Elaine Orr - Jolie Gentil 02 - Rekindling Motives (6 page)

Scoobie’s expression was unreadable.
“Then he should mind his own damn business.”

“Right.”
We walked a few more steps in silence, and Scoobie stopped, so I did, too.

“I think I’m going to the library.
I’ll catch you later, Jolie.” He turned and strode the other direction down the boardwalk.

I walked the short distance to my car wishing I’d said something different.
When Scoobie and I were by ourselves it was easy to forget that he had “issues,” as he put it. Maybe Scoobie thought I was sticking up for Joe. “Damn it!” I kicked at the lid of a soft drink cup, and then swore again. My tailbone was not up for kicking anything.

CHAPTER FIVE

AUNT MADGE HELPED ME CARRY IN the photo albums. She placed them on the large oak table in her kitchen/great room combo. “I’ll get some damp paper towels and wipe off any dust,” I said.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” she said, almost stroking the cloth binding on the top album.

“It’s not sacred scripture, you know.”

“I’m well aware of that,” she said.
“But they are part of someone’s life, surely someone long gone. It almost feels as if we’ll be trespassing to read them.”

I smiled at her use of ‘we’ as I dampened a couple of towels.
Aunt Madge prides herself on not gossiping, but I knew she was as eager to look at the albums as I was. For starters, I wanted to see Richard Tillotson’s face in something other than a grainy old newspaper photograph.

The albums weren’t that dusty, since they’d been in a trunk.
What they were was falling apart. As Aunt Madge opened the top one – its velvet cover a deep red in all but a corner that had evidently been more exposed to light and was almost pink – there was the crackle of aged paper and the three photos slid sideways on the page.

“Do you suppose someone took them out at some point?” I asked.

“No. The glue just dried up, that’s all.” She moved the photos back to their original spots on the page and closed the book. “I have some of those little adhesive corners you use to put photos in albums. I don’t think it would hurt anything to fasten these more securely. I’ll help you after dinner.”

AFTER I FINISHED DUSTING all the albums, I settled on Aunt Madge’s couch and pulled one of them to me.
I started with one that seemed close to the time of Richard Tillotson’s disappearance. It was a challenge to figure out which photos went with which captions, and I was not sure I should refasten the ones that had come unglued. Eventually I figured if I didn’t one of Gracie’s kids would grab an album and scatter all the old photographs.

Richard was taller than most men in the 1920s, perhaps six feet.
It made me realize that his skeleton must have been bent a little at the knees to stand up in the attic wardrobe. The pre-skeleton Richard had wavy dark hair and a broad smile. This was in contrast to his future brother-in-law. Peter Fisher was almost a head shorter than Richard and his expression was usually somber.

There were several photos of a smiling Audrey Tillotson, and one of the captions said, “The day Peter proposed.”
Standing next to her, Peter Fisher almost cracked a smile. Two pages further there was a picture of Richard and a woman identified simply as Mary Doris. They had posed with the ocean in the background and were holding hands as they smiled at the camera. I jotted her name in my notebook. If she were still alive, she might know more about Richard’s disappearance. Perhaps Aunt Madge would know who she was. I studied Mary Doris more, taking in the flapper girl’s clothes and small hat and the long string of pearls that hung to just above her belly button. She and Richard looked as if they didn’t have a care in the world.

Mary Doris was in several other photos, sometimes with Audrey and other young women of their age, which looked to be early 20s.
This was clearly the Ocean Alley jet set of the times. I smiled at my mental choice of words. These women would never have heard of a jet airplane.

I couldn’t take my eyes off their dresses.
Did they always get so dressed up? The Tillotson family must have had a lot of money back then. My own has very few pictures of grandparents or aunts and uncles of the time.

When Aunt Madge came into the room a few minutes later I asked her about Mary Doris.
“Mary Doris Milner,” she said. “She lives at the nursing home on the edge of town. She must be, oh, in her mid-nineties.”

“She’s alive then?
How do you think she’d react to a visit?”

Aunt Madge shook her head.
“You need to leave her alone, Jolie. Uncle Gordon said Richard’s disappearance struck her so hard that she went to stay with family in the Midwest for quite some time afterwards. She said she didn’t want to see the ocean without Richard.”

“She must have been embarrassed because she thought he left her,” I said.

Aunt Madge settled next to me on the couch and opened a copy of
Popular Science
magazine. “She got over him just fine, eventually. She got a teaching certificate and worked until she was well into her sixtie.”

“Did she ever marry?”

“No, but she was so close to her brother’s family that her nephew and later his daughter would visit every summer for several weeks.” Aunt Madge closed the magazine. “Her brother’s granddaughter eventually moved here to stay with Mary Doris. What was her name?” She tilted her head back and closed her eyes, then opened them and looked at me. “She came her junior year of high school. She fought a lot with her mother, I think, but not Mary Doris.”

After looking through another album that was after Richard’s disappearance, I was done for the night.
The albums had served their purpose. I had a lead in the form of Mary Doris Milner, and she was close at hand.

WHEN I WENT DOWN TO BREAKFAST the next morning Aunt Madge handed me a piece of paper with Reverend Jamison’s name and phone numbers.
“He won’t give up, you know.” She eyed me as she poured cream into a creamer. “He’s at least as stubborn as you are.”

“I prefer to think that I’m disciplined enough to follow through with things.”
I stuck the note into the pocket of my cotton slacks and helped myself to some orange juice.

Later that morning I called Reverend Jamison, who asked me to come to the vicarage to talk about the food pantry.
“Feel free to bring Scoobie, if you want to.”

I went alone, and listened patiently as he downplayed the time commitment, talking about how to get volunteers and which food banks donated to the church food pantry.
He introduced me to the church secretary as we left his office to visit the pantry, which was adjacent to the church in its community room area.

“You’re Madge’s niece.”
She said this as if she thought I didn’t know.

I took in her tight perm, slightly pursed lips, and the cardigan over her shoulders.
She was probably about Aunt Madge’s age, but dressed severely. I sensed disapproval oozing from every pore. “Yes, one of them. You might have also have met my sister Renée, she’s the one who was more likely to go to church with Aunt Madge.”

“I do remember the time you tried to take money out of the collection basket.
For ice cream, I recall that you said.”

“Chocolate,” I said, and followed Reverend Jamison out of the room.

He tossed a grin over his shoulder. “Mrs. Mackey doesn’t think you are holy enough to work with our clients.”

“In my defense,” I said, appreciating his comment, “I was three years old and didn’t understand the concept of the collection plate.
Besides, it’s not like I’m supposed to make extra bread and fish appear from thin air.”

“You may have to do a bit of that.”
His tone was more somber. “It gets harder to secure what we need. More people need help every year.”

“Oh.”
The sinking feeling I’d had in my stomach dropped to my knees.
What am I getting myself into?

He unlocked the door leading to the pantry and flipped on a light switch.
The layout reminded me of a dry cleaner’s shop. There was a no-nonsense counter at the front, but instead of rotating garment racks there were rows of shelves, none of which was full.

We walked through the approximately 20x20 room, and I noted that each shelf was labeled – canned fruit, tuna, vegetables, canned ham, and row upon row of pasta noodles.
“Nothing fresh?” I asked.

“Rarely.
We aren’t set up to store it. We get some frozen turkeys before the holidays, but we pass them out the same day.”

“So, if someone has kids…” I started.

“Some of the families have food stamps, some don’t.” He stopped to smooth a label that had come half unattached from its shelf. “If they get some non-perishable goods here it leaves them more for milk and eggs and such.”

The door opened again and a young woman with a teenage girl came in.
“Good morning Reverend. We’re a little early, but I was able to get a ride instead of taking the bus.”

“Megan, this is Jolie Gentil.
I’m trying to get her to take the helm of the Food Pantry Committee.” As I shook hands with Megan, he added, “Megan is one of our most regular volunteers. And,” he glanced at the teenage girl, “her daughter Alicia comes with her sometimes.”

Alicia nodded but said nothing. It appeared coming here was her mother’s idea, not hers.
As we left, Alicia was taking things from under the counter and setting them on top – a metal can with pens and pencils, a clipboard that appeared to be a sign-in sheet, and a large stack of paper bags.

We walked back to the vicarage without talking.
I had my hands balled in the pockets of my hooded jacket, and was trying to imagine myself being in charge of the food pantry. I really didn’t want to do it, but seeing Megan made me think there would be at least a few good volunteers.

“So,” Reverend Jamison asked as we
walked back to his office, “you want the keys and list of volunteers?” When I didn’t answer immediately, he said, “At least give it a try. If it really isn’t something you can do, you can always quit.”

“The problem is I’m not much of a quitter.
Even if I didn’t want to do it, I’d let it eat me up rather than quit.”

He nodded.
“That’s what I’m counting on.”

I THREW THE
KEYS INTO MY small jewelry box and set the two folders on the bed. One had a list of volunteers and the food pantry hours, the other food suppliers. Though the pantry is only open to the public three days each week, and Reverend Jamison stressed I did not have to be there every time it was open, I sensed that I’d spend a lot of time rounding up food. “Damn it, Jolie, how do you get yourself into these things?” Jazz meowed from her perch on my pillow, and I knew this was all the response I’d get.

Aunt Madge was out, so I went looking for Scoobie.
I wanted to spend more time on the attic inventory so we could be done with it. I also intended to make him work as hard as I did at the food pantry.

Scoobie was in his usual spot at a table in the library, his notebook in front of him, probably working on some poetry.
I placed my donut on the seat across from him and he raised his eyes to meet mine.

“I need to finish this.”
He bent over his writing again, and I sat still for almost three minutes. I knew it was that long because there is a big clock above the check-out desk.

Finally I stood and went to browse the magazine rack.
Five minutes later Scoobie joined me. “What’s up?”

Since he was holding the notebook in his hand I nodded toward it.
Sometimes he shares his writing. “Can I see?”

He handed me the notebook and I read the few lines.

Midnight
’s here, the choice is ours

Lowered voices drift up the stair

We can choose to sleep and ignore the rest

Stay unconcerned, try not to care

Pay attention, they’re about to decide

Watch the wall, better unaware

I never know what to say when I read Scoobie’s poems.
I met his eyes. “I thought you were writing something longer.”

He reached for the notebook, not offended, but seeming to wish I’d said something different.
“This is the first draft. Long is easy. Short takes more thought. Why are you here?”

“You want to go back to the old house again?”
I asked. “We probably didn’t even inventory ten percent.” I tried to discern the mood he was in, but failed.

“I told Ramona she could come with us one of the times.
She’s really into antiques.” He turned to walk back to the table that held his knapsack.

I liked this idea.
“We can swing by the Purple Cow and pick her up.” The Purple Cow is the local office supply store, and Ramona has worked there ever since she graduated from college. As close as I can figure, it gives her a salary but doesn’t involve much use of her brain, which she likes to reserve for her art.

Every day, unless the winds are gale force, Ramona places a white board on a stand just outside the store and puts an inspirational saying on it.
Occasionally someone erases it and substitutes a funny or rude message. I recently learned it’s Scoobie, though Ramona doesn’t know this yet. We pulled in front of the store, and I saw that today’s message board read, “I believe that every single event in life happens as an opportunity to choose love over fear.” Oprah Winfrey

“Hmm,” Scoobie said.
“Ramona’s creeping into the modern age.”

We had called before we drove over to see if Ramona could leave early.
She could and had her coat held over her arm as she showed a customer how to use the small photocopy machine.