The Lake Of Dreams Part 21

"Yos.h.i.+. He gets here on Sat.u.r.day."

"All right." He nodded, gazed past me at the dark lake. "Don't bring him by the gla.s.sworks, okay?"

"Okay," I said, though my heart hurt at the thought of how many doors had just swung shut, how many possibilities had just fallen away forever. At the thought of Yos.h.i.+, who might or might not come now that I'd traveled so far away, who had not called or sent me anything but that brief e-mail in the last two days.

"Okay." Keegan s.h.i.+fted his gaze back to me, then reached up and touched my cheek lightly with the palm of his hand. "Okay, Lucy in the sky. I suppose we ought to get back to sh.o.r.e."

We didn't speak on that long trip. At the dock, Keegan helped me out, and I hugged him, quickly and awkwardly, filled with regret even though I knew I'd done the right things. He turned his attention to the boat and I walked away, past the gla.s.sworks, past Dream Master, which rose up against the starry night sky, shadowing everything even in the dark, and slipped into the Impala.

When I got home, I found a note from my mother on the counter. Yos.h.i.+ called, Yos.h.i.+ called, it said. it said. Call back Call back.

There was a message on my phone, too, but I didn't listen. Whatever it was would keep until the morning. I was just too drained to call him back. My lungs still ached. I went upstairs instead without turning on the lights, and got into bed without taking off my still-damp clothes, and lay there suspended in the darkness as if in water, drifting until I finally fell asleep.

Chapter 15.

I WOKE UP WITH THE SUN FULL IN MY FACE, AND PUSHED OFF the blankets. I'd been dreaming about Rose, and in my dream she'd been walking around wearing the same clear colors of the windows, her hands pale, translucent. The events of the evening before came flooding back as I showered and dressed, leaving me feeling strangely empty, as if I'd finally shed something I'd been carrying with me all these years, in all my travels. I went back into the bedroom and called Yos.h.i.+, who picked up on the second ring. I lay back on the narrow bed and closed my eyes, filled with a surprising sense of relief to hear his voice, to remember the sure weave of our days, the sound of his even breathing in the room at night, even when the earth was so unsteady.

"Hi," I said. "What's up? Where have you been?"

"I'm back in the hotel," he said. "I've got an early flight out. Didn't you get my message?"

"I was out. Also, my phone was dead." This was true, but it was also true that I'd been avoiding the Internet and hadn't bothered to charge my phone.

"Ah. I've been on the island. No Internet. Kind of nice. And it was beautiful, let me tell you. Neil and Julie send their best."

"I wish I could have been there," I said. The water in that sea was so clear. Vivid fish darted through the gardens of coral, and the world was silent except for the rush of air in the tanks. I'd learned to dive in college, and I'd convinced Yos.h.i.+ to come with me when we first met. He didn't think he'd like it, but after that first dive he was hooked. "I'll pick you up tomorrow. At noon, right?"

"That's right. I transit in Tokyo. Then New York. Then Rochester. Is it warm there? Because I didn't bring much, and I packed for the tropics."

"It's not that warm," I said. "But I think you'll be okay. We have stores here, you know."

He laughed, a low, familiar sound, and I laughed, too, though my eyes teared up because I was so glad to be talking to him again.

"I'm glad you're coming," I told him. "I thought you might not. I'm sorry I've been so distracted." I'd have to tell him about Keegan, but I wanted to do it in person.

He was quiet for a minute. "I'm glad I'm coming, too," he said. "I'm ready for a change."

"Right-what's your news?" I asked. "Anything happen in your meetings?"

"Yeah, it's work stuff," he said.

"Did you negotiate the bridge?"

"Well, yes. The bridge is going through. This is what I've heard, anyway."

I waited.

"Well, I was going to tell you in person. But I guess I'll tell you now. I quit, Lucy. I turned in my resignation letter yesterday."

"Really?" I was too stunned to say more.

"Yes. It seemed like the only thing to do. I couldn't support the decision on the bridge. And it was pretty clear that if I kept making waves, I'd eventually be fired."

"But how could they fire you? You're so good."

"I'm good, true, but I disagreed. Which is to say I was disagreeable, at least in the view of management. I was not a team player. I heard this from three different people, who all said I needed to consider my future as I went into these Jakarta discussions. So after I talked with you the last time, I did. I went for a long walk the night before, you know, down that street where the night market is? I walked and I thought, and I couldn't see a future where I had to keep silent all the time about things that really matter to me. In the meeting I spoke up in favor of rerouting the bridge, and after the meeting I offered my resignation letter. I thought they might not accept it, but they did, so I packed my stuff and went snorkeling with Julie and Neil."

"So you're unemployed," I said, feeling the same admiration I'd felt for Yos.h.i.+ as when we had worked in the orphanage, but also as if I were free-falling through s.p.a.ce. "We're both unemployed."

"Well, needless to say, the Indonesians really like me," he said, trying to joke. "I might apply for a position with them."

"Jakarta was a good place for us," I agreed, a little giddy with how quickly everything was changing.

"Don't worry, Lucy," he said. "This is freedom."

"If you say so."

He was so quiet I thought the connection had been lost.

"Come on," he finally said. "I felt I had no choice, Lucy. So I'm trying to be positive. I shouldn't have told you until I saw you face-to-face."

"It's okay," I said, as much to myself as to Yos.h.i.+. "It's only a job, right? And soon we'll see each other, face-to-face." I tried to make my voice calm, but I still felt like I was falling through the sky, no earth in sight. If this was freedom, it was also more than a little terrifying. Yos.h.i.+'s tone was light, but he took his work seriously, and this job in a country he'd felt was his own had mattered to him more than others. He'd kept such long hours and worked so hard, and I knew this must be difficult for him. "Yos.h.i.+, I'm really sorry about the job."

"Don't worry. I have some ideas."

"All right. Wow-well. So, I guess I'll see you Sat.u.r.day."

"Yes. I'll dream my away over the Arctic."

After we hung up, I stood in the patch of sunlight on the floor, the room around me just the same as it had been seconds before, though everything else was s.h.i.+fting, changing. I thought about practical things, wondering if we'd have health insurance, enough savings to finish off the three months on our lease.

The beautiful piece of gla.s.s I'd made with Keegan was sitting on the white dresser. A thin shaft of sunlight radiated through it, making the colors glow. I picked it up and held it, warm and heavy in my hand, thinking of Rose a hundred years ago, writing, I do not know what will become of me I do not know what will become of me.

I spent the day sitting by the lake, listening to the s.h.i.+fting shale, the steady waves, rereading all of Rose's letters until I nearly knew them by heart. I thought about her life, and compared it with my own, which I'd always thought of as greatly adventurous, but which had in fact been much easier and safer than hers. She'd gone off to a new country with no money and barely the promise of a job, expecting a child. No health insurance for her, no social network, no family except her brother. It must have been terrifying. Yet she was strong and independent, and she had never given up, even though the circ.u.mstances and social mores of her time had left her at a great disadvantage. It was inspiring, really, to consider what she'd faced, and with what spirit she'd faced it, and I longed to know more. Taking the kayak out, I looked back at the house, so far away and small and insubstantial from this distance, and wished I could have known her, or known about her, growing up.

On Friday morning I got up before my mother was awake. I left her a note on the counter and drove straight to Seneca Falls. My curator was back, wearing a cotton dress in a dark orange print. She was tan, and had changed all her earrings into citrus-colored studs, bright seeds. She smiled when she saw me, but her eyes were red behind her gla.s.ses and she cleared her throat before she spoke.

"Hi. Thought you'd be back today. Just sign in. The boxes are out and ready for you, on the table upstairs. I kept the letter, because the director is coming this afternoon and I think she needs to see it-in case it's important historically, you know."

I nodded, relieved, mostly; I'd been afraid the boxes would already have been locked away, out of bounds. I felt no guilt at all over the letters I had taken, sitting at home in the manila folder marked "Rose."

"Thanks. Can I see that letter, at least? Just for a minute? I did some research over the weekend and I'd like to cross-check it with what I found."

"I made you a copy, actually. I could tell you were serious. Here."

She handed me the pages, Rose Jarrett's sharp handwriting cast into shadowy tones of black and white and gray.

"Thanks." I started to leave, eager to get upstairs, but hesitated, turned back. "You okay?"

She gave a short laugh and waved her hand. "Yeah, I'm fine, I'll be fine. Big fight with the boyfriend, that's all."

"I'm sorry. Hey-at least you got a great tan."

"A great tan and about three thousand mosquito bites. I forgot the bug spray. Mea culpa, to be sure. But would you break up with someone over that?"

"I might not be the best person to ask," I told her, because I had, in fact, over the years broken up with people for reasons every bit as trivial, determined not to a.s.sume any complications or emotional baggage, determined-though I could not see it then-not to let anyone too close. That's what I'd finally realized out on the lake with Keegan. It had been easy enough, living the global life I'd led, to keep myself free of any attachments, even to feel n.o.ble in my pursuit of the next great job. I hadn't often paused to consider the people-or the possibilities-I'd left behind. I thought of them now, though, all the romantic partners I'd kept at arm's length. Whatever ended up happening with Yos.h.i.+, at least I hadn't run away. Though I'd come close.

"It was just bug spray," she said, and sighed.

"You know what? I'm pretty sure you're better off without him."

A phone rang, and as she answered it I went up the curving staircase. The last big box was waiting on the walnut table with the others, as promised. Light filtered in through the lace curtains and made patterns on the polished wood. The air smelled of dust and old paper. Rows and rows of books lined the shelves and I let my eyes linger on the st.u.r.dy spines, thinking how human books were, so full of ideas and images, worlds imagined, worlds perceived; full of fingerprints and sudden laughter and the sighs of readers, too. It was humbling to consider all these authors, struggling with this word or that phrase, recording their thoughts for people they'd never meet. In that same way, the detritus of the boxes was humbling-receipts, jotted notes, photos with no inscriptions, all of it once held together by the fabric of lives now finished, gone.

I was methodical this time, not digging aimlessly, but making little stacks according to type. Downstairs the door opened and closed, voices drifting; the phone rang. I sipped my cold coffee, and searched.

I had my eyes open for a binder like the one in which I'd found the other letters, but it wasn't until halfway through the last box that I found several more envelopes, this time held together with two ancient rubber bands that crumbled when I tried to pull them off. The handwriting on the top one was familiar, Rose's sharp and slanted script, and my scientific training was no help to me then; my hands trembled. I scanned through them quickly, not stopping to read, not yet, aware of the time. More notes, ledgers, birthday cards from friends, and, every now and then, another letter. I set these aside as I found them. When the box was finally empty, I settled back in the chair and began to read.

30 April 1915 Dearest Iris, Today is your 4th birthday. Joseph writes that you are well. He sent me a little drawing you made, the figure of a person with two big eyes and stick legs. There was also a cat, which must be Shadow, because you have drawn him with a black crayon. And you wrote your name, the letters so big, in dark blue, the same color as your eyes. Good for you! I will see you soon, I am saving the money to come and see you. To make a life for you here.

Since it hurts my heart to imagine you there without me, I will write to you about this life here, which is so different than any life I have ever lived or imagined. The people here are not like any I have known. They come and go, so many. People gather here almost every evening to debate the issues of the day. They are so pa.s.sionate, arguing about the plight of workers and the situation of women. They are artists and nurses, teachers and even some lawyers, musicians, too. Books and ideas fill the rooms. Sometimes the fierce discussions transform into music and singing, or recitations. A few actors come, and sometimes the baker from next door, and the woman whose husband oversees a museum. In this company I am often quiet. I can hardly keep up with the swift wit, the arguments. But no one minds. People drift over to talk. I feel I have many friends here.

I made a new friend last week. Her name is Beatrice. She came to me during one of the evenings when they were acting out a skit in the living room. She is pet.i.te, the mother of four children, the oldest not much younger than I am, and she is almost as quiet as I am in a crowded room. Her eyes are dark and sparkle with life and follow everything. She told me that I have an interesting face and quite extraordinary eyes, that she had been observing me for some time. Her husband is an artist and she thinks he would like very much to paint me. He would pay me to model and it would not be much work, and I could do it easily even after my long days. Thankfully, I am not in the factories. Vivian heard of an elderly woman who needed a companion, and so I spend my days in her grand house, walking the miles back here in the evening, glad for any weather after the hours and hours inside, bent over whatever tasks she gives me.

Because I want the money so, because it would bring me closer to you, I said yes about the modeling. The artist is Frank Westrum. She acted as if I should have heard of him, but of course I have not.

When I asked Vivian if this would be a good and honest thing to do, she said quite emphatically that it would be, indeed it was an honor.

I must tell you of Vivian. I have been in this city for six months now and she has become my good friend. At least, I hope we are friends, because I admire her so. I am grateful to her, also. This is her house, you see, and many people live here, and we share resources and the work. Vivian is much younger than Mrs. Elliot, maybe even ten years. Her mother died when she was born and her father died while she was still in school. This is the family home. I think she once lived a very merry life, with parties and gowns and dinners and theater. And yet she was moved by work she had done to help the poor, the women she met who could hardly afford to feed their children. So after a time she began to study nursing, and to hold these salons. She knows everyone. Twice a week she goes out to the poorest of the poor, to their dim homes, crowded and spare yet often immaculate, tending to their illnesses, leaving without pay.

I know, because sometimes I go with her.

It is very difficult to see such suffering. And yet it is a relief in some way, for I see how desperate lives can be, and feel thankful for my own. I feel I was right to leave you in my brother's home, in comfort, in safety, however much it grieves me still.

Now it is late, so late, I am tired. Sleep well, sweet birthday girl, and dream of Your loving mother, Rose.

I put the letter down on the table. So, I'd been right; she had modeled for him, if not in the studio in Rochester, then earlier, in New York City. I wondered if their relations.h.i.+p had been more than artist and model. Beatrice was her friend, and I didn't want to imagine that Rose had betrayed her. I understood Oliver a little bit better in that moment, the fierce attachment he'd formed to Frank Westrum and his reluctance to have that persona challenged in any way. I found my phone and pulled up the picture I'd kept, the one of the Joseph window in Keegan's studio. The image was so small, but I stared at it, trying to decipher the woman's features, wondering if it was Rose, and if so, what she had been thinking as she stood in his silent studio, letting him draw her image late into the night.

The next was a card, white stock, with the initials CWE in gold script.

2 May 1916 My dear Rose, I hope this letter finds you as well as I left you after my visit. It gladdens my heart a great deal to see you are happy in your new life, and to know that your brave stand for the rights of women did not end completely badly. I promised to write to you of Iris, and I am happy to report that she is very well. I saw her yesterday, playing in the front yard with dolls made out of fabric, and when I paused and spoke to her she spoke to me so nicely, with fine manners and, I am delighted to say, a lively and curious intellect as well. She is thriving. You would be proud. I will check on her from time to time and write with any news. Meanwhile, rest your heart-she is safe and very well.

Yours truly, Nelia Another brief letter, in the familiar bold handwriting.

17 May 1916 Dear Sister, Iris had her 5th birthday in the garden. Cora baked a cake that looked like a flower, gold and white icing and yellow custard in the center. We had lemonade. Iris has a new purple dress and new shoes, too. Cora put away her mourning clothes last month. I work the farm but I am looking into starting a lock business. I have a knack with locks.

Mrs. Elliot told me she saw you. She said you are fine. I have a hard time listening to that woman. She is still causing all sorts of trouble about the vote. I am studying to become a citizen and you should, too.

Joseph10 September 1916 Dear Sister, Your letter arrived and I am glad to know Mother and Father are well. Ellen wrote to me, too. I married Cora yesterday. It has been a year since Jesse died, we have waited. I asked Cora but she doesn't think you should return to this house. I was hoping this was Jesse's view, but it is hers, too. I am sorry. I am sorry I did not see you, too. I did not establish an account with the money you sent because there have been expenses, for clothes and new shoes and also books. I have spent wisely. Iris is happy, she plays in the garden all the time.

Joseph The next letter in the pile was thick, written by Rose and dated earlier that same summer, written on thin paper with garlands of light blue flowers-forget-me-nots, I realized-framing the corners.

June 1916 Dearest Iris, I saw you today, playing outside. You are so grown up! Your hair is so long-and you had grown tall. But I knew it was you. I stood beneath the oak tree in Mrs. Elliot's front yard, and I watched you. I can hardly describe how full and happy my heart was in that moment.

It had been almost a year and a half since I had seen you. Finally, I had saved enough money to visit. It was the modeling that made it possible. It was hard to sit in the studio evening after evening, for it was cold in the winter and stifling in the summer, and I had to hold every muscle very still, even when I was about to faint with fatigue. Watch your eyelids, he'd warn, hold your chin a little higher, and I would do my best. He is a kind man, if somewhat gruff and abrupt, and my friend Beatrice is kind, too. Sometimes she teaches me design, for she studied before she married and she is very, very good.

So I sat, and worked, and saved, and I came to see you.

It is June, the first bloom of summer, but it was chilly when I arrived. Like spring, like March, instead. I meant to see Joseph, of course, and to pay a visit to Cora, whose name is Jarrett now, though she does not feel like a sister. It was overcast and you had taken out all your winter things again-the blue coat and the pale blue hat and mittens I had fas.h.i.+oned to send to you at Christmas. I left my suitcase on Mrs. Elliot's porch and walked across the street, so impatient to see you, to touch you. The mittens were falling from your hands, dangling from your wrists on the little strings I had made, and your hat was off, too, bouncing against your back, and your coat swinging open, because it really was not very cold, revealing your suns.h.i.+ne dress. The hollyhocks were blooming, their soft bell shapes hanging from the tall stems, and you picked some and began to shape them into dolls-an unopened bud for the head, the blooming flower for a skirt. We used to do this together, I taught you how. You were intent, and did not look up until I squatted down beside you. Then you pushed your hair from your face and smiled.

"I'm making dolls", you said. "Do you want to help?"

"Yes, I'll help. They're very pretty".

"My mother taught me", she said, and this pierced me with joy, because even though you did not know me right away, you certainly remembered.

"Your mother loves you so much", I said.

"I know. She's pretty and she made me these mittens".

"Those are very nice mittens", I said, and I remembered sitting downstairs, knitting those mittens for your little hands, while conversations swirled around me.

"I got them in my stocking. They were put away. Mama says I may play with them awhile, but I must put them back, I mustn't get them dirty".

I waited for a heartbeat, two, then three, taking in the meaning of your words.

"Who said you must put the mittens away?"

"Mama said. Mama Cora. Did you come to see her? She's in the kitchen, making bread".

"No", I said, and then I could not say more.

You finished your flower doll and handed it to me.

"I made it for you", you said. "You are a pretty lady". And then you stood up and ran off, laughing.

I let you go, your pale blue mittens flas.h.i.+ng against the folds of your coat.

I had to pause. I stood up and walked to the window, which overlooked the expansive front lawn, and watched cars travel up and down the street. I was filled with compa.s.sion for Rose, squatting on the damp ground with the daughter who did not know her, and there was nothing to do with this emotion because Rose was gone, long dead. I thought of my great-grandfather, whose story had seemed so seamless from our vantage point in history, struggling in his early years to start Dream Master Locks, taking care of a child who was not his own, married to a woman with endless aspirations for their lives. Close-up, their lives were as complex and chaotic as my own, full of mistakes and disappointments and good intentions gone awry. I felt duped, for I'd believed in the clear-cut heroic arc of my great-grandfather's life, and I'd known nothing of Rose, erased from the family lore as surely as if she hadn't existed. I went back to the letters to find out what she'd done next.