Family Skeletons: A Spunky Missouri Genealogist Traces A Family's Roots...And Digs Up A Deadly Secret (2 page)

I love my job. Giving the tours is the only thing that I do in this town that I actually get paid for. I have seven authentically replicated dresses, made just for me to give the tours in. The one I had just changed into to give this tour was an 1870s deep blue polonaise gown, with an open front that revealed an underskirt of the same color. It was trimmed with chenille-ball fringe in a deeper, almost navy blue. I looked like a curtain. The hat matched, and it was just a shame that I wasn't as comfortable as I looked. The crinolette that I wore underneath the dress was stiff and itchy, and the entire ensemble took a good twenty minutes to get on.

“The dress is an authentic reproduction—you may touch it if you like,” I said, and held out my arms for the people to touch. For some reason everybody wants to touch a dress that looks like this, so I just let them know up front that it's all right.

We stood in the ballroom, with its marble floor and painted ceiling. My voice echoed off of the walls, and I had to remind myself to speak in a normal tone.

“Before we start the rest of the tour I'd like to ask that you do not touch any of the furniture in the house, as all of the pieces in the Gaheimer House are antiques. Nothing here, except for my dresses, are reproductions. The gentleman behind you is Elmer Kolbe. He is our security. He makes sure that nobody gets lost from the tour.”

Elmer smiled at me and rolled his beady gray eyes to the ceiling. He is our fire chief and is supposed to be retiring. He's been saying that for ten years and is still hard at work.

The tour wasn't very large, only about ten people. We moved on to the dining room.

“The paneling that goes halfway up the walls is sycamore. The dining table seats twelve and was brought from Connecticut when Mr. Gaheimer was there on business. Some of the outstanding pieces in this room are the chandelier and the matching gilt convex mirror.”

Okay, so it's not the most exciting monologue in the world, but most people at least pay attention. One tourist, though, didn't really seem to be listening to anything I said. She looked at the floor for the most part, wringing her hands, and although it is a beautiful hardwood floor, it couldn't possibly be that interesting.

She was a pretty woman, small and regal-looking. She was one of those women that make men feel big and strong, and other women feel huge, fat, and cumbersome. I felt like a Valkyrie next to her, and I'm only five foot two. She was probably close to fifty years old, judging by the gray hair and laugh lines around her mouth and eyes.

Then it occurred to me that I knew her from somewhere. She owned a shop here in New Kassel. I stopped talking for a while, and she didn't notice. The other patrons looked around the room and at each other wondering if there was something wrong. She still didn't look up from the floor or stop wringing her hands.

I resumed my monologue and went on with the tour. We headed up the steps for the second half and the ninth step creaked, as it always does. I like to think that it is the added weight of my skirts that makes the step creak, and not my weight in general. I am only about ten pounds overweight, but I like to eat, and there is a certain amount of guilt that goes with that.

When I reached the landing I turned around, and instantly noticed that I was missing my hand-wringing tourist/shop owner. I questioned Elmer with my eyes, and he took my meaning and scanned the group, as if I'd just overlooked her.

Why didn't she say something? And where did she go?

When the tour was over, I went downstairs to my office to change back into my street clothes. The next tour wasn't for two hours, and I didn't want to get my dress dirty or wrinkled. Sylvia has them dry-cleaned faithfully every other week, and if there is a mark on them, I am told about it.

There was somebody in my office. I could see the shadow on the wall in the hallway. I expected it to be Rudy or Sylvia, ready to order me to my next duty. Instead, it was the woman from the tour. She stood behind the desk, reading something that lay on top of it.

Caught like a child with her hand in the cookie jar, she flushed, came from behind my desk, and extended a very small, delicate hand.

“Norah Zumwalt,” she announced.

I could have sworn that I said something, but I didn't hear it if I did. My expression was enough to warrant her explanation.

“I own Norah's Antiques on the north side,” she said calmly. “Right off of New Bavaria Boulevard.”

“Yes, I know,” I said as I shook her hand. Oh, yes, I was thinking, the woman who never has anything to do with any fundraisers or functions of any kind. The woman who closed down her shop during last year's Oktoberfest because the event didn't bring any real customers, just “lookers.” Yes, Miss Antisocial Norah Zumwalt. Now I knew who she was.

“What can I do for you?”

“You are the historian here, correct?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Have you ever traced a family tree before?” she asked.

“I've done my own and a few others. Why?”

Walking to the only window in the room, she pulled back the lace curtains and looked out at the day's activities. The action could have been done for dramatic effect, but she seemed genuinely apprehensive about telling me what she wanted.

She pressed her palms together, cleared her throat, and turned around to me to begin what seemed like a well-rehearsed speech. “In 1942, my father marched off to war and never came back.” Handing me a photograph from her overly stuffed purse, she continued. “His mother was French, I think.”

I was still standing in the middle of my office. It's very difficult to sit in the dresses, and since I hadn't had the chance to change clothes, I remained standing.

The man in the photograph was superbly handsome. His hair was wavy black, accompanied by dark, sparkling eyes and a full, pouty lower lip. The overall impression was that of a Mediterranean background.

“Ms. Zumwalt, I don't really have time right now, with the festival and such, to take on any more projects. Besides, this sounds more like a missing-persons type of thing.”

“Please. I would like my whole family tree done, but in particular I'd like to find out what happened to my father. I'll pay you as much as you like.”

“Well, I normally charge ten dollars an hour plus photocopies, but I still don't know if I'll have the time. The museum is opening this June.”

Lord, why can't I just say no to people? I honestly didn't have the time to mess with this. And I wasn't so sure I'd do it even if I had the time. Maybe it was because I'd always thought she was a snob. Whatever the reason, it left me as quickly as it came when I saw her wringing her hands, and I looked down at his photograph again. What must it be like to be fifty years old and not know your father?

“What's his name?” I heard myself ask.

“Eugene Counts,” she said as she sat down in a chair next to the wall and smiled.

“When was he born?”

“Probably in 1923.”

“Where was he born?”

“Probably in Missouri.”

“And his parents?” I asked, expecting her to say, “Probably somebody.”

“I don't know.”

Well, at least she was certain of her lack of information. After ten years of doing this sort of thing, it still amazes me that people can know so little about their own parents.

“Did he die in the war?” I asked. I tried to take notes by bending over my desk.

“Probably.” Back to that again. She looked around the room. It was a tiny room, just off from the ballroom. She stared at the poster, which also served as a map of New Kassel. It read: “Step Back in Time. Discover Historic New Kassel, Missouri, and All It Has to Offer.”

“My mother and father never married, and I guess he felt like he didn't have to come home to her when the war was over. He may have found somebody, a woman, in Europe and stayed. All I know is he used to write, then one day he stopped. My mother never asked him about his family.”

She pulled out several yellowed pieces of paper from her purse. They were letters, addressed to Viola Pritcher. The lighting in the office wasn't the best, and I had a difficult time reading the faded ink.

“These are two of the last letters that he sent her. I have all the others at home,” she said as she arose and went over to the wall opposite the window, where a very old, very pretty rose of Sharon quilt hung on the wall.

The quilt was a donation from an elderly member of the society. The rose parts of the quilt were appliquéd one on top of the other in different shades of pink to give a multidimensional look, and the green vine swirled around connecting the roses. The quilting was very fine, with the stitches accenting the flowers themselves.

“The rose of Sharon quilt was traditionally the bridal quilt,” I said to Norah. “Most brides generally had one quilt in that design.”

She smiled and hugged herself. “I always want to touch them. Do you?”

“Yes. Quilts have that effect. Go ahead, if you like.”

She ran her small fingers across the appliqué roses, lost in her private thoughts.

“So, how far do you want me to go back? How many generations?”

“I don't know. I'd like to know at least who my great-great-grandparents were.”

“All right,” I said. I reached into the upper left-hand drawer of the Civil War–era desk. It was one of the first items Hermann Gaheimer had acquired for himself when he arrived. “Fill out this form, as best you can. I'll be right back.”

I went to the ladies' room. I have no idea why all the women in the nineteenth century didn't die of bladder infections. If I had to live in one of these dresses all the time, I'd limit myself to peeing twice a day.

It took me awhile to get back to the office. I stopped by the soda machine in the hallway and got a Dr Pepper. The soda machine is definitely out of place. It's like a satellite dish in the Amazon forest. Oh well, we must have our caffeine.

When I got back to my office, she was gone. The form, which requested the names, dates, and places of birth and death for the ancestors that she could remember, was barely written on. The photograph and the letters were neatly placed on top of it. Had I really just promised to trace her family tree? Good Lord, it had been at least a year since I had hired out my services.

There was something about Norah Zumwalt and the photograph of her father that rested peculiarly in my consciousness. Now that she was gone, it was as if she had been a mirage or a dream. Why did she follow me through my tour just to ask me this? Why didn't she call me at home or catch me some other time in the office? Why now? Why not five years ago?

Two

Sunlight filtered through my lavender curtains. It had taken me quite a while to fall asleep the night before because over and over I had read the letters that were written by Norah's father. My eyes were matted shut, my shoulders were sore, and my stomach rumbled.

Our bedroom, along with my office and a bathroom, is located on the second floor of my eighty-five-year-old home. I heard the shower running, and I knew that it was after seven and Rudy was getting ready for work. I got up slowly, wiped the sleep from my eyes, and looked out my window.

The Mississippi River wound in front of my house ever so slowly. A barge crept up the river and the morning sun gleamed off of the ripples it left as it went to its destination somewhere north.

New Kassel is far enough south of St. Louis that we are not bothered by the problems that plague a big city, yet we are still close enough for convenience. My house is on the northeast side of town, away from the shops and tourism, and is perched just right, on a cliff that overlooks Old Man River.

Our property, which is roughly two acres, is bordered by woods on the north side, and Charity Bergermeister's property on the south. River Point Road, and of course the river, are on the east. On the west side of our property, or our backyard, is Mayor Castlereagh's property and home. He owns about eight acres, all fenced, and I can barely see the top of his roof from Rachel's bedroom window.

“Ave Mariiiiia,” Rudy sang from the shower. The shower seems to be the only place that he remembers his Catholic upbringing. Unless you want a horror story about one of the saints or martyrs. He is very good at telling stories. He's Irish, and they tell tales with a lot of zeal.

I snuggled back in bed and smelled the Downy on the pillowcases. The girls were up. The aroma of the pancakes that my mother was cooking for them soon smothered out the Downy. I couldn't decide if I wanted to eat or sleep. Finally, my stomach won out, and I headed downstairs.

Rachel was dressed for school. Mary stood on her chair drinking a glass of apple juice. She made gurgling noises in her cup, but stopped after I had given her the evil eye two times.

“Mommy,” she said.

“Good morning, girls,” I said, and kissed each one of them on the top of the head.

“Mom,” Rachel began. She stopped putting “-my” on the end of Mom when she started kindergarten.

“What?”

“Do you know that there are people in this world that don't have arms?”

“Yes,” I said.

“That's terrible.”

“Yes, it is. Did you discuss this in class or something?” I asked, wondering why she had brought up the subject. Every morning it's something different.

“No. There was a man at the park yesterday that didn't have any arms.”

“Oh.”

She looked at me wide-eyed, as if I couldn't possibly leave the conversation with just an “Oh.”

“That's terrible, honey.”

“Mommy,” Mary said. “I want a tootie.”

“No cookies for breakfast. Finish your pancakes.”

I found my mother, who is fifty-two, sitting out on the porch just off from the kitchen. She drank her coffee and watched the river in silence. My parents have been divorced for fifteen years, and after several years of living alone, she moved in with us. She is confined to a wheelchair thanks to polio when she was ten years old. The fact that Rachel has a grandmother in a wheelchair could be why she is always so sensitive to people with other disabilities.