On Turpentine Lane(29)

It was here that Nick’s character snapped. He clutched a handful of his flannel shirt and whispered, “Dead? Are they dead babies? Have we been found out at long last? Is the jig up?”

Thus ended our wine-induced improv. “You get the idea. Just tell her what you found and could she explain it,” he said.

We moved on to dessert, which was several flavors of ice cream I thought had male appeal, purchased on my way home. When I offered hot fudge, Nick said, “I may never leave.”





20





I’m Not Blaming Anyone


I FELT OBLIGED TO leave voice-mail messages on Theresa Tindle’s phone, hoping to sound upbeat, in the manner of a satisfied owner suffering no buyer’s regret. My first message said, more or less, “This is Faith Frankel, your buyer? All is well. I found some mementos that I believe belonged to your parents. I’ll try you again.” My second message, two days later, changed “mementos” to “some photos found in an album, in the attic.”

Had I left my cell phone number? Apparently so. She reached me at school, in my office, with Nick present. I expected she’d be on guard, suspicious of the fussy buyer whose inspector had found so much to flunk. But her first words were “Hi! It’s Terry! You called?”

“Terry?”

“Terry Tindle? Theresa? Mrs. Lavoie’s daughter? The photo album? Did you want to send it to me? Do you need my address?”

When waving my arm in in the air didn’t get more than a puzzled look from Nick, I resorted to signage, scribbling, Theresa, the daughter! on a sheet of paper while saying, “Thank you for calling back. But could I ask you some questions about the pictures in the album?”

“Shoot!”

“First of all, if you’re wondering which album, it’s brown. The cover is tooled leather. Old. And empty except for . . . Polaroids. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen them, but they reveal something you might find disconcerting—”

“Oh, shit,” I heard.

I nodded victoriously for Nick’s benefit. Surely Theresa was going to elaborate now that I’d reopened a hideous chapter of her sad early life.

“Who else saw them?” she asked.

“Just my parents. And my housemate.”

“Are you trying to embarrass me?” Theresa asked. “Because, frankly, I’m surprised you had the nerve to call me.”

How had this turned sour so fast? “I’m not blaming anyone!” I protested. “I’m not accusing anyone of anything. Maybe it’s none of my business, but as the new owner, I really need to know what happened here.”

“Is it really any of your business. And do you think this is funny?”

“Of course not. Quite the opposite.”

“Throw them out! I don’t want those Polaroids, which I can’t believe anyone kept.”

I said, “I really don’t think I should throw them away.”

“It’s not your decision!”

“But what if they’re some kind of evidence?”

“For what? Something they liked doing in the privacy of their own home?”

Was I horrified or just stumped, either of which must have showed, because in a few seconds Nick was holding up a sign that said WTF?

I said, “Is it possible that we’re talking about totally different photos?”

“I’m talking about pictures of my mother that no daughter would want to see!”

Was English suddenly a language I didn’t speak? “Pictures of your mother?” I repeated.

“Naked! What else would I mean?”

Naked pictures of Mrs. Lavoie, who only existed in my mind’s eye as a nonagenarian on her deathbed? What had I ever said other than “Polaroids” that invited such an unbosoming? “Why would you think that?” I asked.

“What else am I supposed to think? Disturbing photos? Or did you say disgusting? And I wouldn’t be surprised if he used a Polaroid because Kodak certainly wasn’t going to develop nude photos. Everybody knows that.”

All I managed to say was “I’m a big believer in artistic freedom—”

“It was their own business. If it’s your own husband, and he’s not sending a roll of film to the local drug store, what’s the harm? It doesn’t make you an exhibitionist.”

Now reduced to babbling, I said, “I know we tell the girls at school—never, never, never let anyone take naked pictures of you because it’s going to end up on the Internet.”

“That’s now! This was between a married couple. Just like you said, it’s art.”

Thus I found myself discussing Polaroids I’d never seen, which might never have existed. “Do you know for a fact that your father or a stepfather photographed your mother naked?”—winning Nick’s full eye-popping attention.

“Of course I didn’t know. Okay, maybe I found one in a drawer after he died. Certainly not porn. I wasn’t shocked! Looking back, I think they had fun together. It was a small house, and I slept directly across the hall from them. She was proud of her body—I’m sure you knew girls like that in college. You can just tell—the way they parade around. She was in great shape, even after having three kids.”