fold-up tray tables cluttered with half-empty glasses, a stained pizza box, crumpled tissues, bags of candy, and assorted junk. The floor was populated by small tepees of piled clothing. The furniture consisted of a single dresser and a makeup table so covered with belongings that only its spindly legs gave it an identity.
Friel crossed to the dresser, wrestled open one of its top drawers, making about a dozen dusty figurines grouped haphazardly across its surface tremble and rattle, and dug around until he extracted a cheap, pink plastic photo album stamped in gold with the logo, MEMORIES OF YOU.
This he handed to Joe. "Ton of crap in there — me, the old lady, my dad, Aunt Carolyn, bunch of other people. Postcards, too, newspaper clippings. Like I said . . ."
Joe took it from him and looked around. "Mind if I take this back to the kitchen?"
Friel shrugged. "Knock yourself out. I'll go keep Mom company."
"Before you go," Joe asked him, "what's the story behind your name being different from your mother's and Carolyn's?"
"Friel was my dad's. After he left, Mom went back to her maiden name."
Joe nodded. "Thanks. Just wanted to confirm my assumption."
He and Lester returned to the kitchen and sat at the small table, Joe imagining Friel and his mother sharing meals here in total silence every night, whether they actually did so or not. It was a Norman Rockwell nightmare.
William Friel had been accurate in his description of the album's contents. There were no labels to help them decipher the assortment, but in most cases, none were needed. The shots of small, stiff groupings facing the camera didn't call for more elaboration than the body language in evidence. Plus, having met Barb Barber and her son, Les and Joe could easily decipher not just those two, if younger and occasionally more animated, but they could also see elements of the son's features in the face of the brutal-looking man often posing with them.
"Fun bunch," Lester nevertheless murmured, leafing slowly through the book.
Joe stopped him with an extended finger. "That must be Carolyn," he commented, tapping on a smiling young woman standing beside Barb, their arms interlinked. "She's cute."
"Like a slimmed-down, brightened-up version of her sister," Les agreed.
Joe pointed to another shot. "She's certainly the only one who smiles any."
Les came to a page with a folded news clipping, which he gingerly opened until it was about twice the size of the page to which it was attached. The glue had darkened a quarter of it, but it was still legible, and the grainy photograph of a beaming young Carolyn spoke for itself. She was waving at the camera next to a straitlaced man in a business suit, under the headline, GOVERNOR-FOR-A-DAY! The date at the top was just under fifty years ago.
"Who's the guy?" Les asked, squinting at the caption.
" 'Young Caroline Barber,' " Joe read, adding as an aside, "they misspelled her name, 'had her time in the spotlight as Governor-for-a-Day on Thursday, when Senator Gorden Marshall, R-Chittenden, introduced her to a joint session of the legislature as part of the Administration's newly launched effort to bring the people closer to state government's inner workings.' "
"Who in their right mind came up with that one?" Lester asked, peering at the picture. "Sure doesn't look like Gorden Marshall thought much of it."
"Is there an article that goes with it?" Joe asked, peeling the page back a bit to study the flip side.
"Doesn't look like it," Lester confirmed.
"Guess the caption did it all."
Joe took in the image for another few seconds before refolding the clipping and sitting back so that his colleague could resume turning pages.
"Oh, here you go," Spinney said. "Maybe."
He'd uncovered a pale blue envelope, mounted squarely in the middle of the page. It was addressed to Barb, with a return address of Carolyn's. He eased it open and extracted a single sheet covered with small, childish writing. He handed this over to his
Friel crossed to the dresser, wrestled open one of its top drawers, making about a dozen dusty figurines grouped haphazardly across its surface tremble and rattle, and dug around until he extracted a cheap, pink plastic photo album stamped in gold with the logo, MEMORIES OF YOU.
This he handed to Joe. "Ton of crap in there — me, the old lady, my dad, Aunt Carolyn, bunch of other people. Postcards, too, newspaper clippings. Like I said . . ."
Joe took it from him and looked around. "Mind if I take this back to the kitchen?"
Friel shrugged. "Knock yourself out. I'll go keep Mom company."
"Before you go," Joe asked him, "what's the story behind your name being different from your mother's and Carolyn's?"
"Friel was my dad's. After he left, Mom went back to her maiden name."
Joe nodded. "Thanks. Just wanted to confirm my assumption."
He and Lester returned to the kitchen and sat at the small table, Joe imagining Friel and his mother sharing meals here in total silence every night, whether they actually did so or not. It was a Norman Rockwell nightmare.
William Friel had been accurate in his description of the album's contents. There were no labels to help them decipher the assortment, but in most cases, none were needed. The shots of small, stiff groupings facing the camera didn't call for more elaboration than the body language in evidence. Plus, having met Barb Barber and her son, Les and Joe could easily decipher not just those two, if younger and occasionally more animated, but they could also see elements of the son's features in the face of the brutal-looking man often posing with them.
"Fun bunch," Lester nevertheless murmured, leafing slowly through the book.
Joe stopped him with an extended finger. "That must be Carolyn," he commented, tapping on a smiling young woman standing beside Barb, their arms interlinked. "She's cute."
"Like a slimmed-down, brightened-up version of her sister," Les agreed.
Joe pointed to another shot. "She's certainly the only one who smiles any."
Les came to a page with a folded news clipping, which he gingerly opened until it was about twice the size of the page to which it was attached. The glue had darkened a quarter of it, but it was still legible, and the grainy photograph of a beaming young Carolyn spoke for itself. She was waving at the camera next to a straitlaced man in a business suit, under the headline, GOVERNOR-FOR-A-DAY! The date at the top was just under fifty years ago.
"Who's the guy?" Les asked, squinting at the caption.
" 'Young Caroline Barber,' " Joe read, adding as an aside, "they misspelled her name, 'had her time in the spotlight as Governor-for-a-Day on Thursday, when Senator Gorden Marshall, R-Chittenden, introduced her to a joint session of the legislature as part of the Administration's newly launched effort to bring the people closer to state government's inner workings.' "
"Who in their right mind came up with that one?" Lester asked, peering at the picture. "Sure doesn't look like Gorden Marshall thought much of it."
"Is there an article that goes with it?" Joe asked, peeling the page back a bit to study the flip side.
"Doesn't look like it," Lester confirmed.
"Guess the caption did it all."
Joe took in the image for another few seconds before refolding the clipping and sitting back so that his colleague could resume turning pages.
"Oh, here you go," Spinney said. "Maybe."
He'd uncovered a pale blue envelope, mounted squarely in the middle of the page. It was addressed to Barb, with a return address of Carolyn's. He eased it open and extracted a single sheet covered with small, childish writing. He handed this over to his
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