The Last of the Stanfields(60)
“Wouldn’t it just have been simpler to tell her everything?”
“Perhaps, but that would not be a logical choice. Imagine I did find a way to get around my promise, which in and of itself would be by chance . . . if I could move forward for that one reason . . . Even so, anything I could tell her would be biased.”
“I don’t see why that would be the case,” Vera protested.
“When I’m doing research and I question the veracity of any of the facts, I seek out other sources to back them up. That way the story becomes my own, in a way. But if I hear the same story with a personal perspective that includes the intonations and feelings of the narrator, then the story becomes someone else’s interpretation, not my own. No matter how accurate that account may be, in such cases the story will never be my own. Elby must find her own truth and not simply have my truth handed to her. I want to give her every possible chance to discover it on her own. And this sort of thing takes time to accept. Letting my sister chart her own course to the truth increases the likelihood that she will achieve that level of acceptance.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“It’s not so easy, accepting that you’ve been lied to all your life.”
“But you’ve moved on and learned to forgive, haven’t you?”
“No. I have simply learned to accept. It’s not the same thing.”
25
ELEANOR-RIGBY
October 2016, Baltimore
We ended up spending all day at the library. The next day, I took a break from all the research to buy a book of papers released by the estate of Edgar Allan Poe, a gift which I was sure would make my editor in chief overjoyed.
Back at the library, George-Harrison and I went through every last article in those eight issues of the Baltimore Sun with a fine-tooth comb. We were on the hunt for even the slightest clue that would help push our investigation forward. I found one article on the mayor’s development plans, which described an initiative to revitalize the waterfront district. He hoped to convert parts of it into a holiday resort that would attract more tourists. The new convention center, which had opened a few months earlier, had already attracted droves of business visitors. I read another story about what to watch for in the upcoming presidential debate scheduled for the twenty-first. The Sun also described a confrontation between Baltimore’s mayor and the owner of the Colts. The team owner was enraged by the lack of funding for repairs to the stadium, which was clearly in a state of neglect. He even threatened to move his franchise elsewhere. I moved on to another article describing a fire on the seventeenth of the month that had ravaged portions of Old Town, including a college campus and a Presbyterian church.
The Culture pages featured some great photos of the Who (or “the Sub-Beatles,” as my father called them) performing at a local concert venue. At the time, Baltimore’s punk, hard rock, and metal music scene was thriving. I wished I had been around in those days, just to breathe in all that freedom.
Just then, something caught my eye. “Hold on a minute,” I told George-Harrison. “Go back, just a bit . . .”
George-Harrison used the wheel to scroll back through the microfiche until we reached the page in question. An enormous photo of a masquerade ball took up half the page, of guests decked out in elaborate costumes. But it was the caption that caught my attention.
All the stars turned out looking their very best for an extravagant party celebrating Edward Stanfield’s engagement.
“Stanfield,” I said, eyes fixing on the name. “There was something about them in the Independent as well.”
“You’re right, that does ring a bell,” said George-Harrison, with a deep yawn. “But I can’t remember what the story was about.”
The assistant was nowhere to be found, and we couldn’t get our hands on the Independent microfiche again without his help. Luckily, I had taken photos of the pages so I could reread the entire issue later. George-Harrison rubbed his tired eyes, both of us exhausted from staring at that screen for hours on end.
The night before, we had gone out to eat at a quaint little place overlooking the harbor, and I got to learn more about George-Harrison. He told me all about his carpentry studio and his ability to “age” furniture—which was a total scam, no matter what he said—but he became very reserved when I asked about his mother.
Several times I thought he might be coming on to me. Not only did he hang on my every word, laughing—or at least cracking a smile—at all my jokes, but he seemed to get a real kick out of hearing about my family, and he even said he’d love to meet them one day. No one would say something like that without implying something more. But he was wasting his time. First off, he wasn’t my type. Second, I had resolved to heed my sister’s advice.
The way the night ended only proved that my instincts had been totally spot-on.
George-Harrison
I was totally down in the dumps and didn’t want to hear another word about her damn family. I made the mistake of asking her about herself, just to be polite and to reciprocate after enduring her own getting-to-know-you game of twenty questions. I wasn’t going to fall into her trap by acting self-centered and confirming her negative stereotype of men. In hindsight, it would have been worth the risk, because once she started talking, she didn’t stop.