We ate turkey meatloaf he’d brought from his ex-refrigerator. I supplied macaroni salad and a corkscrew. Unsolicited, he confided that the meatloaf was from the deli counter at the Big Y. No one at his former address ever cooked anything. “Do I sound like a throwback? Like I expected my girlfriend to cook? I didn’t. But she had so little interest in food that I think it was somewhat pathological.”
As much as I would have enjoyed deconstructing that criticism, I thought it was best not to. I volunteered that Stuart had been a vegetarian, but called himself a vegan to win extra points. I helped myself to another piece of the meatloaf and pronounced it very satisfying, then ventured into the arena of meals in general. “I hope you know you can help yourself to anything in the refrigerator.”
“Thank you. Of course, I want to contribute.”
I said, “I think you’re forgetting the service you’re providing.”
“Oh, right . . . as ghostbuster. When do I see the evidence?”
The dreaded album, he meant, which I’d buried out of sight in the china cupboard’s creaky bottom drawer. “If you insist,” I said. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Had I expected that a man would be more stoic? He wasn’t. He closed the book after only a few seconds. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he said. “Pictures of babies’ corpses? Who did this?”
“I don’t know. Let’s not say ‘corpses.’ It makes them sound so . . . I don’t know . . . so call 911.”
“You know for a fact that this album belonged to the previous owner?”
“Those infant seats were on my kitchen counter.” I swept the room rather grandly. “These babies were photographed here.”
It was at this point in the conversation that Nick put an imaginary phone to his ear, and said, “Ding-a-ling-a-ling.”
“Huh?”
“You’re calling the previous owner and getting to the bottom of this. We’re practicing.”
“She lives in Maui. It’s the middle of the night there.”
“Hawaii? Just the opposite. It would be . . . he checked his watch. “Five hours difference, or six? The middle of the afternoon.” Then he repeated, “Ding-a-ling-a-ling.”
“Are we role-playing?”
“Exactly.”
“In that case . . . Hello.”
“No, you’re you, the caller. I’m the daughter. Pretend you’re making conversation with a perfectly reasonable woman who sold you her childhood home. Think of fund-raising calls. Pleasantries first.”
“That helps. Okay . . . ‘Theresa? This is Faith Frankel, the woman who bought your house?’?”
Nick said, his voice a cartoony half octave higher than real life, “Well, hello, Faith. It was a pleasure doing business with you.”
I said, “No, it wasn’t. She’d never say that because I paid way below her asking price.”
“Okay, take two. Well, very nice to meet you, Faith—telephonically, that is. What is it that you’re calling about?”
Already stumped, my first try was “Well, you know that the house went through an inspection, top to bottom—”
Baritone Nick stepped out of character to say, “No. Don’t go there. Didn’t she have to shell out a lot of dough for the repairs?”
“How about ‘I found a photo album in the attic, in a cradle, and I thought maybe you’d want it.’?”
“What would I want with a cradle?” he falsettoed.
“No, I meant the photo album. It was wrapped in a receiving blanket, and it had pictures of babies in it.”
It was here that Nick’s character snapped. He clutched a handful of his flannel shirt and whispered, “Dead? Are they dead babies? Have we been found out at long last? Is the jig up?”
Thus ended our wine-induced improv. “You get the idea. Just tell her what you found and could she explain it,” he said.
We moved on to dessert, which was several flavors of ice cream I thought had male appeal, purchased on my way home. When I offered hot fudge, Nick said, “I may never leave.”
20
I’m Not Blaming Anyone
I FELT OBLIGED TO leave voice-mail messages on Theresa Tindle’s phone, hoping to sound upbeat, in the manner of a satisfied owner suffering no buyer’s regret. My first message said, more or less, “This is Faith Frankel, your buyer? All is well. I found some mementos that I believe belonged to your parents. I’ll try you again.” My second message, two days later, changed “mementos” to “some photos found in an album, in the attic.”
Had I left my cell phone number? Apparently so. She reached me at school, in my office, with Nick present. I expected she’d be on guard, suspicious of the fussy buyer whose inspector had found so much to flunk. But her first words were “Hi! It’s Terry! You called?”
“Terry?”
“Terry Tindle? Theresa? Mrs. Lavoie’s daughter? The photo album? Did you want to send it to me? Do you need my address?”
When waving my arm in in the air didn’t get more than a puzzled look from Nick, I resorted to signage, scribbling, Theresa, the daughter! on a sheet of paper while saying, “Thank you for calling back. But could I ask you some questions about the pictures in the album?”
“Shoot!”
“First of all, if you’re wondering which album, it’s brown. The cover is tooled leather. Old. And empty except for . . . Polaroids. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen them, but they reveal something you might find disconcerting—”
“Oh, shit,” I heard.
I nodded victoriously for Nick’s benefit. Surely Theresa was going to elaborate now that I’d reopened a hideous chapter of her sad early life.
“Who else saw them?” she asked.
“Just my parents. And my housemate.”
“Are you trying to embarrass me?” Theresa asked. “Because, frankly, I’m surprised you had the nerve to call me.”
How had this turned sour so fast? “I’m not blaming anyone!” I protested. “I’m not accusing anyone of anything. Maybe it’s none of my business, but as the new owner, I really need to know what happened here.”
“Is it really any of your business. And do you think this is funny?”