said.
“The locks are under the handles,” Rumer said, fiddling with the key but having no success. “Maybe we should get some WD-40.”
Isak knelt down in front of the desk, pulled the key back out, flipped it over, slid it back in, and turned it again. This time the lock clicked open. She pulled the drawer out and glanced through its contents. “More papers,” she announced, “which can only mean one thing—it’s definitely cocktail hour.” She stood up and looked around the room. “We’re getting there, though.”
“I’m with you,” Rumer agreed. “It’s time for a break.”
Beryl sat down in the chair. “I’ll be there in a minute,” she said. She pulled open the drawer, sifted through some of the loose papers on top, reached underneath, and pulled out an old manila envelope. It was tied closed with a red string wound tightly around a small cardboard circle. As she slowly unwound it, she pictured her mom’s hands—the last to touch it....
Beryl slid the contents of the envelope out onto the desk. It was a collection of fragile, yellow newspaper clippings. She looked in the manila envelope again to make sure it was empty and saw a crumpled piece of paper at the bottom. She pulled it out and unfolded it; it was a typed report, but the date was scrawled across the top in pencil: November 15, 1968 —the day she was born!
With Patsy Cline softly singing “Sweet Dreams,” Beryl carefully read the accident report that had haunted her mother’s life, and with tears streaming down her cheeks, she felt, for the first time, the extent of her mother’s grief. When she finished reading it, she turned to the newspaper clippings. There were two about the accident: One showed a picture of the demolished truck, and one showed a picture of her father smiling. He looked no older than a boy and the caption read: “Thomas Graham, 26, leaves behind a young wife and three small children.” Paper-clipped to the article were three copies of his obituary.
Beryl wiped her eyes and glanced through the other clippings. There was an obituary for a man named Clay Davis. Mr. Davis, it said, had died on Christmas Eve, but it didn’t say how he died; it only asked that contributions be made to the VA in his son’s name. Beryl stared at the name, trying to remember where she’d read it before; then she looked back at the accident report and put her hand over her mouth in surprise. She continued to sift through the clippings, trying to make sense of everything. There was a clipping of a painting of New Hampshire’s Old Man of the Mountain and its caption read: “ ‘Old Man and the Moon’ as seen through the eyes of painter David Gilead, currently an artist in residence at Macdowell Colony, 1969.” There were several more articles about the artist and the shows he would be having—New York, Paris, Rome. One article showed a photograph of him standing beside a landscape. Beryl looked closely at the photo—he was very handsome and, even in the faded newspaper photograph, his eyes were striking. Finally, Beryl looked at the last clipping. It was torn, but it looked like it had been repaired with tape—tape that was now yellow with age and had lost its adhesiveness. The photo was of a woman wearing an elegant gown, and the caption read: “Catherine Gilead at a New York City Catholic charity fundraiser”; the year, 1980, was scribbled next to the picture in pencil.
Beryl squeezed her eyes shut, trying to absorb what she was reading. Why had her mom saved these clippings? And why were they kept together with the clippings about the accident and her father’s obituary? What significance could they possibly have?
14
“B er, Micah’s here!” Rumer called from the kitchen. Beryl looked up, startled, and realized the needle had never lifted from the album—it was still gliding across the smooth black inner circle, hitting the label and jumping back, making a scratching sound. She stood up, leaving all the papers on
“The locks are under the handles,” Rumer said, fiddling with the key but having no success. “Maybe we should get some WD-40.”
Isak knelt down in front of the desk, pulled the key back out, flipped it over, slid it back in, and turned it again. This time the lock clicked open. She pulled the drawer out and glanced through its contents. “More papers,” she announced, “which can only mean one thing—it’s definitely cocktail hour.” She stood up and looked around the room. “We’re getting there, though.”
“I’m with you,” Rumer agreed. “It’s time for a break.”
Beryl sat down in the chair. “I’ll be there in a minute,” she said. She pulled open the drawer, sifted through some of the loose papers on top, reached underneath, and pulled out an old manila envelope. It was tied closed with a red string wound tightly around a small cardboard circle. As she slowly unwound it, she pictured her mom’s hands—the last to touch it....
Beryl slid the contents of the envelope out onto the desk. It was a collection of fragile, yellow newspaper clippings. She looked in the manila envelope again to make sure it was empty and saw a crumpled piece of paper at the bottom. She pulled it out and unfolded it; it was a typed report, but the date was scrawled across the top in pencil: November 15, 1968 —the day she was born!
With Patsy Cline softly singing “Sweet Dreams,” Beryl carefully read the accident report that had haunted her mother’s life, and with tears streaming down her cheeks, she felt, for the first time, the extent of her mother’s grief. When she finished reading it, she turned to the newspaper clippings. There were two about the accident: One showed a picture of the demolished truck, and one showed a picture of her father smiling. He looked no older than a boy and the caption read: “Thomas Graham, 26, leaves behind a young wife and three small children.” Paper-clipped to the article were three copies of his obituary.
Beryl wiped her eyes and glanced through the other clippings. There was an obituary for a man named Clay Davis. Mr. Davis, it said, had died on Christmas Eve, but it didn’t say how he died; it only asked that contributions be made to the VA in his son’s name. Beryl stared at the name, trying to remember where she’d read it before; then she looked back at the accident report and put her hand over her mouth in surprise. She continued to sift through the clippings, trying to make sense of everything. There was a clipping of a painting of New Hampshire’s Old Man of the Mountain and its caption read: “ ‘Old Man and the Moon’ as seen through the eyes of painter David Gilead, currently an artist in residence at Macdowell Colony, 1969.” There were several more articles about the artist and the shows he would be having—New York, Paris, Rome. One article showed a photograph of him standing beside a landscape. Beryl looked closely at the photo—he was very handsome and, even in the faded newspaper photograph, his eyes were striking. Finally, Beryl looked at the last clipping. It was torn, but it looked like it had been repaired with tape—tape that was now yellow with age and had lost its adhesiveness. The photo was of a woman wearing an elegant gown, and the caption read: “Catherine Gilead at a New York City Catholic charity fundraiser”; the year, 1980, was scribbled next to the picture in pencil.
Beryl squeezed her eyes shut, trying to absorb what she was reading. Why had her mom saved these clippings? And why were they kept together with the clippings about the accident and her father’s obituary? What significance could they possibly have?
14
“B er, Micah’s here!” Rumer called from the kitchen. Beryl looked up, startled, and realized the needle had never lifted from the album—it was still gliding across the smooth black inner circle, hitting the label and jumping back, making a scratching sound. She stood up, leaving all the papers on
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