The Last of the Stanfields

by Levy, Marc

“Don’t worry about it,” I replied. “I’ve got time.”

  “Is that why you’ve been staring straight at me since you walked in? In case you didn’t notice, there’s a huge mirror behind the front desk, so I can stare right back at you.”

  “Then I’m the one who should be saying sorry. It’s not what you think, honestly. It’s just my weird way of killing time. I like to guess what people do for a living.”

  “Really. What did you come up with for me?”

  “Professor. English literature. And you’ve just landed a position at Johns Hopkins.”

  “Impressive. But wrong on all counts,” she said, extending her hand. “Eleanor-Rigby Donovan, journalist. National Geographic.”

  “George-Harrison,” I replied, shaking her hand.

  “Well, isn’t that clever! Are you always so quick with comebacks?”

  “Sorry, you lost me.”

  “Eleanor Rigby . . . George Harrison . . . still don’t see it?”

  “I guess not. What’s so funny about it?”

  “The Beatles! I’m the title of a song, you’re the guitarist?”

  “Believe it or not, I don’t know that song. I never really got into them. Neither did my mom, actually. She was all about the Stones.”

  “Lucky you. And lucky me, meeting a real-life George Harrison. I think my own mother would have got quite a kick out of that. Anyway. Duty calls.”

  With that, she walked straight out, and it was my turn to approach the front desk. As I retrieved my room key, the receptionist seemed to be fighting back laughter, having followed every word of my exchange with Eleanor Rigby.

  I took the elevator and stepped into my hotel room, all with a bit of a spring in my step. I felt better than I had in ages.

  Now it’s my turn, George Harrison. With fifteen minutes to kill in the back of a taxi, I took a stab at his little guessing game.

  What brought him to Baltimore? In a pair of jeans with worn leather boots and loose-fitting jumper, he didn’t strike me as a businessman, and the hotel didn’t seem geared toward that kind of guest to begin with. Hmm. Musician? A musician with a name like George Harrison? No way. That’s like being a contemporary painter named Rembrandt . . . unless he was just messing with me by calling himself that. Quite a cheeky sense of humor, I had to admit. There’s a thought. A painter? Would a painter come show his work in Baltimore? Plus, I didn’t spot a single speck of paint anywhere on him. What else could he be? He didn’t seem tortured enough to be a filmmaker. Why was I so set on him being an artist?

  Definitely not a reporter, or else he would have mentioned it when I brought up the magazine. Eleanor-Rigby Donovan, journalist. I must have come on strong. I can’t imagine why I felt the need to impress him in the first place. Unless . . . forget it. Was he in town to visit his mother? He did mention her. But that still doesn’t tell me what he does for a living. Why bother trying to unravel the mystery? Well . . . what if we crossed paths again in the lobby, and I just nailed him with the right guess? He’d be speechless! Okay. Interesting thought. But why bother trying to leave him speechless? Well . . . what if it was because I wanted to?

  No harm in that, after all.

  The Johns Hopkins public relations guy gave me loads of info for the article and let me take some pictures of the campus. The lighting was so striking that I decided to head into town to take some more. Best to move ahead with the assignment, since it was the entire justification for the trip.

  I had butterflies in my stomach as I returned to the hotel. I realized I didn’t know how I would recognize my contact at Sailor’s Hideaway later that night. This, of course, assumed the rendezvous was real, and not just part of a sprawling scavenger hunt or enormous hoax that I’d willingly bought into.

  Did the poison-pen really drag me all the way here just so I could see that photo of my mother, proving the validity of his allegations? If that were the case, why set such a specific time to meet? Why go so far as to set up a rendezvous—just so a single photo would be right in front of my face? Wouldn’t sending a copy have been easier? Although I did have to admit, discovering it the way I did had definitely intensified the dramatic effect.

  I was getting sick and tired of rehashing the same questions again, all the while trying to ignore the little voice in my head that kept reminding me just how frightened I was. I decided to make my way to Sailor’s Hideaway a bit earlier than necessary, hoping to get a lead on whoever would step through that door to meet me.

  I walked in and asked for a table for two.

  “Do you have a reservation?” the hostess asked. I always found it amusing when they asked that question in a half-empty restaurant.

  “No . . . not that I know of,” I replied warily.

  “Name?”

  “Eleanor-Rigby.”

  “Well, what do you know? Looks like we do have you in here.” Her words made my blood run cold. “Right this way, please.”

  The hostess led me to the very same table beneath the photo. As we approached, I decided to improvise. I asked for a different table, pointing to one with a clear view of the door. For once, I would be one step ahead, thwarting the plans of the puppeteer who had pulled all the strings for quite some time. Now, all I had to do was wait for my poison-pen to walk in and sit down at the table originally assigned to me and then, well . . . from that point, I had no idea. I would cross that bridge when I came to it.

  I got settled at the table and ordered a Pimm’s. After all, you can take the girl out of England . . . A couple walked in at approximately 6:55, most likely on their first date, judging by their awkward body language. At 6:57, two young women entered and chose a spot at the bar, neither seeming much like a conspirator. When 7:00 rolled around, there was still no one who fit the bill. Then, at 7:10, the door flew open and good old “George Harrison” from the hotel lobby burst in and rushed up to the hostess. Even though he was completely out of breath and disheveled, he looked a bit more presentable than earlier. I watched as he tucked his shirt into his trousers, straightened out his jacket, and ran his hand through his unkempt hair. He still hadn’t noticed me.

  For reasons I couldn’t quite explain, I found his presence reassuring. I chalked it up to the feeling you get when you see a familiar face in a cold and unfamiliar setting. I kept my eyes glued to George Harrison, wishing I had a newspaper to hide behind to help me spy on him. I could just hear Maggie telling me again that I watch too much TV. Then, to my great surprise, another waitress led George Harrison right to the table reserved under my name! I watched breathlessly as he took his seat, while the voice in my head urged me to think things through before taking any action.

  As far as I could see, there were two explanations. The most likely: George Harrison was the poison-pen himself, in the flesh. It fit perfectly. He was staying at the same hotel, and was now eating at the same restaurant. His performance in the lobby had been flawless, having totally convinced me that he didn’t recognize me in the slightest. Somehow, the idea hadn’t occurred to me during my guessing game in the cab. Yet, I heard the little voice in my head pushing another explanation: he simply wanted to have dinner at the closest decent spot, and the waitress led him to that table because it was free again. When the real poison-pen showed up, the hostess would surely lead him straight to me. I couldn’t say for certain which of the two possibilities frightened me more.

  I watched him quietly for a full ten minutes, during which he checked his watch incessantly, sighing every time he did. He never once glanced at the menu. It was clear: he was waiting for someone. And that someone was me!

  Suddenly, he rose and approached my table.

  “Well, look who’s spying now. You’ve been staring at me since I walked in. And I didn’t even need a mirror to tell me that.”

  “Uh-huh” was all I got out, just a faint grumble.

  “Are you waiting for somebody?” George Harrison asked. I didn’t say a word. “That . . . wasn’t a trick question,” he continued, chuckling.

&nb
sp; “Maybe I am. It depends,” I ventured, not letting my guard down.

  “Oh, I get it,” he said, wiping the smile off his face.

  “You get what?”

  “Somebody stood you up.”

  “Funny, I thought you were waiting for someone yourself.”

  “Actually, I’m worried somebody may have been waiting for me and then left because I was late,” he said, eyes on his watch once more.

  George Harrison scratched his forehead, a habit I’ve observed in men when something is troubling them. My own go-to tic is twisting and twirling my hair around my index finger. Who was I to judge?

  “I drove the whole night to be here for this, only to pass out like a fool in my hotel room. I overslept,” he said with a sigh.

  “Call her and apologize.”

  “I would if I knew how.”

  “Oh, I get it.”

  “Get what?”

  “Not a very smooth move, showing up late for a blind date. But let me set your mind at ease: you were the one who got here first. I’ve been here for a half hour and haven’t seen anyone who fits the bill, unless you pick up your women in pairs, in which case, your dates are seated at the bar.” He still looked troubled.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t tease. I didn’t mean anything by it. Bottom line: your date never came, so either she’s the one running late, or . . . you’ve been stood up.”

  “Fair enough. Since it seems I’m not the only one who got left high and dry, any chance I could sit down with you for a bit while I wait?”

  I glanced at my watch. It was seven thirty.

  “Sure, I suppose. Why not?”

  George Harrison took a seat, appearing just as uncomfortable as I was. He flagged down the waitress and asked me what I was drinking.

  “Pimm’s,” I said.

  “Any good?”

  “Yes. But quite sweet.”

  “I think I’ll go with a beer. And you?”

  “The same, please.”

  “Meaning . . . a beer?”

  “No, another Pimm’s. Please.”

  He took a breath. “So . . . what brings you to Baltimore?”

  “Can’t you try something a bit more original? Maybe a question you don’t know the answer to?”

  “Ha! And I’m the one who’s supposed to be good with comebacks? This round goes to you, hands down.”

  “Now . . . your real name isn’t George Harrison, is it? Admit it, you’re an actor!”

  “Actor? Me?” he said, laughing. “Never heard that one before. Does that mean you ripped off my favorite game?” He had a charming laugh. I had to give him points for that.

  “Maybe. Maybe I did.”

  “What else did you come up with?”

  “I had painter, musician, filmmaker . . .”

  “That sure is a lot of hats for one man to wear! Impressive, but wrong. I’m a carpenter. And George Harrison Collins is absolutely my real name. Sorry if that comes as a disappointment.”

  “Disappointment? Not at all. It just means . . . you’re not as funny as I had hoped.”

  “Well, isn’t that sweet.”

  “Oh, no. I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Don’t I get a second chance?”

  “Afraid not, it’s a bit late for that. You came here on a date and now you’re hitting on me? I may be alone, but I’m nobody’s plan B.”

  “Who said I was here on a date?”

  “Okay, that point goes to you, but you’re still losing.”

  “Can’t we call it a draw and stop keeping score? Anyway, for your information, I was not hitting on you, thank you very much. But just out of curiosity, since you’re obviously very fixated on first names: What’s his name? The guy who stood you up? You can trust me, you know. One plan B to another.”

  “Fine, let’s call it a draw.”

  “So, backing up. What brings you to Baltimore?”

  “An article for my magazine. And you?”

  “My father.”

  “That’s who you’re waiting for?”

  “Sort of. It’s who I had hoped would show up.”

  “I have to admit that’s pretty bad, getting stood up by your own father. My dad would never dream of doing that. But couldn’t he just be running late?”

  “I’ve been waiting for him for thirty-five years. I think ‘late’ might be a bit of an understatement.”

  “Wow, that’s awful. I really am sorry.”

  “Why are you sorry? It’s not your fault.”

  “Well, I am nonetheless. I lost my mother last year and I know how much it hurts . . . to be missing a parent.”

  “Let’s change the subject. Life is too short to dwell on pointless things like sadness and regret.”

  “Well said.”

  “I can’t take credit. My mother liked to say that. But enough about me. Your turn. What are you going to write about Baltimore?”

  Moment of truth, Elby. Make a choice: Do you trust this man or not?

  “Your lips are moving,” he said, “but no words are coming out.”

  “You said you drove all night. Where were you coming from?”

  “Magog. It’s a small city about an hour outside Montreal, in the Eastern Townships.”

  “I know where Magog is,” I replied coldly.

  “Of course you do. Writing for National Geographic must take you to the ends of the earth and back,” he continued, without noticing my change in tone. “It’s a beautiful area, huh? I don’t know what time of year you visited, but the scenery changes so dramatically, it’s almost like a different place depending on the season.”

  “Yet . . . still in Canada . . . am I right?”

  George Harrison just gaped at me like I was a total idiot.

  “Yeah, sure . . . I guess,” he stammered. That clinched it. There was no longer any doubt in my mind.

  “And how about the Canadian postal service? Is it top-notch?”

  “Sure, I mean . . . I really don’t get much in the mail except bills.”

  “Really? And what about the things you send?”

  “I’m really sorry, but I just don’t know why you’re asking me this.”

  “Let’s just say I’m trying to figure out what you’re playing at. Maybe it’s time you explained yourself.”

  “Did I say something to offend you? I really didn’t mean to. Maybe it’s best I head back to my own table.”

  I must have been face-to-face with the world’s best actor. Or, a modern-day Machiavelli.

  “Great idea,” I told him. “In fact, I’ll come along. There’s something I’d like to show you.”

  I crossed the space quickly and sat right down at the table, facing the wall, leaving “George Harrison” no time to think things through. He looked at me, perplexed, and then strode over to join me.

  “I admit, your little story about growing up without a father really tugged at my heartstrings,” I said. “You’d have to be a stone not to be moved by that, and even more so to make it up. Now, look at that photo. Are you really going to try and tell me running into each other, first at the hotel and now here, was a coincidence? How? When that’s my mother you’re looking at!”

  George Harrison glanced at the photo and went pale as a sheet. He went in for a closer look, unable to get a single word out.

  “Well?” I persisted, raising my voice.

  “There, right next to your mother,” he finally managed. “That’s mine . . . my mother.”

  He turned back to me, his face a combination of confusion and mistrust.

  “Who are you? What do you want from me?” he whispered.

  “I was going to ask you the same question.”

  George Harrison dug into the inner pocket of his jacket and took out an envelope, which he laid on the table. I immediately recognized the handwriting.

  “I don’t know what it is you’re accusing me of, but go ahead and read this,” he said, tapping the envelope softly. “Read it and you’ll see why I drove the whole night to g
et here.”

  I unfolded the letter and read, hardly breathing. As soon as I finished, I took my own letter from my bag and handed it to George Harrison—or rather, George-Harrison. He looked as shocked and afraid as I was, and went another shade paler by the time he finished reading. We studied each other silently. The staring contest went on until the waitress finally came back, wanting to know if we would be dining together . . . and if we had finally settled on a table. Yes . . . and yes.

  “When did you receive that letter?” George-Harrison asked.

  “It came around ten days ago, followed by another about a week later telling me to come here.”

  “I got mine around the same time, same story.”

  “I’m still not sure who you are, George-Harrison.”

  “But I know who you are, Eleanor-Rigby. I didn’t until now, because my mother never called you by name.”

  “Your mother . . . talked about me?”

  “Well, not you in particular. Your family. Every time she scolded me, she’d say, ‘My friend’s children in England would never talk back to their mother like that!’ Those kids, they always had perfect table manners. They would clean their rooms, they never whined when their mother asked them to do something, and, of course, they were model students . . . Basically, everything I screwed up as a kid, your family did well.”

  “Then your mother didn’t really know my family at all.”

  “Who would pull a dirty trick like this? And . . . why?”

  “I still have no way of knowing it isn’t you.”

  “I could say the same for you.”

  “Right, just a question of perspective, I suppose,” I admitted. “There’s no way for either of us to know exactly what’s running through the other’s head. And we both have reasons not to trust each other.”

  “Are you sure? If you ask me, that’s why we’re here in the first place.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Like I said, our mothers knew each other. My mother mentioned yours many times.”

  “But mine didn’t mention yours.”

  “That’s a shame. But it doesn’t change anything. This photo shows them getting along very well—like partners in crime, even. I’ll bet that the person behind this whole thing wanted us to see that. Together.”