The Last of the Stanfields(102)

“It really is something getting to meet you, you know,” she said with a smile. “You look so much like her. It’s uncanny. Like a ghost from the distant past. She’s gone, isn’t she?”

“Yes. She’s gone.”

“What a god-awful tragedy. I should have been first to go. But, oh well. She always knew how to make a dramatic exit.”

“It wasn’t intentional, and it really wasn’t dramatic either, at least not the way you mean,” I replied, leaping to my mother’s defense out of pure instinct.

“You’re right, of course. But once upon a time, it was another story. And that’s what ruined us. We almost got away, we could have, but she wouldn’t hear of it, all because of what was in here,” she murmured, absentmindedly rubbing her stomach. “You’re not planning on stealing him away from me, are you? Because I can tell you I would never let that happen.”

“Steal who?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, girl. I’m talking about my son, my only child.”

“You said you almost got away . . . away from what?”

“From the god-awful mess your mother got us into. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You came to find out . . . where she hid it?”

My breath quickened.

“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

“You’re full of it! But you look so much like her, I don’t mind. She may be gone, but I’m still in love with her, even after all these years. I’m going to let you in on a secret, as long as it stays between us. I absolutely forbid you to say a single word to anyone . . .”

George-Harrison had been hoping my luck would rub off on him, but apparently it was still only confined to me. I had no way of knowing how long she would stay lucid. I remembered him saying these little interludes were as rare as they were brief. There was no time to think it over. So, I made a promise I had no intention of keeping. May reached out and took my hands in her own, drawing a deep breath and smiling warmly.

All at once, her face lit up, as though the photo from Sailor’s Hideaway were coming to life before my very eyes.

“I took some insane risks to get those invitations,” she began. “But that was nothing compared to the night of the ball. It was a night of reckoning. Fitting, a masquerade ball . . . like the grand finale to a thirty-six-year-old spectacle—a show full of lies. But it won’t be long now . . . before everything comes to light . . .”





36

ELEANOR-RIGBY

October 2016, Eastern Townships, Quebec

Something strange had come over May, like an inner voice awakening after years of lying dormant. She spoke like a perfect narrator, whisking me away to a Baltimore evening, back to late October 1980 . . .

“Our chauffeur we hired for the night pulled up beneath the awning and we stepped out of the car, the procession of elegant vehicles continuing after us like clockwork. Those lucky enough to be invited that evening were huddled out front awaiting entry, with a pair of hostesses at the door in matching uniforms collecting invitations and checking names. I was wearing a long skirt, a man’s tuxedo shirt under a formal coat, a top hat, and a mask. Sally-Anne was decked out in a domino-style wraparound dress, with a dark mask and hood that hid her face. We had chosen our flowing costumes carefully; they had to let us move about freely, yet still be large enough to conceal what we planned to walk off with.

“Your mother flashed our invitations, those precious golden tickets that had been so risky to obtain, though how and where they came from I can’t recall. Times and dates don’t come so easily these days.

“We entered the great hall of the manor, a vast space lit by massive chandeliers. A red-rope barrier blocked off attendees from the grand staircase that stretched upward before us. A wrought-iron balustrade ran the whole length of the upper-level hallway, with a spectacular glass ceiling looming over everything. We joined the flow of guests into the enormous ballroom, where a sumptuous buffet was laid out beneath ornate windows. Everything was exquisite and larger-than-life. A six-piece ensemble was playing on a stage beside a stone fireplace, performing an endless rotation of minuets, rondos, and serenades. It was a spectacle the like of which I had never seen, and I took in every detail with pure wonder. A strapping young man dressed as a jester was kissing a countess’s hand across the room, while a Confederate soldier clinked glasses with a Hindu sorcerer, and an enemy Union soldier mingled with Cleopatra. George Washington was already good and tipsy, with no signs of slowing down anytime soon. A Huguenot poured champagne into a flute until it bubbled over onto the tablecloth. A prince straight out of Arabian Nights fondled Juliet, while her Romeo was nowhere to be found. A fakir stuffed his face with foie gras, while a hook-nosed wizard looked thoroughly ridiculous as he tried to keep his mound of caviar from spilling off his blini. It was endless. A Pinocchio and a Marie Antoinette chatted between clowns, Caesar kept scratching his forehead under an itchy laurel wreath, and Abraham Lincoln was French-kissing an exotic concubine. Anything was possible with those masks, and nothing was forbidden.

“A beautiful young singer joined the ensemble onstage, and her powerful voice left the whole room awestruck. Sally-Anne and I used the diversion to make our way to the study. We went through a secret door and up a small spiral staircase. As she led me down the second-floor hallway, we had to hug the wall to avoid being seen by the horde of guests mingling below. We walked straight by the same office I had waited in one day while pretending to have an appointment with the sex-obsessed secretary, but that’s a whole other story, one I can tell someday if you like. Farther down the hall, we arrived at Robert Stanfield’s study, and I played lookout while Sally-Anne slipped inside. I can still hear her telling me, ‘Stay as far back in the shadows as you can, or the guests will see you. All it takes is one person glancing up to admire the chandelier and we’re toast. You see anyone coming, you hide in the study with me. I’ll take care of everything, darling. I’ll be back in a flash. Don’t worry.’ But I was worried, and I desperately wanted to pull the plug. I begged Sally-Anne not to go in, insisting that it wasn’t too late to back out. We didn’t need that money. We could find another way. But Sally-Anne was ready to see it through to the bitter end, all for that damn newspaper that she loved more than anything—even me. Worse still, your mother was out for revenge. You listen to me, girl: never let yourself act out of rage, or you’ll have to face the consequences sooner or later. But that night, I was determined to be Sally-Anne’s good little soldier.