this behind.”
He opened the box and pulled out some photographs. One was of a couple standing on the steps of what looked to be a prairie farmhouse. Judging by their clothes, it was probably taken in the thirties. The couple stood stiffly, squinting at the camera, faces serious. Another photo showed the woman from the first picture with a round-faced baby in her arms, wearing a little smocked dress.
“This might be her parents, and even her as a baby,” I said.
The next picture showed the father, if that’s who it was, dressed in an army uniform. Then there were much later pictures, these in colour. One showed an extremely overweight older woman sitting on a porch with four children of various ages sitting on the steps next to her. It was the porch from the first picture, and the fat woman was maybe the young wife years later with her grandchildren.
Finally, there was a studio portrait with part of it torn out. It showed a prosperous-looking woman sitting on a couch surrounded by the same four children, a few years older. The girl had a cat on her lap. The part that had been torn out had obviously been the father’s place in this happy family scene.
“Don’t you see?” Anthony asked, excited. “It’s Maggie. Don’t you recognize her?”
Barely. The face was without lines, the hair, blonde, was carefully coiffed, and the smile was broad and untroubled. I looked at the back of the picture. It was from the Anderson Photo Studio in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
“That’s amazing,” I said.
“We thought it too important to leave out where someone could steal it,” T.C. said. “And we’ve got another bag of her stuff on the porch. It was inside one of her boxes. Do you want to see?”
Sally shook her head at me from behind his back and touched her nose. I got the message.
“Tomorrow, maybe,” I said. “I’ve got some things I’ve got to do before I go back to see Andy.”
“Should we tell the police about the man in the suit?” T.C. asked.
“We should probably find out a bit more,” I said.
“We could go now and talk to the lady again,” T.C. said.
“Tomorrow will do,” Sally said. “Anthony’s mother wants him home by four-thirty.”
“I’ve got to go over to my aunt’s for a barbecue,” he said. “Besides, some of the people who weren’t in today might be there tomorrow.”
“That sounds like a good project,” I said. “Count me in.”
I put the photos back into the shoebox and handed it to T.C.
“And keep these safe for her.”
Chapter 20
Andy’s feast wasn’t a success. When I got back to the hospital with the goodies, he was exhausted from Jim’s visit. He made an effort, tried to be appreciative, but could only manage three ribs and half of the Martini I’d brought him in a thermos, which, he complained, made it taste like tea.
After about an hour, I left him to enjoy his misery alone and went home to Elwy. I heated up the remains of Andy’s dinner and ate it in front of the television watching an old black and white weepy I’d taped on TV Ontario. I love sad movies, figuring that the tears shed on make-believe won’t fall in real life. I fell asleep on the couch, woke up at three in the morning for long enough to crawl into my lonely bed, and again, for good, at seven. I made a pot of tea and checked the papers.
The police-CARP controversy, which had been pushed off the front pages by other events, had taken a new twist. A former Liberal member of the provincial legislature, who has long been a voice of reason in black-white relations in the city, had said, on a phone-in show, that the police department is seen as an “occupying army” within the black community, explaining why people don’t co-operate with police in their investigations.
The explanation made sense to me, but not to the chief of police, who called a press conference to condemn the remarks the minute they were reported to him.
I tossed the
Planet
without going any further into it and picked
He opened the box and pulled out some photographs. One was of a couple standing on the steps of what looked to be a prairie farmhouse. Judging by their clothes, it was probably taken in the thirties. The couple stood stiffly, squinting at the camera, faces serious. Another photo showed the woman from the first picture with a round-faced baby in her arms, wearing a little smocked dress.
“This might be her parents, and even her as a baby,” I said.
The next picture showed the father, if that’s who it was, dressed in an army uniform. Then there were much later pictures, these in colour. One showed an extremely overweight older woman sitting on a porch with four children of various ages sitting on the steps next to her. It was the porch from the first picture, and the fat woman was maybe the young wife years later with her grandchildren.
Finally, there was a studio portrait with part of it torn out. It showed a prosperous-looking woman sitting on a couch surrounded by the same four children, a few years older. The girl had a cat on her lap. The part that had been torn out had obviously been the father’s place in this happy family scene.
“Don’t you see?” Anthony asked, excited. “It’s Maggie. Don’t you recognize her?”
Barely. The face was without lines, the hair, blonde, was carefully coiffed, and the smile was broad and untroubled. I looked at the back of the picture. It was from the Anderson Photo Studio in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
“That’s amazing,” I said.
“We thought it too important to leave out where someone could steal it,” T.C. said. “And we’ve got another bag of her stuff on the porch. It was inside one of her boxes. Do you want to see?”
Sally shook her head at me from behind his back and touched her nose. I got the message.
“Tomorrow, maybe,” I said. “I’ve got some things I’ve got to do before I go back to see Andy.”
“Should we tell the police about the man in the suit?” T.C. asked.
“We should probably find out a bit more,” I said.
“We could go now and talk to the lady again,” T.C. said.
“Tomorrow will do,” Sally said. “Anthony’s mother wants him home by four-thirty.”
“I’ve got to go over to my aunt’s for a barbecue,” he said. “Besides, some of the people who weren’t in today might be there tomorrow.”
“That sounds like a good project,” I said. “Count me in.”
I put the photos back into the shoebox and handed it to T.C.
“And keep these safe for her.”
Chapter 20
Andy’s feast wasn’t a success. When I got back to the hospital with the goodies, he was exhausted from Jim’s visit. He made an effort, tried to be appreciative, but could only manage three ribs and half of the Martini I’d brought him in a thermos, which, he complained, made it taste like tea.
After about an hour, I left him to enjoy his misery alone and went home to Elwy. I heated up the remains of Andy’s dinner and ate it in front of the television watching an old black and white weepy I’d taped on TV Ontario. I love sad movies, figuring that the tears shed on make-believe won’t fall in real life. I fell asleep on the couch, woke up at three in the morning for long enough to crawl into my lonely bed, and again, for good, at seven. I made a pot of tea and checked the papers.
The police-CARP controversy, which had been pushed off the front pages by other events, had taken a new twist. A former Liberal member of the provincial legislature, who has long been a voice of reason in black-white relations in the city, had said, on a phone-in show, that the police department is seen as an “occupying army” within the black community, explaining why people don’t co-operate with police in their investigations.
The explanation made sense to me, but not to the chief of police, who called a press conference to condemn the remarks the minute they were reported to him.
I tossed the
Planet
without going any further into it and picked
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