“That’ll be five bucks for the session.”
“The check’s in the mail.”
After we hang up, I think through the conversation as I unpack the single sack of groceries I’ve picked up at the BI-LO, which I remember as the Piggly Wiggly.
Were there any clues in what Uncle Clifford said?
Nothing jumps out at me. Nothing that leads anywhere. If the little boy in the jon boat was named Trent, that tells me that my grandmother had some sort of personal connection to the elder Trent Turner, which I’d already guessed. But if they spent time out fishing together with the children, that also pokes holes in my blackmail theory. You don’t go fishing with a blackmailer, and you certainly don’t take your little boys. You also don’t bring children with you if you’re having an illicit affair. Especially not children who are old enough to remember the outing.
Maybe the elder Trent Turner was nothing more than a longtime friend. Maybe the envelope merely contains photos…something totally innocent. But then, why the deathbed pledge between grandfather and grandson that the packets wouldn’t be passed along to anyone other than their owners?
I form theories as I carry my things to the bedroom, open my suitcase, and settle in. I throw darts at the theories, just the way I would if we were gathered in the war room at my old office.
The darts hit their marks, and there’s really nothing left. The day is catching up with me anyway. I’m ready for a shower and a good night’s sleep. Maybe tomorrow I’ll have a stroke of genius…or maybe I’ll catch up with Trent Turner III and wrestle the truth out of him.
One possibility seems about as likely as the other.
It’s not until I’m letting the shower run and realizing that there seems to be no hot water in the cottage that I zero in on something Uncle Clifford said. My grandmother came here to write.
Could any of her writings still be here? Could there be a clue in them?
I’m back into my clothes in a flash. The cold shower really didn’t sound so good anyway.
Outside the cottage windows, the sea oats sway over the dunes, and the moon rises above the palmetto thicket. Waves thrum the shore as I rifle through drawers and search closets and blanket chests and wardrobe cabinets. I’ve almost surrendered to the obvious conclusion that there’s nothing here to find when I come up from checking beneath my grandmother’s bed and realize the small piece of furniture beside it isn’t a desk or a vanity table but a typewriter stand. There’s an old black typewriter hanging upside down underneath the center panel. Having grown up in family homes filled with vintage furniture, I more or less know how this thing works. It doesn’t take me long to release the right combination of latches and swivel the hinges. The typewriter flips upright with an impressive wallop.
I run a finger over the keys. I can almost hear my grandmother pecking away at them. Leaning close, I study the black rubber roller that pulls the page through. The keys have left tiny indentations behind. If this were a computer, perhaps I could pull something off the hard drive, but no words remain legible here. It’s impossible to tell what’s been written or when.
“What do you know that I don’t know?” I whisper to the machine as I rifle through the drawers. There’s nothing in the stand but assorted pens and pencils, yellowed typing paper, a box of carbon sheets, and strips of correction film, chalky white on one side and slick on the other. The top sheet bears the impression of letters. Holding it to the light, I can easily make out the mistyped-then-corrected words, Plmetto Blvd, Edisto Island…
My grandmother wrote letters here apparently, but either accidentally or on purpose, she cleaned up her tracks. There are no partially used pieces of paper, and the carbon sheets are pristine, no ghosts of words left behind. Strange, because in her desk back home, there was always a folder filled with paper that could be reused for small projects, crafts, or children’s drawings.
I push a typewriter key, watch the hammer swing up and strike the roller, leaving behind only the faint, shimmery impression of a K. The ink on the ribbon is dry.
The ribbon…
The next thing I know, I’m bent over the black metal housing, wrestling it loose so I can get to the spools. It’s surprisingly easy. Unfortunately, the ribbon is mostly unused. Only a few inches of it might contain the stamped-out impression of whatever was typed last. Unrolling it and holding it against the light, I squint to make out,
yduJ,?ylerecins?sruoY.tihsiw?thgimewsa?yletarepsedsa?,tnerT?,wonkreven?lliwew?spahreP?.yteicoSemoH?s’nerdlihC?eessenneT?ehtfosdrocer?ehtnineeb?evahthgim?esletahw?gnirednowdna?detartsurf
It’s gibberish at first, but I’ve been around Grandma Judy long enough to know how a typewriter ribbon works. It rolls as the keys strike. The letters have to be in some sort of order.
The first letters on the top line suddenly take on meaning. Judy. My grandmother’s name spelled backward, right to left, the way it would have ended up after being typed. Another word rises from the muddle, Society just after—or before—the period.
Three more capitalized words precede it: Tennessee Children’s Home.
Grabbing a pencil and paper, I sort out the rest.
…frustrated and wondering what else might have been in the records of the Tennessee Children’s Home Society. Perhaps we will never know, Trent, as desperately as we might wish it.
Yours sincerely,
Judy
I stare at my own handwriting, trying to piece together the rest of the story. Children’s homes are for orphans and babies given up for adoption. The young woman in May Crandall’s photo was pregnant. Was she a relative of my grandmother’s—one who found herself in trouble?
Events come to life in my mind—a starry-eyed girl from a good family, a man of dubious reputation, a scandalous elopement—or worse yet, no marriage at all. An out-of-wedlock pregnancy. Perhaps her beau abandoned her, and she was forced to return to her family?
Back in those days, girls were sent away to have their babies and quietly sign them over for adoption. Even now, women in my mother’s social circles occasionally whisper about someone who went to stay with an aunt for a time. Perhaps that’s what Trent Turner is keeping hidden.
One thing is for certain—the last note written on this typewriter was to a Trent Turner, and though I can’t tell how recent it is, there’s little doubt that whatever’s in the mysterious envelope will answer a lot of questions.
Or create more.
Without rethinking it, I hurry across the house, grab my phone, and dial Trent Turner’s number, which I now know by heart.
The phone rings three times before I glance at the clock and realize it’s almost midnight. Not at all a proper hour to be calling a near stranger. My mother would be aghast.
If you want to win the man’s cooperation, this isn’t the way to do it, Avery has just gone through my head when a thick, drowsy “?’Ello, Nrent Nnurner” confirms that I have, indeed, rousted him from bed. That’s probably why he answered the phone without checking to see who it was.
“Tennessee Children’s Home Society,” I blurt out, because I calculate that I have about 2.5 seconds before he comes to his senses and hangs up.
“What?”
“The Tennessee Children’s Home Society. What does it have to do with your grandfather and my grandmother?”
“Miss Stafford?” Despite the formal form of address, his thick, sleep-laden tone makes the greeting sound intimate, like pillow talk. A heavy sigh follows, and I hear bedsprings creaking.
“Avery. It’s Avery. Please, you have to tell me. I found something. I need to know what it means.”
Another long exhale. He clears his throat, but the voice is still deep and drowsy. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”
I glance sheepishly at the clock, as if that somehow excuses my bad behavior. “I apologize. I didn’t notice until after I’d dialed.”
“You could hang up.”