The Last of the Stanfields

by Levy, Marc

  Under normal circumstances, I would have literally jumped for joy at having convinced my editor to green-light a story I came up with all on my own. But not tonight. While my job was entirely built on leaping into the unknown, I had a sinking feeling that this trip would uncover things of a whole different nature. And for once, my courage was faltering.

  In any event, I couldn’t leave England without saying goodbye to my family. Seeing Maggie was pointless; she would just berate me again and do everything within her power to change my mind. I had a feeling Dad wouldn’t take the news very well either, considering I had promised to stay in London longer this time around. But I was most concerned about telling Michel. Even though it was already late, I called him and asked if I could drop by.

  “You . . . want to come here? Why?”

  My silence told Michel everything he needed to know. He sighed. “When are you leaving?” he asked.

  “Tomorrow, an early-afternoon flight.”

  “Will you be gone for a long time?”

  “No. I’ll be back soon, I promise. A week, ten days at the most.”

  “Are you hungry? I can go down to the corner shop and buy us something for dinner, for example.”

  “That sounds great. You and I are long overdue for a one-on-one.”

  Just after getting off the phone, Michel turned to Vera Morton and announced that his sister was on her way.

  “Would you be very cross if we were to share this meal that you’ve prepared with my sister?” Michel asked Vera.

  “No, not in the least bit. It’s just that I hadn’t really thought she’d find out about us like this.”

  While the way Michel spoke could sometimes lack subtlety, his eyes were a dead giveaway. Vera instantly understood. She grabbed her jacket, checked over the table, and returned the wineglasses to the cabinet. After all, Michel would have never thought to put those out on his own. Everything now sorted, Vera took her leave.

  I rang the doorbell, and my brother appeared in the doorway, wearing a kitchen apron, of all things. Without a word, he ushered me into the living room, where the surprises just kept on coming. I never imagined he’d go to such trouble for me. He slipped into the kitchen and returned with a piping-hot casserole that he placed carefully on a trivet. I sat down and lifted the lid. Steam wafted up toward my nose, and my stomach growled in response.

  “Since when do you know how to cook?”

  “Unless I’m mistaken, this marks the first time you’ve ever visited before leaving. Or should I say, before leaving in such a hurry. Thus, I thought long and hard after receiving your call, and naturally concluded that something was wrong, something you didn’t wish to speak of on the telephone. And that’s why you have come. A logical analysis.”

  “Sure, but even a logical analysis can be wrong. Especially with a sister as complicated as yours.”

  “Yes, that’s correct. And yet—”

  “And yet,” I interjected, “everything is fine, love. I just wanted to spend some time with you.”

  Michel stared up at the light fixture hanging above us and took a deep breath. “And yet . . . you didn’t want Dad or Maggie to hear what you have to tell me. There’s something wrong with your logic.”

  “My advice for the duration of the evening is not to dig too deep for logic, because I can assure you there’s none to be found here. But don’t let that bother you. I came because I have a secret to tell you. You weren’t totally off the mark; I’m not really leaving for a story, even if I did manage to bill the whole thing to the magazine—which, I admit, wasn’t the most honest thing to do, but it’s for a good cause. And I’ll still write the dumb story, or at least I’ll try.”

  “None of that makes any sense. Where exactly is it that you’re not going for your magazine?”

  “Baltimore.”

  Michel rubbed his chin. “Intriguing. Cecilius Calvert, second Baron Baltimore, was the first governor of the Maryland colony. Did you know there is a coastal city in southwestern Ireland of the same name? Why not simply go to that Baltimore? It’s far closer.”

  “I didn’t know any of that. Remind me—how do you know so much?”

  “I read often. Books, mostly.”

  “Well, I’ll never understand how you manage to remember so much.”

  “How could I forget something, if I’ve read it?”

  “Most people do. But, hey—you’re not most people.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “Of course it is, just like I tell you every time.”

  Michel served me a nice chicken wing from the casserole dish, opting for a thigh himself, then looked me in the eye and waited for more.

  “I’m leaving . . . on a search to find Mum,” I told him.

  “That’s wonderful, although I’m afraid your search could be fruitless, as I’m rather convinced she’s not in Baltimore. In fact, no one really knows where dead people go. Certainly not into the sky; it could never support the weight. For my part, I favor the theory of an alternate dimension. Are you familiar with the alternate dimension theory?”

  I laid my hand on Michel’s forearm to cut the tangent short, staring right at him so he would listen to my every word.

  “It was just a manner of speaking. I’m leaving on a search to find Mum’s past.”

  “Why, did she lose it?”

  “No, but she lied about it. She never told us much about her youth.”

  “That’s probably precisely the way she wanted it. I don’t believe it’s a very good idea to go against her wishes.”

  “I miss her as much as you do. But I’m a woman, so I need to know who my mother really was . . . to finally be able to grow up, or at least to be able to understand who I really am.”

  “You’re my twin sister,” he said, as though the answer was clear as day. “Why Baltimore?”

  “I’m supposed to meet somebody there.”

  “Someone who knew her?”

  “I assume so.”

  “And you, do you know this someone?”

  “No, I don’t have a clue who it is.”

  I told my brother about the letter without revealing any of its specific contents. I didn’t want to worry him, and I knew it didn’t take much to knock Michel off-balance. Instead, I concocted a beautiful little fantasy, using the art of embellishment that I had come to master as a professional necessity.

  “So, if I understand correctly,” he began, forefinger raised in his signature way, “you will depart for a distant city in hopes of meeting someone you do not know. Someone who, as you claim, is supposed to tell you things you don’t know about your own mother, things that will help you know who you are . . . I’m beginning to understand why my doctor is so eager to meet you.”

  My brother’s deadpan humor always caught me off guard. Michel paused for a moment, then rose to his feet, dead serious now.

  “Mum worked in Baltimore,” he said, dropping the bomb and then departing for the kitchen with our dishes in hand.

  I leapt to my feet and followed my brother, joining him as he began washing the dishes.

  “How do you know that?” I asked.

  “Because she told me that was the place where she spent the happiest days of her life.”

  “What a lovely message to give her own child!”

  “I made the same observation, but she was quick to clarify: happiest days before we were born.”

  “Michel, please. I’m begging you here. Tell me everything Mum told you.”

  “She was in love with somebody there,” he said matter-of-factly as he handed me a tea towel. “Although she never specifically admitted it. On the rare occasions she mentioned Baltimore, she seemed rather sad. As she claimed to have spent some of the happiest days of her life there—albeit, prior to our birth—this was not a very logical connection. I therefore deduced that perhaps she suffered from nostalgia, and in all the books I’ve read, such contradictions seem to always involve a love story.”

  “She never mentioned a name
?”

  “She never mentioned anything, as you would know from my prior statement, had you been listening carefully.”

  Michel put away the rest of the dishes and took off his apron.

  “I must sleep now, or else tomorrow I’ll be tired and I won’t perform my tasks adequately. Don’t tell Dad about this. I entrusted you with this secret because you have confided in me as well. It was in the spirit of equal exchange. And even though the rest is just mere conjecture—conjecture that I am fully confident about, but nonetheless—I fear that Dad’s feelings might be hurt. Men always feel worse knowing their wife loved another before them, rather than not knowing it at all. Or at least, that’s the case in the majority of books I’ve read. It seems far-fetched that such a trend would come solely from the imaginations of writers, wouldn’t you say?”

  My brother had started nervously nodding his head. I knew any more questions might push him over the edge, so I decided to drop it for the night. His yawns told me it was time to go. I waited in the living room as he ducked off—for what seemed like ages—to retrieve my jacket. When at last he returned, he seemed to have calmed down. He draped my coat around my shoulders with a tender look in his eyes that let me know he wanted a hug. I took my brother in my arms and held him tight.

  I promised I would call from Baltimore to give him a full report on the city, and, of course, to fill him in on anything I uncovered about Mum. It was a bald-faced lie. I had no way of knowing if I would find any answers at all. Everything now rested on a critical encounter with an anonymous correspondent. The outlook was pretty grim.

  The next morning, I called Dad with a major favor to ask: I needed him to give Maggie the news that I was heading off.

  “Well, you certainly have got some nerve asking me something like that!”

  I had to admit, sometimes cowardice can lead to pure genius. I could almost hear the sad smile on my father’s face as we spoke. Just like Michel, he had started by asking where I was headed and if I would be gone for a long time—the exact set of questions I was always asked before my trips. I told my dad how much I would miss him and apologized for not being able to say goodbye face-to-face. My flight was too early, especially considering I still had to drop by the office to get the ticket. This, of course, was just another lie. Plane tickets had gone electronic a long time ago. The truth was, I didn’t have the heart to look him in the eye and feed him some half-baked story, especially knowing how hard he’d grill me about why I was really leaving in such a hurry.

  I called Maggie during the cab ride to Heathrow, letting her know from the start that I’d hang up if she started to lecture me. She made me promise to keep her informed on all my discoveries. As always, traffic was bumper-to-bumper around the airport, and the last stretch was so bad I began to fear I would miss my flight. As we pulled in, I could tell it was going to be tight.

  On your marks, get set, go! I leapt from the taxi, scrambled across the terminal, ran up the escalator two steps at a time, begged for forgiveness again and again as I cut to the front of the line, and made it to the security check with “last call for boarding” flashing ominously in red on-screen next to my flight number.

  I rushed toward the X-ray scanner and dropped my keys and iPhone onto a tray. Then, as I rummaged through my jacket pocket, I was shocked as my fingers landed on a worn leather pouch. I had never seen it before and didn’t have a clue how it got there. I had definitely been running too fast for even someone sneaky to slip anything in. There was no time to figure it out. I took off my shoes, finally made it through the metal detectors, snatched up my things, pushed my way past several more people, and took off running again. As my gate came into view, I shouted an impassioned plea to the flight attendant at the ticket scanner, panting and nearly collapsing as I apologetically handed over my boarding pass. Then, I tore down the gangway like a madwoman. The overhead compartment was jam-packed, and cramming my bag inside took the very last ounce of energy I had left. I slumped into my seat, completely knackered.

  As the doors closed and we readied for takeoff, I fastened my seat belt and finally had a closer look at the mysterious pouch in my pocket. I found an old envelope inside, yellowed with age, along with a little note Michel had scribbled out for me.

  Elby,

  This pouch belonged to Mum. It originally contained a necklace, which I removed and replaced with this old letter. The letter was originally kept in a wooden box, which also belonged to Mum. As you might imagine, the dimensions of the box were so large, it would never have fit inside the pocket of your jacket. Mum gave me the wooden box to make sure Dad didn’t find it while they were repainting their flat. There are many other letters inside the wooden box. This one was at the top of the stack. I promised Mum I’d never read them. I never have. You did not make any such promise, so you may do what you wish. When you come back, if you haven’t yet found what you’re looking for, I will give you the other letters. Be careful. I will miss you. Actually, I’d like to tell you something that for reasons I cannot quite grasp I am unable to tell you face-to-face, that in fact, I miss you all the time.

  Signed,

  Your brother

  I put away Michel’s note and had a closer look at the old envelope, confirming a hunch. The letter had been postmarked in Montreal.

  15

  MAY

  September 1980, Baltimore

  May had spent the entire evening poring over résumés and cover letters. The project had to be kept under wraps as long as possible, so all outreach had to be through unconventional means. They had to pique the interest of journalists, copy editors, librarians, and designers, all without drawing any unwanted attention.

  By the time midnight rolled around, there was still no sign of Sally-Anne, and May began to feel antsy. At three in the morning, when she saw Keith drop her off down on the sidewalk below, she was positively livid. To think those two were out living it up while May slaved away late into the night.

  She heard Sally-Anne come into the room, slide into bed beside her, and ask how she was doing. May rolled over and turned her back to her, pretending she was asleep.

  The silent treatment carried over into the next morning. May tore open job applications, blatantly ignoring Sally-Anne, even after she had gone to the trouble of fixing them both breakfast.

  “Will you stop it already, May? I’m supposed to be the trust-fund baby, and you’re the one pouting like a spoilt child. You know I love you more than anybody. I just . . . also enjoy men. Does that make me a bad person? Keith is gorgeous, he’s strong—all with that surprisingly soft touch—and we’re both hooked on him. So what? What’s wrong with just sharing him? Men do it all the time. Why can’t we? I highly doubt that Keith is bothered by the arrangement. Who the hell is still bothering with monogamy at all these days anyway?”

  “I am!”

  “Really. Are you now?”

  May avoided her eyes, aware of her own hypocrisy.

  “And if you try to tell me you’re actually in love with him, I’ll laugh in your face,” Sally-Anne continued. “Honestly, I’d prefer hearing about the ways he makes you come.”

  “Enough already. I don’t need lectures from you on morality, Sally-Anne. I may not be a saint, and I’m certainly not blind to our society’s mores, I just choose not to live by them. So, as much as you might not want to hear it, I’m actually more progressive than you because I still choose to believe in true love.”

  “Please don’t tell me you’re talking about Keith! I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s not every day you find a man that attentive, that’s for sure. The fact is, you threw yourself at him because he’s great in bed, full stop, to borrow your catchphrase. Now, can we please just stop fighting? Let me buy you lunch. I’ve got the perfect spot. There’s this brand-new oyster bar that just opened on the waterfront called Sailor’s Hideaway. They get oysters in fresh from Maine every morning, and they are to die for.”

  “Is that where you two went for dinner last night?”

/>   “Damn! I totally forgot,” Sally-Anne said with a groan, her face falling. “I have to have lunch with my brother. Listen, if you still love me at all, even a little? Come with me. No one gets under my skin like he does.”

  “Then why are you having lunch with him?”

  “He asked to see me. I don’t have a choice.”

  “I’ll hitch a ride with you into the city, but as for your sibling date, you’re on your own.”

  They didn’t even make it out the door until past one o’clock. May had put some makeup on, having agreed to at least meet the brother, and Sally-Anne teased her incessantly for it. Then they roared away on the Triumph, not slowing even once before coming to a screeching halt in front of the Baltimore Country Club.

  The valet raised his eyebrows, admiring both the bike and its riders. The doorman bowed extra low for Sally-Anne, and May watched with surprise at the respect she was shown at every turn, totally in awe of the opulent surroundings. An elegant maître d’ popped up to accompany the two women, and they continued down lavishly decorated corridors beneath portraits of high-society men in ornate gilded frames, until they at last entered the dining room. The maître d’ led them to the Stanfield table—reserved year-round exclusively for the family—where Sally-Anne’s brother, Edward, sat waiting. He sighed as his sister approached, not even bothering to look up from his newspaper.

  “Late as usual. Vintage Sally-Anne.”

  “Nice to see you, too,” she replied.

  Edward looked up at last and noticed May hovering behind his sister. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

  “Oh, she’s quite capable of introducing herself, believe it or not,” Sally-Anne replied coolly.

  Edward rose to his feet and bowed, kissing May’s hand. She smiled, blushing at the old-fashioned greeting, and fought hard not to burst out laughing. The silky-smooth etiquette was jarring compared to how he had greeted his sister. And yet, May had to admit, she found the chivalry sweet.