If he had, he recovered quickly. “Well, Abby, do you want to explore this phenomenon a bit further, maybe find out who you were seeing, or would you rather just go home and try to forget the whole thing?”
Abby thought for a moment, teetering in indecision. And then it seemed as though she heard her own voice: No, I’m not just going to forget about this. I want to know what happened, and why. “If I wanted to learn more, what would I do?”
He smiled. “Well, first of all, you could go to the library in town here, find out as much as you could about this place, and about the family. You should talk to Jane Bennett. She runs the local history section, and she’s very good. And there are a lot of local records—microfilms, city directories, that kind of thing. Unfortunately only a portion of it is online, but the library’s a nice place to spend time. There might even be pictures of the people who lived here—maybe you’d recognize someone.”
Abby shivered. “And if I found pictures and they really were the people from my dream? What then?”
“Well, at least you’d know something, that what you saw was real. Look, why not stop in at the library and see what you can find—if you have the time, that is. Do you have a job yet?”
Interesting that Ned assumed she’d be looking for a job. Well, she did plan to, once she and Brad were settled. Their current apartment was merely a stopgap until they could find a house—or one they could afford. “No, I’ve got the time right now.”
Ned looked pleased. “Then maybe we could get together over the weekend and compare notes? If you’re not busy.”
Abby thought about her own total lack of plans. No, she was not busy. Brad had already declared he would be gone, playing golf with his buddies. “Sure. Where?”
“How about we meet at the library, on Saturday at ten?”
“All right. Oh, I should get your number, in case something comes up.” Like Brad’s foursome was canceled.
He pulled out a wallet and extricated two cards. “Write your name and number on the one—you can keep the other one. I’ll put my home number on the back.” He scribbled on the back of one, then handed the two to her. She wrote her number on the back and handed it to him, and he carefully stowed it in his wallet.
Abby stood up and looked around. No strange figures lurking in the sunny corners, at least in this room, which caught the light of the setting sun through the big front windows. She didn’t want to go back to the dining room and see if there was anyone there. Brad would be wanting his dinner. What was she going to tell him about this little misadventure?
“I really should be going now. But I will go to the library, I promise.”
Ned stood as well. “So I’ll see you Saturday. And you can tell me then if you’ve seen anybody else during the week.”
“Like a ghost, you mean? I hope not. Saturday, then.”
He saw her to the door. I didn’t ask him if there was somebody waiting for him at home. She didn’t remember a wedding ring. But it didn’t matter: this wasn’t a date, this was a history consultation. And she had something to do now—a trip to the library to do research, and then the meeting with Ned on Saturday. Things were looking up.
2
Abby was putting the finishing touches on dinner when Brad walked in. She’d set the round table with placemats and candles. He didn’t seem to notice. “Smells good, babe. New recipe?” Without waiting for an answer he sat down and began to eat with enthusiasm as she slid into her seat. In between hearty bites of food, he regaled her with the events of his day: what his boss had said about him, or to him; which colleagues he’d managed to ace out of something desirable; how well he was doing. Abby nodded, smiled, made appropriate noises at the right times. By the time the salad was gone, he was winding down.
“Hey, great dinner, hon. What’ve you been up to today?”
For once she had something to say. “It was such a nice day, I just had to get out. So I went on a house tour here in Waltham.”
“Oh? Like what—houses for sale?”
“No, Brad, some of the local mansions, up on the north side of town—they open them up to the public for a week each year. They’re really beautiful. I guess they were built by some of the local industrial barons. I went through four of them.”
Brad was swabbing the last of his food off his plate. “North side—oh, you mean beyond the railroad tracks? Yeah, some of those guys did all right for themselves.”
“Well, the houses were beautiful. Nobody puts that kind of architectural detail in modern houses. It’s a pity. I mean, some of those doorknobs alone are works of art.”
“Hey, sounds great. Glad you got out. You should do more stuff like that.”
“I thought I might go to the library tomorrow, see if I could find out some more about local history. You know, the people who built those places, how they lived.”
“Yeah, sure, good idea.” His mind was already on something else. Abby allowed herself a small flare of resentment. She’d done what he wanted her to do—she had gone out exploring. Couldn’t he show a little interest? She sighed, stood up, and started clearing away the dishes.
Later, as they were getting ready for bed, Brad said, “You know, I think it’s great that you’re getting out of the house more, but wouldn’t you like to meet more people, do some group things?”
“I’ll get to that, Brad.” But I did meet someone today, someone who was actually nice to me. Funny—she hadn’t mentioned Ned to Brad, much less about her nearly passing out. But she knew that if she did, Brad would decide that she needed to see a doctor, no, several doctors, and only the best ones, probably in Boston, or at two or three different places in Boston, and, honey, I don’t have time to drive you there, so could you take your ailing self to all these wonderful appointments that I suggested but that you have to set up? No, it was simpler to say nothing to Brad. She really didn’t think there was anything physically wrong with her.
In fact, she was pretty sure this was something else, but at the same time she was afraid to look too closely at what had happened. What she had seen had been extraordinarily vivid and detailed—but it wasn’t there. Was she nuts? Who were the people in that room, the ones she had dreamt about? Would she be able to find them, find out who they were? Did she want to? And if she did, then what?
Ned had been so solicitous when she’d had her . . . spell, for want of a better word. He didn’t panic, but he had made sure that she was all right. And then he had listened to her, and he hadn’t made fun of her or told her she was imagining things. He had believed her. That was as helpful as the hot, sweet tea. Well, she was going to hold up her end: she was going to find out as much as she could about the family and the house, and see where that led. And then on Saturday she could tell Ned what she’d found.
* * *
The Waltham Public Library was located in the middle of town, on the main street. Abby drove around the block once, looking for parking, and finally found a space in the half-empty lot behind the building. Resolutely she marched up the stairs and entered through the back door. She stopped to ask directions at the main desk, where a cheerful woman directed her to a room at the front of the building that housed the local history collections. On the threshold she stopped to take it in. It certainly didn’t look too imposing. There were two oak tables with chairs in the center of the room, and the rest of the floor space and the perimeter were occupied by elderly oak bookshelves. A high counter ran along one side of the room, and behind that were more books locked away behind grilles.
A librarian seated at the desk looked up as Abby approached hesitantly. “Hi. Can I help you find something?”
The librarian looked to be about ten years older than Abby and was wearing comfortable jeans and a sweater. Not intimidating in the least. Abby summoned up a smile. “I hope so. You see, I was on a house tour yesterday, and I really fell in love with one of the places and I wanted to know more about it.”
The librarian smiled her encouragement. “Yeah, isn’t that a great to
ur? I’ve been through the houses any number of times. Which house were you interested in?”
“The one near the school, the, uh, Flagg house?”
“All right. Let’s see, where to start . . . Oh, I’m Jane, Jane Bennett. I’m the library archivist and unofficial town historian. How familiar are you with library research?”
“Abby Kimball. I haven’t done much since college, but I’ve used computers a lot.”
“That’s a start. Are you interested in the architecture or the people?”
“People, I guess. I was wondering who built it, who lived in it, that sort of thing.”
“So, part local history, part genealogy. Well, you’ve come to the right place.” The librarian looked around her. There was nobody else in the room this weekday morning. “Why don’t we sit down at the table, get comfortable?”
“Great.” Abby followed Jane to one of the rectangular oak tables and they sat side by side. Abby dutifully pulled out a pad of paper and a pen.
Jane stopped her immediately. “Whoops! First rule: no pens in here, only pencils. Basic rule for all archival collections.”
Abby flushed. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know.”
“That’s okay—a lot of people don’t. So, to get you started, I’ll check my files to see what there is about that Flagg house. Since we know it’s on the tour, somebody’s bound to have done something on it. In the meantime, you know the address, so you can check the city directories over there, see when the family first appears there, and when they left. What else are you looking for?”
Abby was nonplused. “Well, I guess I want to know more about the people—how they made their money, why they bought that place, what they did with it. And I understand that they moved out pretty fast, which seems odd. What happened to the family after. That sort of thing.”
“At least you’ve got the owner’s name, for a start. You can follow him through the censuses.”
“You have them here?”
“No, but they’re on microfilm at the National Archives, which is only a few miles from here. And we have online access here at the library, or you can get a subscription and read them online at home. You can go either way, depending on what you’re comfortable with. The online versions are easier to print out, if that matters to you, but the microfilms can be easier to work with, especially if you’re hunting—you know, want to know who the neighbors are. Your choice.”
“Ah.” Abby was beginning to feel overwhelmed, and then disgusted with herself. What had she expected? That a nice librarian like Jane was just going to hand her the entire history of the Flagg family? So she was going to have to do some digging on her own. Fine: she had the time. “Well, since I’m here, let’s start with what you have here, and then maybe I’ll know what else to look for.”
“Great. Oh, and we do have microfilms of births and deaths in Waltham itself, and of local newspapers, which might tell you a bit more. Obituaries are great for information like you’re looking for.” Jane stood up. “City directories and local histories are on those shelves there. I’ll go get the folders.” She headed for the desk, then disappeared behind it.
Several hours later, Abby’s head reeled with new information. She felt like she had been in another world, another time. What Ned had told her, she had confirmed: William Flagg had bought a simple farmhouse and transformed it to a model of High Victorian opulence, sparing no expense. Plainly he had wanted a showplace. He had made his money through some shrewd business dealings, having played an important role in the formation of a local electrical power company in another town north of Boston, which had quickly gone into new markets and had grown rapidly and profitably. He had moved to Waltham just at that time but had not stayed long with the company, taking over the management of one then another local manufacturing company. He was steadily employed up until his death in 1914, so maybe it wasn’t money that led him to give up the grand house on the hill. His wife had outlived him and had stayed on in town, in the more modest house down the hill. From the obituaries that she had found, Abby gleaned that William had been involved in a wide range of local civic activities, such as the Grand Army of the Republic, and had even run unsuccessfully for national office once.
One of the old obituaries had included a photograph, and Abby had to admit that it was the man in her dream or vision or whatever. The grainy image showed a William Flagg who was a middle-aged man with a receding hairline, balanced by a luxuriant mustache curling on the ends. His chin was soft and dimpled, but he looked intent and very serious. When she had seen him in her vision or hallucination or whatever it was, he had been younger, with more hair, but there was no mistaking the face. He looked . . . sweet. Abby almost laughed. That was an odd way to describe an industrial magnate who had been dead for a century, but she liked his eyes—they seemed kind.
She shut her eyes and tried to remember more. William Flagg had been upset, apologetic, on the defensive. And his wife—Elizabeth, was it?—had been righteously angry.
Abby stood up abruptly and went searching the microfilms for Elizabeth’s obituary. It proved to be less effusive than her husband’s, and this time there was no picture. Abby could sense the writer straining to find anything to say about her, and in the end he had largely recited her late husband’s achievements. She had been survived by two daughters, Olivia and Isabel. Abby noted that at the time of her death, she had been living with the younger daughter. Isabel. The baby.
Jane interrupted her musings. “We’re about to close up. Did you find what you wanted?”
Abby nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes. You’ve got some great stuff here, and I can’t thank you enough. Can I get some copies?”
“Sure. Show me what you need and I’ll do it. These old documents can be fragile, you know.”
A half hour later Abby emerged from the library and stood blinking in the late-afternoon sunlight. She had photocopies of pictures of the house as it once had been, and of William Flagg, with the kind eyes. She knew she wanted more. She wanted to see the face of the wife; she wanted to know what had happened to the daughters, so far apart in age. She should go home and see what she could find on the Internet. She should visit the local cemetery. She almost giggled out loud: she was really excited about this and she couldn’t remember the last time she had felt that way.
She couldn’t wait to show Ned what she had discovered.
3
Brad was in a grumpy mood when he came home that night. In general, Abby noted that his spirits soared and plummeted based on trivial interactions with his new colleagues and his bosses, and apparently he felt he had not been given his due that day.
“I told him from the beginning that we were going to have problems with bond counsel. And then the municipality wanted to bring in one of their own pet firms, so now we’ve got two batches of people screwing up the same documents. Waste of time, if you ask me. But that’s politics.” He grumbled on and off through dinner, barely tasting it as he vented his frustrations to Abby. Abby tried to follow, but she didn’t know the people involved, she knew very little about investment banking, and she knew that tomorrow everything would have changed anyway, and Brad would be complaining about a different group of people. She listened with half an ear, but in her mind she was trying to map out a research plan, to fill in the gaps in the story of the mysterious Flaggs.
Brad broke into her reverie. “Hey, where were you today? I tried to call you, see if you wanted to see a movie tomorrow night or something.”
“Oh, I went to the library. I told you, I wanted to look up some more information on the houses that I saw yesterday.”
“Oh, yeah, right.” Brad’s interest died quickly. “Well, what about the movie? I need to know so I can work out my schedule. And I’ll be out all day Saturday, remember. Maybe we should wait until Sunday for the movie. I want to be on my game Saturday—these guys play for keeps.” He didn’t seem to notice that she hadn’t answered his question, but then, he had answered it for himself anyway.
“That’s fine. Whatever you want. I was going to do some more research tomorrow, maybe Saturday too.”
“Babe, I think it’s great that you’re interested, but can’t you find something where you can talk to people, maybe get out and get some sunshine?”
“I am talking to people. I had a nice chat with the man on the house tour”—sure, after he scraped me off the floor—“and I met a really nice librarian today.” Obviously these did not count as “people” to Brad—they weren’t anywhere near important enough.
“Well, as long as you’re happy,” Brad replied dubiously.
“I am,” Abby said firmly. “Oh, are you going to be using the computer tonight? I wanted to look up some stuff online.”
“Sure, go ahead. I’ve got some more documents to review anyway. You’d think a room full of lawyers could figure out where the commas should go, wouldn’t you?”
He went off to the living room, muttering under his breath, but Abby didn’t care. As she washed the dishes, she was making mental lists of what she needed to look for.
The next morning she booted up the computer as soon as Brad left. Her sojourn into online genealogy the evening before had been both exhilarating and frustrating. She had caught glimpses of her targets through the electronic underbrush, but there were gaps. Worse than that, sometimes there were conflicting details about the same person, and she had no way of figuring out which were correct. Patience, Abby, she counseled herself. You’ve just started. Some people spend years on research like this, and sometimes they never find what they’re looking for. It was like watching a picture developing in a darkroom—the vague outlines would emerge, and then as you watched, the details would fill in, until you could see the whole picture. Of course, she chided herself, if you didn’t stop at the right moment, the whole process would just keep going and the picture would turn black and be useless. She wondered if she’d know when to stop.
Relatively Dead Page 2
