When We Were Sisters: An unputdownable book club read about that bonds that can bind or break a family. Emilie Richards
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late in childhood is a plus.
“What about you?” I asked, after a few minutes of silence. “Just coming along with me is a huge change. Is this the start of something new? Or a temporary aberration?”
“I would never call you an aberration. Annoying, sure, but that’s as far as it goes.”
I also know better than to push. We talked about Mick and the crew. They had met before dinner to discuss what tomorrow would bring. Mick seems like a laid-back guy, but Robin said the meeting was under his tight control every minute. He briefed everyone on the logistics of our location and concerns to watch out for, including a neighbor at the home where my grandparents had lived, who had flatly refused to allow any shots of his home or yard. I zoned out when she recounted information on storyboards, equipment and shot lists. Thankfully she covered most of that quickly.
In addition to Jerry, the DP who had been with us on the plane, a gaffer and sound technician had joined us at the inn. While Mick was both producer and director, a line producer whose job was day-to-day production would join us early tomorrow morning. She was still finalizing details.
Documentaries are often shot with skeletal crews because finding enough money for salaries and expenses is problematic. Since this one had enviable funding, including a grant from a foundation dedicated to improving the future of dependent children, we had our own executive producer in New York. He might visit us at some point, but his job was the business side of making this film, securing more funding and publicity, but not the creation. That was all Mick.
We drove for ten minutes before Robin slowed. “City limits.” She nodded to a sign on the right and slowed so we could read it. We could have parked in the middle of the road; we were the only car in sight. Off to the left was what looked like a man-made mountain, maybe of coal that had never been shipped, with what looked like trees and shrubs springing out of it. It seemed familiar.
Randolph Furnace. I licked my lips. If the sign had been here when I was living with my grandparents, I’d been too young to read it. “‘Population 803.’ The place is booming. Quick, let’s buy property before it skyrockets.”
“I guess it was a different town back in the day, when the mine was open.”
“The mine closed a year or two after my mother swept me back into her hopeless little life. She hated everything about this town, although at that time she probably could have found a job. She had bigger aspirations, though. Places to see, things to do.”
Through the years I’ve learned to tell that story without bitterness in my voice, but Robin knew me well enough to hear the undertone.
“It’s really a pretty area, CeCe. Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater isn’t far away.”
“I don’t think Frank was building coal patch houses. You’ll see the one I lived in tomorrow. Most of them started life as duplexes sharing a porch. I think my grandparents’ kitchen was in the back with the living room in the front. I do remember a big coal heater that stuck out into the room. At least heat must have been cheap. Coal was probably free, and I remember holes in the floor upstairs so when the heat rose, the bedrooms were warm. The holes were covered with grates, and I was told over and over again not to step on them.”
“Do you want to drive by?”
I didn’t know. I didn’t want to spoil tomorrow for Mick. I had made it this far, and that was probably good enough to get me back tomorrow. There was just one other thing I wanted to do.
“Let’s get a drink. There has to be a bar, right?” I asked the question like I didn’t know the answer right in the center of my gut. “Eight hundred people means bars and churches. Maybe next door to each other.”
“You’ll be recognized.”
“Way ahead of you.” From my handbag I pulled out a cap with a Pittsburgh Pirates logo. I rummaged and found oversize aviator glasses with pink-tinted lenses while I explained.
“Wendy got me the hat when she went out to score dinner. Local color. Do you know experts in eyewitness identification claim that eye color and the way the eyes are set are what people remember, plus hair color and style? Head and face shape matter, too. A baseball cap and sunglasses cover just about all those factors, which is why you see us celebrity types wearing them so frequently.” I could sense she wasn’t sure. “Robin, it’s dark, right? It’s a bar. It will be dark in there, too, and nobody is expecting me to be in town.”
“Pink-tinted lenses? You think that’s a trend in Randolph Furnace? Designer glasses aren’t going to set you apart just a little?”
“Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“You don’t drink.”
“Not true. I drink on special occasions.”
“A case could be made for every day of this trip being special in some way.”
“Addiction was my mother’s thing, not mine.”
“How do we find this bar?”
I scanned both sides of the intersection. “This has to be the main street, or else Main Street intersects with this road. We’ll cruise and look for a busy parking lot. I’m thinking there’s not much else to do here at night except drink.”
We went in search. I wondered if Robin was in a hurry to get back to the inn so she could call Kris, but when I asked, she said no, the telephone worked in both directions.
I didn’t look too closely at the town, which didn’t seem to have much going for it, although I did note a park and a steepled church. We found a bar, the Evergreen, at the end of what was probably the main drag. So many years had passed, but my stomach tightened as Robin pulled into a small lot inhabited for the most part by pickups and cars manufactured in the US, and turned off the engine.
I wanted to tell her to turn around and head back to the inn, but this trip was about facing ghosts. And I supposed I could start right here.
Robin, who still didn’t look comfortable with our new plan, got out, and after donning my hat and glasses, I followed.
The inside was basic, to say the least. The bar counter was faced with varnished plywood, and I wondered if the owner had gotten tired of customers kicking in more expensive woods like oak or cherry. Plywood could be quickly and cheaply replaced, and the countertop of dark laminate was also a quick fix. Plain stools with backs faced it, and half or more were occupied. An old television with a picture that faded in and out was fastened on the wall high over the bartender’s head. In addition to the usual shelves of liquor, there were two refrigerator cases, one stocked with soft drinks and mixers, the other with snacks. The requisite flag completed the decor.
Robin was still worried about hiding me. “You find a corner. I’ll get the drinks. What do you want?”
I really didn’t want anything except to see if I was okay in this place. But I told her to get a whiskey on the rocks because I knew they would have it. This wasn’t a white wine joint.
I found a seat in the corner where I could see most of the room. Madonna’s “Like A Prayer” was playing over loudspeakers. I wondered if anyone had updated the playlist here since the ’90s or if we were listening to AM radio.
I got a few glances, but nobody seemed particularly interested in making contact. We weren’t the only women, and the men who weren’t accompanied were riveted to their stools, conversing loudly with their neighbors. Recognition is 90 percent expectation, and nobody here was expecting me.
Robin returned with two identical drinks and sat catty-corner so she could look out on the room, too. “I can’t imagine why you wanted to do this.”
The song changed and we both fell silent. “No Man’s Good Enough for Me,” my first entry on Billboard’s Hot 100 list was halfway through before Robin spoke again.
“Does this feel even stranger now?”
I took a sip of my whiskey. It was surprisingly