He reached for the front-page section, which he usually saved for last, and read an article about two hurricanes that the media had been covering for the last week.
A few days ago Hurricane Edouard seemed destined to deliver a jarring punch to southern New England, but benevolent forces prevailed and the hurricane swung back over open waters during the weekend. Now 195 miles southwest of Halifax, Nova Scotia, Edouard has been downgraded to a tropical storm. While Edouard left buildings and infrastructure intact, its slashing rain immobilized thousands of coastal residents and visitors in traffic gridlock as they attempted to evacuate Cape Cod and the island communities ahead of the storm.
With Edouard receding, Atlantic seaboard residents are turning their attention to Hurricane Fran, whose 80-mile-per-hour winds were gaining strength as Fran passed 495 miles east of the Bahamas, en route toward a possible landfall later this week in the Carolinas.
Vin wondered whether his friends in West Falmouth were among those who had fled Edouard to idle in traffic on the arteries that connected Cape Cod to mainland Massachusetts. And for no reason, as it turned out – a waste of a long weekend at the beach. The wind and rain dispersed the crowds and made sailing small boats or windsurfers on Buzzards Bay a thrill.
He folded the paper – there was no postponing work any longer – and went downstairs to his office, where he examined the array of pages on his desk. Lying askew to his binders and notes was an orphaned page near the phone… a screen-print from the white-pages website he’d consulted after his trip to the Archives. With the listings for Cameron, E J, Elizabeth, and Martin Reed in Sharpsburg. He’d already crossed out E J’s listing, and for Martin written “call 9/10.”
He tapped out Elizabeth’s number and hit the dial button. The annoying buzz of a busy signal blared from the speaker. No voice-mail and no roll-over, he thought. At least she’s consistent. He dialed Cameron and got voice-mail again. While listening to the greeting he composed a message, but hung up instead at the beep.
What is wrong with me? he asked himself. Why am I worried that a message about Emmert Reed will sound idiotic? Or maybe quixotic is the word. Is it because I believe that myself? Why can’t I stay focused on my work? It’s a legitimate project for decent pay. Just like the job I walked away from in Boston. I could get back on a career path here… maybe at one of the Beltway-bandit firms. God knows there are enough of them around. Obviously that’s what Nicky wants. He sighed and dialed Elizabeth’s number again. This time he heard ringing, followed by a live voice at the end of the line.
“Hello?” The word was extended into three bright syllables. She responded to his inquiry by telling him her name was Betsy. Her voice was warm and brittle and he guessed that she was in her sixties, maybe seventies. He launched into his script: he was researching an article for the Maryland Historical Society about the C&O Canal and looking for information about Emmert Reed, who had tended lock and captained a canal boat in the 1910s and 20s.
“That’s a name I haven’t heard for a long time,” she said, and Vin thought he heard a note of wistfulness.
“Emmert Reed?”
“He was my husband’s grandfather,” she said, a warm tone returning to her voice.
“Do you suppose your husband might be able to help me find…”
“My husband passed on three years ago,” Betsy interrupted gently.
“I’m very sorry.”
“Yes.” She paused long enough that he wondered how to break the silence. Betsy did it for him. “Dan always loved to pass along the stories he heard from his grandfather. To our children, when they were young. About the boating life. He would always tell them that it was a hard life back then, but a good and simple life. And everyone knew you only got what you worked for. Dan used to worry sometimes that young people don’t see things that way.”
Vin made small sounds of affirmation to let her know he was listening.
“Of course, I think our children turned out alright,” Betsy said, “but now I wonder if they’re raising their children the same way!” She chuckled, and Vin could picture an elderly woman smiling and shaking her gray curls in bemused admonishment. He tried to steer the conversation back toward Emmert Reed.
“Did your husband know his grandfather well?”
“Oh yes,” Betsy said. “I mean, he did as a boy. Old Grandpa Em – that’s what Dan called him when he talked to our children – was still alive back then, living here in town. I think Jake and Ida used to take Dan and Sarah over to see their grandparents quite often. Of course, Emmert died many years ago. Sometime around 1950, I think. And then Dan would drop by to check on his grandma Helen as she got on.”
Vin cupped a hand over the receiver and cleared his throat as he thought about how to phrase the next question. “I’d love to hear some of your husband’s stories about his grandfather. Did he… write any of them down?”
Betsy laughed. “Oh no. Dan wasn’t the type to do that. He could write a letter now and then when he had to, but that wasn’t something he enjoyed doing very much.”
“I see. Did your husband’s grandfather ever…”
“He did like to take pictures, though.” Vin didn’t mind the interruption, since the question he had been about to pose, whether Emmert Reed had bequeathed a journal to his grandson, seemed ludicrous even to him.
“…and collect them in photo albums,” she said, finishing her thought. “And so did his father, though Jake mostly just kept them loose in an old box.”
“Hmmm, that’s interesting,” Vin said softly, encouraging her. Betsy sailed on.
“But Dan took all those old pictures and put them into an album for his father. That was a few years before Jake died. Jake died in 1971.”
A young girl’s voice pealed brightly from the far side of the line, “Grammy we’re waiting.”
“I’m sorry,” Betsy said. “My daughter is visiting with my grandchildren, and I guess I’m holding up the show.” Vin heard fumbling at the other end of the line as her voice grew distant for a second. Then she was back, and he sensed an opportunity that would vanish in an instant.
“I’d very much like to stop by and meet you, Betsy…if that’s OK with you. We could talk some more about your husband and his grandfather. If we looked at your husband’s photos, you might have a recollection or two that would help my research.”
“Oh, I think I might enjoy that. But it would be easier for me to do it after Alison and the girls go home. They leave on Thursday morning.” Vin happily agreed to visit her house Thursday afternoon and confirmed her address in Sharpsburg.
“I never really find a reason to take those albums off the shelf anymore,” Betsy said. “Who knows? There might even be a picture of old Grandpa Em in there.”
Chapter 34
Sharpsburg
Thursday, September 5, 1996
Approaching the colonial-era city of Frederick, Maryland, Vin checked the rear-view mirror again. He half expected to see a charcoal-gray sedan with tinted glass. At first it had looked familiar, but he hadn’t been able to place it. Even in upscale Potomac, the gray Audi wasn’t the kind of car you saw everyday. And now he’d seen it three times in the last three days. Parked on Ridge Line Court when he and Nicky had returned home from Cool Aid early Monday afternoon. On the opposite side of the street on Tuesday at sunset, a bit further from the house. And again on Wednesday during his late-afternoon run. The car had been parked in the dirt lot at Pennyfield Lock, a stone’s throw from the route he and Randy traveled to the towpath.