The Book of Lost Friends(113)

“It’s not as hard as I thought it would be…coming in here,” Nathan says, but the stiff way he carries himself says otherwise. “I have no idea what we’re looking for, though. And to tell you the truth, whatever it is, it could be gone. Will and Manford and their wives and kids let themselves in and appropriated most of what they wanted right after Robin died.”

Even though Robin has been gone for two years, our search of her room feels uncomfortably invasive. Her personal belongings are still here. We carefully check drawers, shelves, the closet, a box in the corner, an old leather suitcase. All of it looks as if it has been previously rummaged through, then dumped haphazardly back into place.

We come up with nothing of significance. Credit card bills and medications, letters from friends, holiday notes, blank stationery, a journal with a cute little gold hasp on the front. It’s unlocked, the key still tucked among the pages, but when Nathan leafs through, all he finds is Robin’s reading list, complete with favorite quotations jotted down, mini summaries of each book, and the dates she started and finished. Sometimes she read several books in a week, everything from classics and Westerns to nonfiction and the Reader’s Digest condensed editions from the boxes downstairs.

“Your sister was a definite bibliophile,” I remark, looking over Nathan’s shoulder at the book list.

“She got that from the judge,” he replies. Tucked inside the diary, there’s also a running tally of billiard games played on the old Brunswick table downstairs in the library, sort of an ongoing tournament between grandfather and granddaughter in the last year of the judge’s life. “They had a lot in common.”

The desk drawer tips forward as Nathan opens it to put papers back in. A cue ball rolls to the front corner, clatters to the floor, then starts moving, seemingly under its own power. Nathan and I watch it weave over the uneven plank floors, this direction, then that, catching the sun and reflecting fairy lights on the wall before finally disappearing under the bed.

My shoulders shimmy involuntarily.

Nathan crosses the room, lifts the dust ruffle, and looks under the bed. “Nothing but a few books.” He toe-nudges them into the open.

The desk drawer resists going back into place. I squat down to eyeball the problem and work the slides back onto the tracks. The triangle-shaped rack and the rest of the billiard balls are wedged in the back end, making the drawer travel unevenly. Years rescuing thrift shop antiques have given me a particular skill with old furniture, and so after a bit of finagling, I have things in their proper order again.

When I turn around, Nathan is sitting on the floor by the cherrywood four-poster bed, his back resting against the dust ruffle, his long legs splayed out. He seems to have sort of collapsed there, lost in the pages of a children’s book, Where the Wild Things Are.

I open my mouth to ask if that was his, but the answer is evident in his faraway expression. I’m not even in the room with him right now. There’s a ghost alongside him, instead. He’s reading the book with her. They’ve done the same thing many times before.

I stand and watch, and for an instant I can see her—the woman in the fishing photo. She’s turning the pages. Halfway through, they lay flat. Nathan takes out an envelope and a small stack of photographs, lets the book rest in his lap.

I quietly move closer as he lays the photos on the floor, one by one.

Baby pictures. First day of school photographs, vacations. A family ski photo. Nathan’s mother is a tall strawberry blonde in pink insulated overalls. She’s supermodel gorgeous. Robin is about ten years old, Nathan a bundled-up toddler. Nathan’s father, dressed in expensive gear, holds Nathan in the crook of his elbow. He’s smiling, his face devoid of the downturned eyebrows and heavy frown lines so evident in his older brothers, Will and Manford. He looks happy. Unstressed.

Nathan opens the envelope next. I read the enclosed note over his shoulder.

    Nathan,

I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist this book.

Mom had these photos rattling around in her art supply bins. You know how unsentimental she is! I thought I’d better grab them and save them for you. This way, you’ll at least know what you looked like once. You were such a cute little pudster, if sometimes annoying. You used to blabber out questions until Mom and I wanted to tape your mouth shut. When I asked you why you had so many questions, you looked at me in the most honest way and said, “So I’ll know everything, like you do.”

Well, little brother—surprise—I don’t know everything, but I do know you grew up to be a pretty great guy. You were worth all the trouble. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. If you’re reading this note, I’m probably leaving you with a few questions I didn’t get to answer.

There are things I’ve been working on this last year since Granddad Gossett died. I always had the feeling there was a secret he was keeping, something he wanted to tell but couldn’t bring himself to. Just in case I’m gone and someone else looks through the library before you do…you know who I mean…I want to make sure you get the information. When you see it, you’ll know why. If you don’t find my papers in the library downstairs, go to the bank. I’ve been keeping a copy of most of it in a safe deposit box there. I put your name on the box and paid up the rent, long term, so it’ll be waiting there for no one else but you.

You’re on your own with this one now, Nat. Sorry about that. You’ll have to decide what to do about it all. I hate leaving you with the burden, but you’ll sort out the right decisions, whatever they are.