The Stroke of Winter(45)

What a beautiful toast, Tess thought. It said it all, everything important, in two little words.

Joe turned to Tess. “Speaking of beer, did I ever tell you about the time I broke my leg and wound up in the hospital here in Salmon Bay and my best friend smuggled some beer into my room?”

“No!” Tess said. She leaned forward and put her elbow on the table, resting her chin on one palm. “What happened?”

Joe went on to relate how he had been playing high school football back in the 1940s and broke his leg after getting tackled on the field. He was taken to the hospital just down the street from where they now sat, which was run by nuns at that time. He remembered everything—how his best friend came to the hospital with a six-pack, and how one of the nuns discovered it.

“The nun took the six-pack and said, ‘Now, Joe, you know you can’t keep this in your room,’ and I thought that was it, I was caught red handed, and she was confiscating it,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “But then she winked at me and said, ‘I’ll keep it in the refrigerator in our break room for you. You just tell me when you want one.’”

He let out a great laugh, and Tess did, too. She glanced at Wyatt, who she was sure had heard this story a thousand times. But he was smiling at his grandfather with tears in his eyes.

“Was that your friend George, Pop?” Wyatt prompted, clearly knowing the answer.

Joe nodded. “That was George. Best guy I ever knew.”

Tess wondered if this George was still alive. But given Joe’s age—midnineties, she guessed—she thought she probably knew the answer to that. As she gazed at this dear man, she wondered what it would be like to outlive most of the people who grew up with you, shared your most pivotal experiences, loved you throughout your life. She imagined a kind of stark loneliness without your contemporaries, even if you were blessed with children and grandchildren. All the people who not just shared but participated in your memories were gone.

She wondered, too, if that was what dementia was all about.

Nobody was alive to remember your important moments, your pivotal experiences, the people who you lived with and loved or even peripherally knew. Nobody else alive remembered what Joe’s childhood was like. Or what it was like to go to high school in Wharton in 1942. Or grow up there during the Great Depression.

Only Joe remembered asking his wife to marry him—the only other person there had gone long ago. Only Joe remembered their honeymoon. Or buying their first house. Or the happy news of a baby on the way.

Joe alone was the keeper of those memories, and so many more like them, Tess thought. It was a great responsibility, holding all that history inside one’s head. An important vigil. Maybe that was why newer experiences faded as one neared the end of a long life. The brain simply couldn’t hold the lifetime of memories it had stored, and the most precious took precedence over those that came after. Who cared what he had for lunch the day before? His mind was otherwise occupied.

The server brought their lunch, and the three of them dug in.

Joe took a spoonful of soup and smiled. “This is the best pea soup I’ve ever had,” he said. “Really good! And this beer is wonderful!” He raised his glass.

His positive energy warmed Tess from the inside out.

“Pop,” Wyatt began, eyeing Tess across the table. “Speaking of the old days in Wharton, do you remember Sebastian Bell?”

Joe’s spoon stopped in midair. “Sebastian Bell,” he said. “You bet I do. He was a few years older than me in school, but a good fella.”

“Tess is his granddaughter,” Wyatt said.

Joe’s eyes grew wide, and he grinned. “Is that so? Great!” He squinted at her. “You’re Indigo’s girl?”

Tess smiled. “That’s right. Indigo is my dad. He and my mom are down in Florida.”

“Tess is renovating their house into a bed-and-breakfast,” Wyatt said.

“Wonderful,” Joe said. He gazed off into the past as he sipped his beer. “Sebastian Bell. Haven’t thought about him in years. He was a quiet sort. I imagine all artists are, to a certain extent.”

“He passed away before I was born, so I never knew him,” Tess said. “It’s fun to hear from people who did.”

“Oh, yes,” Joe said, dipping a piece of French bread into his soup. “Bastian was quite the ladies’ man, too, before he met Serena. Did you know that?”

“No!” Tess said, chuckling at Joe’s mischievous expression. “Was he really?”

“Oh my, yes,” Joe said, nodding. “The strong, silent type. All the girls were wild about him. But when he met Serena, that was that. All the fellas had eyes for her, but she only saw him.”

Tess’s heart swelled. “Is that so?”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” Joe said. “She was one of the prettiest girls in school. Not as pretty as my Sophie, mind you. But Serena turned all the heads, that’s for sure.”

Tess noticed Wyatt taking a deep breath. “Pop, Tess and I are trying to get some information about a mystery we’ve uncovered.”

“Oh?”

“We thought maybe you could help with that.”

Joe took a sip of his beer. “I don’t know how much help I can be, but I’ll try.”

Wyatt smiled at the old man. “Do you remember anything about a murder that might have happened back in those days? A woman.”