*
I sneak outside for a cigarette, standing under the dripping pergola, my hands shaking from the cold, flicking the lighter until it finally sparks and holds a flame long enough to light the cigarette. I snap it shut and stuff it into my pocket, taking a deep lung full of smoke. I shiver as fat raindrops plaster my hair to my head, trickling down the back of my neck. The clouds are low and dark and show no sign of leaving any time soon.
From here, I can see the part of the fence I’ve been working on. Most of the peeling paint has been scraped, and it’s pretty much ready for priming. The bare sections of wood have been stained dark by the rain, making it easier to pick out the bright colors of my piece. It’s not the same as the drawings tucked away with the violin. Those are for me alone. But they inspired me.
Derrick isn’t nearly as creative as the other writers. It’s not the same for him. If he’d been caught, there wouldn’t have been any fucking “restorative rehabilitation process.” The cops would have been more interested in him than my stupid painting. Way more interested.
My eye wanders over the marks on the fence, resting again on my dragonfly. I love its simple lines, suggesting shape. It’s unique. Distinctive.
I think again of the old woman. I don’t know why I let her get to me. But she does. Maybe it’s because she makes me remember. Things like the lantern. And the pictures. Remembering hurts.
Oh my god! The pictures.
I grind the cigarette under the heel of my boot and rush back inside, slipping past Marty’s office and down the hall to Elizabeth Livingstone’s room, stopping just outside the door. It’s slightly ajar, so I push it open all the way. She’s back. She’s sitting in her chair, eyes closed, asleep, her hands folded in her lap. I step inside, quietly so I don’t wake her.
I must have seen them the other day when I was here, but I didn’t really notice them; I was too busy thinking about the lantern. There are three of them, framed and sitting on top of her dresser. A bird. Insects. A plant. The artist used a style that’s distinctive. It’s simple, yet detailed at the same time. I would know it anywhere. I pick up the dragonflies, tracing the outline of the wings, the eyes, the tails.
“Hello, Morgan.”
I drop the picture and it clatters onto the dresser. I try to straighten it up, but it refuses to stand and slides noisily into the other two frames, knocking them over as well. I turn to face the old woman, who’s still sitting in the chair, her unseeing eyes now open.
I mumble something, nothing. And then it goes from bad to worse.
Anne Campbell is standing in the doorway.
“Morgan?” She looks surprised. I guess she would be. “I thought Marty had given you some other work to do today.” She steps into the room and stands up the frames on the dresser. “What are you doing here?”
Her tone is accusatory. I take a few steps back and look down at the floor. I’m dripping puddles. Water is running from my ponytail down my back, and my face is wet. I put my hands in my pocket and feel the cigarette lighter. Fuck! I lift up my head and look her in the eyes.
“I asked her to give me a hand deciphering my father’s old journals,” Miss Livingstone speaks before I can. I turn and look at her, relieved, confused, my sarcastic response to Anne Campbell dying in my open mouth. “My eyes just aren’t what they used to be. Marty is busy tinkering with that boiler of his, and I’m sure he won’t miss her for an hour or so. Lord knows the halls don’t need any more cleaning. If you’re going to make work for the girl, might as well make it useful.”
I shut my mouth.
Anne Campbell doesn’t buy it. Not for a minute. I can sense that the power struggle is not with me but with the old woman. Thunder rolls far in the distance.
Finally she speaks. “I see.”
Is that her answer for everything?
“Look.” I figure I better say something. “I was just—”
“She was just going to change out of her wet boots and bring me a cup of tea on her way back from Marty’s office,” the old woman interrupts. “Run along now, and mind you don’t forget the milk and sugar.”
I do as I’m told, slip past Anne Campbell, and hurry down the hall.
9
Elizabeth
I’m not convinced she’ll come back, but something drew her to my room in the first place. It is, perhaps, somewhat rash of me to suggest that she help me read Pa’s journals, but the more I think on it, the more I like the idea. Marty has been much too busy, and I have been aching to hear Pa’s words. I am interested in the secrets I suspect they hold. Secrets powerful enough for Charlie to take that decrepit old boat of his out onto the Lake this late in the season and dig up words that have been buried and hidden, silenced since we were young, since we left the island.
I brush my hand again over the cover of the top book, tracing the A and L.
Before long, I hear her moving across the room; feel her shadow pausing in front of the dresser before she sits down in one of the wooden chairs at the table.
“Um. Thanks,” she mutters. “I, ah . . .” Her struggle to phrase an apology is painful, so I spare her the trouble.
“You can read handwriting?”
When she answers, her tone is sarcastic. It doesn’t take much for her to lose her contrite manner. “No, I’m too fucking stupid.” She thinks she is shocking me.
“Save it, Morgan. Don’t waste that self-absorbed attitude on me. I’m talking about legibility, not literacy. Many kids these days can’t read handwriting anymore, and it will be a waste of my time and yours if you can’t.” I don’t let her continue speaking. “If you are able, then I can use your help. If not, you’re welcome to leave. But kindly keep your nose and fingers out of my business and off my things.”
She does not reply, the rain drumming against the window in the silence that stretches between the two of us. Finally she reaches over and picks up the pile of books, placing them on the table in front of her. “Yeah, I can read handwriting.” She works to untie the twine. “If you can’t see, how did you know it was me in your room?”
It’s an easy question to answer. “You are the only one around here who wears boots two sizes too big.” And then I add, “Where’s the tea?”
10
Morgan
I carefully lift the top book, almost expecting the fragile sheets inside to crumble into piles of dust when I open the cover. They don’t. The pages are yellow and the words have faded, but for the most part, I can read them. “Andrew Livingstone” is written across the top of the first page, and below it:
DAY JOURNAL
22 APRIL 1917
This is not a Government Book
“Who’s Andrew Livingstone?” I ask the old woman. She’s still sitting in her chair, holding a cup of tea.
“My father.”
“Huh.” That’s interesting. I scan the page, working to read the slanted black letters. “And you haven’t seen them before?”