by Mary Simses
She put the pencil in the pocket of her pants. “You should begin here.” She motioned toward a section of ancient-looking leather-bound books. These were massive things whose covers were chipped and flaking and whose yellowed pages, I knew, were filled with beautifully penned deeds and other documents that would make even Bartleby the scrivener sit up and take note. They would contain the oldest records.
“Then you can work your way up to these.” She moved her hand across the room, indicating shelves of books with white plastic covers, a modern filing system to hold photocopies of documents created on typewriters and, later, computers. Finally, she pointed to the table, with its two sleek black monitors. “Anything recorded in the past five and a half years is in our database and you can find it on one of those,” she said.
I nodded. “Thanks. I think that will get me started.”
I sat down on a metal chair and searched for “Goddard,” my great-grandfather’s last name. I pored over all the annual indexes for a twenty-year period, from the late 1800s through the early 1900s. Although each index had a section for every letter of the alphabet, the names in each section were not alphabetized. Grant would come before Gibson, and Gates would be after Goats. That’s just the way it was with the old books. People came in with deeds and other documents to record, and the clerks entered them in their section of the book in the order they were received. On top of that, all the old entries were handwritten, which made reviewing them even slower. After two hours I’d come up with nothing, my throat was dry, and the stuffy room was giving me a headache.
Arlen was sorting through a stack of papers when I walked up to her desk. “Got a question?” she asked.
I shook my head and gave a despondent sigh. To find Gran’s house would have been wonderful. It would have been so exciting to stand before it with my feet on the ground where she might have stood decades ago. I was disappointed. There was no denying that.
“No, no question,” I said. “I think I’m done. Thanks again for your help.”
Arlen nodded and went back to her papers.
I turned to leave and noticed a set of old postcards matted and framed, hanging by the door. I walked up to take a closer look. There were yellow-tinged street scenes of downtown Beacon showing shops and people walking on the sidewalk and cars with rounded fenders and huge steering wheels. There was a postcard of a stark white building that had once been the town hall. And there was a redbrick building sitting on a blanket of green grass. An oak tree with a gnarled trunk stood in front like a wizened sentry. At the bottom of the postcard were the words Littleton Grammar School, Beacon, Maine.
Littleton Grammar School. What was that?
I turned to Arlen. “I do have a question,” I said, pointing to the postcard. “Do you know if this school was around in the forties?” If it was around then, my grandmother would have been a student there.
Arlen walked over, put on a pair of silver half-glasses, and peered at the postcard as if she had never seen it before. “That’s the Littleton School,” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “Do you have any idea when it was built?”
“I believe it was built in the twenties.” She squinted and moved to within an inch of the postcard.
“But I can tell you for sure if you just hold on a minute.” Arlen went searching through a file cabinet and finally pulled something out of a drawer.
“Here it is.” She waved a pamphlet at me. “One of the schools did a project last year on the history of the old buildings in Beacon. It talks about Littleton School in here.”
She handed me the booklet. On its yellow cover was a child’s drawing of a large green house with gables on the front. Inside were photos of a dozen local historic buildings, each accompanied by a narrative. I thumbed through and found a copy of the same postcard. Built between 1923 and 1924, the school had opened in the fall of 1924, the write-up said. Yes, my grandmother would have been a student there.
“You can have that one,” Arlen said, closing the file cabinet. “We’ve got lots of copies.”
“I have one more question,” I said, “and I really appreciate your help.” I clutched the pamphlet in my hand. “Is the school still around?”
She blinked her eyes wide open and stared at me. “Well, of course it’s still around. It’s on Nehoc Lane.”
With that, she turned, went back to her desk, and picked up her phone. I noticed a tiny orange spot on her shirtsleeve when I walked by and I wondered if it was tomato sauce.
The cool late afternoon sun and fresh air were a welcome change after the stuffiness of the records room. I programmed my GPS for Nehoc Lane. It was 3.2 miles away. Maybe I hadn’t found my grandmother’s house, but finding her school seemed pretty good. I was beginning to feel better about Beacon. Something about this town was becoming almost appealing.
Nehoc Lane was a residential street of mostly white houses that sat back from the road, giving way to long front yards filled with gardens of lilacs and blue hydrangeas.
The school looked a lot like the postcard, but there were some major differences. One of them was the circular drive and small parking lot in the front that hadn’t existed when it was built.
I pulled in and parked. Then I walked slowly around the building, studying the words LITTLETON GRAMMAR SCHOOL 1924 etched over the huge wooden front door, noticing the surprising smoothness of the brick when I ran my hand over it, peering at the mullions on the windows and the thick layers of white paint covering the trim. An addition had been grafted on to the back of the building in bright new red brick, and on one side of the school there was a large playground with a rubberized surface. A group of children played on the swings and slides while young mothers chatted at a picnic table.
I walked back to the front of the school, toward a huge oak tree with roots that rose above the ground like arthritic fingers. The giant tree canopy was full and hung over the grass like a leafy umbrella. I sat down with my back against the craggy bark and imagined my grandmother sitting there. Maybe she was six and it was her first day of school. Maybe she was eleven and she had a crush on a boy. I could feel her in the grass, in the sunlight as it snuck through the branches, in the still-warm patch of dirt underneath me.
I ran my fingers along the top of a root and felt the tears well up. They slid down my cheeks and fell onto my pants, making dark spots on the fabric. “I miss you, Gran,” I whispered, my voice choking. “I miss you. And I’ve come here to do what you asked me to do but it’s not going the way it’s supposed to. First, I fell into the ocean and almost…I almost drowned, Gran. Then I tried to deliver your letter but I haven’t been able to do it. And I tried to find your house but I couldn’t do that, either. I wish I knew why these things were happening. I wish you could tell me.” A breeze rustled the tree branches above and I put my head in my hands and closed my eyes.
Chapter 5
A Quiet Place for Dinner
I decided to try Chet Cummings’s house one more time on my way back to the inn. It was five o’clock when I got there. The green Audi was in the driveway but still no one was home and I began to worry that he might have gone out of town. Maybe he was visiting a friend or there was a family emergency and he wouldn’t be back for several days. I thought about leaving the letter in his mailbox but the idea seemed so disappointing. On the other hand, I couldn’t stay in Beacon forever, waiting for him to return. I knew my grandmother would have understood that. All right, I thought. Tomorrow is Thursday. I’ve still got one more opportunity to get this done. I’ll come back here early in the morning, before he has a chance to go anywhere. If he’s still not here, I’ll leave the letter and head home.
I returned to the inn with the idea that I would have a quiet dinner in the dining room, followed by a couple of hours of work and then sleep. When I walked up the front steps and into the lobby, it sounded like a party was going on. Three couples, all tall and tan and in their twenties, hovered around the check-in desk, laughing and talking. The men, dressed in gol
f shirts and khakis, were having a disagreement over a line call in a tennis match. The women, with their long, gazellelike legs, only the very tops of which were covered by their short shorts, huddled over a booklet. One of the women mentioned the Antler, the pub I’d seen downtown, and I wondered if they were looking at a travel guide.
I laughed to myself, imagining what Fodor’s might say about Beacon.
The Three Penny Diner: This is a must if you love green Formica and tabletop jukeboxes. Be sure to try the doughnuts.
The Victory Inn: If your fondness runs to rooftops, request the suite with the ocean view. Cell phone service available in the bathroom.
I rounded the corner, poking my head into the lounge, and saw that someone had set out refreshments. Several bottles of wine, platters of cheese and crackers, and a bowl of dip were arranged on a table, with stacks of plastic cups and paper plates. I poured myself a glass of Pinot Noir, from a vineyard called Gallant River Winery in the Napa Valley. I’d never heard of it, but Hayden would probably know who they were. I took a couple of crackers and headed for my room.
The noise from the lobby followed me as I began to climb the stairs, and when I heard one of the women say, “Let’s have dinner here tonight,” I decided I’d better eat out. Maybe Paula would have a recommendation.
As I stood in front of the closet, trying to decide what to wear, my cell phone rang. I grabbed my purse, dug out the phone, and ran into the bathroom, where I closed the toilet seat and sat down.
“Hey, sweetheart. You sound out of breath.” It was Hayden.
“I was just trying to get to the phone and get into the bathroom.” I stretched my legs and rested my bare feet on the rim of the tub.
“Oh, well, you can call me back.”
“No, no. I mean, I need to talk from the bathroom. It’s the only place where I can get a cell signal.”
There was a pause, and then Hayden said, “No cell signal?” in a way that sounded like I’d told him there was no hot and cold running water, which, come to think of it, there basically wasn’t.
“It’s okay,” I said, not wanting to go into it any further. He would only worry. Hey,” I said, “you’ll never believe what I found today.”
“Tell me.”
“My grandmother’s elementary school.”
“Your grandmother’s what?”
“Elementary school—her school. I went and saw the building. It’s still here in Beacon.”
“It must be pretty old.”
“Yeah, it is. It was built in the 1920s. I was trying to find the house where she grew up and I didn’t find that but I found the school. It was really amazing, Hayden, and I—”
“Hey, sweetie, hold on a second, will you? My other phone is ringing.”
I waited for a moment, staring at a print on the wall—a lighthouse sending its beam across the water as a warning for boaters to avoid the shoals. Then I went into the bedroom and grabbed the pamphlet with the information about the Littleton School so I could read it to Hayden.
“So when are you leaving?” he asked when he got back on the line. “I was hoping you’d be on the road.”
“I thought I’d be on the road, too, but I still haven’t been able to find Chet Cummings. He’s never home.”
“Maybe he’s away, Ellen. I know I said it was good that you went to Beacon, but you can’t stay there forever, hoping he’ll show up.”
“I’m not staying here forever. I’d like to be driving home right now.” I looked across the bedroom, through one of the windows, at the soft amber light ushering the day into night.
There was another pause. “Just promise me you’ll come home tomorrow,” Hayden said. “The dinner is Friday night and I don’t want to worry about you driving home Friday, trying to get here on time. I know how you speed when you’re afraid of being late. It’s dangerous.”
“I promise I won’t speed,” I said. “I won’t have to, because I’m leaving tomorrow for sure. I’m going one last time, early in the morning, to see if I can find Chet Cummings.”
Something began to clink and clank and sputter in the pipes behind the wall: the plumbing system was suddenly coming alive.
“What if he’s still not there?” Hayden asked. “What’s your plan then?”
“I’ll leave the letter at his house,” I said as water gushed through a pipe behind the wall. “I’ll be back tomorrow, no matter what.”
A crackle of static came through the phone.
“Hayden, I think I’m losing you.”
There was more static.
“I can’t hear you,” I shouted. “I’ll call you later.”
I hung up and looked at my watch. It was only five thirty. Way too early for dinner. I glanced at the bed and could almost feel my eyelids start to droop. Maybe, I thought, if I lie down, just for a minute…
I lay down on top of the white coverlet and pressed a pillow under my head. The crisp cotton case smelled like powder and fresh soap and clothes hanging outside on a line.
It was nearly dark when I awoke. Someone outside, down at street level, was shouting and opening and shutting car doors. I rubbed my eyes and looked at my watch. Eight thirty. My stomach felt empty and I needed dinner.
I changed into gray Gucci pants, an ivory knit top, and a matching long-sleeved sweater. After considering my jeweled Jimmy Choo heels, I opted for a pair of flat Tory Burch sandals instead. I picked up the double strand of pearls Gran left me, slipped them over my neck, and closed the front clasp—a silver scallop shell. Then I touched up my makeup and grabbed a copy of Forbes from my briefcase. It was good to have reading material—dining alone was always dull.
Before I reached the second-floor landing, I could hear the din from the dining room. The gang that had checked in earlier seemed to be making most of the noise. I expected to see Paula as I walked through the lobby, but she wasn’t there. I found her outside, on the front porch, smoking a cigarette, running a hand through her hair. Under the porch light, her brassy blond hair looked almost orange.
“Quite a party,” I said, nodding toward the door.
She looked me up and down as she held her cigarette between the V of her two fingers and then she let a long stream of smoke trail from her mouth, like the exhaust plume of a rocket. “Uh-huh.”
“Guess they’re having a good time.”
She nodded and looked down at her hands, inspecting her fingernails, as though she might just saunter off for a quick manicure.
I rummaged around in my purse for my car keys, finally pulling them out. “Is there somewhere in town that would be a good place for a quiet dinner?”
Paula pursed her lips and rocked her head left and right. “I’d say the Antler. They have good steaks. Fish, too. Great chowder.” She pronounced it chowda. “And a real good meat loaf. Even the city folks seem to like it.”
“Oh, yeah, the Antler,” I said, wrapping my sweater a little tighter as a breeze ruffled the grass. “That looks like a pub. Do you think it will be quiet there tonight?”
Paula wrinkled her nose a little and stuck out her lower lip. “Wednesday night?” She shrugged. “Yeah, pretty quiet.” She stubbed out the cigarette in a glass ashtray on the porch railing. Then she went inside.
I decided to walk to town. The evening was cool and I was feeling guilty about not having been to my health club in a week. The streetlights gave downtown Beacon a cozy orange glow. There were a dozen people out strolling. Tourists peered into windows of shops and offices closed for the night. A handful of teenagers congregated in a little group by the seawall. One of the boys took his baseball cap off and put it on one of the girls and they all laughed.
I walked to the door of the Antler, the yellow Michelob sign gleaming like a welcoming fire in the window. Meat loaf. Of all the things to eat, why would somebody want to eat meat loaf? Give me a nice piece of yellowfin tuna or a simple breast of chicken in a white wine reduction—but meat loaf? Oh, well. Maybe some people would consider my food choices equally odd.
With the Forbes tucked under my arm, I opened the door into a large dusky room. I could see a bar along the left side and rows of square tables on the right. Country music was playing, with the twang of a pedal steel guitar and the raspy voice of a woman singing something I couldn’t decipher. There was a loud buzz of conversation, mixed with a stream of laughter and a steady clatter of utensils. Not particularly quiet, but I was already there and my stomach was rumbling. As I took a step inside I noticed a handwritten sign on an easel near the door: EVERY WEDNESDAY NIGHT—TWO-FOR-ONE ENTRÉES. Well, I thought, that explains it. Funny that Paula didn’t know.
The floor of the Antler was made of dark wood, polished to a high sheen. Wooden rafters ran across the ceiling, and light fixtures hung from the beams—copper ship’s lanterns, chrome pendant lights shaped like large bells, brass chandeliers with curved arms ending in flickering, flame-tip bulbs. The bar was made of a red-hued wood that had been coated with layers of clear lacquer. The same wood had been used to make the sturdy tables and chairs that filled the room.
All the tables were occupied, as were most of the bar stools. I walked through the room, looking straight ahead but absorbing a peripheral blur of denim and khakis and T-shirts. There were a few skirts and sundresses, but this was mostly a denim crowd. I felt overdressed.
I took a seat at the far end of the bar, near the dance floor. “Your Cheatin’ Heart,” sung by Hank Williams, began drifting from the speakers overhead. To the right sat a middle-aged man and his wife, a buxom brunette, her hair in a high ponytail. To the left were a couple of empty bar stools, followed by two twentysomething guys in baseball caps. One of the caps had the name LOBSTER POT on it.
A stout bartender with salt-and-pepper hair came over, wiped the bar with a towel, and then placed a cardboard Coors Light coaster in front of me, its blue mountain peaks shimmering under the lights.
