by Nora Carroll
“Mamie,” he said. “I don’t talk about the war much, but I learned something there.”
I looked at his big face, eyes looking at that gray wallpaper. He was pausing between each word, like he was really struggling to speak.
“It happens sometimes in wartime that a buddy gets shot. And the fellow standing next to him, could be you yourself, is still standing there, looking around, not even sure at first what made such a loud thunk. And then you look down and there’s your buddy bleeding, and he’s looking at you. And then you hear orders shouted and you realize that you are supposed to run. There’s the guy on the ground, there’s you, there’s your superior shouting, and so you leave him there, and you run for cover. At the end of the day, you’re still alive.”
I guess I was just looking at him, wondering what the war story had to do with us, when he said, “Bad things happen and we can’t always fix ’em. I can’t build my own life based on the fact that somebody dumped their little baby in the woods and then went away and drowned herself. That’s too much pain for me, Mamie.”
So there it was. I reached out with my two fingers, and I rested them there, in that heart-shaped groove where his collarbone was. I could feel his pulse beating under my fingers. I saw a pain haunting him behind the eyes, and I could feel it too. Like we both knew that he was already gone.
Before Thomas Cleves walked out of that room and left me there, he left thirty dollars on the rickety wooden dresser, and he wrote down how I could wire him if I found out I needed more. I begged him not to say anything to my mother, let her think I had run away, so that she could mourn her two daughters at the same time.
He turned to look at me before he left, his large frame filling the doorway. Looked like he wanted to say something, then didn’t, then did again.
“I think you’re going to come with me,” he said, his voice quiet, weak sounding. “Aren’t you, Mamie?”
I picked up Margaret, who was fussing a little, and I shook my head.
“She’ll need a name,” I said.
“If it’s a name she’s wanting, give her mine,” he said. “That’s asking me for something that is easy to give.”
Looking back, I try to go back to that moment at the corner of Main and Bunting, before everything changed, and keep my eyes on those big brown eyes of his as they were, kind and gentle and sweet.
In the end, I went to Chapin Flagg for money; what else could I do? I couldn’t bear to see his name or think upon him, so great was my rage against him. I never asked him how he could have sent my sister home in that condition. I asked him only to support me and his daughter and to keep my whereabouts a secret. He did as bidden; sent money and asked no awkward questions. Mercifully, it was not much longer after that Miss Ada died, and from then on, I took charge of myself and managed my dear daddy’s fortune. I have always taken a great deal of pride in my ability to do so.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
JESS, AGE THIRTY-THREE
Jess walked down the front walk, past the Wequetona cottages. Most had painted signs hanging over the front porches, some with Indian names, “An-wa-bo-ka,” “Kin-ka-ya-ming.” There were a few people, dressed in pastels, sitting out on the porches, enjoying the gentle afternoon breeze. As was the custom, she nodded to each group of cottagers as she passed.
The Rafters was the last cottage on the south side, just at the spot where the stairs led down to the bathing beach. It was a gracious cottage, with large gabled windows across the front that had always been painted a creamy yellow with white trim. Across the side of the cottage was a large solarium. The front porch was screened, making it hard to see whether anyone was inside. For as long as Jess could remember, this cottage had always been empty except for Mrs. May Lewis. Mrs. Lewis was already a widow when Jess was growing up, and she had no children. May Lewis had been Mamie’s closest friend. They played cards together, and had a weekly ritual of shopping every Thursday in Petoskey.
Back in the days when everyone had dined in the clubhouse, Jess used to think it terribly sad to see Mrs. Lewis all alone at her linen-covered table, sitting ramrod straight in her wooden chair. The Lewis table was in the corner of the dining room.
“Why does Mrs. Lewis have to eat alone?” Jess asked Mamie.
“She sits at the Lewis table,” Mamie had replied. “At Wequetona, that is the way it is done.”
At the Tretheway table, in the far south corner, there was only Jess and Mamie. Jess used to sit chewing her food and banging one Mary Jane absently against the table leg, looking out across the dining room and seeing the tables of other families that would swell almost to bursting, surrounded by cousins—big families that were noisy and boisterous, with boys who would jump up before the meal was finished and run outside, letting the heavy doors bang behind them. It did not occur to Jess at the time, as far as she remembered, that Mamie must have sat alone whenever Jess was not there.
Jess approached The Rafters with hesitation. What exactly did she want from Mrs. May Lewis? What made her think that Mrs. Lewis would be able to tell her anything she did not already know, and what good would it do her anyway? Jess stopped halfway up the walk and peered at the blank front of the cottage, the dark screens shrouding her view of the porch. Perhaps she shouldn’t even bother.
“Why, Jess Carpenter, welcome to The Rafters—just let yourself in if you wouldn’t mind. My rheumatism is bothering me a touch this morning.”
Jess heard Mrs. Lewis’s voice, and now could just make out the outline of her head. She walked up the steps and pushed the screen door open.
“Well now, Jess,” Mrs. Lewis said. “I had a feeling you might be coming to visit me. Please sit down.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Jess said, feeling embarrassed, looking at tiny Mrs. Lewis, sitting in a wicker rocker, her knees covered in an afghan, an open book and reading glasses lying in her lap.
“I should have come sooner. It’s nice to see you looking so well. I’ve been busy, you know . . . with the cottage . . . ” She was thinking about her grandmother, who had been a few years older than Mrs. Lewis. She felt tears pricking her eyes at the thought of Mamie—was this how she looked, near the end?
Mrs. Lewis’s face was deeply lined, but her blue eyes were still as sharp and alert as ever, and though her voice was frail, her diction was clear.
“Sit down, Jess dear,” she said, gesturing to a wicker armchair.
Jess stared at her hands like an awkward child, and then she found herself blurting, “Mrs. Lewis, I was wondering . . . ” She stopped and looked searchingly at the old woman, wondering what it was exactly that she wanted to know.
Mrs. Lewis gazed at her patiently, waiting for her to finish.
“I’m wondering if you know what happened when my great-aunt Lila died? I found a newspaper clipping, about her death, and it mentioned that Dr. Lewis was there when the accident happened . . . I guess I’m just curious what happened to her exactly. Mamie didn’t like to talk about it, but I know she drowned.”
Mrs. Lewis nodded. “It was a long time ago, but I’ll be happy to share what I know. My husband kept a log of all his cases. Back in those days, he made the occasional house call during the summer, and he left the summer logbooks up here. I’m sure your aunt Lila’s case is recorded there. There’s a built-in bookcase right under the stairs, on the top shelf, left-hand side, you’ll find a series of brown leather-bound ledgers. Find the one labeled 1922–23. Could you just bring that to me?”
Jess stepped into the small living room. The Rafters was bright and sunny inside, filled with white-wicker furniture with light cotton upholstery, the walls painted pale yellow with bright white trim. There were fresh daisies in a silver vase on the piano. The air smelled fresh, not at all musty, and there was light streaming in through the large glass windows of the solarium. Jess found the large bookcase built into the corner of the wall beneath the stairs. On the top shelf, whi
ch was at just about eye level, Jess saw the set of leather-bound books. They were embossed with gold numbers on the binding—starting with 1922 and ending with 1935. Jess carefully picked out the first volume. The brown cover left an orangish stain on her fingertips. Carefully, she carried it out to the porch.
“Is this what you’re looking for?”
“Now, let me see, dear,” Mrs. Lewis said, tipping her head back and putting on her glasses.
“Yes, that’s it.” She reached out to take the small musty volume from Jess. She did not open it, however, but placed it gently in her lap, and smoothing the blanket over her knees, she began talking, her voice rather soft so that Jess had to strain to hear.
“The year was 1922. I was just married then, a newlywed. My husband, George Lewis, was a good bit older than I. He was a physician and had been in the war. Of course, I had been coming to Wequetona since I was a baby, but it was George’s first summer. I found it very strange to be here that summer. I had lost both my parents to pneumonia during the previous winter, and so it was just the two of us. You wouldn’t know this, Jess dear, but my only brother, Arbruster, was lost at Ardennes. So it was just George and I, newlyweds, sharing The Rafters for the very first time. He had insisted that we come up early that season. It was oddly warm that year, and there wasn’t much water in the lake; there had been an early thaw. By the beginning of May, it was already sweltering in Saint Louis. George, always a dear, was worried about my nerves—the loss of my parents so suddenly, of course, had been a terrible shock. He thought that the cool air of the north would do me good, and indeed, as soon as we stepped off the steamship and breathed that fresh Michigan air, I did feel infinitely much better.
“There were not many people in the Club when we arrived. Most of the cottages were still empty and shuttered, the height of the season not starting until later into June. The Tretheways were here though, just Mamie and Lila and the poor widow Tretheway, who everybody thought was out of her mind with grief—she was never quite right after her husband, Harris, passed away.”
Jess leaned forward, listening carefully.
“It seemed that many in the Club had been touched by tragedy. I was a young woman in love, and my grief at the loss of my parents and brother was tempered by the joy of being newly married. Mrs. Tretheway was in middle age when she lost her husband. She never seemed to get over it.”
Jess suppressed the urge to hurry Mrs. Lewis through her story. She settled into her chair, looking out at the sunlight playing over the lake, waiting for Mrs. Lewis to compose her thoughts.
“I was not the only newlywed at the Club that summer. Lila Tretheway Flagg was here, though she had come home and left her husband off in Europe somewhere—Berlin, I believe it was. I found that to be quite odd. I was so besotted with my own dear George that I could not bear the thought of being parted from him for even a day, and tried to imagine what had made Lila agree to leave her handsome young husband so far away. I assumed that she had come to help care for Miss Ada, even though, I’ll admit, Lila made an unlikely nursemaid. She was not a practical sort.”
“What were Chapin and Lila like?” Jess asked. “I’ve seen pictures. They were very good-looking?”
“Oh, they were terribly glamorous. Lila Tretheway was far and away the most beautiful girl in the Club. Her parents had sent her away to a boarding school for girls in Connecticut, and she had clothes from New York that were up-to-the-minute. Her hair was bobbed too—something which the others of us were dying to do but didn’t quite dare. The Flaggs were very flashy with their money, and Chapin was no exception. He had this car that everybody admired, a Stutz Bearcat. He used to drive Lila around in it, and we all thought they looked just like movie stars. People said that they used to go into Charlevoix to gamble at Koch’s casino—a terrible scandal. People here were Presbyterians and didn’t go in for that kind of thing.”
Jess smiled in agreement.
“But when Lila came back from Europe, she had changed. It was like someone had pricked a balloon and let all the air out. Even her prettiness was almost gone. At the time, I thought it was a cruel thing, that Lila had been turned into a nursemaid for her cranky old mother. I thought that Mamie could have just as easily done the job. I’ll never forget how Lila looked when I saw her. She had the oddest way of walking, almost a shuffle, and I never saw her when she wasn’t covered up by some thick and bulky wrap—as though she was cold. Lila Flagg was a girl. She was younger than I, not much more than seventeen, but that summer, seeing her from a distance, you might have taken her for a middle-aged lady with indifferent health.”
“And what about Miss Mamie?”
“I remember Mamie so clearly that summer. Never more beautiful, and so happy all the time. She was in love with the handsome Captain Thomas Cleves. Happy—but not for long. It was early in the summer when her sister died.”
Jess folded her hands in her lap and stared out at the lake. Today it was a bright clear blue, and still as a sheet. “Do you remember the day that she died?”
“Oh yes, my dear. As if it were yesterday. I saw both Mamie and Lila at breakfast that morning. It was unseasonably warm, and everyone in the room was wearing fresh light linen or cotton, except for Lila, who was all bundled up in a heavy woolen cloak. George was looking across at their table, and he said to me, ‘What is it about the younger Tretheway girl? Is she not quite right in the head?’ I told him about how gay and pretty Lila had been and how she was now nursing her cranky and difficult mother. I remember he said, ‘Why don’t those people hire a nursemaid? It’s far too much stress on the poor girl’s nerves.’ As I recall, that was all we spoke about it, moving as happy young people do, quickly on to lighter matters.”
“Was she not quite right in the head?” Jess asked, studying Mrs. Lewis’s wrinkled face.
“Well, to be honest, I never thought too highly of Lila Tretheway. She was all flash and no substance, if you know what I mean. But was she crazy? Hear me out for the rest of the story, and then you can decide for yourself.”
Jess cast her eyes quickly down to Mrs. Lewis’s lap, where the little brown 1922 ledger still lay untouched, and then back up to her face as she started to speak again.
“I was sitting right here on the porch that afternoon. I had some mending to do, and I was in this very chair with my darning basket in my lap. George was puttering around inside. It was hot in the cottage and I was hoping it would be cooler on the porch, but that afternoon the air was heavy and still. The first thing I saw was someone in a dory, rowing round Loeb Point. Because it was early in the season, there weren’t that many boats out and about, and the little red-and-white dory caught my eye. A few minutes later, I saw Mamie hurrying along the front walk, a picnic basket in her hand. She was bare legged and wearing a big fisherman’s sweater that fell almost to her knees.”
“Why was she wearing a sweater on a hot day?”
“Oh, we all did that in those days. We all wore wool-flannel bathing suits that took forever to dry. Sometimes, if the wind came up, you could start to catch a chill. The big men’s sweaters were all the rage then. All the girls wore them to cover up. The thick wool would repel the water, and it would keep you warm if a breeze came up before your bathing suit was dry. When I saw her dressed like that, I figured that she was going for a swim. We liked to swim long distances, always with a rowboat rowing alongside, in case we got tired. A few minutes later, Lila came by, dressed just as Mamie had been in a big fisherman’s sweater. She was walking the same way she had been walking all summer, uncomfortable, as though she hurt a little bit somewhere. I thought about calling out to her, but I didn’t. She gave no sign that she saw me as she passed.
“I’m not sure how long I sat there on the porch. Not too long after, I saw the rowboat pull out with Mamie and Lila swimming alongside. Thomas must have been in the boat. They were heading out toward Hemingway Point—you know that’s not far, can’t be more than
a quarter mile. Anyway, that’s all. I watched their progress across, but I wasn’t actively watching. Then, I lost sight of them. You can’t see the point from here, as you know.”
Jess followed Mrs. Lewis’s gaze. The lake was such a warm and friendly blue today, not the slightest bit menacing.
“And that’s when she drowned?” Jess asked. “On her way out to Hemingway Point?” The old woman nodded, but she seemed far away, lost in a time long past.
“I don’t understand. If Thomas was in the rowboat, didn’t he see her struggling?”
“Hold your horses, Jess dear. I’ve got to tell the story in my own way. It’s an old story and I’m afraid if I mix it up, I may lose my grasp of it entirely.”
Jess blushed. Mrs. Lewis looked so tiny sitting there wrapped in the afghan. She was embarrassed to be pushing on her like that. She turned away from Mrs. Lewis and gazed out over the lake. The view was different from The Rafters—you could see a part of the cove, but the point lay hidden just out of view.
“Well, as I said. I sat there a while longer, doing my darning, and just enjoying the peace of the day. Then, it seemed like just a few minutes later, I heard someone hollering ‘Doc Lewis!’ And I saw Thomas Cleves charging toward our house, carrying Lila’s body in his arms. George came running out the front door and gestured for him to bring the poor girl inside.”
“Where was Mamie?”
“I didn’t look to see where Mamie was. I ran straight over the footbridge to the north side, to the Clubhouse. There was a big old farm bell that we rang in case of a fire, or any other emergency. I just ran right in and started pulling that rope as hard as I could, ringing that bell until I could feel rope burns on the palm of my hand. Then, I hurried back home again, and sure enough, the few people that were on the grounds then had soon assembled outside our cottage, standing around not sure how to help, and I stood there by the door, calling out to them, “It’s Lila Flagg! No news yet!”
