The Lake of Dreams (38 page)

“Thanks.” I started to leave, eager to get upstairs, but hesitated, turned back. “You okay?”

She gave a short laugh and waved her hand. “Yeah, I’m fine, I’ll be fine. Big fight with the boyfriend, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry. Hey—at least you got a great tan.”

“A great tan and about three thousand mosquito bites. I forgot the bug spray. Mea culpa, to be sure. But would you break up with someone over that?”

“I might not be the best person to ask,” I told her, because I had, in fact, over the years broken up with people for reasons every bit as trivial, determined not to assume any complications or emotional baggage, determined—though I could not see it then—not to let anyone too close. That’s what I’d finally realized out on the lake with Keegan. It had been easy enough, living the global life I’d led, to keep myself free of any attachments, even to feel noble in my pursuit of the next great job. I hadn’t often paused to consider the people—or the possibilities—I’d left behind. I thought of them now, though, all the romantic partners I’d kept at arm’s length. Whatever ended up happening with Yoshi, at least I hadn’t run away. Though I’d come close.

“It was just bug spray,” she said, and sighed.

“You know what? I’m pretty sure you’re better off without him.”

A phone rang, and as she answered it I went up the curving staircase. The last big box was waiting on the walnut table with the others, as promised. Light filtered in through the lace curtains and made patterns on the polished wood. The air smelled of dust and old paper. Rows and rows of books lined the shelves and I let my eyes linger on the sturdy spines, thinking how human books were, so full of ideas and images, worlds imagined, worlds perceived; full of fingerprints and sudden laughter and the sighs of readers, too. It was humbling to consider all these authors, struggling with this word or that phrase, recording their thoughts for people they’d never meet. In that same way, the detritus of the boxes was humbling—receipts, jotted notes, photos with no inscriptions, all of it once held together by the fabric of lives now finished, gone.

I was methodical this time, not digging aimlessly, but making little stacks according to type. Downstairs the door opened and closed, voices drifting; the phone rang. I sipped my cold coffee, and searched.

I had my eyes open for a binder like the one in which I’d found the other letters, but it wasn’t until halfway through the last box that I found several more envelopes, this time held together with two ancient rubber bands that crumbled when I tried to pull them off. The handwriting on the top one was familiar, Rose’s sharp and slanted script, and my scientific training was no help to me then; my hands trembled. I scanned through them quickly, not stopping to read, not yet, aware of the time. More notes, ledgers, birthday cards from friends, and, every now and then, another letter. I set these aside as I found them. When the box was finally empty, I settled back in the chair and began to read.

30 April 1915

Dearest Iris,

Today is your 4th birthday. Joseph writes that you are well. He sent me a little drawing you made, the figure of a person with two big eyes and stick legs. There was also a cat, which must be Shadow, because you have drawn him with a black crayon. And you wrote your name, the letters so big, in dark blue, the same color as your eyes. Good for you! I will see you soon, I am saving the money to come and see you. To make a life for you here.

Since it hurts my heart to imagine you there without me, I will write to you about this life here, which is so different than any life I have ever lived or imagined. The people here are not like any I have known. They come and go, so many. People gather here almost every evening to debate the issues of the day. They are so passionate, arguing about the plight of workers and the situation of women. They are artists and nurses, teachers and even some lawyers, musicians, too. Books and ideas fill the rooms. Sometimes the fierce discussions transform into music and singing, or recitations. A few actors come, and sometimes the baker from next door, and the woman whose husband oversees a museum. In this company I am often quiet. I can hardly keep up with the swift wit, the arguments. But no one minds. People drift over to talk. I feel I have many friends here.

I made a new friend last week. Her name is Beatrice. She came to me during one of the evenings when they were acting out a skit in the living room. She is petite, the mother of four children, the oldest not much younger than I am, and she is almost as quiet as I am in a crowded room. Her eyes are dark and sparkle with life and follow everything. She told me that I have an interesting face and quite extraordinary eyes, that she had been observing me for some time. Her husband is an artist and she thinks he would like very much to paint me. He would pay me to model and it would not be much work, and I could do it easily even after my long days. Thankfully, I am not in the factories. Vivian heard of an elderly woman who needed a companion, and so I spend my days in her grand house, walking the miles back here in the evening, glad for any weather after the hours and hours inside, bent over whatever tasks she gives me.

Because I want the money so, because it would bring me closer to you, I said yes about the modeling. The artist is Frank Westrum. She acted as if I should have heard of him, but of course I have not.

When I asked Vivian if this would be a good and honest thing to do, she said quite emphatically that it would be, indeed it was an honor.

I must tell you of Vivian. I have been in this city for six months now and she has become my good friend. At least, I hope we are friends, because I admire her so. I am grateful to her, also. This is her house, you see, and many people live here, and we share resources and the work. Vivian is much younger than Mrs. Elliot, maybe even ten years. Her mother died when she was born and her father died while she was still in school. This is the family home. I think she once lived a very merry life, with parties and gowns and dinners and theater. And yet she was moved by work she had done to help the poor, the women she met who could hardly afford to feed their children. So after a time she began to study nursing, and to hold these salons. She knows everyone. Twice a week she goes out to the poorest of the poor, to their dim homes, crowded and spare yet often immaculate, tending to their illnesses, leaving without pay.

I know, because sometimes I go with her.

It is very difficult to see such suffering. And yet it is a relief in some way, for I see how desperate lives can be, and feel thankful for my own. I feel I was right to leave you in my brother’s home, in comfort, in safety, however much it grieves me still.

Now it is late, so late, I am tired. Sleep well, sweet birthday girl, and dream of

Your loving mother, Rose.

I put the letter down on the table. So, I’d been right; she had modeled for him, if not in the studio in Rochester, then earlier, in New York City. I wondered if their relationship had been more than artist and model. Beatrice was her friend, and I didn’t want to imagine that Rose had betrayed her. I understood Oliver a little bit better in that moment, the fierce attachment he’d formed to Frank Westrum and his reluctance to have that persona challenged in any way. I found my phone and pulled up the picture I’d kept, the one of the Joseph window in Keegan’s studio. The image was so small, but I stared at it, trying to decipher the woman’s features, wondering if it was Rose, and if so, what she had been thinking as she stood in his silent studio, letting him draw her image late into the night.

The next was a card, white stock, with the initials CWE in gold script.

2 May 1916

My dear Rose,

I hope this letter finds you as well as I left you after my visit. It gladdens my heart a great deal to see you are happy in your new life, and to know that your brave stand for the rights of women did not end completely badly. I promised to write to you of Iris, and I am happy to report that she is very well. I saw her yesterday, playing in the front yard with dolls made out of fabric, and when I paused and spoke to her she spoke to me so nicely, with fine manners and, I am delighted to say, a lively and curious intellect as well. She is thriving. You would be proud. I will check on her from time to time and write with any news. Meanwhile, rest your heart—she is safe and very well.

Yours truly, Nelia

Another brief letter, in the familiar bold handwriting.

17 May 1916

Dear Sister,

Iris had her 5th birthday in the garden. Cora baked a cake that looked like a flower, gold and white icing and yellow custard in the center. We had lemonade. Iris has a new purple dress and new shoes, too. Cora put away her mourning clothes last month. I work the farm but I am looking into starting a lock business. I have a knack with locks.

Mrs. Elliot told me she saw you. She said you are fine. I have a hard time listening to that woman. She is still causing all sorts of trouble about the vote. I am studying to become a citizen and you should, too.

Joseph

10 September 1916

Dear Sister,

Your letter arrived and I am glad to know Mother and Father are well. Ellen wrote to me, too. I married Cora yesterday. It has been a year since Jesse died, we have waited. I asked Cora but she doesn’t think you should return to this house. I was hoping this was Jesse’s view, but it is hers, too. I am sorry. I am sorry I did not see you, too. I did not establish an account with the money you sent because there have been expenses, for clothes and new shoes and also books. I have spent wisely. Iris is happy, she plays in the garden all the time.

Joseph

The next letter in the pile was thick, written by Rose and dated earlier that same summer, written on thin paper with garlands of light blue flowers—forget-me-nots, I realized—framing the corners.

June 1916

Dearest Iris,

I saw you today, playing outside. You are so grown up! Your hair is so long—and you had grown tall. But I knew it was you. I stood beneath the oak tree in Mrs. Elliot’s front yard, and I watched you. I can hardly describe how full and happy my heart was in that moment.

It had been almost a year and a half since I had seen you. Finally, I had saved enough money to visit. It was the modeling that made it possible. It was hard to sit in the studio evening after evening, for it was cold in the winter and stifling in the summer, and I had to hold every muscle very still, even when I was about to faint with fatigue. Watch your eyelids, he’d warn, hold your chin a little higher, and I would do my best. He is a kind man, if somewhat gruff and abrupt, and my friend Beatrice is kind, too. Sometimes she teaches me design, for she studied before she married and she is very, very good.

So I sat, and worked, and saved, and I came to see you.

It is June, the first bloom of summer, but it was chilly when I arrived. Like spring, like March, instead. I meant to see Joseph, of course, and to pay a visit to Cora, whose name is Jarrett now, though she does not feel like a sister. It was overcast and you had taken out all your winter things again—the blue coat and the pale blue hat and mittens I had fashioned to send to you at Christmas. I left my suitcase on Mrs. Elliot’s porch and walked across the street, so impatient to see you, to touch you. The mittens were falling from your hands, dangling from your wrists on the little strings I had made, and your hat was off, too, bouncing against your back, and your coat swinging open, because it really was not very cold, revealing your sunshine dress. The hollyhocks were blooming, their soft bell shapes hanging from the tall stems, and you picked some and began to shape them into dolls—an unopened bud for the head, the blooming flower for a skirt. We used to do this together, I taught you how. You were intent, and did not look up until I squatted down beside you. Then you pushed your hair from your face and smiled.

“I’m making dolls”, you said. “Do you want to help?”

“Yes, I’ll help. They’re very pretty”.

“My mother taught me”, she said, and this pierced me with joy, because even though you did not know me right away, you certainly remembered.

“Your mother loves you so much”, I said.

“I know. She’s pretty and she made me these mittens”.

“Those are very nice mittens”, I said, and I remembered sitting downstairs, knitting those mittens for your little hands, while conversations swirled around me.

“I got them in my stocking. They were put away. Mama says I may play with them awhile, but I must put them back, I mustn’t get them dirty”.

I waited for a heartbeat, two, then three, taking in the meaning of your words.

“Who said you must put the mittens away?”

“Mama said. Mama Cora. Did you come to see her? She’s in the kitchen, making bread”.

“No”, I said, and then I could not say more.

You finished your flower doll and handed it to me.

“I made it for you”, you said. “You are a pretty lady”. And then you stood up and ran off, laughing.

I let you go, your pale blue mittens flashing against the folds of your coat.

I had to pause. I stood up and walked to the window, which overlooked the expansive front lawn, and watched cars travel up and down the street. I was filled with compassion for Rose, squatting on the damp ground with the daughter who did not know her, and there was nothing to do with this emotion because Rose was gone, long dead. I thought of my great-grandfather, whose story had seemed so seamless from our vantage point in history, struggling in his early years to start Dream Master Locks, taking care of a child who was not his own, married to a woman with endless aspirations for their lives. Close-up, their lives were as complex and chaotic as my own, full of mistakes and disappointments and good intentions gone awry. I felt duped, for I’d believed in the clear-cut heroic arc of my great-grandfather’s life, and I’d known nothing of Rose, erased from the family lore as surely as if she hadn’t existed. I went back to the letters to find out what she’d done next.