In recent years, Lydia had attempted, with no success, to compete with Mary Stone Walker. She had even humiliated herself one night by bringing out the manuscript of her own poetry to share with Frank, who had always described that early work of hers as promising. To reminisce, she’d said aloud to him, but also, she had to admit to herself, to reassert herself as a poet before her husband. He had seemed distracted, then a phone call from a student ended the one-sided conversation entirely. It was not the first time, or the last, that he’d made it clear that as a writer and a poet, Lydia Milliken no longer interested him.
Recently, Nicholas had asked to see her poetry. It was typed up and bound with a cover, which seemed naive and pathetic to her now. He had been full of flattery, dear Nicholas, asking to borrow it to read the entire thing. She assumed it was still in his bedroom. When he had finished, he asked if she had any others, any at all that he could read, and he had averted his eyes when she said she didn’t. As if perhaps he was disappointed. So she had thought and thought…but no, she’d been through this before when she assembled the manuscript. It contained everything she could find, even the lesser creations. And sadly, nothing more recent than 1990.
Just a few days ago, Nicholas had sent her an email from the downstairs computer in the middle of the night, declaring how much he loved all of her poems. “Why didn’t you ever sell them?” he wrote. “They’re the best!” This was one more reason to begin the process of self-publishing. The world of self-expression and art was difficult, lonely, and competitive, and she had often told her son not to wait for external approval before embarking on his dreams. She should set that example.
Suddenly, it occurred to her that there might be an unexpected benefit to the disappointment Frank would feel when this dining room set offered no Walker documents: it might open his mind about creating a publishing company. After all, the insanity of this purchase indicated that he was desperate for some way to move forward, but had ceased to be able to think in terms of anything but finding documents in antiques. It was possible that with the powerful disappointment that this furniture was sure to disintegrate into, the timing of an independent press would be perfect for him after all. The set could be resold for close to what they had paid, and the savings account would be nearly intact. She inhaled deeply and slowly exhaled. Perhaps the outcome would not be disastrous after all.
This new perspective lightened her heart, and hope wormed like a drug through her veins. She went to the window and gazed at the barn, her breathing beginning to feel normal. Maybe their family life could be calmed and even improve over time.
Lydia made a cup of tea and turned off the kitchen light. She’d heard Nicholas go to bed an hour before. Frank had a morning class to teach and had just skipped his class today, and yet he was still out there playing around. Could he be finding encouragement, having some success? That would be…so different that she didn’t know how to think about it. She shook her head. Lingering over his obsession was not unusual for him at all, and if he had an early class, that was his problem, not hers.
It was her lingering over his obsessions that was no longer acceptable. She would confront Frank in the morning and give him an ultimatum about reselling the furniture. And she would concentrate on gathering material for the novel focused on Mary Walker, beginning with whatever information she could gather from Jack about his grandfather’s life during Mary’s era.
She felt a quiet rise in gratitude as she thought about her personal good fortune, which had nothing to do with her home, her marriage, or even her son: there was always so much to hope for in the creative process. Once a project came alive for her, every day was filled with possibility, inspiration, and the work of trying to meet her ideas with language. For this novel based on Mary Walker, even seemingly unimportant firsthand accounts could add texture to her understanding of the poet’s character and fate, details of all types that Lydia could use to build fiction.
And the process would serve another purpose: she would get closer to the truth that had eluded them for so long.
She sat back, thinking, trying to calculate. Like Lydia, Jack was born in 1962, or thereabouts. In the 1930s, when Mary Stone Walker was in her twenties, Jack’s grandfather would most likely have been a few years older than that… Well, possibly ten years or more. He would have been a mature adult, with a house just a few miles from Mary’s marital home. Could he have known her? It was possible, Lydia supposed, but how would they have crossed paths? Lydia was fairly certain from her own reading that Mary had never written about the Kenilworth family. Which made sense because she had been something of a snob, if comments in her letters and journals were taken at face value, spending most of her social time connecting with people who might assist her career.
Lydia pictured the dining room table that was out in her barn, imagined Mary Walker sitting at it with fellow academics or patrons of poetry, and the old heat of fascination flashed. If only they could discover that the poet had survived! But Lydia was too weary of the vision to give any more of her life to it. What they needed to conclude this tale were real-life clues and witnesses—not more antiques and imaginings. And as it happened, that was also what she needed to create a novel that was alive.
When she was in bed, under the covers, a memory flashed of an early night with Frank in his Ann Arbor apartment seventeen years before. Shirtless, he was leaning out the street-side window on a clear, cold night, and even from the bed, she could see stars in the black sky around his head. He had turned and said, “My sweet young poet, I have never loved like this before. Together, you and I will make poems of our days.”
It was dramatic, and overly romantic, but that was how their little private world had been back then. Daily life was transformed by the energy between them, and every moment was made extraordinary. He had seemed to understand her mind better than she’d imagined someone could. But today… Well, now her goal was nothing more than a return to the simple tolerance they had managed over the last few years.
Knees close to her chest, Lydia gradually fell into sleep, where she was besieged by a chaos of dream fragments and only awakened near dawn by the sound of her husband pushing heavily through their bedroom door.
16
White Hill Pier and Muskegon, Michigan—September 1936
The heart’s laughter will be to her
The crying of the crows,
Who slide in the air with the same voice
Over what yields not, and what yields…
~ Louise Bogan (1897–1970), “The Crows”
Bernard said it brought good luck to watch the sun set, especially if you stared at the sun until there was no more of its dark red left on the horizon. His mother had told him this, and the proof was that she had seen it sink into Lake Michigan hundreds of times and given birth to seven fine sons who had all survived to become adults.
Mary walked with him to the White Hill lighthouse on the last night of September to watch the sunset from the end of the pier where the lake water broke against the rocks, and he carried a bottle of corn whiskey that his brother had brewed. They planned to sit with their backs against the lighthouse wall and drink until their bodies warmed despite the cool night air.
But shortly after dark, Mary grew restless and stood up to walk slowly toward the edge of the pier. After several minutes, she gasped, pointing across the lake.
“Bernard!”
He was looking over the fish caught by a couple of men a few feet away, and he ignored her.
“Bernard, look!” She glanced around, then pointed emphatically again. “City lights! I can see lights right out there in the lake!”
Bernard stood and directed his eyes where she pointed, then turned away and laughed at something one of the other men said. A distant line of phantom streetlights, along with the floating headlights of cars, was dim but undeniably visible to Mary.
“We’re seeing a city beyond the hor
izon!” Her voice trilled like a child’s. “The Fata Morgana! Master of illusions! I’ve heard of this sort of mirage, but I never dreamed I would see it!”
“No, she ain’t drunk,” Bernard said in answer to one of the men, but intending for Mary to hear. “She imagines things all the time. I might have to trade her in.”
Mary turned away from the lights, stepped toward him, and flung a fist at his chest. “Look for yourself, you bullheaded—”
“Don’t you be telling me what to do, woman!” Bernard gave a laugh as he easily caught her wrist and jerked her toward himself, his other hand open to slap her buttocks, but at the moment he was loosening his grip to turn her around, Mary pulled back as hard as she could to break free. He lost his grip entirely, and she lurched away from him and teetered precariously before stumbling backward over the edge of the pier, her body bouncing along the rocks of the jetty like a doll. Her scream was enveloped by the lake.
“Holy Jesus!” Bernard was shocked out of his mischievous whiskey fog, and the two fishermen dropped their poles and rushed to his side. Mary’s body bobbed against the rocks, her left arm caught in the piling boulders at water level. Her long hair and heavy coat billowed in the dark waves. Bernard scrambled down the boulders and sank into the water beside her.
“Mary!” He lifted her head from the water, and she twitched with pain, spluttering, gasping for air. One of the fishermen lay on his stomach on the pier and lowered a rope to Bernard. When he looped it around her chest, Mary emitted a watery scream and tried to speak, but her words were unintelligible. All light had left the sky, and the lake’s temperature was barely fifty degrees.
“Mary! Can you hear me? Answer me!” Bernard’s voice was desperate, but her eyes stayed closed, her body limp, and her groans sounded more like an animal’s than a woman’s.
Twenty-four hours later in Mercy Hospital, Mary’s body temperature had stabilized, but she lay listless, recovering from a powerful anesthesia that had been administered for an operation on her arm. Breaks through the wrist and hand were so numerous and complex that the doctor predicted he would have to operate at least two more times to return the bones, muscles, and tendons to even a moderate level of functionality. Bernard gazed at the guileless face of his wife and her mangled arm wrapped in gauze, his thoughts black with the prospect of her being even less able than she already was to accomplish anything beyond minimal cooking and cleaning.
He watched the surgeon raise a hypodermic needle from a tray and touch Mary’s skin with its fine point, and although she was barely conscious, she twitched at the pain. The doctor emptied a barrel of morphine into her blood, and it wasn’t long before peace came over Mary’s whole body, lending a slackness to her facial features that months later gave the appearance of boredom. And one year into her dependence on the powerful drug, that look of boredom took turns with a frenzied wildness that few ever saw.
17
White Hill, Michigan—April 1999
The rain has taught us nothing.
~ Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892–1950), “The Bobolink”
“Lydia!” Frank’s voice was urgent and rough.
Lydia woke, confused. “What? What is it, Frank?” She glanced at the clock. It was 6:39. Her alarm clock would sound in six minutes.
“Lydia,” he said again, collapsing onto the bed. “You’ve got to call the college for me. Tell Janet in administration that I won’t be there this morning.” He lay still, fully clothed, breathing hard.
Her eyes scanned the ceiling. It wasn’t like him to cancel a class simply because of a hangover, but it had happened before. “You’re just coming to bed now?”
“You don’t need to monitor my activities, Lydia. Just make the call. I can’t go in. That’s all anyone needs to know.”
Lydia considered telling him to go to hell, but she heard Nicholas moving around in the bathroom. She left the room, closing the door behind her, and hurried down the stairs to avoid her son. Had Frank found something in the furniture that kept him up celebrating?
In the kitchen, she flipped through the address book for the college’s administrative office numbers, found Janet’s, and stared at it. Was she really going to do this for him at this point? Was she going to play along forever with his games?
But if she did not call, Frank would receive some comment from the college, and there would be even more tension in the house. She dialed the phone number, and it rang and rang. The answering machine with instructions for reporting information came on just as Nicholas entered the kitchen. She hung up.
“Hey, Mom,” he said.
“Good morning, Nicholas,” she answered, and busied herself cleaning the wineglasses and platter that Drew, no doubt, had brought in from the barn.
“How did Dad’s furniture thing go?” Nicholas pulled a box of frozen waffles from the freezer. “He was pretty excited about it.”
“I’m not sure.” She would call the college after Nicholas left for the bus.
“I thought I heard him talking just now.”
“Yes, he’s sick. Can’t teach today.”
“Oh. Bummer.” Nicholas ate a banana while he waited for his waffles and spoke with his mouth full. “Hope I don’t catch it.” He downed a glass of milk and pulled the waffles from the toaster to eat them as he walked to the bus stop.
“Yes. So do I,” Lydia said, watching him put on his coat and backpack. “See you this afternoon, Nicky.”
“Yeah. I think I’ll go straight to Jack’s from school.”
“Okay. Thanks for letting me know.” She opened her arms to hug him good-bye.
“Have a good day, Mom,” he said, glancing into her face before he headed out the back door.
“You, too, Nick.”
The door shut, and Lydia turned to look at the barn. Should she just go out and see if there were any clues as to what had gone on during the night? Why not? She went to the back door, put on her boots, and walked out into the chilly morning. In the trees she heard the whistling of robins as dawn light seeped into the yard. At the barn door she hesitated. It was closed and was always difficult to open. It would make noise, and Frank might hear it. She looked back at the house, dark but for the kitchen light. Nah, Frank wouldn’t hear anything.
As she pulled the door open, shadows bloomed from the dark, full interior, and she waited for her eyes to adjust. Her ghostly imaginings of the beautiful furniture with yellowing Walker pages spread carefully out on the mahogany were smudged out slowly by the reality that the thin light revealed. She gasped.
There, scattered around on the floor, were the seats of the chairs, all removed from their frames, fabric and stuffing torn haphazardly. The table was on its side, the legs removed. Lydia felt light-headed. She drew her hand up to her mouth and bit down hard on the knuckle of her forefinger. Every piece of the valuable set was damaged. As if…as if attacked by a lunatic.
A wave of nausea gripped her. Slowly, she stepped to Frank’s favorite chair and sat down, gazing around for only a moment longer before she lowered her face to her hands. Her fingernails dug into her scalp. Something like a sob seized her throat but went no further. Her husband had lost his mind. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, thoughts racing. What would she do? What was she to do? He’d never done anything like this before. He’d never destroyed any of his treasures.
For several long minutes, Lydia could not stop the spinning of her thoughts. Then it came to her: that sailmaker. Dolly, wasn’t it? Maybe she could sew the seats back together. She glanced around. Maybe Dolly could do it without letting on to Frank or telling anyone in town about the mess. Lydia stood, her muscles jellylike, and picked up one shredded seat. She’d take this to Dolly and ask. She’d do it right now. The thing shook in her hands as she examined it. Most of the fabric was still in one piece. They had to get it back together before they could think about selling it.
But
maybe Frank had found something…maybe. She set the seat down and walked from piece to piece, from surface to surface, searching for any encouraging clue. If he had finally found something in this dining set, then it could be okay. It would be okay. It would be okay, and Frank would earn back what he’d spent from their savings. He would—
But what was she thinking? A sharp, unrecognizable sound shot from her mouth, something between a laugh and a cry. How could she still believe in this preposterous fantasy? She was as crazy as he was. A creature of denial. The chaos before her eyes was a horrible representation of the madness of the entire long search. Tears tightened her throat, and she held her abdomen where she felt shots of pain.
“My God!” She kicked the nearest piece of mahogany. “The bastard!” she cried, picking up a chair seat and screaming into its torn, ancient-smelling fabric. She slammed it down, marched back into the house, and went to the basement, where a basket of clean laundry waited to be carried upstairs to her closet. Jeans. T-shirt. Sweatshirt. Socks. She dressed with angry jerks that made the task take twice as long as it should have.
Back up in the kitchen, she listened for sounds from upstairs. Nothing. Frank was unconscious. Of course he was. She grabbed her purse and car keys and went to the barn for a chair seat, threw it into the Jeep, got in and backed down the driveway in a crazy zigzag that missed the birdbath and the blueberry bushes by sheer luck. She’d get help with the seats before Frank even woke up.
There must be someone who could assist Frank in reassembling the wood to a state near its original condition, which was the only way they could recoup even a portion of their investment. Maybe the damage was not as bad as it appeared. And Frank would be contrite when he came to his senses, surely, eager for her help and grateful—if it worked—for this idea of having Dolly the sailmaker fix the upholstery without anyone else having to know.
The Lake and the Lost Girl Page 15
