Blue Ink

by Tess Thompson

  The coyote’s howl penetrated the still night.

  “What do we do?” I asked.

  “Ever since you arrived here, I’ve been hearing my father’s voice in my head, like guiding me. He keeps saying, ‘Not yours.’ ”

  “You think it’s about Isabel?”

  “I do. I’m not supposed to have her. We’ve trusted this voice guiding us from the moment we first met. I have to believe that we should continue to do so.”

  Effie burst out the French doors, out of breath. “I’m sorry to bother. But I think something’s wrong with Miss Felicity. Her breathing’s dodgy. I think we need to call the nurse.”

  The hospice nurse arrived within an hour, along with a hospital bed and other equipment. The nurse, Candace, was middle aged with wiry salt and pepper hair and a nurturing persona. She hooked Felicity up to oxygen, a morphine drip, and other machines I didn’t understand.

  Candace confirmed our fears. Felicity was fading quickly.

  Effie had Isabel ready for bed by eight, having brushed her little teeth and put her in pajamas with feet. Ardan and I put Isabel to bed in her new crib. She was a good baby, according to Effie, and accustomed to sleeping in her own bed alone. Before we put her down, I held her on my lap and read her a story about a giraffe who learned to dance. She sucked on her pacifier and snuggled against my chest. Her hair smelled like flowers and baby powder. When I turned the pages, she grunted and pointed at the animals in the pictures.

  After the story was over, I put her into the crib with her special blanket. She hugged the blanket and looked up at me with those big blue eyes. Did we stay until she fell asleep? Ardan turned on the baby monitor and pointed toward the door. I kissed Isabel on the forehead and walked away, holding my breath. No crying. When I peeked back at her, she’d closed her eyes.

  We walked down the hallway holding hands. “We did it,” I said. “Baby in bed, check.”

  “Effie said she should sleep through the night but wakes before six,” Ardan said.

  “Thank God for Effie.”

  As we passed Felicity’s room, the sound of the oxygen machine droned an eerie tune.

  Ardan and I had abandoned our glasses of wine earlier. Neither of us had eaten. When we came into the kitchen, Effie was just taking a sausage pizza out of the oven. The scent of sausage and red sauce made my stomach rumble.

  Ardan refreshed our wine glasses and asked me to join him at the table. We both sank onto the benches at the breakfast booth, weary.

  “We need to have a family meeting,” Ardan said. “Effie, stop moving around for a minute. I need you to be part of this.”

  “Me?” She pointed at herself with the pizza cutter.

  “Yes, you’re part of this family,” he said. “Bring the pizza and some plates and come join us.”

  “Yes, Mr. Lanigan.”

  Effie cut the pizza before bringing it to the table. We all took a slice and ate a few bites. Ardan took a long sip from his wine and looked at me, then Effie. “We have to decide what to do. Felicity won’t be here much longer. Charlotte and I just lied to her and promised we’d take Isabel.”

  “Oh, dear,” Effie said.

  “We couldn’t let her suffer any more than she already is.” I hesitated as I worked through what to say next. “Effie, you know how much work a baby is, right?”

  She nodded. “But they bring a lot of joy to the house. Joy like no other.”

  “She is sweet,” I said. “And smells good.”

  “We could bring the baby with us on our travels,” Ardan said. “We could hire a nanny to go with us.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “That’s not the kind of mother I want to be.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “My mother was always there,” I said. “She raised me, not a nanny.”

  “But miss, you have your work,” Effie said. “I’m here to help. We might not need anyone else, Mr. Lanigan. The three of us could do it together.”

  “What are you two saying?” Ardan asked. “You think we should do this?”

  I peered into the bottom of my glass. If only there were answers in there like tea leaves in a cup. “I’m not sure any of us are ready, but there’s a baby who needs us. And, we promised Felicity. We’re all perfectly capable of loving a child.”

  “Yet, my gut says no,” Ardan said. “Like it’s not meant to be.”

  “If my mum were here, she’d say we’re knackered and to eat our supper, go to bed, and say our prayers. The answer will be there in morning if we leave it in God’s hands.”

  “Amen.” I picked up my glass and clinked Ardan’s. “To answers.”

  That night I dreamt I was in Nicholas’s store. I snacked on popcorn and watched as he put magazines on shelves.

  “Did you ever learn what happened?” I asked.

  “Martin was the only one who knew the truth.”

  I woke up in a cold sweat. Next to me, Ardan slept, snoring softly. The clock read 5:00 a.m. I’d never get back to sleep. I dressed in Ardan’s warm robe and went downstairs to his study.

  Martin was the only one who knew the truth. Martin, the lover. How would he have known?

  What had happened to him after Boyce’s death? There had been so little information about him. He must have been at the funeral, yet there was no mention of him. I pulled that letter from the stack and read it again. Martin Boomer.

  I opened my laptop and typed Martin Boomer and the year 1938. Nothing. I took out 1938 and searched on his name and Chicago. An obituary from 1991 popped up.

  Martin Louis Boomer, 73

  Martin Louis Boomer passed away from unknown causes on March 24, 1991. He was born in 1918 to Alexander and Mary Boomer in Chicago, Illinois. He spent most of his career as a professor of Drama at Northwestern University. His life was devoted to the theatre, his students, deep dish pizza, and growing orchids in his greenhouse. He’s survived by his wife of fifty years, Celine Trane Boomer, 68, sons Boyce Julian Boomer, 47, and Michael Daniel Boomer, 45; daughters-in-law, Susan Boomer, 47, and Michelle Boomer, 44; grandchildren Blake Ward Boomer, 20, and Louisa Grace Boomer, 16.

  I shivered with anticipation. This had to be him. That he was married to a woman gave me pause, but the rest of it appeared to fit. A theatre professor who grew orchids like Nicholas’s mother. A son named Boyce. Had he married to hide his sexuality or had his time with Boyce been an experiment? From what gay male friends had shared with me, that seemed unlikely. It was more probable, given the time period, that he had married because of societal pressure.

  I typed in Louisa Grace Boomer, Chicago. A Facebook and Instagram profile appeared. I looked at her Facebook wall first. She lived in a suburb of Chicago and appeared to be about the right age. In her biographical information, she listed a website: LouisaBoomerChef.com. I clicked on the link. A personal chef, she was available for parties or in-home cooking. For queries into her services, she listed an email address. Bingo. Should I send an unsolicited message? I’d come this far. What harm could come from asking?

  * * *

  Dear Louisa,

  I’m writing on behalf of a friend looking for information about your grandfather, Martin Boomer. He was good friends with her uncle, Boyce Garfield, back in the late thirties. I know it’s a slim chance you have any information regarding Martin and his friendship with Boyce. It’s been a long time and your grandfather was only sixteen at the time of Boyce’s death. It was ruled a suicide by poison. However, his brother, my friend’s father, felt certain he was murdered. We’re reading through old letters to see if we can solve an old mystery. If you have any information, please write to me at CharlotteWrites@smail.com Or call at 555-483-9677. I understand this is a long shot, so forgive me for your trouble.

  Sincerely,

  Charlotte Wilde

  * * *

  I hit send and searched the brother’s name but found nothing. About the time I decided to make a cup of coffee, my phone buzzed with a text.

  Hi, Charlotte. This i
s Louisa Boomer. We should talk. Please call whenever possible.

  My hands shook as I clicked the call button. She answered on the first ring.

  “Hello.”

  “This is Charlotte.”

  “Yes. That was fast.” I detected a slight midwestern accent.

  “I happened to be right by my phone.” And I’m a weird obsessed mystery writer.

  “I’m not sure where to start,” she said. “What do the kids say these days? It’s complicated?”

  “I’m in no hurry.”

  “I’ll try and be succinct. My grandfather was a closeted gay man. He died of AIDS in 1991. Until he got sick, my grandmother had no idea. He worked as a drama professor and over the years, apparently, there were many affairs. As she said later, he was a great actor.”

  “Did she get sick too?”

  “No. She was never infected. I’m assuming they didn’t have much sex, as you might imagine.”

  “Right. The gay thing.”

  “Yes. Once he was diagnosed, he told her everything. She said it was the least he could do since their entire marriage had been a lie. The only thing he’d been truthful about is why he wanted to name my father, his first son, Boyce. It was in memory of his best friend growing up, Boyce Garfield, who died when they were sixteen.”

  “My friend’s uncle,” I said. “Like I said in my email, his death was ruled a suicide.”

  “That was my grandmother’s understanding as well. My grandfather was from a wealthy family. They ran in the same circles as the Garfields. My grandmother, however, was from working class people, and to her own admission, rather plain. Until she learned the truth, she’d always considered herself lucky to have won the heart of handsome, rich Martin Boomer. After the truth came out, it made more sense. He needed a beard.”

  “Do you know he and Boyce had been lovers?” I asked.

  “Yes, he told my grandmother everything, including that they’d been in love. When the true nature of their relationship became clear to the Garfield family, Boyce’s older brother, Nicholas, hatched a plan to get them away from their violent father. Nicholas was afraid for Boyce’s life.”

  “That’s clear from the letters. They were terrified of him,” I said. “Which is why we’re fairly certain, Boyce was murdered by their father.”

  “I can see why it seems that way. But that’s not what happened.”

  I held my breath, waiting. Had Martin killed him?

  “The boys had been reading Romeo and Juliet at school,” she said. “They fancied themselves rather like the doomed lovers. When they thought they’d be separated forever, they made a suicide pact. My grandfather bought the poison. They were to take it together the night before Boyce was supposed to leave. At the last minute, he changed his mind. Boyce had already taken his dose, so my grandfather only pretended to drink his. Boyce died in his arms, believing they were going together.”

  “Then he left?” I asked.

  “That’s right. He carried the guilt around with him for the rest of his life.”

  “How awful.”

  “He said it was the great tragedy of his life. He’d loved Boyce with all his heart.”

  “But not enough to die with him,” I said.

  “They were young and melodramatic. The suicide pact was decided in a moment of panic over being parted. He just couldn’t go through with it.”

  “Boyce’s family knew he was gay,” I said. “That had to influence his decision as well. Not only did he have to leave Martin, he was facing a life of exile and shame. Even if he’d married a woman, his brother would always know the truth. I imagine that must’ve felt unbearable.”

  “At the end of his life, my grandfather asked my father if he would find Nicholas and tell him the truth. He’d wished he’d done so long before. My dad tried, but there was no trace of him. It was like he disappeared off the face of the earth.”

  “Nicholas had been dead for a long time by then. Even if he’d figured out where they went after they left Chicago, it was too late,” I said. “He and his wife died in a car accident when their daughter, my friend, was only eighteen.”

  “We didn’t know he’d had a daughter. When I got your note, I wanted to get in touch with you right away. I’m glad she’ll know the truth.”

  “Reading these letters—it’s remarkable how closed-minded everyone was. If only they’d lived in today’s world, things would’ve been so different for them.”

  “My brother’s gay,” she said. “When Grandfather’s story came out, so did my brother. My parents were shocked at first, but having heard Boyce and Martin’s story, they never wanted him to suffer for who he was. Now, he’s married to a wonderful man. They adopted two little girls—orphans because of the AIDS crisis in Africa.”

  “So, in a way, redemption,” I said.

  “That’s how I’ve always thought about it,” she said.

  “What happened with your grandmother? Was she all right?”

  “Oh yes, she was fine. She said that although it broke her heart to learn the truth, she would not have changed a thing because she wouldn’t have had her sons and grandchildren. She lived another sixteen years after his death, and if you can believe it, married again.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, and get this. Raymond was her next-door neighbor, also widowed. She’d had a secret crush on him for like thirty years. He’d been secretly in love with her for decades. But they were both married, so they never acted on it. They were couple friends who played cards together and that kind of thing. On the surface, they appeared to be happy couples. My grandfather was gay and Raymond’s wife was a heinous bitch who treated him terribly. Neither knew how miserable the other was until their spouses died. Apparently, no one on that street was having sex with their spouses. So here they were, both newly single in their late sixties. They got together, married, and had fifteen great years together. She told me she knew from the moment she met him, he was her soulmate.”

  “Soulmate? But forbidden. How tragic.”

  “Exactly. They were best friends all those years, sure it would always remain platonic.” She laughed. “One time my grandmother told me you could never be too old to experience hot sex.”

  I joined her in laughter. “So, once again, redemption.”

  “And, justice.”

  I thanked her profusely for talking to me. “Mrs. Lanigan will be happy to know the truth at last.”

  “Wherever my grandfather is, I’m sure he’s feeling at peace now.”

  We said our goodbyes and hung up. I sat there for a moment, absorbing what I’d just learned. Finally, we had answers. I went off to find Mrs. Lanigan.

  “It was suicide after all.” Mrs. Lanigan said. “Not exactly as presented, but suicide just the same. And can you imagine the shock Martin’s wife must have felt after all those years? How could she not know?”

  “She was only eighteen when she married him, probably sheltered and virginal.”

  “The poor girl.” Mrs. Lanigan’s fingers played with the edges of the throw blanket I’d placed on her lap. “I wish my dad had known the truth. Do you think he and his father would’ve reconciled if he’d known?”

  “I doubt it. There was too much between them. Too many betrayals.”

  A knock on the door startled us. I looked over to see a tall, angular redhead dressed in black leggings, riding boots, and a tight black tank top standing in the doorway.

  “Who is it?” Mrs. Lanigan asked.

  “Mother, it’s me.” She shook her wild mane of chestnut hair and flashed that Lanigan smile with the perfect teeth. She wore almost no makeup, other than slightly pink lip gloss and a subtle stroke of eyeliner and mascara.

  Mrs. Lanigan smiled. “Teagan? Home at last?”

  A dark-haired little boy that looked remarkably like his uncle Ciaran peeked out from behind Teagan’s legs. Brown eyes stared at me. “Yes, and I’ve brought Christopher. Can you say hello to your grandmother?”

  He came forward, his
eyes moving from me to his grandmother. “Hello, Grandmother.”

  “Christopher, come closer,” Mrs. Lanigan said. “What does he look like?”

  “He looks like Ciaran,” I said. “Same thick brown hair and mischievous eyes.”

  “I think so too,” Teagan said as she held out her arms. “You must be the angelic Charlotte. I have to hug you.”

  “I am Charlotte,” I said. “Not sure about the angelic part.” We embraced quickly then drew apart. Intense eyes the color of steel wool stared into mine.

  “Ardan didn’t lie about how pretty you are,” Teagan said.

  “He greatly exaggerates,” I said. “But thank you.”

  “We didn’t know you were coming today,” Mrs. Lanigan said. “The wedding’s still weeks away.”

  “It was unexpected,” Teagan said. “Ardan called to tell me about the wedding, then I got Charlotte’s letter. Ardan said he wants to take his bride on an extended honeymoon. Christopher starts first grade next fall. I turned down a movie offer and decided to come home for a while. I’m ready to get my house built. If it’s all right, we’ll stay here and look after you, Mother, while the lovebirds go off on their world tour.”

  “That would be wonderful, but there’s no school here,” Mrs. Lanigan said.

  “I’ll drive him into Hailey, like the other families here do,” Teagan said. “We’re ready to set down some roots, right buddy?”

  Christopher nodded. “Mom says it’s time to get away from the phonies and come home.”

  “We’ve got a bit of situation here,” Mrs. Lanigan said. “Did Ardan tell you?”

  “He did,” Teagan said. “We already met the baby and Effie.”

  “That’s one fat baby,” Christopher said.

  I laughed. “She’s fat and cute.”

  “If you like babies,” Christopher said. “Which I don’t.”

  “What do you like?” I asked.

  “Trucks, dogs, video games, soccer.”

  “I like dogs too,” I said.

  “Chris is ready to meet some kids his age. What do you think, Charlotte? Do I have soccer mom potential?”