The Hideaway

I heard on the six o’clock news one evening that a vet in Daphne had rescued a flock of Canada geese from a pond between two busy highways, and I knew they were meant to live at The Hideaway. For some reason, the vet let me take them home in Major’s orange van. I expected him to put his foot down and demand that I find a more suitable vehicle, but I think my yellow rain slicker and captain’s hat threw him for enough of a loop that he just watched me waddle the geese out of his office and into the van.

He held his hand up for a moment like he was going to wave me down before I pulled away, but he let it drop, so I tooted the horn and drove off. Those geese saved me from irritating solicitors and salesmen peddling everything from penlights to kitchen knives. They’d take one look at those birds walking around, unchecked by gate or fence, and take off in the other direction. Lord, it was funny to see them run.

Eugene Norman, a self-taught potter, moved in not long after the geese arrived. His only request was that he be able to practice his trade while living in the house. He pulled his potter’s wheel out into the backyard and made all sorts of odds and ends while staring at the water. He probably should have kept a closer eye on what he was making. After presenting me with several sets of misshapen and unusable dinner plates and coffee cups, he hung up his potter’s apron.

Next, he tried glassblowing. He and Bert constructed a furnace on the empty lot next door, where he built fires so hot the flames turned blue. He’d found his niche though—he made green-glass paperweights by the dozen and actually sold some at a gallery in Fairhope.

Less than a year after Robert left, I got another note, this time from AnnaBelle. I wondered if she still fit into that tight Mardi Gras dress. She wrote to tell me Robert had died at her house in Tennessee. She heard him yell out in his dreams, which wasn’t unusual, so she shushed him and went back to sleep. In the morning, he was dead.

As his wife I was asked to write his obituary. His parents tried to change my words, but I’d already sent it to the newspaper to be printed by the time they read the proof.

MR. VAN BUREN DIED IN THE ARMS OF HIS LOVER, ANNABELLE WHITAKER, IN TENNESSEE. HIS WIFE, MAGS, CAN NOW REST IN PEACE.

31

SARA

JULY

As the days went on, I dug through drawers and closets, cleaning out forgotten cardboard boxes, duffel bags, and file folders. Drywall dust, paint thinner, and wood polish swirled around me to create a headache-inducing fog, but I kept searching for anything that held meaning. Someone had saved stacks of newspapers and crates of plastic egg cartons, but I didn’t care about those—I wanted to find things that would show me more of who Mags had been.

While sorting through the drawers of an old rolltop desk in the parlor, I found a thin photo book in the back of the bottom drawer. When I pulled it out, a portion of the back page disintegrated in my hands.

The swirly, vintage script on the front read “Picturewise Vantone Prints Are Better!” A sticker on the back said “Mann’s Photo Supply—The Gulf Coast’s Top Photo Finishers.” The photos showed random people in various states of work and relaxation. Each black-and-white photo bore a date stamped along the white edge—June 1960—and a handwritten name.

There was a young and handsome Mr. Norman standing next to a rock-faced furnace built into the grassy slope next to the house. He held a long tube into the fire with a clear bulb of glass attached to the end, the flames just reaching the bottom of the bulb. “Nella” sat in what appeared to be her bra and sturdy underwear out on the dock, a bottle of Johnson’s Baby Oil next to her on the chaise. “Daisy” stood before an easel in what I recognized to be the front parlor, her paintbrush poised over the canvas. Several pages of the book had been torn out, leaving just jagged edges behind. Who had filled those pages? And what moments from The Hideaway’s past were captured in those photos, now forgotten forever?

As I stood to place the book into my shoe box of items to keep, two photos fell to the ground. I leaned down to retrieve them and crouched back on my heels to look closer. The first one showed a man standing on a beach, the shoreline just visible at the edge of the frame. I’d seen one photo of Robert in my life, and this was not him. Robert had been young in the photo, clean-cut, dressed in a serious suit, and carrying a briefcase.

This man had shoulder-length light hair that looked damp at the ends. He wore blue jeans and an unbuttoned plaid shirt. I felt sure I was looking at the face of William, my real grandfather. With his eyes closed and his mouth just barely open, he seemed to be caught in that moment just before laughter takes over. I brushed my fingers over the photo, trying to find bits of me in his face. A wave of longing pulsed through my chest.

The second photo was similar to the funeral photo of Mags that Dot had placed next to the casket. It had the same huge, moss-draped oaks in the background, and she wore the same button-down shirt, one tail hanging free. Her eyes still crinkled in happiness, but her angle was different. In this photo, she didn’t hold her hand up toward the camera, as she had in the photo at the funeral. She’d crossed her arms lazily in front of her body, and her stance was confident, flirtatious even.

I held the two photos next to each other. Even though the images were gray and blurred with age, their faces spoke of love and desire.

The front door opened and Dot and Glory’s animated conversation filled the house. Glory walked past the living room toward the kitchen without seeing me, but Dot paused in the doorway.

“Finding anything interesting in here?”

I held up the two photos.

She walked closer and peered over my shoulder at them, then fumbled a hand on top of her head searching for her glasses. “Never have ’em when I need ’em,” she said under her breath. She took the photo of Mags and held it out at arm’s length.

“This one, I’ve seen—or at least one like it.” She tilted the photo to look at the date. “A little three-by-five of Mags smiling this same unbelievable smile was in the junk drawer in the kitchen for as long as I can remember. Whenever I’d ask Mags about it, she’d just say it was a long-ago happy day. That’s why I wanted to use it at the funeral. I didn’t know there was another photo from that same day. Now this.” She took the second photo. “I’m guessing this is William. I’ve never seen a picture of him.” She rubbed her thumb over William’s face. “I can see why she was so smitten.”

I stood and stretched my sore legs. Dot patted my shoulder and moved back toward the hallway, then stopped.

“I know I told you a lot the other day—William and Robert and all. Are you disappointed? Do you wish I hadn’t told you?”

“No, I’m glad you told me. It was shocking, and still is, but I’m glad I know the truth—or at least parts of it.”

“Good. I was so worried I’d ruined the picture you had in your mind of who Mags was.”

“Well, you did, but the picture I had in mind wasn’t the right one. I’d rather know the truth than forever think she was just a woman who liked to wear caftans and weird hats and poke fun at the neighbors.”

“She was all those things,” Dot said, “but it was just her armor. Underneath, she was tender. Not as unbreakable as everyone thought.”

“But why did she keep it all such a secret?”

“You know how most women tend to talk a lot about feelings and emotions?”