“So we get there at nine on the dot. Dad started with ‘Our daughter recently passed papers on 10 Turpentine Lane.’ The clerk was expressionless. She takes out a roll of stamps and starts putting them on envelopes—must’ve been property tax bills. So Dad tries ‘We’re pretty sure that the name we want to look up is Lavoie.’ Finally, the clerk says, ‘I knew a Lavoie on Turpentine . . . Sort of knew her. I went to high school with her daughter.’?”
I said, “I bought the house from that daughter.”
“What are the odds!” my mother exclaimed.
“Ma, welcome to Everton. Who didn’t go to high school together? Is there more to it? More info?”
“Of course! I asked her how well she knew the family. She said not much. So I asked if Theresa was an only child.”
Even over the phone, I could tell she was mentally congratulating herself for that bull’s-eye of a question.
“And . . . ?”
“She didn’t answer. But then—and I know you miss living in a gigantic impersonal city, but this is where living in a small town pays off—another customer was at the other end of the counter, and she calls over, ‘The Lavoies on Turpentine?’ So we say yes. And, of course, Dad and I are all ears. The woman practically spits out, ‘That house should’ve been condemned for all the tragedies that happened there.’ Can you imagine? Of course, one of us asked, ‘Tragedies . . . such as?’
“The woman said, ‘Her husbands died there.’ I asked how. She shrugged and said, ‘All I remember is that people kept their distance.’ So that was when Dad and I started going through the records.”
“And?”
“Well, we went straight for the birth date given on the Polaroids, December 15, 1956.”
“And?”
“And nothing. No twin baby girls born that day. The clerk said the births could’ve happened in a hospital elsewhere, out of town. Or maybe they were some photos that someone else left at the house—a relative or a visitor.”
“Doubt it. Did you check the death records?”
“We did—nothing! So I asked the clerk again, but I think she was getting sick of us—”
“Is there going to be a payoff to this story?” I asked.
“Not yet. But we’re heading to the library to look at Echo microfiche. Well, I am. Your father is itching to get back to Boston.”
“Call me if you find the actual obituaries,” I said, implying, Not interested in your chats with fellow patrons and research librarians.
“That was my mother,” I told the four walls. “She and my dad are doing a little detective work about those babies I mentioned. The dead ones.”
When Nick didn’t react, I started collecting my notecards, my envelopes, my fountain pen, and my phone while huffing in offended fashion. I said I was going over to the student center. To write. To have a cappuccino. And he’d have the privacy he clearly desired.
He didn’t say, Sorry. I’m being rude. This is your office, too. What he said was “Fine.”
This was not normal, engaged, collegial Nick; this was sarcastic Nick, whom I’d only experienced alongside an annoying alum or an administrative Judas.
“And you don’t have to worry,” I said rather grandly, “because when I return, I’m minding my own business. I hope you’re not ill. I hope no one died. But maybe you need to answer Brooke’s calls.” I paused at the door. “Oh, and if I find out why my house is a crime scene, I won’t trouble you with that update.”
Finally, I got his attention. “Seriously?” he asked. “A crime scene? As in murder?” Then he said, “Sit down. I’ll explain.”
18
What a Pal
IT WAS THIS: Brookehad given him an ultimatum along the lines of propose, marry, propagate.
“Out of the blue?” I asked, provoking a minor Brooke-based tirade.
“With all our conversations from day one about marriage not being in the equation?” he demanded. “And now ‘Where is this going?’ You can bet her girlfriends put her up to this. They’re all relationship strategists. One of them—Lauren, Laura?—tried the same thing and her boyfriend caved. Game over! A magic marriage bullet!”
He further volunteered that she expected a ring, the cost of which should be equal to or greater than two months’ salary. And they’d marry in a year, but sooner if the hoped-for venue was available. “Do you believe that?” he demanded. “The venue!”
I wholly believed it. “That’s really important to some brides,” I said.
That collective noun provoked something of a shudder. There were more questions I wanted to ask, such as why was marriage never in the equation? Was it the person or the institution itself? The question I finally asked was “When did this conversation take place?”
“All weekend.”
“Are you getting married?”
“Jesus, no! I thought that was clear.”
I said I was sorry. It couldn’t be easy whether you’re the breaker-upper or the breakee . . . I mean, even though I was the one who broke up with Stuart . . . oh, never mind. Sorry for being so inarticulate but I wasn’t sure, given his miserable mood, whether I should be offering condolences or congratulations. And I couldn’t help noticing that Brooke had been calling rather assiduously.
“Slippage,” he said. “Regret is seeping in. She was sure I would get down on one knee and say, ‘Yes, darling. Will you be my lawfully wedded wife?’?”
Our neglected e-mails were pinging. Phone calls were going to voice mail. He gestured with an impatient wave. Gotta answer these.
Of course, it was that moment when Reggie entered, announcing that he’d been over in Admissions, meeting parents whose kid, a hockey star at Cathedral, twenty-five goals last season, was applying for a PG year.
“How are his grades?” I asked.
“Who cares?” Then to Nick: “I didn’t know you had a trip this week. Where you off to?”
“Nowhere.”
“Isn’t that your suitcase in the coat closet?”
“Technically, a duffel,” said Nick.
“Vacation? Because I’m supposed to know about such things.”
Nick finally turned away from his keyboard. “If you must know, there’s been a change in my living arrangements.”
This news incited Reggie to drag a chair to Nick’s desk, his enthusiasm barely contained. “No kidding! What happened?”
“Take a guess.”
“She kicked you out?”
I winced; I picked up my fountain pen, pretending to be lost in sentence contemplation but secretly pleased to have Reggie take over the third degree.