Love Lies Bleeding (10 page)

Chapter Thirteen

Ithaca, New York
June 1916

A
fter a dinner of Mrs. Protts’s pork and beans that evening, Tom settled down on his bed with the volumes Libbie had given him, handling them with reverence, as if they had been bestowed by the Delphic oracle. He read several of the epitaphs for the citizens of Spoon River, but although he concentrated, he could not understand what was so magical about the work. All he managed to glean was that the people were dead and that these were quotes about their lives. Depressing. Give him a copy of
Ben Hur
or
Lord Jim
any day. He liked something with a bit of action. Chariot races and the like. He set the book down, rubbing his eyes in frustration.

He opened the D.H. Lawrence and struggled with the language at first but enjoyed it more as he progressed. He fell asleep reading, his dreams an odd mix of Hell Row Nottinghamshire coal mines, garden flowers, and pretty blue-eyed ladies in fancy houses up on the hill.

Trumansburg, New York
June 1986

“Mom said she remembered Libbie mentioning something about lending books to the boy to help him get more educated. She had a couple of favorites she wanted everyone to read,” Diana said, sipping some more of her tea.

“
Spoon River Anthology,
” Frank mused out loud.

“Yeah, how did you know?”

“Olive Rumsey was Libbie’s best friend. She’s still alive down in Watkins Glen. I spoke to her yesterday.”

“Oh, yes. She came to dad’s funeral years ago. I didn’t realize she was still around.”

“I don’t remember her at the funeral.”

“Frank, you went out with Uncle Herb between the service and the wake and got blitzed.”

“Oh yeah. Imagine me wanting to forget something like that.” He grimaced, remembering when his life had begun to spin wildly out of his control. He pinpointed it to right around the time of his father’s death. Maybe it was history repeating itself. “Olive’s a nice lady. She shared some stories with me.”

“Mom always liked Olive a lot, even though she was best friends with Aunt Libbie. Olive is such a decent human being, but I don’t know how she stayed friends with Libbie. According to Mom, Libbie could sometimes be nasty to people just because she knew she could get away with it. Aunt Libbie knew she was beautiful, and everyone loved her because of that, so it sounds like she pushed the envelope as far as she could.”

“Can you remember anything Mom told you about this Estabrook kid?” Frank asked.

Diana thought a moment and shook her head.

Frank reached for his second glass of tea. He and Diana had been talking for hours. But he felt like he knew his aunt a lot better now. Libbie wanted all the fringe benefits of being married to a lawyer, even if it hurt Maude, who was carrying a torch for Stephen LaBarr. It also sounded like she might have been carrying on with this Estabrook guy and getting her ya-yas out before she had to settle down and get married. But the strict social mores of the day had made it difficult for her to do anything but what her social class had raised her to do.

“Diana, do you know if Mom saved any of Libbie’s possessions?”

“Geez, I can’t believe I didn’t think of that sooner,” she said, palming her forehead. “Have I got a treat for you.” Rising from the couch, she jerked her finger for him to follow and led him through the main corridor to the back of the house.

The guest room had a queen-sized bed tidily made up in sea green linens. Frank had spent many nights here after a visit stretched into the wee hours.

She gestured to the bed for him to sit a moment and opened the closet, where she pulled the cord for a bare bulb light fixture.

From the top shelf, she pulled down a cardboard box labeled “Libbie’s Stuff” in magic marker.

“Mom didn’t like looking in here. I think it freaked her out too much. I’m sure everyone and their brother has looked through here, but maybe you’ll see something no one else did. Her diary’s in there, and she does talk about both of the guys, but there was a lot of stuff I didn’t understand. Other people’s names I didn’t recognize, that sort of thing. Since you’re talking to more people, maybe you’ll figure out what’s up with it.”

“Could I borrow this for a little while?” Frank asked, gesturing to the box.

“If it helps to figure out what happened to her, take it,” Diana said, letting out a sigh. She handed him the box and then followed him as he made his way back to the Crown Victoria.

“You’ve been a huge help, sis,” he told her, placing the box in the trunk of the car. “I promise I’ll do everything I can to figure out what happened to her. I need to do this. For Mom, for us. For me.”

“Thanks,” she said, hugging him.

He climbed in and started the car, then headed back to Ithaca. She stood in the driveway, waving as he drove away, realizing belatedly that for once, the wafting scent of Jim Beam hadn’t clung to him like bad cologne.

Ithaca, New York
June 1986

Frank’s home was on Aurora Street, not far from DeWitt Park. It was a tiny little place in an older mansion that had been subdivided into four apartments. What it lacked in modern conveniences, it made up for in turn-of-the-century charm, and that was okay with him. He was a no-frills kind of guy anyway. He’d needed a place after he and Allison split up, and it fit the bill. He had the eastern sun in his bedroom in the morning and he wasn’t too far from either the barracks or a Chinese place that delivered, making it ideal for his needs as a bachelor.

He pulled around to the back, where a community carport fit six cars. Splurging a bit, he’d gone by Moosewood on the way home and picked up some burek for dinner. It sat on the passenger seat, ready to be microwaved. He picked it up and headed to the back door. As he rounded the corner to go in, the sagging privet hedge that ran the contours of the building accosted him. It needed a massive trim, and the landlord refused to do it. One of these days, Frank was going to rent a weed whacker and level the thing, just to piss the guy off. His key stuck in the lock, so he ended up fighting the shrub for longer than he would have liked.

Once inside, he kicked off his shoes while dinner nuked. Then he grabbed the plate and settled onto the couch, where he clicked on the TV and finished his meal. The flaky pastry melted in his mouth. It would have tasted even better washed down with an ice-cold Genesee, but he settled for a Pepsi instead. Over an episode of
Simon & Simon
, he looked through the box to see if anything jumped out at him. The smell of yellowing paper and old bookbindings announced the history of the items inside.

The first item, tucked into a brittle envelope near the top of the box, was a pressed flower of some sort. Frank turned the desiccated stem to get a good view and recognized a love-lies-bleeding. His mother had always grown them in her garden. Three books followed, Libbie’s supposed favorites:
The Spoon River Anthology
,
Sons and Lovers
, and a volume of Vachel Lindsay’s poetry, all of their pages cracked and crumbling with age. Next out of the box were several photographs—a picture of a chubby baby with a mop of dark curls labeled “Libbie” on the back, Libbie and Olive laughing, Libbie in her long white graduation dress holding a diploma, and the picture of Libbie in the plaid dress and hat that was used for the newspaper articles about her disappearance. The next item in the box was a portrait from the McGillivray studio in Ithaca. He opened the flap on the cardboard frame and saw the same face he had seen in the group photo of the church picnic that Olive had showed him. On the flap, he’d written, “
To Libbie, with all my love, your Tom
.” From the photo, he was able to study his subject better than from the tiny face he’d seen in the group shot.

No doubt about it, Thomas Estabrook was a good-looking guy. Dark eyes gazed out from a face with high cheekbones, full lips, and the slight semblance of a five o’clock shadow. A straw hat covered thick, dark hair, and he wore a dark vest over a pleated white shirt and striped necktie. But Frank had seen it before in plenty of the kids he’d brought in for questioning. Even though Tom was handsome, his eyes still looked vulnerable—as if he was wearing someone else’s suit and was aware that he was out of his element. Frank stared at the face for a long time, committing it to memory, wondering what had happened between these two and wondering how Libbie came to be buried for seventy years because of it.

The next item slipped out of the cardboard surrounding the old photo. An old sepia-toned postcard fluttered to the ground, so Frank picked it up and saw the telltale item that Olive had mentioned. On the flipside was a woman wearing next to nothing, holding a string of pearls over her bare, lily-white bosom. It was far sexier than most of the porn that was out there nowadays, he had to admit. Maybe that was just his style. For a sheltered woman at the turn of the century, this must have seemed forbidden, dangerous, and more than a little titillating. He could understand why she’d kept it.

The last item in the box was her diary, a small, leather-bound book with a decorative gold insignia on the cover. A girlish script filled the inside. If he was lucky, he might pick up a clue from it. If not, it would be a banal read about new hats and the nineteen sixteen social scene. He took a deep breath and dove in.

May 25, 1916

Dear Diary-

I am a graduate! The ceremonies were today, and it was a pretty day for it. Belinda Goodwin gave the valedictory address, and several of the graduates formed a quartet and sang a very patriotic song. Dr. Bruce gave the invocation, and afterwards, there were delicious refreshments. I cannot believe that soon, I will be headed to Smith’s with Olive and learning about nursing so that we may help in the war effort when America enters the struggle. Everyone says it will happen any day now, after the Lusitania. Even so, President Wilson promised to keep us out. It’s all so confusing. Dr. Kincaid encouraged us in our pursuit, saying what honorable ladies we are for wanting to help. Is it terrible of me that I’m only doing it to see Paris? That sounds so shallow I know, but I can’t be alone in that. Most girls would give their eye teeth to see Gay Paree. I figure I’ll go again when I’m old and married, but I don’t think it would be possible to have any more fun than to see Paris while you’re young. I realize there will be nastiness and gore involved with the nursing, but just thinking of meeting a romantic Frenchman sets my heart aflutter. Not like the thought of Stephen LaBarr. Seeing the land of Balzac and Molière would be so exciting. I hope there will be some Frenchmen left after all these battles are over. The newspaper makes it sound very bad.

Yours,

Libbie

June 12, 1916

Dear Diary-

I’m still enjoying the Lindsay poems that Dr. Kincaid shared with me just before graduation. It amazes me that there are artists and writers who think this way. His poem about snaring moonlight gives me goose bumps. Today, Olive and I went to the flickers and had lunch afterward. Also, I have a divine new hat! At Birdie’s Café, we met two boys whom the reverend knew from his ministry in Newfield. Just poor boys, but one is rather handsome, if a bit shy. Tomorrow, I’ll attend a lecture at the university for ladies interested in nursing positions overseas. Olive and I still plan on Smith’s, but it wouldn’t hurt to know more about what might await us when we go.

L.

June 14, 1916

Dear Diary- I ran into the farm boy again today. His name is Tom. He was with a friend named Jimmy, who seems a bit of a bore. He bought me an ice cream soda at Platt & Colt’s, and we talked about life and literature. Neither of them have read any Masters or
Sons and Lovers
. I think he is not very educated at all, but he seems a decent fellow. He’s more of a “salt of the earth” type if I read him right. Why are the handsome boys always poor and the rich boys always boring? I have invited him to call at the house, and I will let him borrow my copies of the books. I have to admit that I’m very attracted to him. Perhaps I shall even let him kiss me. I’ve never kissed a poor boy before.

L.

June 16, 1916

It seems that Tom (the poor boy) doesn’t much like the Edgar Lee Masters. I suppose that’s all right. Epitaphs aren’t for everyone. In fact, he didn’t even know what an epitaph was until I told him. See? A bit simple, as I said. Perhaps it’s something to do with both his parents being dead. I suppose it might be a bit sad, reading memories of the deceased.