Flying Solo(20)
Laurie nodded. “So it’s…it would be a stretch, believing this is the real thing.”
“It would, but on the other hand, there are makers who change their marks, or who, for reasons of their own, don’t mark pieces at all. Nobody can tell you it’s impossible. Since I’ve never seen a wood duck from Kittery, it could be that this was something he tried out as an experiment and didn’t ever sell, and maybe he didn’t complete the mark for that reason. It’s very similar to a Kittery to not be a Kittery, and it’s been made with a lot of care.”
“So it’s just hard to be sure.”
“I’m afraid that’s right. Probably the only way to know for sure would be to find some kind of a record of how your aunt got it. With this mark and no history of how it came to her, it’s going to be hard to authenticate, so it’ll be hard to sell.”
“If it was real, would it sell for a lot? I have a plane ticket I’m trying to cover.”
He smiled. “You’d want to know if it was a real Kittery, that’s for sure. A 1962 Kittery sold for a little under eighty thousand dollars last year, and as I said, this is the only wood duck I’ve ever seen from him, if it is from him, and that would make it worth more. So I’d say, yeah, it could cover your plane ticket.” He made a couple of scribbles in a spiral notebook. “Give me an email address, and what I’ll do is I’ll send you a picture of what the full stamp looks like from one that I sold a few years ago, and you can see if any other information about it turns up. If it does, let me know, because he’s interesting, this fella. It’s a beautiful piece of work, whether it’s really a Kittery or not.”
“I like it.” Laurie laid her hand on the duck’s back. “I’m just curious about it. I’m not necessarily trying to sell it.”
“I’ll tell you,” he said, “I’m a pretty casual decoy guy; if you want the best shot at a good appraisal and some expert advice, go through Wesson & Truitt, they’re in Hartford. Single best auction house for decoys, best resource you can find. If anybody can give you a reliable ruling, those are the guys. Talk to Jim Baines.” He scribbled on another sheet from his spiral pad, tore off the page and handed it to her. In his somewhat shaky handwriting, it said, Wesson & Truitt, Hartford, Jim Baines. “And write down your email address for me, I can get you the information on that mark.”
“I appreciate it, Joe.”
“If you find anything else you want to sell, bring it right over. Look around and you’ll see, I carry a little bit of just about everything.”
* * *
—
It took a couple more days for Laurie to get well and truly sick of going through souvenirs and table linens and holiday decorations, as well as stir crazy from being by herself listening to podcasts during the day and reading books at night while her back ached. She broke it up by taking what her father used to call her critter walks, peering at tree stumps and stopping for every rustle of leaves. And then on that Thursday around suppertime, she was listening to Dot’s Doris Day records and drinking red wine when she opened a closet in the third bedroom that she hadn’t explored yet and saw thirty-three identical blue fabric boxes in five tall stacks.
They looked just like the box of 2007 Polaroids, and they were in order, each labeled with a year from 1974 to 2006. She pulled 1983 off the top of a stack and sat down on the daybed. More photos. More and more photos. Here was a party in someone’s living room, everyone turned toward the camera and smiling—nobody Laurie recognized. A woman sat on a man’s lap, both of them laughing. Someone had paused in the middle of pouring a drink, a martini glass in one hand and a shaker in the other. Where was this house? Who were all these people?
Laurie had been a toddler then. This would have predated even her memories of Dot bringing chocolates at Christmas and ruffling her hair, Dot sleeping on the living room couch at Grandma Natty’s because the rest of the family consisted of couples and kids sharing various rooms upstairs and downstairs.
Beautiful travel pictures, yes—some were taken in postcard places like what seemed to be Hawaii, but also a man standing under a tree pointing to a sign that said BAXTER STATE PARK. In one, two women posed with baskets of wild blueberries. She was fairly certain one of those women had also been in the party picture, sitting on the man’s lap.
There was a picture of what Laurie recognized as much younger versions than she could remember of her mother and father, faded but familiar, seated on Grandma Natty’s rosebud-print sofa, Mom’s head dropped onto Dad’s shoulder. Laurie and her two older brothers must have been running around somewhere, evading the camera and probably eating the Chips Ahoy! that Natty always had in her koala cookie jar.
She looked back at the closet. Thirty-two more boxes. She picked up the phone and texted June. Any chance you want to come over tonight and go through some pictures with me?
Laurie and June usually didn’t say yes or no to each other. They moved along to planning. Gotta get the kids fed and down, but Charlie’s here. How about 7:45?
Laurie texted back a thumbs-up. She sang along with the music for a minute, took a sip of wine, and then picked up her phone again. Then she put it down. Picked it up. Put it facedown. Drank the rest of the glass of wine. Picked it up.
She’d saved his number under “Library Consultant.” Hello! I’m going to make you regret sharing your number with me by asking whether you would like to use your hard-earned organizational skills by coming over tonight and helping me sort through 32 years of Dot’s assorted Polaroids that I just found in a closet. (They are not explicit that I know of.) I can promise snacks and wine. June is also coming. Please check this box if this sounds like the most fun you’ve ever had. Send.