by Lisa Wingate
“Yeah, cool, no problem.” Joel was already jogging down the hallway, grabbing the waistband of his saggy jeans to keep them from falling off. Without breaking stride, he passed right by the storage room and disappeared into the stairway.
Dearest Ruby,
At times, we unexpectedly awaken from the sleep of our own lives. Today, I have awakened.
If only you and I could share in this grand adventure! By logic of course, I am aware that you are a married woman, expecting a child, and bound to your grand life at the Excelsior, but I yearn for you to travel along with me. If only this could be one of the many far-flung journeys we dreamed of before the terrible misfortune of this Depression.
On occasion, I find myself wishing that we had opted for our girlhood dreams rather than falling to the lure of handsome men and the paths of housewifery. While I would never desire for any person the sad course my life has taken, today it is as if I feel the blood in my veins and the air in my lungs for the first time since Richard took himself away and left me to await Emmaline’s birth alone. I realize now how angry I have been with him, how heartbroken, how bitter and how afraid to allow myself to feel. In my years at the college, I was merely existing, merely biding my days. I had condemned myself to death without actually dying. Now I have climbed from the stillness of the grave, and I see the world in a glorious new light.
Through these letters, I hope to share not only my experiences, but this newfound joy. Joy is not complete until it belongs to more than one. I believe it was the apostle Paul who said as much. Perhaps I should have listened more closely to those long, hot summer sermons at Grandmother’s church in Charleston, but we were such rotters, truly! Remember Old Juba shaking her dark, knobby finger at us when we abandoned our beds and swam in the goldfish pond that hot, moonlit night? I do believe, between the four of us, we may have taken years from her life … if such was possible.
I fancy that, in this journey of mine, I may in some way honor the child who once danced in the fountain ’neath the moon. I have lost the carefree girl I once was, banished her to some far country and locked her away. The greatest part of me may have gone with her. I have allowed the cutting blades of fear to whittle me down to nubs. I dearly believe it was not fate that brought me here, but God himself. This is the place I will finally find courage and breath and voice. This is where I will find life.
Today, during a most thorough introduction at the state FWP headquarters in Asheville, we recruits were made privy to the inner workings of this monumental endeavor. Rooms there had been filled with the desks of typists and editors. Filing cabinets lined wall upon wall. My mind could scarce take in the magnitude of it all! To imagine that the whole of this space and the people at work in it are devoted to the documentation of our state and its stories, and that similar efforts have been undertaken in every state!
In the end, it is estimated that we North Carolina writers may “fill these halls with well over one million words,” so said the leadership of The Project as they gathered us for a pep talk at the facility. Might I also report, Dear Sister, that names such as Manly Wade Wellman were bandied about? I may have sat directly beside or behind some famous writer and not even known it. I was far too afraid to ask.
In the room was such overwhelming excitement as plans were detailed! I’d daresay most of us there forgot we had been forced to sign the dreaded WPA Pauper’s Oath in order to qualify for The Project at all. Our mission seemed quite vast and important. We are to create not only a brief guidebook of our state, but a comprehensive encyclopedia to include all natural wonders, the narratives of farmers and former slaves, the stories of soldiers returned from the Great War, the last of those who fought in the War between the States, the folk tales of mountain peoples, transcriptions of famous trials and court proceedings, and all else, our leaders said, “from golf to the Ku Klux Klan.” Having the soul of true newspapermen, they desire that no stone be left unturned.
As you can see on the attached page, I’ve attempted to sketch the scene for you. Mother often said that I had inherited a bit of Father’s drawing talent, for it did not come from her. What do you think? Is it true?
I do believe I have rendered the room rather well, and our speaker, too, with his close-fitting round glasses, grim mouth, and intense gaze. Perhaps when I retire from my mission with the FWP, I will take up a position as a courtroom artist. Emmaline and I might become partners in it. She is sending a drawing for Old Dutch, as well. She was a very good girl throughout the day, patiently waiting on a bench with her colors. All were most kind to her, and she became something of a tourist attraction herself. She will be practicing her letters as we travel, and soon enough she will be writing her own notes to you, I’ll wager.
I will close for now. I have added to this missive throughout the day as time permitted and now have worked late to finish it. We were given lodgings overnight in a dormitory building maintained by the Civilian Conservation Corps for road crews and other workers. In the morning, we will set out, scattering all directions like leaves in the breeze.
I will write again from wherever the wind blows me.
Lovingly,
Your sister, Alice
P.S. Yes, I am aware that the addition of a postscript is gauche. One should finish thoughts before signing the letter, but I have forgotten a final detail. I have met my traveling companion, the mapmaker. He is younger than I had anticipated, only through his second year in college, and a bit wet behind the ears. At twenty-one, he is barely old enough to qualify for The Project, and is eleven years my junior, but he seems a delightful soul. I do suppose our being selected to travel together is the doing of my dear friend the dean, for my new companion, Thomas Kerth, is a distant relative of his. As I have time, I may attempt a rendering for you in the future. —A
A cardinal landed on the sill and pecked at the window as I slid the torn pieces of the letter’s final page into place, revealing Alice’s sketches of the North Carolina FWP headquarters. Aside from the scraps that had ended up on the floor during the squirrel hunt, I’d found the remains of letters tucked between encyclopedia pages and scattered in what was left of the packing box. Each letter had been torn to shreds, envelope and all, and as far as I could tell, had never been opened. There was no rhyme, reason, or order to bits that remained, some no larger than my pinky finger. Finding enough of the first letter to rebuild it had turned out to be a complicated project.
From a plywood Santa Claus my mother had always used on our Michigan lawn at Christmas, I’d created a makeshift table, then started gathering the piles in order by the postmark, one scrap at a time. Alice’s letter from the FWP headquarters had been written on green ledger paper, which made it easier to ferret out. Like the Valentine’s card, it was dotted with stains, the ink partially smeared by seeps of liquid.
It seemed unlikely that this much mail could’ve been hidden from my grandmother. She must have destroyed the letters herself. The woman I knew would’ve been the type to respond with fury toward anyone who, like Alice, didn’t cooperate with her plans. Typically, when my mother and I came to the Excelsior, Ziltha was embroiled in conflicts with other merchants in town, or with the chamber of commerce, or the credit card companies, or the mechanic who serviced her car, or members of her civic clubs. She’d been the driving force behind more than one hostile takeover of the Ladies’ Society, the Arts Council, and the local chapter of the DAR.
She’d lived to stir up a wrangle and then feed off it. Maybe she couldn’t forgive her sister for going away, or maybe she’d been jealous of Alice’s new opportunity.
Either way, it was sad to read the notes and realize they’d been written as a way of sharing an adventure, but the effort had gone unappreciated. I’d never wondered about my grandmother’s past before, but now I wanted to understand how she had changed from Queen Ruby into a woman bitter with people and life. What had caused the reverse metamorphosis, the drawing inward, like butterfly regressing to caterpillar?
The ha
llway door opened, and I looked up, falling back to the present and hitting hard enough to be off balance for a moment. I grabbed the plywood tabletop to steady myself. It slid in my hands, almost toppling off the base of boxes before I caught it.
“I’m guessing this never made it up here.” Mark frowned at me, holding up a small cage that I assumed was the squirrel trap.
I glanced at my watch. Once again, I’d blown a bunch of time on the letters.
“Ummm … yeah, I guess not.” No doubt I was getting poor Joel in trouble. The look on his boss’s face conveyed that this was par for the course.
“I figured.” The owner of the Rip Shack looked frustrated and tired this afternoon. “We had a couple day-tour buses come in, and when Joel hit the end of his shift, he was gone like vapor. As usual.”
I wanted to defend the kid. Joel was the only friend I had here on Roanoke, and he had saved Ruby-the-dog from the squirrel, after all. Aside from that, we shared a common opponent. His grouchy boss. On the flip side, I fully understood Mark’s position. It can be hard to get and keep reliable staff, running retail. “Maybe he thought I was coming down to get it.”
Mark blinked, eyes rolling upward under thick, dark lashes. “Kids like Joel don’t learn if you make excuses for them.”
“Yes, I know. I own a restaurant back home.” I wasn’t sure why I wanted him to know that. Perhaps in some way, I needed to convey that I wasn’t just a greedy out-of-towner here to pillage and then make a run for it. I had reasons for doing what I was doing. This was a necessary evil.
That didn’t explain the hours I’d just spent gathering bits of Alice’s letters. There was nothing to be gained from them except the story. But my family history was woven into this place, as was the truth about Grandmother’s lost twin sister. I couldn’t let go of the building until I had learned what there was to learn.
For the time being, Mark might get his way by default.
He gave the piles of paper scraps and my makeshift table a curious look, like he meant to ask about them. Then, still holding the squirrel trap, he motioned to the storeroom door. “It’s this one, right?”
“Yes.” I focused on the letters again. “Thanks for bringing that up.”
“We made a bargain. I always keep my end of a bargain.”
I could feel him watching me. I could also feel myself bristling under the skin. “If you’re saying that because you think I won’t, you don’t need to worry. I’m not a liar.”
He stood there a moment longer, and I continued to pretend I was oblivious. “Good to know,” he said finally. “Is the vicious killer still in here?”
“Very funny.” I couldn’t resist glancing up as the storage room door creaked open. Mark was looking my way, wearing a smirky, annoying, squirrel-catching smile, as if he relished this opportunity to prove his prowess. Maybe he could charm the thing into his little trap.
“Wish me luck.”
“Good luck. Remember, your part of the deal, once you catch it, is to make sure it doesn’t get in here again.”
“No problem. This’ll only take a minute.” He disappeared through the door, leaving it ajar, so that I felt compelled to monitor the situation and be sure nothing scampered out. “Your dog did a number on this place.” His voice echoed against the high ceilings, bouncing past me down the hall.
Ruby, curled at my feet, woke with a start, ducking her head as if she recognized the word dog. Maybe it was the only name she knew.
“It’s all right.” I rib-rubbed her stomach with my tennis shoe. “I won’t let the mean man come get you.” Ruby was a hard case. Every time I tossed a wad of newspaper or knickknack on the trash pile, she tucked tail and ran for the corner. People had been chasing her away for a while. Why she’d decided to trust Clyde, I couldn’t imagine, but she did seem to like him, and so her loyalties were divided at best. Even so, I’d be glad to have her with me when I went into the storeroom to search for further valuables hidden in mattresses or anyplace else.
As soon as Mark removed the squirrel, of course. He’d said it would only take a minute.
He was true to his word, but when he exited, he was empty-handed. My hopes flagged a bit. “You caught it already?” Because otherwise, you wouldn’t be leaving, right?
A single brow arched upward. His bottom lip hung slack, then flirted with a smile, as if he were waiting for me to laugh and say, April Fools’! “You know that the trap has to stay in there until the squirrel gets hungry and decides to go after the bait … right?”
“Are you serious? I thought you were going to grab the squirrel and … well … stuff it in the cage or something.”
His other eyebrow went up, and he had the nerve to actually snicker. The grin faded as I stood blinking at him, my hands braced on the table.
“Oh … you were serious,” he said.
“Yes. I was serious.”
“Sorry. But that’s not how it works. It’s not like gator wrestling or snake charming. A squirrel pretty much does what a squirrel wants to do.”
“This is so not what I had in mind.”
“You want me to relay that to the squirrel?”
“I could’ve stuck some food in a box and put it in the storeroom myself.” Right now, I felt like quite possibly the stupidest human on the planet. Of course Mark wasn’t going to walk in there and catch it with his bare hands. With all the junk in that room, he probably couldn’t even find it.
He tasted his bottom lip, held it between his teeth a moment. “I can go take the trap back if you want.” His expression was so innocent, it qualified as backhandedly snarky.
“No thank you.” I bent over the letters again, tucking an annoying fall of dark hair behind my ear. I could imagine what I looked like after a day of digging and sorting and battling the local wildlife. “So, I’m assuming that, for my squirrel-removal dollar, I’m also getting frequent trap rechecks?”
He stuffed my protective cardboard barricade back underneath the door. “I didn’t realize there was money in this proposition.”
“Good, because there’s not. Listen, I don’t want to hurt the squirrel, but I really do need it out of the way so I can work in there. Soon.”
The curtain of hair fell in my eyes again, and I paused to pull the hairband free and finger-comb the sticky mess into a wad, then rebind it. After last night’s storm, the air was humid, turning my hair wavy and swelling it to three times its normal size.
I was weirdly conscious of Mark watching me as he spoke. “Joel said he found some jewelry hidden in one of the mattresses.”
I blinked, surprised. It hadn’t occurred to me that Joel would give his boss a report. Had Mark asked for one? “Yes, he did. My grandmother was eccentric, but always in an obsessively organized sort of way. Toward the end things got bad, though. The caretaker we hired turned out to be a thief. Maybe my grandmother had started hiding things from her, or maybe she was just confused. Joel offered to help me search.”
Mark angled away a bit. I’d caught him by surprise. “Just a word of advice. I’d be a little careful about letting Joel know too much of what’s going on up here. He’s a nice kid, but he’s got some issues. He doesn’t come from the best family situation and doesn’t necessarily hang around with the most savory people. There’s no telling who he might mention it to.”
I vacillated between being grateful for the warning and once again defending Joel. “The other day, he told me he wanted to start college in the fall, to be a history teacher. He said he was planning to work with the Lost Colony drama this summer to earn extra money for tuition.”
“He’s trying to get his life together. I hope he sticks with it this time.”
That struck a chord. I couldn’t count how often in these years since leaving the corporate life, I’d hired good kids with bad pasts and terrible family patterns. It’s not easy to change someone’s default settings, especially when they have relatives constantly dragging them down, but I’d quickly learned that the byproduct of staying in one place
was getting involved with people on a deeper level, whether you wanted to or not. As a boss, I couldn’t help being attached to those kids, hoping to make a difference. Some of the ones who’d straightened themselves out were like younger brothers and sisters to me now. We’d kept in touch even after they’d moved on to bigger and better things.
A few of the others were among the greatest disappointments of my adult life.
I was struck by a sudden sense of connection to Mark, and just as quickly I felt the need to tamp it down. I didn’t want to feel anything toward him.
“Just be careful what you tell Joel.” A grim look followed the words. “A lot of kids grow up here on the Outer Banks not knowing much about the wide, wide world. It’s a tough transition for them, figuring out what to do with the rest of their lives, other than work at some tourist trap and party like there’s no tomorrow.”
“I can see where that would be a problem.” I thought about Joel—intelligent, good-looking, personable, athletic, interested in history … yet seemingly aimless. He was so much like the teenagers I’d known my last few summers here—the ones my mother didn’t want me hanging around. They were different from the private-school kids I sat in classes with back home—the kids who were sweating out college prep courses before they left the eighth grade. At the time, the suntanned, freedom-loving island kids had fascinated me. Their lives seemed fun and slightly careless. Their days weren’t scheduled like those of the kids in my school. They weren’t constantly being shuttled off to music lessons, sports teams, dance classes, and tutorial sessions. The kids here weren’t fretting about building a dossier for Harvard or Columbia.
The trade-off for that kind of aimlessness is that, if you’re not aiming at something, you never know where you’ll end up. I’d learned that on my own, long after leaving the snotty prep-school classmates behind.
“Joel just doesn’t need any temptations.” Mark’s gaze caught mine and held on. “He shouldn’t get it in his head that he’s got a way of making quick money—legal or otherwise. He needs to work this summer, stay focused, build up some savings, and head for college in the fall.”
