met the founder of Kodak Camera, George Eastman, at a charity event in Rochester. The early part of the century was good to Kodak, when the development of the portable camera, the Brownie, made photography a relatively inexpensive hobby for the average person.

  From the very first time she touched a camera, Marjorie fell in love with photography. She took pictures of everything and everyone. Julian joked that the family ought to invest stock in Kodak since they were spending so much sending film back and forth to be developed. Instead, Marjorie learned how to develop her own photographs.

  “I’ll say,” said Uncle Charlie, peering over Marjorie’s shoulder. “Can you find anything in here?”

  Marjorie smiled at him, a bit sadly. “Lucky for you, I know where the map is.”

  She crossed to a wood cabinet along the wall close to the door and used the same key that opened the study to open the cabinet. Inside sat a stack of papers, a journal, and a long tube that contained a map. With deft fingers, Marjorie unscrewed the top of the tube, turned it over, and fished out the map. With it came the distinct smell of her father’s tobacco—sweet and earthy. She inhaled deeply. Soon enough the smell would evaporate. Soon enough it would be gone forever.