Authors: William Lashner
“Who took it?” I asked.
“I don’t remember,” she said softly, “but not Grammy. I don’t remember her ever taking a picture.”
When we had finished with the photographs, Caroline reached again into the box and took out a white business envelope with the words “The Letters” written in script on the outside. The handwriting was narrow and tight, the same as the writing on the trust documents. Inside the envelope was a key, an old key, tarnished, with an ornate head and a long shank and a bit that looked like a piece from a jigsaw puzzle.
“Any idea where the lock is?” I asked Caroline.
“None,” she said.
Morris took hold of the key and examined it. “This key is a key to a Barron tumbler lock of some sort. Such a lock I could open in a minute. Maybe three.”
A thin envelope taken from the box contained only one piece of paper, a medical bill from a Dr. Wesley Karpas, dated June 9, 1966, charging, for services rendered, $638.90. The services rendered were not specified, nor was the patient. It was addressed, though, to Mrs. Christian Shaw. I asked Caroline whether she had any idea about the medical services referred to in the bill and she had none.
The final envelope was a thick bundle that felt, from the outside, not unlike a bundle of hundred-dollar bills. Caroline opened the envelope and reached in and pulled out a sheaf of papers separated by clips into four separate sections, the whole bundle bound with twine. The papers were old, each about the size of a small envelope, yellowed, covered with the tight narrow handwriting that was already familiar, the handwriting of Faith Reddman Shaw. One edge of each of the papers was slightly ragged, as if it had been cut from a book of some sort.
Caroline looked at the top page, and then the next, and then the next. “These look to be from my grandmother’s diary, but that can’t be possible.”
“Why not?”
“She burned them all shortly before she died. She kept volumes and volumes of a diary from when she was a little girl, she would scribble constantly, but she never let anyone see them and a few years back she burned them all. We begged her not to, they were such a precious piece of our history, but she said her past was better forgotten.”
“I guess there were some pages,” I said, “she couldn’t bear to incinerate.”
Caroline, who was scanning through the excerpts, said, “This first one is about meeting my grandfather.”
“Maybe there are clues in these diary pages of who these people in the photographs, they are,” said Morris, “and why your grandmother, she kept this box buried like she did. We should maybe be reading these pages, no?”
“It’s up to Caroline,” I said.
She looked up and shrugged.
We all took seats around the table. The rusted and mangled box sat between us. We leaned forward and listened carefully as Caroline read out loud the surviving sections of her grandmother’s diary, one by one, the sections torn from the bound volumes before they were burned, the sections that her grandmother could not suffer to destroy. Halfway through, Caroline’s voice grew hoarse and Beth took over the reading. It grew still in the room, except for the song of the reader’s voice, as strangely foreign to the two women who shared the reading as if channeled from the dead Faith Reddman herself. At one point, while Beth read, Caroline suppressed a sob, and then waved us away when we offered comfort and told Beth to keep reading. The last line was a fervent wish for peace and love and redemption and after it was over we sat in silence for a long time, still under the spell of that voice from long ago.
“I think,” said Morris, “I know now who are these people in the photographs, but the crucial questions I can’t yet figure out.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like why these pictures are in her box, or who it is that killed the woman you found in the ground,” said Morris.
“Don’t you see?” said Caroline. “Isn’t it clear?”
“No,” said Beth. “Not at all.”
Caroline took the Distinguished Service Cross from around her neck and tossed it into the box, where it clanged, steel on steel. “My grandmother only said the kindest things about him. She worshiped him as if he was the most wonderful, most gentle man in the world. A war hero, she said, and so how could we think otherwise. Even in her diary she could barely say ill of him, but it’s all there, beneath her words of love and devotion, it’s all very clear. How could we ever have known it, how could we ever have imagined that our grandfather, Christian Shaw, was an absolute monster?”
33
I
May 24, 1911
Three new young men came for tea today, bringing to only twelve the number that have called this month. It would have been more, I am certain, except for those ugly rumors that continue to plague us. Is there no way to halt the lies? I fear if it weren’t for my mother’s wondrous teas, with her sugared almonds and her famous deep-fried crullers, we wouldn’t have any visitors at all, and I don’t understand it, I don’t understand why they insist on being so mean to us, I simply don’t. Of today’s young men one was fat and one was a dwarf, but one was interesting, I must admit. He is a Shaw of the department store Shaws. Their fortunes have declined in the last decades, but what matter is that to me? Why else would my father have given so much and fought so hard to earn his money if not to allow his daughters to be free of such worries, and so I won’t judge him by his lack of wealth, but by his pleasing manner and the way his suit drapes his thick shoulders. I think him even more splendid than Mr. Wister of the other day
.
We were sitting on the lawn, having tea, the two other men and Christian Shaw, that is his name, and Mother, who was knitting, and Charity, who was sitting on the grass looking up at us as we spoke. Hope was playing the piano and despite Mother’s entreaties wouldn’t join us, but her music, floating from the instrument room, added the perfect note to the afternoon. The men promised to come to our ball and seemed genuinely excited at the prospect. We talked of school and Mr. Taft’s bathtub and we all laughed and laughed. Someone mentioned that awful Mr. Dreiser and his harsh books and then Mother mentioned the poetry she had studied as a girl in Europe. Suddenly Christian Shaw started reciting something beautiful. He is obviously well read and can quote poetry at length to great effect. The poem was about a lover’s tears at parting, the best I could grasp it, but as he spoke he spoke at me, as if the others were no more than statues, and the words ceased to have meaning beyond their music. It was only the sound his voice made as he pronounced the verse and the look in his eye that mattered. I could feel the blush rising in my cheeks. It ended with clapping and Charity said that Lord Byron was her favorite too and there was much gaiety as I fought to compose myself. For the rest of the afternoon I could barely look at his sharp features and yet I could not bear to look away
.
I’ve already made certain his name has been added to the list for the ball. I learned today that the Scotts are having an affair that same weekend, which is spiteful of them, but Naomi Scott is such a plain old thing and, besides, Father has more money than Mr. Scott, which would be of interest, of course, to a Shaw. So I think I have good reason to hope to share a waltz with our Mr. Shaw sometime soon and the thought of it makes my breath all fluttery
.
June 16, 1911
What a simply horrible horrible day! I was told today that old Mrs. Poole was to be invited to the ball and I was horrified. I had a terrible row with Mother about it that lasted much of the afternoon. When Father came home I stamped my foot and insisted but he refused to talk about it so that I knew it was his doing that added her to the list. He has done enough for that woman and I told him so. Must she haunt us for the rest of our lives? They sit in that house, the two of them, mother and daughter, taunting us with their very silence. But it was not Father’s fault that the pinched old man drank himself to ruin, it was not Father’s fault that Father had vision where the other had only a bottle. The great cat of tragedy that smote their lives was born on their own doorstep. Father was more than kind to that man after the dissolution of their business partnership and what did Father get in return? Spite and vindictiveness and a smear campaign that has survived that man’s suicide and spoilt our standing. And still it continues. Father should have simply put them in a farmhouse in New Jersey and been done with them but, ever the humanitarian, he wanted to keep an eye on their affairs. Had they any pride they would have refused his kindness, but they have no pride, no sympathy, nothing but their cold sense of deprivation, and I won’t stand for it. It is evil enough to have them so close we can smell them from the lawn, but to have them at our affairs in addition is too much. How can we be joyous and gay when they stand, the two of them, side by side, staring at us, their mouths set sternly, their figures a constant reproach
.
As if that weren’t bad enough, we received regrets today from Mr. Shaw. My heart nearly broke when the note came. Why men seem so attracted to the wan figure of Naomi Scott and her powder-white skin I can’t for the life of me figure, but I assume that is where he will be. At least Mr. Wister will be coming. Once that would have sent my heart to racing, but no longer. I can’t imagine Mr. Wister reciting a note of poetry, even though his uncle wrote that novel about cowboys. Well, maybe Mr. Wister can teach me how to throw a lariat so that I can toss it over Mr. Shaw’s broad shoulders
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June 29, 1911
My fingers tremble as I write this. I could never forget this night, never, never. I will carry it with me like a diamond buried deep within my chest for the rest of my life. The ball was a humiliation. I am certain they are laughing at us right this moment in the homes of the Peppers and the Biddles and the Scotts. They have done all they could to keep us out and now they will have more reason than ever. All the first-rank families stayed away, which was expected after Naomi Scott played her dirty trick on us, but most of the second rank abandoned us too, leaving for our party a rather undistinguished group. While disappointing, that would have been acceptable if all had gone as it seemed in the beginning
.
The dress I had ordered of the finest white silk taffeta was as beautiful as a wedding dress. I cried when the seamstress brought it to the house for the final fitting. The ballroom was iridescent with flowers and light, as finely dressed as any on the Main Line. Mother had ensured that only the best buffet was set, Virginia ham, three roasted turkeys, platters of fresh fruits and berries and ripe Delaware peaches, and Mother’s famous confections, her sugared almonds, her striped peppermints, her cookies and crullers and chocolate truffles, all laid out in such lovely proportions on the dining room lace that it was a marvel. And of course there were the pickles, for what would a Reddman party be without pickles? Father had hired the most famous orchestra in the city and as the violins played their warm notes I could feel the magic in the air. Then that Mrs. Poole and her daughter arrived
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They stood alone in the corner, staring out at the dancers, making their dark presence felt, that sour old woman and the girl, not yet eight, but already the youth squeezed out of her black eyes by the cold of her mother, the two of them turning their ugly angry gazes upon anyone who had the temerity to try to have a gay time. They refused the champagne or any of the food and I couldn’t help but remember how Edmond Dantès had refused to sup in the houses of his enemies. It was uncanny how the whole party seemed to cringe from them, even the dancers kept their space from that corner as they whirled about the room. Mr. Wister came, as he had promised, and we danced, but he was clumsy and my mind could not free itself from the gloom of the Pooles in the corner, so I fear Mr. Wister was not suitably impressed with me. This was especially apparent as he started dancing with that tiny Sheila Harbaugh, whom we had invited only because the Winters had given their regrets. I caught a glimpse of the two of them slipping out together onto the rear portico, his hand on the small of her back. I had to fight to keep my smile firm for the onlookers, though sweet Hope, who sees everything, gave me a look full of sympathy. It was all horrid enough, and my stomach had turned with disappointment, when Father had the deranged notion to ask Mrs. Poole to dance
.
Everyone stopped and stared as he approached their corner. It was as if a limelight were shining on him, he was that apparent. When he came close he bowed slightly and reached out his hand. She just stared at him. He spoke to her, calmly, kindly, for my father is the kindest man alive, his hand still outreached, and she just stared at him before turning away her face. The daughter, her head down, couldn’t bear to meet his gaze, even when Father, with his generous spirit, patted her on the shoulder. A hush had fallen on the party, and it stayed there as my father turned and walked back to his wife and daughters. My father had invited them with mercy in his heart and they had come, the Pooles, only to humiliate him. All semblance of gaiety was by then lost and I intended to go over there myself and toss off to them even just a small piece of my anger, but Father restrained me. And then one by one, under the hush of that woman’s rejection of Father’s mercy, the guests began to say farewell and leave. It all was too much to bear, watching them call for their coaches and motorcars, the humiliation was actually painful, I could feel it in my chest, and I would have run out in tears had I not, just at that moment, when my despair grew overpowering, spied the magnificent figure of Christian Shaw, breathtaking in his tails, walking toward me from the far end of the ballroom
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He asked me to dance and suddenly the music turned dreamy and gay. He had strong hands and a light step and never before had I waltzed so magnificently. We swept around the room as one and I could see the eyes of what was left of the party upon us, even those of the wretched Pooles, and once again the room glittered. Soon another couple joined us on the floor and then another and then another and before long the party was alive again and filled with laughter. In the middle of a sweeping turn I happened to glance at the Pooles’ corner and noticed, with a surge of joy, that they were gone, banished by the light that was Christian Shaw
.
When we could we slipped out together onto the rear patio and then to the lawn, to the statue of Aphrodite which my father had just purchased for the rear grounds of the house, where we were finally, for the first time, alone. We leaned on the statue facing one another and spoke softly. “I had been to the Scotts, but the whole time there I was thinking of you,” he said. “In the middle of a dance I saw your sweet face before me and I knew I had to come. You’re not cross at me for imposing after sending my regrets, are you?” No, I told him, no no no. He spoke of the night and the fragrance of the air but as at our prior meeting I lost the thread of his words in the music of his voice. His breath was rich with the smoky sweet scent of brandy. The moon was casting its silvery glow on the statue and the two of us standing before it and then he leaned down and kissed me. Yes, like the sweetest angel sent for my own redemption he kissed me and an emotion as I had never known burst from deep within my chest and I swore then to myself, as I swear now and will swear every day for the rest of my life, that I love this man and will love him forever and I will never ever so long as I can draw sweet breath let him go
.
June 30, 1911
A grand bouquet of flowers came for me at noon today, full of irises and violets and baby’s breath, a fabulous explosion of color. When it came I ran to it and ripped open the card with shaking fingers. It was from Mr. Wister, telling me how wonderful a time he had had at our ball and seeking again to call on me. My heart fell when I read his words. I wonder if Sheila Harbaugh received the same bouquet, the same note. I gave the flowers to Hope and sat sullenly inside through the afternoon, though the weather outside was perfectly lovely
.
Another delivery came before evening fell, a dozen red roses and one white. It looked shy, that bouquet, next to Mr. Wister’s grand arrangement, but the card was from Christian, my dear Christian. “For a lovely evening,” the card said. “Devotedly, C. Shaw.” Those roses are beside me as I write this. I am drunk on their scent, delirious
.
August 12, 1911
Christian visited again this afternoon and his goodness shines through ever more clearly. He was looking, as always, elegant in his black suit and homburg when he visited and as quickly as possible we absented ourselves from the rest of the household. On my instructions, two chairs and a table had been set upon the lawn for a private tea and I poured for him as he spoke. Like a naughty boy he took a flask from his pocket and added a rich flavor to our cups. His naughtiness served only to increase the intimacy of our moment. Our conversation, while we were sitting on the lawn, looking down upon the blue of the pond, turned to the ecstasies of nature, of which I admitted I was unaware, preferring the parlor to the wild, and he recited for me the words of a Mr. Emerson about the proud beauty of a flower. Oh, to listen to his voice is to listen to the finest, firmest of music. The afternoon was perfect until that little dark girl with her rodent eyes appeared at the pond’s edge and stared up at us
.
Christian kept speaking, as if it mattered not, but having her stare at us was too intolerable and I couldn’t keep my silence. “Why does she bother you so?” he asked me. I couldn’t answer truthfully. I must assume he has heard the malicious stones of gossip thrown against us. They are lies, all lies, I know it, but they are lies that haunt our family as surely as if they were holy truths. I feel the press of those evil rumors upon me as others must feel the press of history, and pray each day that the falsehoods will someday be finally buried among the ruins of time, along with that girl’s drunkard of a father. But how could I explain all that to my pure darling Christian? “She’s a little spy,” I said simply. “Look at the way she insists on watching us.” “But she’s just a poor girl,” said Christian and then he spoke of graciousness, of generosity, of giving oneself over to the disadvantaged. He said he felt compassion for that girl, living fatherless in that house at the foot of Veritas. He had a small book about some pond in New England in his pocket and he insisted upon stepping down the hill and giving the book to her. I fear I must admit I was embarrassed at the sight and turned to see if his transgression was spotted from the house. Charity stood at the wall of the rear patio, a breeze catching her loose hair, watching as Christian loped with his long strides down the slope
.
I felt a brutal anger rise as I watched him with that girl, talking to her softly, offering the book. That my Christian should be spending his attention on so tawdry an object was humiliating and I told myself that when he returned I would have to make it clear exactly what would and would not be tolerated with regard to those people. But as I watched his posture, erect and proud, and saw the girl’s shyness dissolving before him, allowing her to reach out for the book and take it to her breast, I could see in that portrait all the sweet generosity in his soul and I realized that he indeed could be our redemption. The falsehoods that have been used against us might die, as we have so fervently prayed, precisely because his goodness will transcend the evil of those lies. His goodness, I can see now, will be the instrument of our salvation and take our family to a finer place than ever we had dared to hope before
.