Authors: Mollie Cox Bryan

Scrapbook of Secrets (14 page)

BOOK: Scrapbook of Secrets

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Beatrice’s heart sank. “It was so vibrant. I still dream about it.”

“We all do,” Rose said, as if Beatrice should have known that. “We are a part of this land. And it’s a part of us.”

Chapter 25

Paige laid the thick yellow scrapbook on Vera’s desk. “I’m done with it,” she said. “I don’t know how I managed.”

Vera looked up from her paperwork. Her friends just flat-out refused to acknowledge that she actually worked for a living. They just stopped by and interrupted her every chance they got.

“What do you mean?” Vera finally asked, looking directly into Paige’s big doll-like blue eyes.

“Daniel. He reminds me a lot of my boy. The soccer games, the art projects, that funny little crooked smile ...” Her huge blue eyes reminded Vera of saucers as they widened.

“Well, maybe you should call him,” Vera said, bracing herself. Still, it needed to be said—but it wasn’t as if she hadn’t said it before over the years.

“Goddamn you, Vera,” Paige said. “He knows where I am, and phones work both ways.”

“I know, dear,” Vera said, turning to her computer because she didn’t want to see Paige’s fair complexion turning angry red. “But he thinks you’re ashamed of him.”

“Well,” Paige said, her blue eyes flaring. She pushed a strand of her blond hair behind her ear while she tapped her manicured nails on the desk. “How would you feel if your son was gay?”

“I don’t know, Paige,” Vera answered, looking back at her. “Randy is a wonderful young man. Has a great job, and is doing well for himself. Why is his sexuality such a big deal?”

Paige looked crushed. Her thin lips turned down. Her face flamed red.

“Can you just put this behind you? Pick up the phone and call him.”

“The Bible says—”

“It says nothing,” Vera finished. “As far as I remember my Bible, it celebrates love, in all forms. Are you willing to go to your grave not having a wonderful close relationship with your son—all because of whom he chooses to love?”

“Well,” Paige finally said after a few moments. “I hadn’t thought of it quite like that. Still, there’s Earl. He will never accept his son being gay. I just know it.”

“Earl is Earl, and you are you. Time goes so fast, dear. I think we need to hold on to the people we love, don’t you? This thing with Maggie Rae, you know, should make us all sit up and take notice.”

“I suppose you’re right.” She sighed, and then spoke again after a moment. “Maybe I’ll call him later today. But now, Vera, what happened to your mom’s house? I saw the broken window when I drove by.”

“Nobody knows,” Vera said. “Vandals. They never could find the rock or the brick that was thrown, though. And they still don’t know who stabbed her.”

“Boy, your Mom’s having kind of a rough time of it.”

“Can’t get her to admit that, though. Old fool,” Vera said, smiling. “Can’t get her to stay with us for a while, just until things calm down. She won’t let me stay there, either. It’s so frustrating.”

What Vera didn’t tell Paige was that she thought her mother was finally losing a little bit of her mind. She’d always been an odd bird. Had always insisted that her daddy was still with her and talked to him frequently. All of the quantum physics stuff played into it. Vera couldn’t understand the language of it, but she knew it had to do with a separate reality or creating your own reality, and she always felt like maybe Beatrice was creating her father’s ghost, at least in her mind.

But today, her mother talked about Maggie Rae. And she was concerned because her late husband had warned her, and then the incident with her window had occurred almost immediately afterward.

“I swear I saw something very dark in my living room,” Beatrice said. “It flew out the window so quickly.”

“A bird?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Beatrice said. “I’ve been thinking about what your father said—that Maggie Rae’s caught in some dark void. Something is holding her here and that it’s not good.”

“Mama, what are you saying? That Maggie Rae’s ghost broke your window? That she was the dark thing you saw?” Vera questioned, with a chill traveling through her.

“I know it sounds crazy, girl. I know it. But I’ve also known my whole life that’s there more to this life and the next than what we know.”

“Oh, now, Mama, you’re scaring me,” Vera said. It was true. Her mother scared her frequently—for her whole life—talking about such things. Vera wanted nothing to do with ghosts or the spirit world. This world was what mattered. Flesh. Bones. The child inside her.

“I have to tell you, Vera, for the first time in years, I’m a little scared, too.” Her mother’s eyes were wide, and her hair was uncombed. She looked a little scared. That frightened Vera even more.

“I don’t believe in any of this nonsense, you know that,” Vera said, biting into a cinnamon roll. “Mmm, this is good.”

“Thanks, I think there’s more in the freezer.”

Did her mother really believe it was Maggie Rae who had broken her window? Did she really think her husband came to her and talked to her—even though he’d been dead for twenty years? Well, if it was Maggie’s Rae’s ghost—and that was a big
if
in Vera’s mind—why would she be at Beatrice’s house and breaking her windows?

“That would be the mystery to solve,” Beatrice said when Vera asked her. “I didn’t really know the woman.”

“We’re finding that none of us really did,” Vera replied.

“How about that Maggie Rae?” Paige said, sitting down. She took off her blue cardigan sweater and hung it over the chair. Her large bosom was poking out of a too-small V-necked T-shirt. “Writing dirty stories. How about that?”

“Shocking,” Vera said, flipping through a file.

“What would possess a woman?” She leaned forward on Vera’s desk. Her thin shoulders rested on bony arms.

“I wondered that, too. I’m sure everything will be revealed in due time. Don’t you think so?”

“I asked Earl about it. He said he’s read some of her stuff—he’s quite the porn guy, my husband.” She rolled her eyes. “He said it was good, but kind of kinky and violent.”

“Really?” A brief image of her old lover, Tony, smacking her bottom flashed in Vera’s mind—no matter where their lovemaking took them, she found it pleasurable. Even a little pain added to the pleasure. Bill would never do such a thing—he was too much of a gentleman.

“Yes, evidently, we are talking whips and chains and everything.”

“Oy,” Vera said. “That’s kind of embarrassing that we know that. Poor woman. I’m afraid all of her secrets will be revealed as time goes by. Honestly, who wants to know all of that?”

“Honestly?” Paige said, with a wide grin. “I do.”

Chapter 26

Annie was compelled to look away from the computer screen as she read about sadism and masochism—commonly known as S&M. She was surprised to find tears lurking at the edge of her eyes, thinking about Maggie Rae. As one drop slipped down her cheek, she took a deep breath. Why would a woman want to be humiliated and hurt? With so much pleasure to be found in sex, in life, why the pain?

She looked up “submissive” on the Internet. On Wikipedia, she found:

Dominance and submission
(also known as
D&s
,
Ds
or
D/s
) is a set of behaviors, customs and rituals involving the giving by one individual to another individual of control over them in an erotic episode or as a lifestyle.

Hmm. Interesting, but not quite what she was looking for—what she wanted to know was why would a person be attracted to being hurt, what kind of psychology was behind it. Then Annie keyed in,
Psychology of Submissives.

One website came up and said:

According to Freud, people become masochistic as a way of regulating their desire to sexually dominate others. The desire to submit, on the other hand, he said, arises from guilt feelings over the desire to dominate.

Hmm, Annie thought, feeling as if she was dipping into murky waters. Freud? What a nut.

Another website said:

Despite the research indicating that S&M does no real harm and is not associated with pathology, Freud’s successors in psychoanalysis continue to use mental illness overtones when discussing S&M. Addiction, for one thing.

Addicted to S&M? Annie groaned. Addiction seemed to be the modern epidemic. Everyone wanted that easy fix, instant gratification—drugs, alcohol, and even sex. She read further.

According to a sex magazine,
masochism is a set of techniques for helping people temporarily lose their normal identity ... that stress makes forgetting who you are an appealing escape.
That was the essence of the “escape” theory, one of the main reasons people turned to S&M.

Fascinating,
thought Annie.
A form of escape
.
To want to be hurt
.

Annie turned away from the computer and looked at her boys, who were napping in her bed. One of them sighed in his sleep.

She picked up the brown envelope that the detective had left on her doorstep with Maggie Rae’s papers inside. She stuck her hand into it and pulled out a birthday card from Gracie to Maggie Rae.
Love you, Mommy
was written in purple ink, smelling slightly of grape. She smiled. Her boys loved those scented pens, which were scattered throughout her house.

A note slipped out of the envelope. It was from Maggie Rae to Grace:

I always wanted to be a mom, but I want you to know there’s more to life than marriage and family. Oh, it can be good, sometimes. But mostly it’s thankless. Thank God, I have my writing, my fantasies, my friends. Otherwise, I fear I’d slip into absolute nothingness... .

Annie’s heart felt like it stopped for one moment. There in the midst of something she couldn’t relate to at all—the S&M—Maggie’s words reached out to her and Annie felt a deep sense of compassion and connection. She took a deep breath.
There but for the grace of God.

For generations, women had lived their lives simply tending to their children and their husbands. Why wasn’t it enough for all women? Why did Annie get bored with her kids? Want something more?

The S&M made Annie uncomfortable. She’d always been pretty straight with her sex life. Still, it was within the realm of “normal” sexual behavior. She admitted that reading about S&M helped her to understand Maggie Rae’s personality. She was more certain than ever that Maggie Rae’s story held more richness and depth than she’d ever know. She was not just about sex or even erotica. She was a person who was responding to a pivotal event in her life. But what was it?

Annie meditated on a picture she found of the young Maggie Rae, her sister, Tina Sue, their mother, and their father; all were seated on a porch swing, with an apple tree behind them. Tina Sue was smiling at her sister. The mother looked stern, staring straight ahead at the camera. Maggie Rae was tucked under her father’s arm and smiled adoringly at him. He smiled back. Nothing was menacing about this faded Polaroid snapshot with a diagonal jagged edge. Still, she stared at it, wishing she could step into it, take the hand of young Maggie Rae, and listen to her secrets.

Chapter 27

Sheila explained to Annie that vellum paper was a little difficult to use—but it was so beautiful. “You just have to be a little more careful when you cut it. It tears and frays so easily.”

Annie ran her long fingers over the smooth milky paper. “So this adhesive won’t show behind it, if I put it on the back? It will still hold?”

“Yes, it will hold. When it dries, it becomes invisible,” Sheila said. She was sitting next to Annie, but on the other side of her was a pile of new scrapbook paper—beautiful shades of orange and yellow and brown.

Vera loved to watch Sheila explaining some technique to a newbie. She held a certain “I know my business” look on her face—almost the same look she would get when they were young girls playing at being bank tellers. That thought made Vera smile. She looked at Sheila’s face, which was just now beginning to show wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth. That one tiny mole on her cheek had vexed Sheila for years. Finally she just gave up and accepted it. That was one of the blessings of aging—acceptance.

Here she was, thinking like an old woman, and yet a life grew inside her. She already began a journal for the baby, writing about her thoughts and feelings over the past two weeks since she’d found out that she was expecting. It was such a shock to her that it was taking time to get used to. And she had other things on her mind—like her dance recital next week and all the upcoming rehearsals.

“I wish Paige were here,” said DeeAnn suddenly. “I think she’d love those cheese biscuits I brought.”

“Oh, yes, she would. Who wouldn’t?” Sheila said.

“I guess we take a backseat to her boy,” Vera said.

“It’s about time,” DeeAnn said. “I mean, Lord, who cares if the boy is gay? It’s been years since they’ve even talked.”

“Plenty of catching up to do,” Sheila said.

“You know,” Annie spoke up quietly, “I don’t think it would be easy to be the mother of a gay person.”

They all looked at her.

“What I mean is, they have it rough and it would be difficult to see that,” she said.

“Oh, yes, I agree,” DeeAnn said, biting into a cheese biscuit. “Besides that, nobody wants to think of their kids having sex—at all.”

Annie raised her eyebrows. Her mother said the same thing to her when Annie became sexually active at sixteen.

“My daughter started way too early,” DeeAnn said while cutting a picture. The sound of the squeaky scissors was drowned out by her voice. “But it turned out okay. I mean, she went to college, is becoming a nurse, getting married next year. It all comes out in the wash.”

“If we’re lucky,” Sheila said. “I’m afraid my Donna will make me a grandmother before I’m ready,” she said, and laughed.

Vera’s heart sank. Sheila was thinking about becoming a grandmother, and she was preparing for her first baby.

Donna was Sheila’s oldest daughter. At fifteen, she was beautiful and was built like she was twenty-five, turning the heads of older boys—and of men, too. “God, that girl!”

“Speaking of sex,” Annie said after gluing down a picture of Sam in his Halloween costume—dressed as a bunny. “I’ve been reading ... digging through Maggie Rae’s papers again.”

“And?” Vera said, wondering if she really wanted to know.

Annie took a long drink of her wine. “Some of this stuff is painful to read. But riveting. I think after looking at her picture, reading some of her notes and trying to piece it together, I think she was just lonely, basically. Her husband was never around to help. He was working long hours, traveled extensively. Four kids. That’s tough. She couldn’t handle it. The truth is, I’m not sure I could.”

“So, do you still think she was murdered, rather than killed herself?” Vera wondered.

“I don’t know. It seems to be complicated. I wonder what the detective is making of this. He made copies and dropped the papers back off with me because he said it didn’t seem like her husband wanted them.”

“That says it all, as far as I’m concerned,” Sheila said, looking up from her cutting.

“Calm down,” Vera said. “Not everybody cares about this stuff like you do, for God’s sake.”

“What do you think, Vera?” DeeAnn asked. “I mean, he came in to talk to you.”

She took a deep breath. “I’ve really not thought about it too much. I’ve had a lot on my mind with Mama and the baby. But it was a strange conversation. He seemed genuinely distraught, and I have to say he also seemed like he was trying to do good by his children.”

The women sat in silence for a few seconds.

“I think the situation is complex,” Annie volunteered. “Maggie Rae wrote this beautiful erotic stuff—and she had a thing for S and M. Maybe he didn’t like it. Maybe he killed her and doesn’t remember doing it. Maybe she
did
kill herself. I mean, I’ve thought about so many possibilities.”

“It doesn’t make sense to me at all that she killed herself,” Sheila said.

“It also doesn’t make sense that she never placed any of her pictures in her scrapbooks,” Vera said.

“You know, I wondered about that, too,” Annie said. “Why would somebody buy all that stuff and never do anything with it? I mean, was she waiting for something? Was it too painful for her to mull over her life, to look at it on scrapbook pages?”

“Maybe she was just busy. Gosh, all those children, and the writing she did. It makes sense to me now that she couldn’t make it to a crop,” Sheila said. “But still to buy one scrapbook and a few things and never use them is one thing—but boxes of it? I don’t know.”

“God, I wish I’d known her better,” DeeAnn said.

“I think we all do,” Vera said, looking around the table, wondering how well she knew any of them. Even as close as she and Sheila were, she would not be surprised to find out about secrets in her past as well. She hadn’t known DeeAnn as long as she knew Sheila. DeeAnn was a transplant from Minnesota, who married a local man, the principal and football coach at the high school. DeeAnn barely mentioned her life growing up in Minnesota. Of course, there was Annie—the most different of all of them. All of them could be into strange sexual practices or witchcraft, for all Vera knew. Some things are better left that way.

“There’s nothing wrong with a little healthy repression,”
she could hear her mother’s voice saying in her mind. Vera wondered if all forty-one-year-old women still heard their mother’s voices in their head as strongly as she did.

“What are you working on, Annie? That’s beautiful,” Vera said.

Annie held up the page with one photo of Maggie Rae holding Grace as a baby. She framed it in turquoise vellum paper against a glitter pink page, pasted the note she had found written from Maggie Rae to her daughter, and used buttons as embellishments in the corner of the notes. She pulled out the word “confidence” and used it as a headline for the page. She handwrote it in large letters in purple archival ink. The women read the note. Vera held back tears. Damn, she was just so emotional these days.

“That’s pretty powerful words coming from your mama,” DeeAnn said.

“Depressing too,” Sheila mumbled.

BOOK: Scrapbook of Secrets

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