by Cat Gardiner
Shamelessly, she had cried in Jack’s arms for hours as he patiently handed her Kleenex and blew her nose as if she were a five year old. He never pushed or prodded, although she could tell he was dying to know the real reasons for the flood of tears.
She picked up the envelope, knowing full well who had written it and the guilt became oppressive.
The phone began to ring again, snapping her from her recollection of the wonderful woman she had only met once, in Florida the fall of ’42.
The ringing below went ignored when she rose and resumed her search through the closet. She pulled open lingerie and scarf drawers, removing their contents until finally dropping to her knees to attack shoeboxes with ferocity, sorting through them then summarily tossing them from the closet and dressing room. Chanel, John Jourdan, Ferragamo, and even those jelly pool shoes Annette convinced her to purchase soared through the air, meeting their demise when they landed in a heap on the floor of the bedroom.
With a huff of frustration, she sat back on her bare heels and looked up to the top shelf of the closet as though looking for direction from heaven. It was then she noticed the colorful Lilly Pulitzer beach tote peeking out from the far corner of the shelf. Bingo!
Agile and deft, she climbed the cubbyholes of the closet and snapped the bag out from its hiding place, making sure that she held onto the handle tightly. “I knew you were never far from me! The Pistol lives! Ha!”
Lizzy retrieved the bag and held it as though it was a precious treasure; to her, it was. She carefully removed its solitary item, a velvet glove box, and placed it beside the letter upon the coffee table. She toyed with its key and sat staring at the locked Victorian glove box, her eyes switching from letter to velvet container, heart racing. She suddenly felt apprehensive about opening it, her personal Pandora’s Box, knowing it held the physical memories of a love that had never died. It had only been opened twice before: once in 1949 and later in 1964 when Lilly gave her the tote bag where the keepsake box found its home until its reemergence today.
She couldn’t cease the slight tremble to her hand, knowing the contents by heart. Carefully, she placed the key beside it then left the room.
“Laundry. Yes, I think I need to do a load of dark wash … chicken.” A flash of dialogue emerged from its dungeon in the recesses of her mind.
-What’s cookin’, Lieutenant?
-Chicken. Wanna’ neck?
She immediately fled from the glove box as though it were a casket.
If there was one thing that could be said about Elizabeth Robertsen it was that she was not a procrastinator, by any means. If she had been, the Phoenix Foundation would have never gotten off the ground and Zephyr Avionics would never have reached to its present level of global expansion. Side by side, she and John had seen to both achievements, both were stalwart and committed to making the other’s venture as successful as possible, both understanding their reasons and need for doing so. However, today she couldn’t help feeding that insecure Lizzy Renner who lingered deep within her heart. She was petrified to face her past and her ever present optimism had seemingly abandoned her.
She walked through the empty, lonely house toward her record player in the corner of the den. It was the same record player that had kept her company in the water tower so many years ago. Repaired time and again, it refused, like her, to give up. A particular record rarely made an unscheduled appearance on the turntable, reserved for its annual emergence on the morning of July 21. It was a rare indulgence of longing. However, on this day, she would make an exception to the rule. Yes, there was a rule—a self-imposed one. Ducky could only meet her in her dreams when she slept or visit with her in the tea garden every Sunday, but dancing with her was reserved for July 21 only. During her day-to-day life, memories of him were kept at bay, blocked from surfacing. She was John’s wife, and he had deserved her loyalty
Anne Shelton’s “Only Forever” filled the room as the suddenly twenty-year-old Lizzy Renner danced alone in the open space. She swayed, lost in the memory of the day she and Will made love for the first time, both innocent, both nervous, but both consumed by the passion of their intense love for one another. Her palm slowly smoothed over her bare bicep, the delicate tickle caused her flesh to respond as it always did. Duck pimples of recollection rose. She closed her eyes remembering his kiss to her shoulder and how his lips traveled along the heated, wet skin of her décolletage.
As happened most years, her memories only had the opportunity to progress as far as the dropping of her bathing suit strap before the three-minute song ended too quickly for the weight of emotion it elicited. In her dancing, bare feet had instinctively taken her toward the stairs, back in the direction of the box waiting for her a flight above, but the battle ensuing within her took her back to the laundry room.
The phone rang a third time and this time Lizzy was thankful for the intrusion.
“Hello?”
“Dahling, where have you been? I’ve been calling for hours.”
“Oh, hi Greta. Sorry I couldn’t get to the telephone—I’m a bit constipated.” She smirked mischievously, unable to resist teasing John’s sister.
“Don’t be vulgar. Really, Elizabeth, I have no desire to discuss your bodily functions.”
“Then why did you call?”
“Because I visited a friend in Sarasota this past weekend, and while shopping on St. Armand’s Circle, I ran into Ingrid’s husband, Eduardo.”
A shiver ran up Lizzy’s spine. It had been at least three years since last hearing her sister’s name.
“Eduardo? What happened to Victor?”
“Pfft, that was years ago. Eduardo was her Cuban refugee masseuse and Victor her Russian diplomat before this last one. Don’t you remember me telling you he died of a heart attack in Rosebriar’s swimming pool?”
Lizzy opened the refrigerator door for no apparent reason. She eyed the contents, looking for a diversion from the pointless conversation about a woman she hated. There was nothing of import or significant interest that Greta could impart about Ingrid. “Hmm. I vaguely remember that he wasn’t a diplomat but rather newly displaced KGB. Shame, I have such good memories about that pool. What’s this about, Greta? You know that I don’t keep abreast of the goings on in her life, and you also know how irrelevant she is to me.”
“Tsk, tsk. You really should have gotten over your anger at Ingrid by now. I’m sure she didn’t mean all those silly things she professed so long ago. It was a fad of her youth, as were my own ill-formed opinions. Fifty years, Elizabeth. Holding grudges will give you angina in addition to your constipation, Dahling.”
“Dahling, she tried to kill my sister. Why on earth would I ever forgive her evil, eugenics-supporting, anti-Semitic, Hitler-loving Nazism? You, I can forgive. You were just plain stupid and ignorant. No, that woman could drop dead for all I care.”
“Well, that’s why I’m calling. Haven’t you been contacted by your lawyer?”
“No, why?”
“Ingrid’s dead, and now her Cuban husband remains in residence in the Renner home.”
Of all the things Lizzy expected to hear, “dead” wasn’t one of them. Unthinkingly, she smoothed her hand across her forehead and down her cheek, fingers settling upon her lips as she processed what that meant, not only to her, but to the family, and the secrets they had run from for so long.
“Did you hear me, Elizabeth?”
“When? When did it happen?”
“About a week and a half ago. Are you upset? I know it must be quite a shock and I’m so sorry to be the one to telephone you, but you needed to know.”
A tear pricked Lizzy’s eyes as she pursed her lips. Closure, she thought. One step closer to fully burying the demons of the past. One step closer to finishing what I began in 1945. In addition to the paintings, Ingrid had remained a piece of unresolved Renner history, a bitter reminder of the constant stain upon her family. So long as she had lived, they could never truly move on from their family’s associati
on with Nazism.
“I’m not upset, Greta. I’m relieved. Her death is reason to rejoice, one more deep breath of life into The Phoenix Foundation’s mission.”
“Aren’t you even going to bat an eye about Ingrid’s demise? She was your sister after all.
“No, she ceased being my sister when she voiced her malevolent opinions about Kitty and her polio. The repercussions of that woman’s existence in the Renner family, as well as the Robertsens by association, mind you, have echoed for fifty years, and we can finally have peace.”
“Well, I certainly didn’t expect this kind of response. Frankly, I’m appalled.”
“What would you rather—sarcasm and flippancy at such a pivotal moment in my life’s commitment? How’s this?” Her voice changed to one Greta could better understand. “You say Eduardo is already out shopping? Sounds like true love.”
Greta responded in kind, as only someone as unaware of her own shallowness could, “And driving your Father’s Horch with a Barbie doll sitting beside him.”
“That stranger is entitled to nothing pertaining to Rosebriar or its assets. I will be selling the estate as well as that miserable car on the auction block at Christie’s, and the American Red Cross will be receiving that money.”
“Will you telephone Kitty to tell her the news, or shall I?”
“I think I’ll wait until she and I can properly celebrate together, maybe with a bottle of Dom Perignon.”
“You are terrible, Elizabeth!”
Lizzy looked over her shoulder in the direction of the RCA, recognizing the next song on the record. It wasn’t the song that garnered her attention but the mere fact that she knew she was deliberately prolonging this conversation in avoidance of the letter and the box she’d left upstairs. She was finding herself angry that a conversation about Ingrid had replaced a perfectly sublime moment of memories of Will.
“Lizzy … you can call me Lizzy.”
“You’re seventy and you want me to call you a name from your childhood? Is there some dementia you need to let me know about?”
“Very funny, Greta. Listen, thanks for calling, dear. I have to go; laundry beckons. Will I see you next week?”
“For your annual Fourth of July party? I don’t think so. There’s much to do here.”
“Well, you’ll be missed. I’ll try to come out to Fisher’s Island for a visit before the summer ends. Would you like that?”
“Will you bring my favorite great-nephew? The season will be over before you know it, and I’ll hardly have the opportunity to introduce him to some lovely, appropriate, young women at the Club.”
“No. Jack left for Alaska for a few days, and then we have the party followed almost immediately by our trip to Paris. I think your matchmaking days for our dear boy are over since there is a new, special girl in his life.”
“Why ever would he write about Alaska? Anyone who is anyone knows those cruise line trips are so droll. No one from the Social Register goes to Alaska!”
Lizzy rolled her eyes. “He’s not there on business ... it’s pleasure, of a sort.”
“He’s just like your sister Lillian was—unconventional.”
“I know. It’s one of the things I love most about him. Gotta go, dear. Thanks for the call.”
Lizzy hung up the phone and with steely determination exited the kitchen. Walking through the den, she passed the now silenced RCA, then barreled up the stairs to her bedroom. Standing at the threshold of the room, her breath puffed raggedly and her heart fluttered anxiously, but she was resolved now.
Her eyes fixed upon the table, ignoring the mess. The silver key lay next to the box, shining in the streaming sunlight. “You’re being silly, Lizzy. It’s just a box—it’s just a letter.”
She spoke convincingly to herself with a head nod to punctuate her statements. “You thought Will was dead, and you made your decision. There should be no guilt; you did what you had to do in both 1943 and in 1949. Open the damn letter, chicken.”
She walked to the table, swept up the yellowed envelope, and settled on her divan beside the picture window. A carefully twisted fingernail easily separated the decades-old glue.
December 20, 1942
Dearest Elizabeth,
Words cannot express a moeder’s appreciation to you for all you have done for us. The most important of which is loving and accepting my zoon whose heart is so sensitive and forthright. Your love for him is obvious and for you to have arranged for our visit and stay in your beautiful home in Sarasota before his departure to Europe, I will never forget. The short time that Julien and I spent with you before your return home to Long Island filled my heart with such joy at seeing you and my boy as affectionate as husband and wife. You already feel like the daughter I never had and I can see why William loves you so. It is evident, and I must confess, I have never seen him so happy. You bring to him the joyful spirit his serious nature so craves but his reserve holds him back from embracing. I can see that together, you and he bring to one another that which you both need. Elizabeth, you are a remarkable young woman with a heart of pure gold.
Within our Sabbath prayers at Rosebriar Manor, we prayed that one day when this war is over, we will all be together as a family. I wish you both all that a moeder’s love can hope for her zoon. May your love and marriage be as blessed as mine and as I hope Louis and Lillian’s will be.
This home that my William has purchased for you and named Primrose Cottage in honor of your beloved home in Sarasota, he has taken great care in every detail for your happiness and comfort. He has spared no expense, which proves his devotion to you. The china was my moeder’s which I brought with me from Holland, and the hope chest at the foot of your bed is filled with many things from the old country and some new ones, too, that I am making for you. There is, of course, the painting, which I explained to you the history during our too brief visit. It is now the time to pass my Avercamp to William for his future bride and one day he will give it to his firstborn. I pray that my sister Estella will have the opportunity, with warm hands, to give her matching Avercamp to Louis as it was meant to be since the boys’ infancy. Two sisters—two paintings, two brothers—two paintings. These masterpieces, passed from generation to generation, will bind our family, yours and Lillian’s family and future DeVries descendants.
Within the house, you will see small details that I personally arranged as are evident by these items found alongside this letter. William will explain them to you, along with the bris pillow and baby dress found in the hope chest. I know you are not of our faith, but I have hope that in time you will embrace the tenants that have formed such men as my children. I pray that one day the world will be a safe enough place to feel the freedom in openly declaring we are Jews. As evident by the horrors in Europe, one can live in hope that evil will once and for all be vanquished.
I do not need to ask you to be kind to my boy since I know you will be. I only ask that you protect and safeguard that which we all hold dear. Life, Elizabeth. Above all things, life. …
Lizzy’s eyes filled with tears, and the words on the stationery became blurry. Never knowing that Primrose Cottage had been for her, she lowered the letter before finishing. Each line tore at her heart, the last ones profoundly resonating with her. She bit her lip to keep it from trembling, tears gently dropping, rolling to her chin.
She looked over at the red velvet treasure box where she’d left it sitting. Yes, it was time and if necessary, she would fly to wherever he was with that box, contrite tail between her legs.
She moved back to the coffee table, sat on the sofa before it, and took a deep breath, her heart pounded. The key fit, the lid lifted, and she stared down at the contents, each a precious fragment representing the sweetest and best part of her life. Inside letters and photographs of Will and her rested neatly organized. A long forgotten pocket-sized edition of WB Yeats’ poetry concealed a pressed Gardenia on page 25—The Wild Swans of Coole. Trembling hands removed his gold and silver pilot cadet pin, an
d she promptly affixed it to the collar of her blouse. Tucked below the book were two postcards from her stay at the Hotel Lakeland Terrace, one bearing the swans. However, her eyes continually drew to the one item she treasured the most a pink baby bracelet, its glass beads spelled, A. Robertsen. Lizzy toyed with it, then picked up the illustrated baby announcement the hospital had presented to her, running her finger over Annette’s inked newborn footprints upon the parchment dated July 21, 1943. With heart wrenching clarity, she remembered holding her newborn for the first time and weeping like a baby herself. Tinier than the average child, Annette passed as premature. Wrapped tightly in a white, cotton cocoon of swaddling, she whispered into the ear of her and Will’s daughter.
-Your daddy loves you as much as I do, but he watches you from heaven, little one. You’re safe, and together we’ll be Robertsens and make Daddy proud from above. Every day we’ll give thanks to your papa John.
Lizzy picked up Annette’s sterling silver bib clip—Ducks. Everything in her nursery had been ducks.
~~*~~
The doorbell rang but Lizzy failed to acknowledge it, too lost in her memories. Although she knew, word for word, Will’s last letter to her before he had gone missing in December of ’42, she was about to read it again. She was reminded of her shock at seeing him at Gordon’s christening, and how, with emotions spinning out of control, she blamed Lillian for not telling her. How could she have concealed such a thing from her? But her sister’s reasoning of “what would have been the point in your knowing?” was oppressively logical. Apart from her obvious relief, the damage (or rather path) had already been set. John was her husband and father to her three children and that was that. What good would have come from learning that the father of her first born, a child everyone knew to be John’s, had returned from the grave? No one but John and Kitty knew of Annette’s true parentage and all three vowed to keep it that way. Rationalize as she might though, she knew she had been wrong for keeping it from Will. That guilt had followed her all these many years.
