The Last of the Stanfields

by Levy, Marc

  “You know what? Scratch that,” my father said, reading her face. A father, after all, picks up on such things. “Don’t take it the wrong way, but I should go alone, clear my head.” With that, Dad downed the rest of his tea, put the mug in the sink, and planted a kiss on each of our foreheads, taking his leave. Then he paused in the doorway and called back to us, “Don’t forget to lock the door on your way out, Maggie,” before walking out of the flat with a smile on his face.

  10

  ELEANOR-RIGBY

  October 2016, Croydon

  We waited just long enough to ensure our father was really gone before taking up a thorough search of the premises. We cut the bathroom from the list, knowing it was far too improbable a hiding place. Maggie scoured the hallway cupboard from top to bottom like a forensics expert, but found no trapdoor or secret compartment. As I was finishing combing through the master bedroom, Maggie ducked back into the kitchen and had a look at our family tree.

  “Totally fine, enjoy a nice break, don’t worry one second about helping me!” I called out sarcastically.

  “I didn’t get any help from you for my rooms, as far as I know,” Maggie shot back. “You’re not done yet?”

  I sulked back into the kitchen, tail between my legs. “I looked everywhere and couldn’t find a single thing. I even tapped the entire wall looking for hollow spots. Nothing. Nada.”

  “You didn’t find anything, Elby, because there’s nothing to find. The letter is full of shit. Fun as this has been, it’s time to call it a day.”

  “Try to think like Mum here. If you were her, where would you hide your stash?”

  “Why hide it in the first place, and not just spend it on your family?”

  “Well, say it wasn’t money but something she couldn’t do anything with? I mean, think about it. What if she was a drug dealer when she was young? Everybody was on drugs in the seventies and eighties.”

  “Like I said, Elby: you watch far too much TV. And I don’t mean to burst your bubble, but a lot of people are on drugs today, too. You extend your London visit much longer, and I might need to start taking some myself.”

  “Out of the three of us, Mum was closest to Michel.”

  “Brilliant observation. If that’s an attempt at making me jealous, it’s downright pathetic.”

  “It’s not pathetic, it’s the truth. I only mention it because if Mum had some kind of secret she was keeping from Dad, then Michel is the next most likely person she would tell.”

  “If you want to keep this up and be pigheaded about it on your own, go ahead, but don’t even think about dragging Michel into this.”

  “I don’t take orders from anyone, least of all you! You know what? Screw it. I’m going to see him right now. He may be your brother but he’s my twin!”

  “Yeah, well . . . it’s not like you’re identical!” Maggie spluttered as I stormed right out of the apartment. She came rushing after me, and the two of us raced down the stairs and out of the front door.

  The pavements outside were blanketed in crimson, the fallen leaves remnants of an October with especially bitter winds. I love the feeling of dry leaves crunching underfoot, and the scent of autumn mixed with rain. I slipped behind the wheel of the car I had borrowed from one of my coworkers, and turned on the engine before Maggie had even made it inside.

  We didn’t exchange a word throughout the entire drive, save one small exchange in which I told Maggie I was glad she was starting to take the anonymous letter seriously. After all, why else had she come along? Maggie insisted she was only trying to protect Michel from his evil twin sister’s wanton lunacy.

  I found a parking spot and headed towards the library. The lobby was empty, and the varnished cherrywood counter that looked like it was pulled from some forgotten century was unattended. There were only two full-time employees at the library: the manager, Vera Morton, and Michel. Aside from a cleaning woman who came to dust the shelves twice a week, that was it.

  As we entered the lobby, Vera came out to greet us, her face lighting up as soon as she recognized Maggie. Vera was a lot more complex than a first glance might suggest. She could have been an absolute knockout if she didn’t go to such lengths to disappear into the crowd. The sparkle of her blue lapis eyes was dulled by a pair of round glasses, complete with greasy fingerprint smudges on the lenses, and her hair was pulled back with a simple elastic band. Her choice of attire was equally unappealing. She looked sober as a judge in a mud-colored jumper two sizes too large, with matching moccasins and socks to complete a kind of variations-on-beige ensemble.

  “I trust everything is all right?” Vera asked.

  “Oh, right as rain,” I replied.

  “Well, that is quite a relief. I was worried that you had some sort of bad news to relay. After all, it’s only once in a blue moon we’re lucky enough to be graced by your presence.”

  I couldn’t think of another person I knew who talked like that these days. Maggie made up a story about us being nearby and deciding to stop by to pay our brother a visit. Watching Vera, I couldn’t help but notice a slight flush rising in her cheeks every time she heard Michel’s name. Maybe Vera’s heart was beating faster beneath that mud-colored jumper . . .

  You couldn’t blame her, after all. You throw two fish into the same bowl for eight hours a day, with sporadic visits from schoolchildren serving as the only other form of interaction? It’s no big surprise that they might begin to consider each other the best possible specimens humanity had available. That said, it did seem that Vera could be harboring some real feelings for my brother, begging the question: Was the feeling mutual?

  The young manager of the crumbling establishment was overjoyed to lead us across the library towards the reading room, where we found Michel alone at a table with his nose buried in a book. Despite Michel being the only soul in the room, Vera still whispered to him as though the place were full of visitors. Libraries must be like churches, I thought to myself, where believer and nonbeliever alike must employ the same hushed tones.

  My brother looked up in shock to find his two sisters staring back at him. He promptly closed the book he had been reading and returned it to its proper place before coming back to join us.

  “We were just in the area and thought we’d stop by to give you a hug,” Maggie declared.

  “Ah, that’s odd. You always tend to avoid our hugs. But, by all means.” With that, Michel extended two stiff arms and stood awkwardly awaiting a hug from his sister.

  “I meant that . . . figuratively,” Maggie explained. “Come join us for a cup of tea. If you’re able to get away, that is.”

  Vera cut in to answer on his behalf. “Of course he can. It’s a particularly slow day. Go on, Michel,” she said, her cheeks once more suffering a mini roseola attack. “I can close the library on my own.”

  “Ah. But I do still have a few books to put away.”

  “Oh, I’m sure those old books would be delighted to spend the night on top of each other . . . I mean, you know, in piles,” she said, the reddish hue intensifying by the second.

  With that, Michel reached out and shook Vera’s hand, jostling it awkwardly like an old bike pump. “In that case, thank you very much,” he said. “I’ll be sure to work a bit extra to make up for it tomorrow.”

  “Thank you. That won’t be necessary. Have a lovely evening, Michel,” she added, her cheeks full-on scarlet now.

  Since hushed tones seemed to be official library policy, I bent over to Maggie and whispered in her ear, pointing out Vera’s behavior. Maggie rolled her eyes and led Michel out.

  The three of us ducked into a tearoom. It was on the ground floor of a modest yellow-brick building dating back to the seventies, its bay window covered in posters and fliers. In a neighborhood that seemed especially slow to change with the times, the establishment was a vestige of the suburb’s industrial past. With no table service, Maggie went up to the counter and ordered Earl Grey with a heap of scones, generously leaving me the opportunity
to pay the bill. The three of us sat down on plastic chairs around a Formica table.

  “Has something happened to Dad?” asked Michel in a calm, measured tone.

  I quickly assured him Dad was fine. Michel sipped his tea and turned to Maggie. “Are you here to announce you’re marrying Fred?”

  “Come on! Just because we’ve stopped by to see you doesn’t mean there’s some kind of major drama afoot,” she said.

  Michel pondered this for a moment, then cracked an exaggerated smile to let us know he liked her choice of words.

  “I figured, for once I get to stay in London for more than two seconds,” I added. “So, why not come see my brother? And I invited Maggie to come along, too.”

  “So, Michel,” asked Maggie, cutting straight to it. “Did Mum happen to tell you a secret, one just for you?”

  “That’s a peculiar question. I haven’t spoken to her in ages, and neither have you.”

  “I meant . . . you know, before.”

  “Let’s say that she did,” he said, nodding his head. “Then I wouldn’t be able to tell you about it. A logical point, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I’m not asking you what she said, just if she told you a secret.”

  “No,” Michel confirmed sternly.

  “See?” said Maggie, throwing a smug look my way.

  “She didn’t tell me a secret; she told me many,” Michel clarified. Maggie and I looked at each other. “Am I allowed to have another scone?” he asked, and Maggie slid the plate over.

  “Why would she tell you and not us?”

  “Because she knew I wouldn’t say anything.”

  “Even to your sisters?”

  “Most of all to my sisters. When the two of you fight, you’ll say any thought that comes into your head, even things that aren’t true. While you both have many virtues, of course, knowing how to control what you say when you’re angry is not one of them.” Michel seemed pleased with his well-reasoned point.

  I placed a soft hand on Michel’s forearm and looked deep into his eyes with nothing but tenderness and love.

  “You know that we miss her just as much as you do.”

  “Considering there’s no specific metric to prove such a thing, would it be safe to assume that’s just a manner of speaking?”

  “No, Michel,” I continued. “I mean what I’m saying. She was our mother as much as she was yours.”

  “Indeed.”

  “If you know something that we don’t, it’s not exactly fair to keep it to yourself, do you see what we mean?” Maggie pleaded.

  Michel looked my way, unsure. I nodded to tell him it was okay to talk, but all he did was dip another scone into his tea and devour it in two huge bites.

  “What did she tell you?” I insisted.

  “Nothing, she didn’t tell me anything.”

  “Then what’s the secret, Michel?”

  “I meant to say, the secret . . . wasn’t anything she said, per se.”

  “Then what was it?”

  “I don’t think I’m allowed to tell you.”

  “Michel, I don’t think Mum knew that she would be gone so soon, and so unexpectedly. I’m sure she would have wanted us to share everything with each other.”

  “Possibly. But I’d have to find some way of verifying that with her.”

  “Right, except you can’t. So, you’re just going to have to rely on your judgment, and your judgment only.”

  After downing the rest of his tea in one gulp, Michel put his cup back in the saucer with a trembling hand, shaking his head, his eyes lost and frantic—all signs of an impending attack. I stroked his neck and spoke soothingly and deliberately, hoping to calm my twin brother down.

  “You don’t have to say anything now. I’m sure Mum would have wanted you to think things through. After all, that’s why she entrusted her secret to you. Do you want another scone, love?”

  “I don’t think that would be reasonable. But perhaps. To mark the occasion of all three of us being together.”

  “Right when I had decided not to get up again,” Maggie muttered before making a round-trip to the counter. She set one last scone down in front of Michel and returned to her seat.

  “Let’s change the subject, huh?” said Maggie, her voice gentle. “How about you tell us about your life at work?”

  “It’s quite similar to my life at home.”

  “Sure, sure. But not everything, right?”

  “How about your manager?” I asked innocently. “You two seem . . . close.”

  Michel looked up in doubt. “Just to verify . . . ‘close’ is a manner of speaking, I suppose.”

  “Indeed, or call it an observation.”

  “Yes, we are quite often ‘close,’ in terms of proximity, which is to be expected since speaking in anything above a whisper is strictly prohibited at the library.”

  “So I noticed.”

  “In that case, you should understand why we are often close.”

  “She seems to really enjoy your company.” I could feel Maggie glaring at me for raising the subject. “Don’t look at me like that, Maggie. I’m allowed to talk to my brother without having you judge my every word.”

  “Are you two going to argue?” Michel asked.

  “No, not today,” Maggie assured him.

  “I’ll tell you one thing that fascinates me about you two,” Michel began, while dabbing the corners of his mouth carefully with a napkin. “Most of the time, what you say makes no sense. Yet, you seem to understand each other better than most of the people I’ve observed, at least when you’re not fighting. If that’s what it means to be ‘close,’ then yes, I suppose we are. I hope that answers your question, Elby. Your real question.”

  “I’d say it does, love. And if you happen to need any advice, you know . . . girl stuff? I’m right here for you, anytime.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you, Elby. Even though you’re not ‘right here’ very often, you can always come back, unlike Mum. Which is very reassuring.”

  “This time, I’ll be right here for a while. At least, I think.”

  “Until your magazine sends you to study giraffes in a faraway land? How is it that you care more about people you don’t even know than about your own family?”

  If anyone else on earth aside from my brother had asked that question, I might have been able to give an honest answer. At the beginning, I set off to see the world, scouring the globe in search of hope, something I was sorely lacking at the age of twenty. I wanted to break away from a life that was mapped out in advance. I was desperate to avoid being boxed in to the type of life my mother had led, the same sort of path that Maggie seemed to have no qualms about pursuing. I had to leave my family to learn to love them again. Because in spite of all the love around me, I found suburban life to be suffocating and unbearable.

  “I was just fascinated by all the diversity in the world,” I replied. “I left to try to learn more about all the things that make people different from each other. Does that make sense?”

  “No. Not very logical, I must say. After all, I myself am different from the others. And yet, that wasn’t enough for you.”

  “You’re not different, Michel. We’re twins, and you’re the person I feel closest to in the whole wide world.”

  “You know . . . if I’m intruding, just let me know,” Maggie said, rolling her eyes.

  Michel studied each of us in turn. He took a deep breath and laid his hands on the table, ready to get something off his chest, a secret that had been weighing heavily on him.

  “I do feel . . . close to Vera,” he whispered, short of breath.

  11

  THE INDEPENDENT

  June to September 1980, Baltimore

  Ever since that drunken night at the end of spring, May and Sally-Anne had devoted every waking hour to the newspaper, body and soul. They spent the entire summer working on the project, with the exception of one short Sunday at the beach.

  First, a great paper had to have
a great name. May took the first stab, drawing inspiration from Robert Stack’s portrayal of Eliot Ness in old reruns of The Untouchables. Even though it was a bit dated, the show still ran late at night on ABC. At first, Sally-Anne thought May’s idea was a joke. Not only was the name pretentious, but she could already hear the lewd jokes some men would make. A newspaper run by women could never be called The Untouchables.

  Sally-Anne found an abandoned warehouse on the docks that she planned to transform into the paper’s newsroom, and got Keith to help with the renovation. On a particularly hot July afternoon, Sally-Anne stood admiring their muscled friend’s physique as he lent them a hand with the work.

  Sally-Anne had declared that all the warehouse really needed was a new coat of paint. Keith took the time for a thorough walk-through and found she had vastly underestimated the scope of the work. What was more, they had an absurdly small budget for the project. This was all the more absurd, Keith observed, considering that Sally-Anne’s family wasn’t exactly strapped for cash.

  What Keith didn’t know was that behind the facade of carefree temptress, Sally-Anne lived by an unshakably strong moral code. As far back as she could remember, long before her teenage years, she had known she was different from her family, as illustrated in a tale she recounted to Keith and May.

  Sally-Anne had once told her teacher that she had so little in common with her father, and even less with her mother, that she sometimes wondered if she had been switched at birth. Her observation was rewarded with a long lecture, in which the teacher berated the brazen young lady for being so judgmental of parents who were models of success. Sally-Anne thought the only success anyone could credit her parents with was managing to cling to their inheritance, compromising their principles and telling unforgivable lies in the process.

  Suddenly, it clicked. Keith’s offhand remark had triggered an idea, a common ground that both women could wholeheartedly unite on: they didn’t owe anyone a single thing. Thus, the name the Independent seemed to be a perfect fit for the paper.

  “Well, lovely as that sounds, without any resources, this is going to be one mammoth undertaking,” Keith exclaimed. “The window frames are all eaten through with salt. The hardwood floor is such a mess you can actually fit your whole hand between the planks! I’m not sure even Superman could get that boiler up and running, and this shit-hole hasn’t had electricity in ages.”