The Northbury Papers

by Joanne Dobson

  “Shamega,” I said. “Shamega Gilfoyle.”

  She nodded impatiently. It didn’t really matter: One ethnic name might as well be another; Joyce Brewster had no frame of reference for any of them. “And then he told me what he’d done to your office. The underwear? And then the nasty verse. He’s a troubled boy, Professor. Those are acting-out behaviors.”

  “Yes?” Acting-out behaviors? I remembered Earlene Johnson telling me Tibby had said his mother was a “shrink.” She certainly talked like one.

  “And then, last week, his father announced …” she raised an exasperated eyebrow, and I thought, This woman knows her husband’s an ass. “… that he’s complained to your department head about Tibby’s grade. I am sorry about that.” She cocked her head, spread her hands: Men! “I pressed Thibault to drop the complaint—and I do hope he will.” Joyce’s voice wavered a little, as if she weren’t certain whether or not she had any say in the situation. Then she seemed to gather confidence. “That grade was a reality check. I told Thibault so. It let Tib know his actions have consequences. He needs to be reminded of that.”

  I sat back in my chair and for the first time took a good look at Joyce Brewster. Her lemon yellow golf shirt was at least two sizes too large for the fragile woman she’d become. The stiff blond do was not her own hair but a wig. Chemotherapy. And it hadn’t worked. Oh, God. But the dark eyes were alight with intelligence—and purpose. Joyce Brewster was on a final mission—to save her son, I thought, without knowing how I knew.

  “Joyce, why are you here?” After all my petty thoughts about this woman, I owed her a response as direct as her own revelations had been.

  She smiled, and for an instant I saw what she must have been like as a healthy woman. Smart. Wry. Focused. And—in spite of my sympathy, I had to acknowledge it—arrogant. “I’m here to tell you a story, Karen. And I must have your assurance that you will keep what I am about to say in strict confidence.” Without waiting for me to agree, she sat back in the big chair and began talking.

  Tibby was an only child, his mother told me, and from the start he had been delicate, and very attached to her. His talent for drawing and painting had exhibited itself early, and she’d had hopes that he would be attracted to a career in the arts. When he reached adolescence, however, his father had begun to pressure Tib to follow him into investment banking. “It’s a man’s work,” he’d pronounced one evening at the dinner table during his son’s senior year in high school. Then he’d added, “But, then, I’ve always wondered just how much of a man you really are.”

  “Tibby fell in line,” Joyce said. “Of course.” The strong morning light played across her pale, enervated features.

  I shook my head in dismay. To have to die at her age was bad, but to have to leave your only child to the care of an S.O.B. like Thibault Brewster—it was enough to break your heart.

  “Joyce, you look exhausted. You don’t have to tell me all this.”

  She raised a thin hand. “But, I do. Edith thought you were a good person. The last time Thibault and I visited, she mentioned you. You’d really caught her fancy with your passion for—what’s her name?—Mrs. Northworth?”

  “Northbury. Serena Northbury.”

  “Edith showed us some kind of text—a novel, I think—something you found in the house.”

  “Really?” This woman had seen Child of the North Star! “Do you know what she—?”

  “But I don’t have time to talk about inconsequentials.” Joyce sat up straighter in the oversize chair. “Tibby has agreed to go into counseling, but I wanted someone here at the school to know about the situation—in case of problems in his senior year. I don’t expect to be around, and Thibault …” Her lips tightened, whitened. “Well, let’s just say Thibault is not sensitive to his son’s developmental needs. I respect Edith’s judgment, and she had confidence in you. She said you had integrity. And at the funeral, I was watching you; you seemed like a caring person. Someone who might intervene for my son.”

  I sighed; I did not want to get immersed in this family’s problems. “Joyce, I’m really not certain I’m the one you should be talking to. How about speaking to the Dean of Students?”

  Joyce’s dark gaze skewed; abruptly she was staring out the open window, gnawing on her bottom lip. Then she looked back at me. “I’ve spoken with Ms. Johnson in the past, but I feel awkward about this particular situation—because, well, because …” She couldn’t get it out.

  I took a stab. “Because Earlene is African-American? Like Shamega?”

  She shrugged. “It’s more complicated than you know.”

  And it was. Over the Thanksgiving holidays, an investigator Joyce had hired to look into her husband’s recent suspicious behavior (People really do that? I marveled) had uncovered his long-term relationship with a pricey call girl. The investigator had supplied Thibault’s wife with photographs, and also with evidence of lavish gifts and investments made for this woman, with whom Thibault seemed to be obsessed. Tibby, unfortunately, had stumbled in on the resulting marital explosion, seen the photographs, and demanded an explanation. “My son was traumatized,” Joyce concluded. “Especially given that I’d only recently informed him of my illness. And since that moment—when he saw the pictures of his father and … that woman—his attitude has been …” she paused, then concluded delicately, “… self-destructive.”

  “Let me guess,” I said, “this, er, call girl—she’s black, isn’t she? That’s why Tibby—”

  “He blames her—not his father, but his father’s, ah, paramour. And he’s enraged. And I suppose it would be too difficult for him to direct that anger at Thibault, considering that …” Here her voice became very flat. “Considering that—well—his father will soon be all he has.”

  “Joyce, I’m so sorry.”

  She flinched at my words, then squared her shoulders; Joyce Brewster wasn’t looking for pity. “So he’s displacing his anger on that unfortunate girl. But that will stop, now that Tib understands the psychological dynamic.” She seemed a good deal more certain than I’d ever been about the curative value of psychotherapeutic insight.

  “But, Joyce, speaking of consequences—”

  The phone rang, and I jumped, startled. I picked it up automatically. “Hello?”

  “Karen? Tess Holmes here. Listen,” my usually unflappable Oxbridge University Press editor bubbled, “the weirdest thing just happened, and I thought you should know about it: I just got a phone call about Serena Northbury.”

  My heart sank. “Someone else is doing a biography?”

  “No,” she replied. “Not a biography. This guy was really vague and kind of smarmy—and everything was in the conditional, ‘ifs’ and ‘shoulds’ and ‘woulds’—but it seems there’s some kind of interesting—even scandalous—Northbury novel manuscript floating around out there. He hinted at some kind of great discovery. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Don’t tell me it was Ear—” I glanced up at Mrs. Brewster fidgeting in the green vinyl chair. “Ah, I’m interested, Tess. Can you give me the short version?”

  “You’ve got someone there?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay. Do you know an Earl Wiggett? …”

  I was too involved with Joyce Brewster and her evident discomfort to give Tess’s tale the level of attention it deserved, but filed away this confirmation of Wiggett’s link to Child of the North Star under the mental heading of Information To Be Considered Soon.

  When I hung up the phone, I turned to Tibby’s mother. “Sorry, Joyce. Where were we?”

  “We were discussing this Shameeka girl.”

  “Shamega. Shamega Gilfoyle. You do understand that Shamega has been badly shaken by your son. I think I should let her know—”

  “No!” Her tone was imperative. “Don’t tell anyone!” Then she seemed to hear herself—the icy, domineering accents. She ran a hand over her eyes, and sank back in the chair. “You will, of course, do what you feel is right, Professor. But
I ask you to keep this to yourself as much as you can, especially the bit about Thibault’s—ah—indiscretion. I just wanted someone at the school to know about the situation for Tibby’s sake, in case—ah—issues arise next year. And you can see why I didn’t wish to speak to Earlene Johnson.…”

  “No, actually, I can’t. Earlene is quite capable of handling questions of—” I had been about to say racism. Now, considering Joyce’s illness, I softened it. “Of, er, racial issues. They do arise once in awhile, even at Enfield, you know.”

  She gazed down at her hands, white skin wrinkled over bone. “Well, I just wouldn’t feel comfortable. I don’t know many black people.” Her long, thin fingers twisted together. “I don’t know any, actually. Socially, that is.”

  As equals, she meant. Just because this woman was dying didn’t make her an enlightened person. And just because she cared so desperately about the fate of her son, didn’t make her someone I had to like.

  That afternoon I finished going through the Reverend Pinkworth’s account books, concentrating hard in order to erase Joyce Brewster’s death’s-head features from my mind. I learned a great deal about the price of kerosene lamps, chamber pots, and molasses in the 1830’s, ’40’s, and ’50’s. And—much more to the point—I pinned down the date of the final break between the Reverend Eddie and his daughter Serena: The last quarterly payment recorded for Serena Pinkworth was June 1, 1837, just a month before the letter in which Pinkworth threatened to cut off her support if she persisted in her perverse intention to attend college.

  Serena Pinkworth had had moxie; she must have written right back and told her father to go to hell—metaphorically speaking, of course. In an autobiographical introduction to one of her novels, Mrs. Northbury had briefly mentioned her education at Oberlin Collegiate Institute, but had given no indication of the personal cost at which that education had been purchased.

  I jotted a note on my lined yellow pad: Check Oberlin College student records for the late 1830’s. Oberlin had been the first college in the U.S. to admit black students and women students, and was a hotbed of abolition and women’s rights agitation during the years just before the Civil War. I could get all sorts of fascinating historical background for the biography from Oberlin records. Maybe those records would give me some insight into how deeply Serena Northbury had been involved in those activist movements. Her life story was promising to be far more colorful than I could have hoped.

  Closing the Reverend Eddie’s account book, I sat for a moment with my hand on its speckled cardboard cover. Warm pulsing life was recorded here—hot anger and iron determination—and what endures? Fading ink marks in soldierly rows on blue-ruled pages.

  And stories. Serena Northbury’s stories.

  I’d found out a good deal about this storyteller’s life from the spidery entries of her father’s financial accounts, and from other archival material. But there was nothing left at the Enfield library for me to research; Shamega had brought me the last of the Pinkworth boxes this afternoon. I was itching to get back into Meadowbrook. I needed to look through all those boxes of papers, but until Edith’s will was probated, I was not allowed access to the house. With Thibault Brewster contesting his aunt’s final wishes, it could be years before the remaining family papers became available. If Brewster won, I’d never get my hands on them.

  Damn.

  I recalled my earlier thoughts about undertaking a little—ah—research sortie to Meadowbrook. Well, okay, a little breaking and entering. Too bad Meadowbrook had such an extensive security system; when I’d visited with Avery that night, he’d said the alarms were set to sound in the town police station. So a teensy bit of harmless snooping around in the storeroom and attics would not merely be imprudent, it would be downright impossible.

  But Gerry Novak’s cottage was a different matter. I couldn’t shake loose the memory of all those books, magazines, and papers. What was it Miles Jewell had said? Who knows what manuscripts might be in that rat’s nest of a house? According to Piotrowski there was no novel manuscript there—well, obviously not, since Earl Wiggett now seemed to have it, or, at least, to know its whereabouts. I really should tell the lieutenant about my editor’s call, I thought, fleetingly. But my mind swerved immediately back to the Meadowbrook cottage. Even if no novel had been found there, why couldn’t there be other papers relating to the Northbury family? After all, the MacMahon-Novak and Northbury families had lived and worked together at Meadowbrook for more than a century. And surely there would be no security system in that ramshackle little house?

  Some annoying internal voice clamored that it would be wrong to sort through the belongings of a recently dead man without family permission. But, then, as far as I knew, there was no one alive who would care about the Novak family effects. The decades’ worth of hoarded magazines and papers looked like garbage. They would be crated up and thrown out by whoever eventually fell heir to them. And searching through them would certainly be for a good cause: to further the advance of knowledge about an unfairly ignored American novelist.

  I thrummed my fingers on the cover of the Pinkworth account book as I contemplated a scouting trip to the Novak cottage. Yellow police tape had barred the door when I’d been called there by the state police a week earlier. I assumed it still did—but maybe not. The drug unit must be done with the place, and the little house wasn’t actually the scene of any crime. Gerry had drowned in the lake, after all, not at home in the bathtub. And—if I did find anything related to Gerry’s death—or to Edith’s death—I’d immediately turn it over to Piotrowski. So it wouldn’t actually be wrong for me to search the Novak cottage. I pictured myself sorting through all that fascinating junk—

  “You really shouldn’t be doing that, Professor.”

  Shamega’s admonitory tones caused me to jump guiltily. What? She can read my mind?

  She slipped the ancient account book from under my drumming fingers. “I’m surprised at you. This is fragile, you know.” She inspected the speckled cover for damage.

  “Oh, Shamega, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking about what I was doing.”

  She laughed. “You did look about a million miles away. I didn’t mean to startle you, but I’ve got to put the files away, now. It’s closing time.”

  “Closing time? So soon?” I sighed. Another long June evening ahead of me with nothing to do.

  It was going to be a warm, clear night. Maybe I’d just take that little ride up Eastbrook way.

  A message from Sergeant Schultz on my office voice-mail drove any thoughts of an illicit research sortie right out of my mind, however. Felicity Schultz’s dry-as-dust tones communicated her displeasure at having to relay the distasteful message that the lieutenant would like to request my assistance. Again. The Northbury hatbox and its batch of old letters had been tested for fingerprints and other forensic traces, and were now available for my perusal. Would I please contact her at state police headquarters as soon as convenient?

  Like immediately, I thought, and reached for my desk phone. Although it was 5:23 P.M., Schultz answered the phone right away. Ha! I thought, spinning my desk chair around, clearly this woman has no personal life, or she wouldn’t still be in her office. I tucked the phone between my shoulder and my ear and straightened a stack of manila file folders on my desk. “Sergeant? Karen Pelletier here. You requested my assistance?” Not a note in my cool, even tones betrayed the excitement I felt about finally getting my hands on those letters.

  In front of the library Shamega Gilfoyle was talking heatedly to a male student whose back was turned to me. The late afternoon sun transformed her stubby dreadlocks into a spiked ebony helmet. The scene didn’t seem to be so much a conversation as a rout, with my young friend as the pursuing warrior. With the pointer finger of her right hand, Shamega repeatedly poked her adversary in the chest. I was too far away to hear her words, but with each poke he took a sharp backward step. Then he raised his head and began to speak in stuttering tones. In profile, the pale face, pr
ominent nose, and weak mouth were those of Tibby Brewster. Shamega heard my gasp and glanced up just in time to note my first step toward her. Dreadlocks bobbing, she shook her head at me in a sharp, disapproving negative: Leave me alone. I can take care of myself. Irresolute, I remained rooted to the concrete walkway for one, far-too-long minute. Shamega gave me a straight, bristling look, then turned back to Tibby and continued to give him hell. The path to the parking lot skirted the library, and I set my leather sandals down one after the other as if I were an automaton. She wasn’t my daughter. I had no responsibility for her. She was right: She could take care of herself.

  Twenty-six

  Helen Whitlow’s coal-black eye peered at me through a heart-shaped keyhole. I woke with a gasp, the afterimage of that beady jet eye smoldering at me from the nightmare. In my dream Helen had served Jill and me tea sandwiches, small triangular slices of cream-colored paper spread delicately with brownish ink squiggles. The first bite was dry, and I gagged as I swallowed. Then I heard Jill choking as the gold locket she wore with her black crepe bikini tightened of its own volition around her slim white throat.

  I sat straight up in bed and croaked, “Oh, my God!” That’s why Helen had stared so intently at Jill the night we’d visited the Whitlow house: She, too, had recognized that locket! She’d known both Edith and Gerry; she would have seen the gold heart locket any number of times around Edith’s neck. Maybe she’d even seen it in Gerry’s possession—however it got there. The realization unaccountably set my heart pounding with fear for Jill. I was out of bed with my hand on the phone before I came to my senses. What was there to be afraid of? Nothing. So an old woman had recognized an old locket? Big deal.

  I was thirsty; the paper-and-ink sandwich had desiccated my mouth. Without bothering to turn on a light, I stumbled into the kitchen for water. Then I sat at the table with the cold glass between my hands until the sky outside the kitchen window choked itself with dawn.