We pulled into Rochester and got off the train. Tucker put his arm around my shoulders as he asked, “Are you ready, Lane? You were awfully quiet. Are you all right?”
“Yes, thanks, Tucker. Sorry I wasn’t the greatest conversationalist. I have a lot on my mind,” I said with a self-conscious smile. “Oh look! There’s Tabitha. I phoned her to ask if she could pick up both of us.”
She had met us with the car at the train station. I waved to her and she had an odd, disgruntled look on her face. Maybe my arrival had been poor timing for her.
As we made our way over to her I said, “Hi, Tabitha, I hope we aren’t coming at a bad time for you. This is Tucker Henslowe. Tucker, this is Tabitha Baxter, our next-door neighbor.”
They shook hands and Tabitha made noises that said she wasn’t at all inconvenienced, but her surly teenage face said otherwise. Tucker removed his arm from my shoulders and took our bags to put them in the trunk.
We pulled into downtown Rochester, onto Main Street. I spotted the opera house up ahead, the barber shop, the trees lining the streets. I thanked Tucker for coming with me and we made plans for dinner about six o’clock before we dropped him off at the mill for his meeting.
Tabitha didn’t spare him a glance. We turned left onto a side street off Main and approached the house from the other side this time. We pulled into the back of the house, where the garage was located and the side door, instead of the front of the house. It instantly felt natural, like the front door entrance was for guests. I must have come in and out this side entrance thousands of times.
We got out and Tabitha told me that her mom had made up the beds in my parents’ room and my old room in case I wanted to sleep in either one. She had also dusted and vacuumed and left some food in the refrigerator. There was a chicken and rice dish in the oven that could be heated up anytime I was ready.
Tabitha gave all these directions without once looking me in the eyes. I was doing that bobbing and weaving again to try to meet her gaze. I couldn’t tell if this was a bad habit or if she was trying not to look at me.
At last she said she was going to leave but then remembered something. “Oh and this came for you today.” She handed me a yellow telegram and turned around and left.
I wanted to open that telegram, but I also wanted to savor it. It had to be from Finn, and I’d only had one other telegram from him so far. I pocketed it for later.
I turned and took a good look at the house. My house. I inhaled a large, bracing breath and walked to the side door. Oddly enough, I had had a dream a few months ago where I had come in this door. It was strangely sweet and comforting to remember that dream, like when a normally aloof cat makes the affectionate overture of curling his head into your hand. A good omen.
I took out the keys. Mr. Kirkland had given them to me, the ones he used every time he came. There was a key to the side door, the front door, and several other keys of unknown use. They used to be my father’s. I liked that. I felt the weight of them in my hand, I touched the silver M that was on the key ring. It was slick with use and cold to my fingertips. I felt along the lines of the molded M and thought about my father’s hands doing the same thing, once upon a time.
I inserted the key, turned the oiled lock, and walked in.
CHAPTER 25
“I thus drew steadily nearer to that truth . . . that man is not truly one, but truly two.”
It was wonderfully, exactly, like my dream. I was greeted by the familiar ticking of the kitchen clock. I drank in the soft yellow walls, the table, the brass knobs on the doors. In the silence, I breathed. It was like I had stepped back in time and was ten years old again. It was a perfect, stolen moment. One of those unusual times where you’re suddenly very alone in what is typically a busy house, a busy life. Where it feels like time has decided to stand still, allowing for a precious moment of deep awareness. Where you are intensely perceptive of every soft noise, the scent, the essence of the room, but more so . . . of life itself. I whispered, “Thanks.”
I listened some more. I smelled wood polish and the scent of recent vacuuming. Mr. Kirkland, with his love of gadgetry, must have bought a vacuum for here. He loved our Kenmore back in New York. Just for the fun of it, he took that thing apart and put it back together again more than he vacuumed with it. I soaked everything in; remembering, wooing the memories and feelings of so long ago to come back to me.
I had often dreamed of getting a wish from a magic genie. That with my adult mind, I could travel back in time to this place for just one day. To enjoy and drink in the essence of what it was like to be here with my parents, with the things that seemed huge back then but were small now. To hear the sounds of my school, my friends, my teachers. To enjoy with the clarity and appreciation of an adult, the mundane and ever-so-sweet, poignant bits and pieces of childhood.
This wasn’t quite it, but it came very close. My house had stood still in time, even though everything else around it had continued on.
I walked through the kitchen to the bottom of the stairs. I put my left hand on the banister and as I ascended the stairs, I closed my eyes, trailing my hand along the banister just like I did in my favorite dream. Knowing every single nick, every curve before I felt it. I listened to the creak of the stairs, knowing exactly which ones would click and which ones would creak. It was intensely quiet. This time I went to all the bedrooms and saw firsthand my parents’ room, the old bathroom with the blue tile, my room with the interlaced circles chiseled into the white pine headboard, and lastly my father’s study.
Renewed energy and elation that I was handling this all right coursed through me. Whether it was because I was more prepared this time or because I had a purpose in being here to help my friends and family in New York, I didn’t know. But I knew I needed to figure out the mystery of my parents’ past and to search for clues that might illuminate who was behind the uprising of the Red Scroll Network. This mission filled me with great enthusiasm. I looked at my dad’s study with loving eyes, but also with the hungry eyes of a detective intent on figuring out a particularly tricky mystery.
I took the key from my pocket that my parents had left me along with the key to the safe deposit box. This key was to my father’s safe. I figured I’d start searching in his study first, but there was no safe out in the open, of course. His desk was the focal point, perhaps just as he had left it. This room was very different from the soft elegance and light colors of Mr. Hambro’s study way back in New York. My dad’s study was more typically masculine. Deep evergreen walls, dark walnut moldings, a petite fireplace, and the Victrola! I remembered its glossy sides, and the decorated brass edges and woodwork. I went over to it and happily saw that there was a thick, vinyl record in place.
I turned it on and set the needle. And with that small gesture, the house came alive with music like it was eating it up, happy once again to have life here. “Für Elise” played, making me remember the hours and hours that I toiled away learning that on the piano. To this day, it’s still the only piece I was ever able to play fully, probably like thousands of other childhood piano players. It was surprising that my dad could even handle listening to it, I had played it so frequently. But he never tired of hearing it. Anytime we had visitors, he’d proudly ask me to play it for them. I knew it so well, I could play with a lot of emotion. It made it seem like I was quite an accomplished pianist, despite it being the only thing I could play.
The piano. I suddenly remembered a game my dad and I used to play. While I was toiling away at my songs, he’d sneak up on me, suddenly appearing out of nowhere. It used to irk me that I could never figure out how he did it. The memory was pressing on my mind, insistent as a nagging child. I finished with a cursory search of his study. He was crafty enough that I was gaining the conviction that he would hide his safe quite well, so I figured I’d do a more comprehensive search later. For now, I decided to go down to the front room to the piano.
Mrs. Baxter must have dusted this room well because the scent of woo
d polish was even stronger here. I loved that scent. I put up the keyboard cover with a familiar thump. My right hand went automatically to the correct place and I started to play “Für Elise.”
I got to the passionate, driving part that I used to love to play in my robust style and I suddenly stopped. I looked slowly up and then turned around to my left, to the paneled wall behind me. That had to be it. I smiled and walked over, listening to the soft sounds of Beethoven still floating down the stairs from the Victrola. Golden paneling lined the walls throughout the front room, matching the wonderful beams along the ceiling. The idea of a secret passage hidden behind there was enticing and just plain fun.
My dad always appeared to my left and from behind, so it just had to be there. I ran my hands all along the woodwork, pushing, prodding, sliding, but I didn’t feel anything like a release. Hmm . . . I stood rooted to the spot, puzzling and forcing my mind to search through memories. I remembered him saying something whenever I tried to get him to tell me about how he magically appeared out of nowhere. He used to say, “Oh Lane, just enjoy the magic, it comes from above!” I knew he meant God, he always used to talk about God in creative and magical terms. But he used the word above. My fingers thrummed the top of the piano as I looked around. Thrump, thrump, thrump.
I took a step back and looked at the wall again. The warm, golden brown paneling went along about six feet off the ground; above it was painted a soft cream color. I ran my fingertips along that top molding. The dust was pretty thick along that ledge. Understandably so, I’d certainly never think to dust along there. And there it was, I felt a very slight indentation and I pushed it. It made a soft click and I pushed against the paneling. It opened.
The cracks of the door were cleverly hidden in the woodwork, so unless you knew it was there, you’d never find it. I walked in and a circular stone staircase wound downward.
As I reached the bottom, it felt much cooler than the floors above. I pushed on the door and it opened inward to a very dark room. I wished I had brought my flashlight. I felt along the wall beside me, apprehensive about inadvertently feeling the skitter of spiders, and felt the thick buttons of the light switches. With a loud click an overhead light went on.
And here was the man’s castle. It was a game room mixed with some homey, masculine touches. I didn’t even remember we had a basement let alone a place that was clearly designed for my dad and his friends. I grinned looking at a pool table, a dartboard, and two big comfy couches facing each other in front of a fireplace.
I plopped down on one of the extremely comfortable couches, putting my legs up. The room needed a good dusting, but Mr. Kirkland must have known about its existence because there was not an accumulation of thirteen years of dust, that was for sure. I brought a pillow into my arms for warmth and I took a good look around. I thought about my dad down here enjoying man-time, probably with Mr. Kirkland. The dartboard looked like it had seen a lot of use and a fleeting memory came back about hours and hours of playing darts with my father. But it wasn’t down here, it had been in the garage.
I scanned the room again, knowing there was more to find. I just knew it. I suddenly had an idea. In the far corner, I spotted a painted portrait . . . of me. It had the wispy strokes of an impressionist and it was given an old-fashioned, Victorian flair. I was only about three years old, and I had on a white, long dress. I was playing in tall green grass, the suggestion of a small house in the background and flowers in the front. All around the edges of the portrait was a white vine that brought in more of the floral theme. There was no frame, just the beautifully stretched canvas, allowing the vine to delicately encase the piece.
For some reason, I knew my dad had known that I’d be hunting around here one day. And he left me a clue that pretty much said, “Lane! Over here!”
I stood up and walked toward the portrait, smiling back at the child that was supposed to be me, but felt like someone else. I felt along the paneling above and below the portrait and this time it took a few minutes to find it. But I did. I felt a very small button that was flush with the molding way up high. I pushed it and had to step back as the entire rectangle of molding, with the portrait, slowly opened outward—it was actually a door.
Inside was a large steel vault.
I looked at the other keys on my dad’s key ring and took the largest, sturdiest-looking one and sure enough it slipped right in. I turned it and with a mighty heave, I opened the door. It was heavy, but opened smoothly.
Inside were rows and rows of . . . booze. That devil! When my parents were here in Rochester, it was in the middle of Prohibition. I carefully looked at the door of the vault and there was a handle on the inside, but I wasn’t taking any chances getting locked in there by myself. I pulled over a large ottoman to prop open the door. Inside, a bare light bulb with a string hanging down seemed to be the only lighting. I pulled on the string, but it was burned out. So after some digging around the newly discovered basement I found a light bulb stash and replaced it.
Inside the vault, the walls were covered with shelves of alcohol. Including wine. I took a good look at those and recognized some interesting dates. I pulled out one and set it aside for later. But there was no safe to be seen.
I must have studied that place for an hour. Maybe more. But I was determined to find that safe and I just knew it was in here. There were a couple of obvious places that I tried first, places where there weren’t shelves. But nothing. I felt along all sorts of dark nooks, fighting a battle of squeamishness. I sat down on the floor with my arms crossed, thinking hard, my mouth set in a resolute line.
There was one wall that I had examined, but it seemed like it would be too difficult for a safe to be hidden there. It was by an electrical box on the wall. I went over to it and scrutinized every inch of the box, the cords and tubes going in and out of it, up and down the wall. Ever since an old neighbor of ours had unplugged a vacuum cleaner and was jolted with an enormous shock that badly burned her hand from faulty wiring (that was a pretty common thing), I was very uneasy around electrical things. I brought a stepstool over so I could see above the box better. I wasn’t keen on running my hand around in there.
But along the top was an indent similar to what I had felt along the previous moldings. I drummed up my courage and pressed the tiny indentation.
The entire box and wires around it came cleanly away from the wall. It was a fake electrical box. The opening was about two feet square and behind it was the door of a safe. This was it. Out of my other pocket, I pulled my key. I slipped it in, turned it, rotated the circular safe handle, and with a clunk, the safe opened.
Inside lying flat was a single ivory envelope. And right on top of that envelope stood a shiny golden pawn.
CHAPTER 26
“My devil had been long caged, he came roaring out.”
I slipped the pawn and the envelope into my pocket with the telegram, grabbed a couple bottles of wine, and went upstairs. Just like the telegram, there was something that made me want to have a proper moment to think about what I would discover written on that paper. It was such a satisfying day of discovery; I wanted to make that moment as perfect as possible.
For lunch, I heated up the chicken and rice dish in the oven. With the music from upstairs and the good smells wafting from the kitchen, the house was feeling alive again, like a home. Louis Armstrong’s jazzy smooth trumpet floated throughout the place.
I spent the rest of the afternoon poking around and just looking at everything, retrieving lost memories. From another story, another past. I remembered making cookies with my mother, in fact I’d found her recipe box. I quickly looked up my favorite recipe of hers that I hadn’t had in ages: her peanut butter pocket cookies. I could hardly wait to try to make them for Valerie.
I also found a few of my mom’s little bits and pieces: petite needlepoint and beaded purses, and some jewelry that I didn’t remember but looked unique and delicious to wear. I also found a few of her dresses and discovered to my delight tha
t we wore the same size. I even put on one of her gowns, a gorgeous slinky satin in a deep rose color. It was like it had been made for me. I also found a small bottle of Chanel No. 5 on her dresser atop a doily with a beautiful silver brush and mirror set.
I wanted to while away days and days in just their room alone, but I knew I needed to look around everywhere. Hours later, back in the cozy living room, I set a fire and opened the bottle of wine. I fingered the pawn, feeling its pleasing weight and smooth sides. The RR at the bottom was deeply etched as my fingertips crossed over the letters. It was identical to the one Mr. Kirkland had in his rucksack.
Rex Ruby’s pawn, huh? His hands had held this. My dad’s hands had held this. And now I was holding it. It felt like time was suddenly rushing toward me. The events of the past barreling down on me like a freight train while the future direction would all depend on the impact of the past meeting the present.
All day, I had purposely waited and now I finally placed two things before me on the coffee table: the yellow telegram and the folded letter from the safe. Which tasty tidbit to open first? I took a sip of the deep red cabernet. It was a full-bodied wine that tasted like Paris. I took the telegram into my hands, feeling the delicate paper, and carefully opened it.
HI LOVE STOP PAWN WAS LEFT WITH REX
The Gold Pawn Page 15
