The Lake of Dreams (13 page)

Across the bottom was written
Gift, Anonymous Donor,
and below that was a stamped notation of the artist:

FRANK WESTRUM, GLASS ARTISAN
ROCHESTER, NEW YORK

“Thanks,” I said. “This is really very helpful.”

“Good. I thought it might be. I’ll make you a copy. Also, I had a kind of brainstorm after you told me your story, so I figured while I was down there with the mice I’d pull the baptismal records from 1910 to 1920. Just to see, you know. We had a flood a few years ago, so there are some gaps in the records, but I thought you might want to take a look. Here.”

I thanked her and sat down on the overstuffed couch and opened the folder, inhaling its scents of dust and mildew, leafing through the ornately printed certificates, each one decorated with the delicately outlined image of a winged dove, haloed, descending toward what looked like a shell. Some certificates were water-stained, some yellowed. The old-fashioned names flashed by: Gloria, Herbert, Evan, Lloyd, Stuart, Susanna, Norman, Earl, Ivy, Bertha, Homer, Gladys, Oscar, Grace. There were no Jarretts, though I saw plenty of last names or middle names that I recognized from families who still lived in the town, or had when I was growing up—the ancestors of my classmates. I tried to imagine what it would have been like to live here in 1910, before the great wars and before the depot was built, when the lake shores were undeveloped, wild land flowing straight down to the water’s edge. There would have been no paved roads. The children whose names were flashing by would have attended one-room schoolhouses and pumped their water out of wells and used lanterns at night.

While flipping through May 1911, I glimpsed a familiar name and went back to check, a pulse of excitement rising as I read. The baptismal certificate was on thick paper, stained at the upper right corner but otherwise intact:

We Do Certify

That According to the Ordinance of
Our Lord Jesus Christ, We Did Administer to

IRIS JARRETT WYNDHAM

On
31st day of March A.D. 1911

The Sacrament of
HOLY BAPTISM

With Water
In the Name of the Father, and of the Son,
and of the Holy Spirit

“Find something juicy?” Joanna asked, pausing to look over my shoulder on her way to the copy machine.

“Yes, actually—I think I did. I found her name. Rose Jarrett.” I thought of the papers from the cupola, the letter about Iris going away, signed with the single letter
R
. This must be her—Rose. I felt such a sense of frisson then, as if this woman who had lived and dreamed and suffered a hundred years ago had just stepped into the office. “She must have been my great-grandfather’s sister. We never heard a thing about her, yet here she is in 1911, a widow with a daughter.”

Joanna sighed. “It gives you chills, doesn’t it, really? When you see these forms, black and white and just filed away in boxes, and then you think how all these people were here once, maybe standing right where we are now, having conversations, living out their lives.”

I nodded, thinking of the cloth, wrapped in layers of paper, hidden behind the lining of my great-grandfather’s trunk. Maybe it had been for Iris. A baby blanket, perhaps—that made sense, given its size, its delicacy, and the care put into its weaving. But why had it been hidden away? “I wonder what happened to her—to them both?”

“I hate to say it,” Joanna said, handing me the copy of the receipt, “but I can check the burial records if you want. Lots of children didn’t make it in those days. She’d have just been little when the flu epidemic hit.”

“That could be,” I said, feeling oddly relieved; as sad as that story would be, at least I’d have an answer. “That would explain why no one in the family ever talked about them.” Then I remembered the other note, the one about sending Iris away, but I asked Joanna to check the records anyway.

“Could I have a copy of this birth certificate, too?”

“No problem.” She slid it onto the glass and closed the lid. “I won’t get back to the archives today. Maybe not tomorrow, either. But if you leave me your number, I’ll call when I can and let you know. You could check the cemetery records, too. Marriage records, that sort of thing. Newspaper archives.”

“Thanks very much.”

“Glad to help. It’s kind of a fascinating mystery, isn’t it?”

It was, I thought, but it was more than that, too. I felt such a quickening to think there was a family story I hadn’t yet heard, a way of thinking about the past that might break open everything I’d understood. It was exhilarating and a little frightening, too; alluring.

“Yes,” I said, taking the papers. “Yes, indeed, it is.”

Chapter 6

IN A LABYRINTH, WALKING THE SINUOUS PATH THAT LEADS finally to the center, people once carried clews, round balls made of twine, to help them find their way back out. As I left the church, I felt I’d just discovered such a clue, tangible and full in my hands, unraveling slowly to mark my way through this unexpected landscape of the past. I threaded my way back through the byzantine corridors, questions about Rose Jarrett and the artist Frank Westrum rising one after another. She must have known him, somehow; she must have been responsible for the border in the windows, a kind of signature. She might even have commissioned the windows, or been involved in their design somehow. If the papers from the cupola were any indication, she’d been an adventurous person, passionate and thoughtful, interested in women’s suffrage. It was as if a window had appeared where I’d imagined only a wall, so now I could look through it to discover another way to see the story. Whatever had happened to Rose had happened long ago, was ancient history, really, yet I felt instinctively that there was a connection to my own life, and this was both thrilling and a little frightening, too—because what if in the end I discovered something I didn’t want to know?

I wanted to see the window again, to see if there was anything I’d missed. Keegan had already gone, however; the door to the vestment room was locked. I probably could have eased it open if I’d tried, but the eyes of all those rectors lined up along the wall made me too uncomfortable. I had a sense, also, that I should not trespass, which echoed the feeling I’d always had growing up that the mystery of this place was ultimately sealed against me, no matter how much I might long to enter. I was a girl, and so my picture would never look like the long line of men whose faces lined the wall and whose domain this seemed. Though in the Episcopal Church women were regularly ordained starting in 1976, Suzi was the first female priest I had ever met. Likewise, in my family, the stories never had women at the center, which was one reason why the discovery of Rose—an ancestor I’d never heard of before—felt so astonishing and intriguing.

I walked on. The sanctuary was very still, my footsteps echoing on the tiles. Near the front doors, at the end of the aisle, I paused and turned. Light filtered through the stained-glass windows, muted and serene. Each one told a story, invisible in darkness, taking life only when the sun rose and filled the colors, and each was the story also of the people who had given it, long dead now, whose names ran along the bottom in gold letters.
In honor of James, Hannah, Our Beloved Mother, The Evans Family, Sarah, Virginia, child of Susan and Samuel
. What had Joanna said in the office as she handed me these papers?
It gives you chills . . . all these people . . . standing right where we are now . . . living out their lives
. My father had grown up in this church, and his father. My great-grandfather Joseph had walked these aisles before anyone alive today was born.

And Rose. She had stood here, too, decades before the chapel on the depot land was built yet somehow connected to it, holding her infant daughter, trying to soothe her perhaps, tucking the edge of blanket closer against the coolness radiating from the stone walls, even in May. Then she had walked out into the world and disappeared.

A door fell shut; footsteps sounded on the choir stairs, and then the Reverend Suzi emerged into the sanctuary.

“Ah, Lucy,” she said, looking momentarily startled. “Still here? Can I help you with something?”

“I’m just leaving. I just wanted to stand in the church for a minute, I guess. I hope that’s okay. I was thinking about all the people who’ve stood here before me. I haven’t been here since my father died,” I added.

“Of course it’s okay. I heard about his accident,” she said. “I’m sorry. It must have been very hard.”

I nodded. “It was. But it was a long time ago.”

“Some moments resonate in powerful ways,” she said.

Our voices were soft amid the stone walls, the wood. I didn’t know what else to say, and anyway my throat had thickened with the memory. Suzi let the silence gather for a moment.

“You’re Evie Jarrett’s daughter, aren’t you?” she asked, finally. “How’s your mother doing? How’s her arm?”

“She’s fine,” I said. “Better than I could have imagined, actually; she’s even got a date this afternoon.”

Again, Suzi didn’t respond right away, which made me really have to think about the words I’d spoken, to hear the sharp edge my tone had carried.

“You know, your mother’s very glad you’re here,” she said. “I went to see her after the accident and she was so excited that you might come. It must be a little strange for you, though. Are things very different?”

“Oh, very! Everything has changed so much. Even here. Maybe especially here. It wasn’t that long ago, but I was the first girl allowed to be an acolyte in this church.”

“Really? So you were breaking new ground.” Suzi spoke rather pensively, which made me wonder about the path she’d taken.

“I suppose I was. I didn’t think about it that way, though. I just wanted to be an acolyte. I hate to say it, looking back, but it didn’t cross my mind even then that women could be priests.”

“Some changes take a very long time. Like water on stone. That’s why I’m so especially interested in these windows.” She nodded at the manila folder Joanna had given me. “Did you find anything?”

“Yes, actually. I did.” The photocopies of the baptismal certificate and the window receipt were still faintly warm from the machine when I handed them to her. “Rose. Her name was Rose Jarrett. She would have been my great-great-aunt, though I’ve never heard of her before. She had a daughter, Iris.”

“Reverend David Prescott—he’s in one of the photos on the wall,” she noted, pointing out the signature. “Such a long time ago. No one would remember her, which is too bad. Whoever she was, she seems to have found a way to see herself—and women in general—in the sacred texts. To imagine herself into the story, so to speak. I think that must have been exceptionally difficult at the time.”

“I know. I wonder what happened to her. And to Iris, too. Plus there’s the border pattern, which is so fascinating. Keegan said the windows dated to the 1930s, but the papers I have are much earlier.”

“Keegan, yes.” She nodded, smiling, as she gave me back the photocopies. “Well, he would know, wouldn’t he? I’ve become very fond of Keegan, working with him on these windows. He has enormous expertise, and he’s been good enough to donate his time, which is a real blessing. The windows are a treasure, but they turn out to be so incredibly expensive to maintain.”

“It’s been good to see him again,” I said, remembering Keegan lifting Max into the air, their jokes back and forth, their laughter. I thought about Blake and Avery with a baby on the way, the elegant vase of gladioli sent to my mother by a stranger, the mysterious old papers, fragile and gritty to the touch.

Her cell phone rang, shattering the quiet, and the Reverend Suzi slipped it from her pocket, glancing at the number.

“Sorry—I have to take this,” she said, gesturing toward the door. “It’s good to meet you, Lucy. Come by anytime. And keep me posted on whatever you find, okay?”

Outside the muted sanctuary, the world seemed bright, newly washed and vibrant. Summer traffic was already backing up the hill and the sidewalks were crowded with tourists in their loose bright cotton clothes. I walked without intention for a while, absorbed by my discoveries, wandering through shops without really seeing what I was looking at. In the park I wove my way through the art fair to the seawall and tried to call Keegan; he didn’t pick up, so I left a message about the baptismal certificate as I wandered on through the village. At last I found myself at the pier where Blake moored his boat. The
Fearful Symmetry
was graceful, thirty feet long with a tall white mast, bobbing gently on the water. I stepped down onto the deck and called his name, but the voice that floated up from the cabin was Avery’s, light and questioning. She appeared at the bottom of the stairs wearing jeans and a gauzy yellow blouse, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail.