Empire Girls. Suzanne & Loretta Hayes & Nyhan
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The driver rounded the entrance to the small cemetery and parked in full view of the dogwood tree we’d planted next to mother’s grave. It had just begun to bloom, the flowers bursting pink and white as newly hatched chicks. The air smelled fresh, and the bright green grass seemed painted onto the rolling hills by an impressionist’s hand.
The beauty was an insult, an affront.
Rose took a deep breath. “It’s so pretty today.”
“Then why does it hurt my eyes so much?”
Before she could respond, the townspeople caught up with us, and we all walked over to where the men were finishing up their digging. I could hardly look at the upended earth.
We had no minister, but no one seemed to mind. The undertaker said a few words, and townspeople formed a line to pay their respects. They patted our arms and shared quick remembrances. And then they were gone.
It was time to lower our father into the ground. Rose stepped forward, but then she whipped her head around, her expression panicked. “I forgot the flowers to toss. We have nothing to send him off, Ivy.” She began to cry. “How could I have done that?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Please, let’s just go.”
Rose wiped under her eyes with trembling hands. “It’s tradition. We did it for Mother, and we’ll do it for him. Don’t you want to say goodbye properly?”
No, I wanted to scream. I don’t. Instead, I snapped a few branches from the dogwood tree, careful to keep the blossoms intact. “Here,” I said, handing them to her. “Now you won’t break with tradition.” I turned, unable to watch, and walked back to the hearse.
A tall, lanky man leaned against the hood, deep in conversation with the undertaker. When I approached, I realized it was Mr. Lawrence. He noticed me and straightened up, removing his fedora. In the sunshine his hair was the color of burned oatmeal, and the smattering of freckles on his nose made me want to hand him a tin can and send him down the road to kick it.
“My condolences, Miss Adams,” he said, dipping his head.
“You said that already.” I liked that both men looked away, my sharp words making them uncomfortable. An anger had flared inside me, hot and destructive, burning away the last of my courtesy. I glared at them.
The undertaker excused himself and escaped into the car. Mr. Lawrence and I leaned back against the sedan, watching Rose as she bent to place the flowers on my father’s casket.
“So what it is?” I asked. “Is it money? Gambling?” I paused, my heart lifting ever so slightly. “Did he sell a book?”
“It concerns your father’s estate,” Mr. Lawrence said, staring at the damp ground. “I’d like to speak with you and Rose privately. We could go to my office, or I could accompany you home.”
“From the look on your face, it ain’t good news. Why not spit it out right here?”
“Your sister should be with you. Your father expressed concern that you two aren’t very...close.” He stepped in front of me, blocking my view of Rose as she began to tidy up mother’s grave. “Today, it’s necessary to bridge that chasm. I don’t mean to frighten you—”
“You’re doing a pretty good job.”
“But these things are never easy, and your father was an unusual man.”
“He was a good man.”
“I know,” he said. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”
“Just so we’re copacetic.” I felt something on my cheek and swatted at it. It was a tear.
Mr. Lawrence reached into his pocket, pulled out a clean handkerchief and handed it over. “I have a poor memory for quotations, but there are a few that stick with me. I’ve got one I think you might know. Do you want to hear it?”
“I’m going to anyway, right?”
He reddened and cleared his throat. “‘For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come.’”
“Hamlet,” I said quickly. I knew Shakespeare’s plays inside out and upside down.
“It always appealed to me because of its optimism,” Mr. Lawrence explained. “It doesn’t have to be the end, Ivy,” he added gently. “Not entirely. I believe those who’ve passed on still have a stake in our affairs from the other side.”
I nodded, unsure of how to respond to his kindness. The thought did provide some comfort, but it wasn’t until we were riding home, the three of us silent in the shadowy cave of the hearse’s cabin, that I realized he’d misinterpreted Hamlet’s words. The dreams of the dead were not of the living, they were of regret for the sins of life, the unfinished deeds, the mistakes that could never be fixed.
* * *
We convened in father’s study. The afternoon had grown chilly, and Rose started a fire and fixed some tea. I should have helped her, but once I’d settled into father’s comfortable leather chair, I didn’t want to move. I could still smell the last cigar he smoked.
Mr. Lawrence drained his teacup and placed it on the mantel. He refused our offers to sit and began to pace, file folder in hand. “Your father lived a colorful life before marrying your mother. I suppose I should start there.”
Though I didn’t like the idea of father telling Mr. Lawrence his secrets, the care with which he chose his words bothered me more—he knew what was to come next would be distressing. I glanced over at Rose. Her pale face and wide, fearful eyes meant she’d come to the same conclusion.
“Go on,” I urged.
Mr. Lawrence stopped moving, took a breath and looked at me directly. “Your mother was your father’s second wife. His first marriage produced a son, and your father has left the management of his estate to this man.”
“That can’t be true,” Rose said after his words sank in. Her voice sounded weak and faraway.
“I don’t understand,” I added. “Why would he have kept something like this hidden?”
Mr. Lawrence placed the folder on my lap. “I’m not certain. I’ve only just learned of it. Perhaps you should read this, and then we’ll proceed.”
Rose got up and sat next to me, and I placed the document between us. I read through it a few times, but the repetition wasn’t necessary—for something that would change our lives so irrevocably, it was remarkably straightforward.
In his beautiful handwriting, all measured slopes and perfect loops, our father had clearly communicated his wishes. He’d left the management of his estate to this man, a son he’d sired six years before marrying our mother. Asher John Adams. It was an untouchable name, mysterious with a dash of history, and so naturally one my father would choose. To my surprise I felt a stab of affection for this lost half brother, the unending possibility of him stretching my imagination. I pictured him dark and mysterious, with a certain Valentino exoticism. I’d studied the great actor in the theaters of downtown Albany, memorizing the way he crushed his eyebrows and widened his eyes at the same time, the magnificent strength as he folded his arms, muscles rippling. My brother would look like that.
Asher. Was he a gift from the grave? “When can we meet him?”
Rose gasped. “Ivy, please take this seriously. This is our house. Ours. Father’s mind must have been compromised.” She sat forward, appealing to Mr. Lawrence. “Can you provide proof? How do we know some swindler didn’t concoct this scheme? Where is this first wife? How do we know this man is father’s son?”
“If you’ll sift through the file, you’ll find the necessary documents,” Mr. Lawrence said. “I looked them over closely this morning. I think they’ll settle any question of legitimacy.” He touched the open file with his finger. “Please remember that seeing