The Renewal

by Terri Kraus

  “What are you doing here so early?”

  Frank and Alice sat together at a folding table, with white tablecloth, candle, cups, and a plateful of what Jack surmised to be croissants. There was a blazing fire going in the fireplace.

  Where do you get croissants in Butler?

  Alice beamed and waved him inside, taking his arm, pulling him to the table. Before he had a chance to decline, she poured him a cup of coffee.

  “We couldn’t wait to try out the fireplace,” Frank explained. “As you can see, it still works great.”

  “Have a croissant,” Alice said. “And a scone. You simply must try a scone. We found a wonderful little bakery—Dominique’s. French. They are simply delightful. We now have our pastry source for the store. Croissants are an indispensable part of Alice and Frank’s.”

  Frank pulled up another folding chair to the table—all matched items, of course—and insisted that Jack join them.

  “We have coffee—good, solid, Eight O’Clock French roast coffee,” Frank said. “We don’t believe in fancy. Just excellent quality.”

  Then Alice stared at him, and they both burst out laughing.

  “Who am I trying to kid? I love fancy things. But I also love Eight O’Clock coffee. French roast. Ground this morning. Another perfect taste.”

  Jack felt more than a bit overwhelmed. He never had this much conversation in the morning. Never. But, in spite of what he was most used to, he found himself enjoying it.

  “The croissant is delicious. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten a fresh, authentic French one before,” Jack said, talking as he chewed, as politely as he could. He felt he needed to hold up his end of the conversation.

  Alice swung her hand out and clasped it over her heart, as if about to swoon. Jack figured this wasn’t an unpracticed gesture. Alice would be the sort of woman who managed to pretend to swoon often.

  “Never have eaten a real French croissant? Where were you raised? Barbarian Land? Egg McMuffin Acres? Good heavens. No croissants?”

  Frank apparently enjoyed the show as much as Jack did. “Ask him, my sweet, when he had his first latte?”

  Alice narrowed her eyes in mock suspicion. “Don’t tell me …”

  Jack shrugged. “I don’t drink lattes. I’ve never had a latte.”

  Alice pretended to collapse on the table. “No lattes! No croissants! I’ll bet you’ve never had a scone, either. We have hired Cro-Magnum Contractor, Frank. We must bring him into the twenty-first century.” Alice’s hand stopped in midswoop. “We are in the twenty-first century, aren’t we? Somehow that sounds so … futuristic.”

  Alice adjusted her Bulgari scarf, broke off a large corner of her croissant, and popped it into her mouth. “Frank, my dear, please, walk Jack around the store. Ask him about our plans. See if he agrees with what we have envisioned. Our last contractor, that horrible little man in Shadyside, had absolute tremors when we asked for nontraditional furnishings. So outré. He simply did not understand our ethos. You understand our ethos, don’t you, Jack? Please say that you understand?”

  Frank pulled Jack to the far corner, where he grabbed his clipboard. “Pay no attention to the woman behind the curtain. She is a highly frustrated theater double major.”

  Frank took the pencil from behind his ear, carefully, as not to disturb his morning hair. “This is my rough sketch. I will have the architect du jour draft the final plans, but I would like your opinion on the viability of what I’m suggesting.”

  For the next half hour, Frank lead Jack around the room, pointing out where display cases would go, where moveable tables would be placed, where seating nooks and window seats would be built in, where the ceiling would be dropped to afford intimacy, and where lighting would be the most dramatic.

  Jack nodded throughout the walk.

  “I can see that.

  “I could build that.

  “That would be an easy construction.

  “That makes sense.”

  At the end, Frank said, “That’s about it. What do you think?”

  “Wonderful. It will be a really neat place when we’re done.”

  Frank beamed.

  “Neat. You hear that, Alice? ‘Neat.’ We have ‘neat’ ideas.”

  Alice looked up from a catalog, written in French. “Neat. I guess neat is one step closer to nifty. Our goal. Neat and nifty. Sounds like a law firm from the fifties.”

  “One thing, though,” Frank said. “That door on the back wall. The old carved one with the huge deadbolt on it. What’s behind that?”

  Jack turned to look. He knew the door Frank mentioned. The door was huge, nine feet tall, done in solid walnut, Jack thought, with hand-carved panels—a vine and floral motif, almost like a border on an illuminated manuscript, or a motif of William Morris, Jack thought, cut into the dark, dense wood. It was both an antique and a work of rare craftsmanship, of fine artistry.

  Jack walked to it, to examine it one more time. “It’s a wonderful old door. Amazing carvings. I looked at it before. Asked Mrs. Ruskin about a key, and she said she didn’t have one. Neither did the bank who sold it to her.”

  Frank tried the doorknob, an ornate brass one, as if no one had ever tried simply opening it. Of course, the door did not budge.

  Jack pointed to the opposite edge of the door. “Now, here’s where it gets interesting. Ninety-nine doors like this out of a hundred, maybe nine hundred ninety-nine out of a thousand, have hinges on the outside, so the door can easily open outward. If it’s for storage, you don’t want the door opening into the inside. Takes up all the storage area with the swing. But there are no hinges out here. The hinges are inside. That’s unusual. Like they didn’t want anyone to be able to pull the hinge pins out to get inside.”

  “Well,” Frank said, “you can just cut around it, right?”

  Jack made a sweesh sound by breathing in over clenched teeth. “Maybe. But see down there by the floor? I cut into the plaster—to see what I might be up against. Two four-by-four posts stacked against each other, I think, surround the whole door. There would be a whole lot of demolition to this wall to get it out. And there’s a second lock at the bottom of the door,” Jack said pointing. “Almost as big as the main deadbolt. There’s no key for that either.”

  Frank rubbed his hands together. “A mystery. I love old mysteries. What do you think is back there? Al Capone’s treasure?”

  Jack had to laugh.

  Frank’s voice now had an excited edge to it. “Diamond Jim Brady’s lost diamond stickpin collection? He was from Butler, you know. There is a rumor that he had dozens of dazzling diamond stickpins—three-carat monsters. That’s where he got his name, you know. When he died, there was only one single stickpin found. Maybe the rest are in there. This building is from the right time frame.”

  Jack shrugged and held his palms up. “Maybe. But I wouldn’t take a loan out on the possibility.”

  “Wait until I tell Alice. She will be so excited about finding a hidden fortune.”

  And with that, Frank hurried to his wife, who was still seated at the table, flipping through her French catalog.

  Jack turned to the door once more, and wondered how he was going to get this door open without destroying it in the process.

  Sometimes things have to be broken in order to be made whole.

  That night, Jack lay in his bed, hoping sleep would come and free him. His workday had gone fine. He had successfully battled his urges one more day. He had talked for an hour with Earl over his dinner. He had walked the streets until it became dark. He’d showered and now lay in the stillness, the traffic light buzzers now silent.

  He dozed off.

  He awoke with a start, sitting up in bed, just like in the movies, he thought. He blinked, trying to focus.

  3:00 a.m.

  He
covered his eyes with his hands and tried to remember.

  It was a dream about that door. I managed to get to the hinges somehow and slipped the hinge pins out and pushed the door open the wrong way.

  He tried to focus on the images of the dream.

  There was something inside … perfect … some perfect thing.

  It allowed me to forget. It erased the memories.

  He felt like crying.

  If I could just forget.

  He opened his eyes to the darkness and everything that he lost was right there, in the darkness, just past the reach of his fingertips, waiting for him, waiting to ruin whatever he had ever hoped to become.

  It was all so real.

  Amelia Westland, age twenty-one years, one month

  Lyndora

  Butler County, Pennsylvania

  August 5, 1883

  God is good, and faithful and just. I have always held that to be certain, regardless of my circumstances. He has been steadfast in His care of me, allowing me to be interviewed for a position to teach in the town of Lyndora, just to the south of Butler proper. The schoolhouse, in good repair and of modern design, features a sizeable classroom with stove, and all necessary books and materials, plus a teacherage at the back, consisting of a pair of small rooms, which features a small fireplace, furnishings, and a closet for the teacher’s personal effects. The school committee has informed me that a winter’s supply of coal and wood is included in the stipend, plus some free time in the summer in which one may seek other employment to augment one’s salary.

  The position was extended to me, and after much prayer, I accepted the kind and generous offer. In the interim I have been again housed in the home of the generous Dr. and Mrs. Barry, a godsend in my life, who have been so keenly interested in my studies and pleased with my successes. The staff was likewise kind to me, and precious hours in Catherine’s company brought me much joy. On one lovely day, I strolled down to Cliff Street to Harton’s Livery, the establishment that now employs Mr. Beck, who is no longer indentured, but fully and gainfully employed.

  We enjoyed a polite meeting, restrained and cordial. There was much to speak of, but he had scarce a half hour for his midday meal, and since I cannot be seen without chaperone after hours with any man, we made the best of our time. He inquired as to my recurring spells of nervousness, and I truthfully told him that I appear to no longer be vexed with such a condition.

  Since I brought all my possessions with me to Butler, I will be allowed to occupy the quarters in the schoolhouse prior to the commencement of classes and prepare for the term ahead, which begins in three weeks’ time.

  But my God shall supply all your need

  according to his riches in glory by Christ Jesus.

  —Philippians 4:19

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “I HATE THIS SCARF, MOMMY,” Ava said, her voice muffled by the muffler. “It’s not even cold outside.”

  Leslie had bundled Ava up, with a thicker scarf than necessary and a heavier coat than the season warranted. She took no chances with colds and flu, and Ava was either the beneficiary or the victim, depending whether one was mother or daughter, of a relatively illness-free childhood.

  “The weatherman said it is only 38 degrees this morning. That’s almost the temperature of ice cubes. You don’t want to be an ice cube, do you?” Leslie asked.

  Ava glared at her mother, not really angry, but not thrilled with the overdressing either.

  “We won’t be able to walk to school much longer. It will be too cold.”

  “Good,” Ava said, emphatic. “Then I can wear my Dora coat instead of this dorky jacket.”

  “Ava!” Leslie responded with a hint of exasperation.

  “Well, it is dorky. Everyone thinks so. Even Trevor, and Trevor doesn’t think anything is dorky.”

  “Well, we will just have to be dorky and healthy and warm, I guess,” Leslie said, putting an end to the conversation.

  She waved as Ava walked inside the school. This time, Leslie was certain Ava didn’t wave back, or even look back.

  Today was Wednesday. Three more days until Randy showed up. Leslie dreaded every moment as the weekend drew closer.

  Pastor Blake was helping her walk her through her emotional gauntlet, her minefield of anxiety. While she wasn’t happy about it, she now accepted that the situation with Randy would eventually occur. She also realized that no one was stealing anyone—at least not just yet. She did not confide in Pastor Blake that her ex-husband was capable of some evil, horrid actions—and he very well might try some legal maneuver. Maybe not this weekend, but sometime.

  Mike Reidmiller waved to her from his car as he slowly drove down the street from school. He pulled close to the curb and rolled down the window.

  “Hi. We ran late, so I had to drive,” he said, smiling.

  “And it’s getting colder. I may have to start driving as well,” Leslie answered.

  Mike offered a wave of dismissal. “Cold doesn’t bother me. Trevor either. I guess we’re built more for the cold than the hot.”

  Leslie had no good reply, so she remained silent.

  “Listen, Leslie …”

  It was obvious that Mike was trying to say something but seemed at odds with language.

  “Leslie—” Mike made a noise in his throat, then hurried to add—“are you going to be home this morning? I have to … I have to go now … but can I … will you be home? Can I call you later?”

  “Sure. I’m home all morning. Jack is putting in the tub today. I’ll be home.”

  Mike appeared to be in a hurry, rolling up his window while calling out, “Then I’ll call you later, okay?”

  Leslie walked up her staircase and found a note slipped under the number 2 on the door.

  Tub delivery delayed until tomorrow. I’m at the Pettigrews’. Call cell if needed.—Jack

  She took the note and carefully folded it. She admired the way he formed his letters, like an architect, she thought—angular and precise.

  After her failure at ARMCO (although it was not a failure, per se, just that she never got a chance to interview, she told herself), she had despaired over her future. It was Mrs. Stickle who raised her hopes again.

  “That museum around the corner and down the street—” she had said, leaving the rest of the sentence unspoken.

  “There’s a museum around the corner?” Leslie had asked.

  “Well, a few blocks away. The Maridon Museum. It’s filled with Oriental porcelain and painted plates and fancy Chinese statues and all that sort of stuff. Makes Mr. Stickle’s skin crawl, he says. I think it’s all very beautiful. Anyway, my beautician at the Cut ’n’ Curl Beauty Shop said that they’re looking for an assistant docent. Or assistant curator? Which one was it? It’s not the volunteer one … it’s the one they pay a salary to. An assistant curator. Yes, that’s it. I have no idea of what a curator does with a building full of Chinese tschochkes, but it might be something you could be good at. You went to college for that, right? Art history?”

  Leslie had replied that she did indeed study art history, and that same day, she had quickly gone to the museum’s Web site:

  The Maridon Museum is the only museum in the western Pennsylvania region with a focus on Chinese and Japanese art and culture. The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette pronounced the Maridon, “a gleaming little gem of a museum.” The museum—both the objects and the buildings that house them—is the gift of Mary Hulton Phillips, a lifelong resident of Butler, PA. The museum is her legacy to this small town.

  Leslie also learned that the Maridon had a permanent collection of over eight hundred Asian objects—some dating back to the second and third century BC—plus three hundred pieces of Meissen porcelain. She had gotten the address on McKean Street and walked the few blocks to the museum, amazed that s
he’d never seen it.

  I never come this way. All my destinations are in other directions, she thought as she looked up at the building, now closed.

  She sent off a résumé and a cover letter to the head curator, whose name was listed on the contacts page of the Web site. She made a note to call in a few days.

  I have an art history degree, after all. Although I’m not sure if that qualifies me for this job. It sounds interesting, though. Bless Mrs. Stickle, and her beautician, for the lead.

  Leslie chuckled to herself at the old-fashioned word Mrs. Stickle had used for hair stylist, and at the picture she conjured in her imagination of the Cut ’n’ Curl Beauty Shop her neighbor frequented.

  And then, for the two-thousandth time, she berated herself for majoring in art history, which she loved, instead of something practical, like nursing. And every time she thought this way, she quickly realized that the sight of blood made her squeamish and that she knew she could never go around poking poor people with needles.

  Maybe I should have gone for something like accounting, then.

  It was a familiar circuit in her mind.

  Like I can even balance my own checkbook.

  The phone rang and she remembered that Mike was going to call about something—all very mysterious.

  “Leslie, it’s Mike. Mike Reidmiller.”

  “Of course, Mike. I knew it was you.”

  “Well, I like to be careful. Maybe you know a couple of Mikes and you don’t like one of them. What if you thought I was the Mike you didn’t like? That would be bad.”

  This is one very sweet man, she thought. And sensitive.

  “So anyhow. I’m the good Mike … that is, if you do know more than one.”

  “We have established that, Mike,” Leslie replied, happy to be talking to him.

  “I wanted to ask you earlier, but I was leaning out of my car window, and all of a sudden, I thought that was just the wrong way to go about it. Like I was sixteen and didn’t know anything about women. Well, I’m older than that now, and I guess I don’t know a lot more about women now, either, but I’m pretty sure that asking a woman out while leaning out of your car window is not the proper thing to do, is it?”