Stars Over Clear Lake Page 8

  I pulled my hand back. “What work will you do in Germany?”

  “I play in band.”

  “What instrument? Oh, let me guess. The saxophone?”

  He nodded. “I play in camp band.”

  “The POW camp?”

  He nodded. “We play for prisoners and American officers.”

  “I want to sing with a band,” I said. “That’s what I really want to do.” I didn’t confess that to many people, but talking to Jens was different. Our moments together were too brief, like sand flitting through fingers.

  “Like Judy Garland? We watch camp movie.” He made a spinning motion with his fingers.

  “Tornado? The Wizard of Oz.”

  “Ya. Like on farm.”

  I remembered him pulling me against the strong winds, our damp skin touching, and fought an urge to look away. “That wasn’t exactly a tornado. But yes, I want to sing professionally.”

  “You sing for Jens?”

  “Here? Now?”

  He nodded.

  I looked around. Could they hear me? “Maybe a few lines.” I started singing a Judy Garland song from the movie Broadway Melody, one I often sang around the house.

  You made me love you

  I didn’t want to do it

  I didn’t want to do it

  You made me want you

  And all the time you knew it.

  I guess you always knew it.

  I stopped, realizing how the lyrics might sound to Jens. He was staring at me. I put my hands on my hot cheeks. Had I meant to sing that song to Jens?

  “You sing good. No, not good,” Jens said, struggling.

  I scrunched up my nose. “Not good?”

  “Great. You sing great.”

  “Thank you. Maybe someday I can hear you play the saxophone,” I said, my voice shaky.

  “Maybe you come hear band?” Then he shook his head. “No civilians in prison camp.”

  “Then you’ll have to bring your saxophone here.”

  “Camp property.”

  “Oh.”

  He touched the end of my hair. “What this called?”

  “Hair.”

  “No. Color.”

  “Red.”

  “Is my favorite color.” He looked at me. “Now is my favorite color,” he whispered.

  I felt the heat rise in my cheeks again, imagining them slowly turning the color of my hair.

  I stood up, reluctant to leave. “I’ll be going back to school tomorrow. I won’t be able to tutor you over lunch anymore.” I hoped Daddy would keep the men working through the supper hour like he sometimes did. But most days they were gone by five o’clock.

  Jens had a stricken look on his face. “I see you again?”

  “I’ll still bring out an afternoon snack,” I said. We stood there looking at each other for a long moment. I wanted to say something, but what was there to say? My stomach fluttered at the thought of his smile. I wasn’t supposed to feel this way.

  “Someday I will hear you play.” I said. “See you soon.” I started to leave.

  He looked confused. “When?”

  “It’s a different way of saying goodbye,” I told him.

  “Oh,” he said, “Why not say goodbye?”

  “Because goodbye sounds like forever.”

  He smiled. “See you soon. Maybe I find way to play for you.”

  I left, thoughtful, my mind full of maybes.

  Fifteen

  2007

  Daisy parks in front of the community center and turns off the car. “How long is your meeting?”

  “It’s scheduled for an hour and a half.”

  She huffs out a breath. “I suppose I can find some errands to do while you’re there.”

  “If it’s such a bother, I could have driven myself.”

  “You know how bad your night vision is. I’m not complaining.”

  It sounds like complaining to me.

  “By the way, Harry showed me that picture. I didn’t know you were at that fire.”

  My daughter has a way of unnerving me. Her comments often sound like accusations. It takes an effort not to become defensive. “It was so long ago I barely remember it.”

  She waves her hand dismissively. “I told him people aren’t going to remember a sixty-year-old fire. I don’t know why he’s so interested in that project anyway.”

  Daisy’s never held much interest in my past, as though it’s too far removed from her to matter. She’s concerned about the usual things: whether anyone in our family has ever done anything fame-worthy, which they haven’t, or whether anyone has ever been incarcerated, which they haven’t. But she’s never asked about my childhood, accepting what I offer up on occasion without much comment. She was closer to her father. And Daisy’s father never mentioned the past, which seemed fine with Daisy.

  She squints at me. “So what is this new activity you’ll be doing?”

  “We’re making memory sculptures of Clear Lake’s past. It’s sort of like the memory-tile activities that they do in retirement homes, only we’re making them for the fall festival as part of the history center.”

  “I didn’t know you were artistic,” Daisy says.

  A sigh escapes me now that we’re here. Daisy is right. I’ve never been great at doing anything artsy, and dredging up old memories isn’t a good idea. “I’m not. The director of our condominium association asked if I’d participate. She thought I’d enjoy it since it involves history. I think she worries about me since your father died last year. And you know I have a hard time saying no.”

  Daisy focuses on her image in the mirror. “Didn’t Dad always say that the past is past, that you should look to the future?”

  “Yes, but a person’s past defines him.”

  “I never heard Dad say that,” Daisy says.

  “That’s because he didn’t say it. I did.”

  “I like Dad’s saying better.”

  I try not to resent her statement, even though the two of them always seemed like a club from which I was excluded. Sid had tried to bridge the gap between Daisy and me. Now that he’s gone, all that’s left is an empty chasm that neither one of us is able to cross.

  Daisy gets out and rushes over to take my arm. I glance at her.

  “The sidewalk is wet. I don’t want you to fall, Mother,” she says.

  Sid is gone and my daughter’s arm now holds mine. Is this sudden act of affection just for show? Is it the start of something? A connection between us? I don’t want to get my hopes up too high.

  Daisy continues. “I think what’s important are the examples we set, like how Dad worked hard as a farmer and was a volunteer fireman.”

  “I wasn’t exactly twiddling my thumbs that whole time,” I say.

  “I didn’t mean it that way. Of course you worked hard, too. Dad used to say you handled the tractor better than he did. And you directed the Clear Lake Choir for years. I doubt I’d own a business and serve on three boards if it weren’t for your examples.”

  I stop outside the community center and glance at the lake, which is a bit choppy tonight. Even though we volunteered in the community, we’d always kept a polite distance. Sid and I had no close friends. We had each other, and now that he’s gone I feel so alone. “Like you said, our farm and volunteer work was an important part of this community’s history. And that history is also our past. So you see, the past is important. It’s what shapes us into who we are today.”

  “I just don’t see why Harry wants to dredge up an old fire. The present Surf Ballroom has been here for over sixty years. That place is the one we know, not the one that burned down. No one even knows the other building existed. Who really cares what happened?”

  I care. I don’t want Harry to know who started the fire. Sixty years doesn’t seem like enough emotional distance. For me or for the community.

  “I suppose you’re right,” I say.

  A pretty brunette meets us at the door. “So glad you could make it, Lorraine.”
>
  “This is my daughter, Daisy. Daisy, Jane is the activities director at our condominium.”

  Daisy shakes her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Are you interested in making a memory sculpture, too?”

  “Heavens, no. I’m just dropping off my mother. Excuse me,” she says as she makes eye contact with a friend of hers.

  “Lisa!” Daisy waves, and her voice becomes more animated.

  “Your daughter is gorgeous,” Jane says as she watches her walk away.

  “She works hard at looking good,” I reply, then flush as I realize what I just said about my daughter. How ungrateful I sound, and after Daisy drove me here. “She has her father’s looks, too. She’s very fortunate.”

  “Let me introduce you to our artists-in-residence.” Jane leads me around the room and introduces me to the two artists and some of the other people in the group. There are about fifteen of us who will be making tiles, mostly senior men and women, but with a few younger women in their forties. I guess that I’m the oldest person here. It doesn’t bother me as much anymore. I’m becoming used to the reality that most of the people in the world are younger than me.

  The two artists are both women in their fifties who wear long, flowing skirts. One has on a peasant top and her hair is piled messily on her head. The other wears a tank top under an open blouse, has long dark hair with streaks of gray, and a chain around her neck that holds glasses with a bright orange design on the rims.

  Daisy leaves with a small goodbye wave and holds up her cell phone, meaning that I should call her when it’s over. Thank goodness I remembered to bring my phone. It spends more time charging on the counter than in use, a complete waste of money in my mind. But Daisy insists I have one.

  I’d hoped she might stay and do this activity with me. She was such a loving, attentive child, but became more distant in her teen years. We butted heads all the time; it seemed we couldn’t get through a day without a fight. After all I’d been through with my own mother, I desperately wanted to be close to my daughter. But a wedge had been created between us, and it remained, like a splinter that works its way under the skin and leaves a permanent mark.

  I glance around the community center at the long tables they’ve set up, the kind with uncomfortable seats. I find a spot at the end. We watch a slideshow of previous memory sculpture classes. The results are so impressive that I think of calling Daisy now before I embarrass myself. There’s no way I can make something as good as that.

  “We’ll work with each one of you individually,” Tess, one of the artists, says. “And you’ll be surprised at how wonderful your own creations will be.” She passes out sheets of paper. “Some of you already know what you’re going to sculpt. But you might want to sketch out your design first. And think about how your memory of our town relates to the sculpture, as you’ll be writing down the memories to go along with the sculptures.”

  The other participants are already hard at work. I’m equally bad at drawing. This is a mistake. I shouldn’t have come. I study the sun’s setting reflection on the lake across the street, then watch as the Lady of the Lake, an authentic paddle boat, prepares to depart for an evening cruise. I wish I was on that cruise instead of in here.

  Tess walks by. I hold up my blank sheet of paper. “I’m afraid I can’t think of anything.”

  “That’s okay. Sometimes I let my fingers think for me,” she says, tossing her long hair back. “Just let go and don’t worry about it. Your instincts will take over and your art will flow freely. Start drawing and see what happens.”

  Right. Let my fingers do the work. I spend a few more minutes watching everyone else work, their friendly chatter making me even more distraught. My thoughts drift. I’ve been part of this community my entire life. It shouldn’t be this hard. Finally, I put my pencil to the paper and start drawing, hoping something will come of it. I draw a rectangular building. Then I draw turrets on the sides. I keep drawing, vaguely aware of what I’m doing, the noise of the room fading away. At least my hands are moving.

  “How fascinating! What is that?” Jane stands over my shoulder a few moments later.

  I look down at my drawing, startled by what has taken shape on the page.

  “Are those flames coming out of the top of a building?” Jane asks.

  “Yes,” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady. “That’s the original Surf Ballroom, the one that burned down.”

  “You saw this? This is your own memory?”

  “Yes. I was there that night.”

  “Amazing! You were an actual witness. I’ve always wondered, how did the fire start?”

  “They never found out what caused it.”

  Jane points at a scribble next to the Surf. “And what is that?”

  “It’s supposed to be firemen carrying out a couch. The Fox family lived in an apartment above the Surf. They tried to save as much of their furniture as they could. There was nothing left of the building by the time the fire was put out. Fortunately, no one was hurt.”

  “And who is that figure in the corner?”

  My voice softens. “That’s a boy I knew.”

  Jane bends down and peers at the drawing. “What’s he doing?”

  I stare at my primitive sketch. He’s the one figure I’ve actually drawn somewhat well. Of course, I didn’t mean to draw him or his wispy, blond hair or the instrument clutched to his side. It just came out, as though my hand was moving of its own volition.

  I suck in a breath. My voice sounds distant. “He’s leaving.”

  Sixteen

  2007

  “You’ve turned into quite the social butterfly,” Daisy says, turning around in the front seat. We’re on our way to a dance hosted by the condominium association. “I’m going to have to get another calendar just to keep track of your activities.”

  As usual, it sounds like she’s complaining.

  “Keeps you young, right, Lorraine?” Harry says, his voice light. The front seat holds a tense atmosphere, as though an invisible fence separates the two of them. I wonder if it has anything to do with all the time he’s devoting to the investigation. Daisy said he’s become obsessed with it.

  “I could have gotten another ride, but thank you for bringing me. I know how busy you both are. And this will give you an opportunity to meet more of the residents of the condominium association, Daisy.”

  She doesn’t look back, but I can tell she’s rolling her eyes. “If I didn’t meet them before, why would I want to now?”

  “Potential clients,” Harry says. “Did you bring any business cards with you?”

  “I always carry my cards with me,” she snaps. Her voice softens, as though she realizes how she sounds. “I suppose you’re right. From what I’ve seen, most of the units are in desperate need of updating, and they’re only five years old.”

  “They should have hired you as a designer when they built the place,” Harry says.

  “I agree,” I chime in from the back seat. We sound like her adoring followers.

  Harry guides his SUV into the blacktop parking lot next to the Surf and takes my arm as we walk to the door. The air is warm but holds a sprig of chill, a welcome respite from the August heat.

  He looks up at the star-filled sky. “You forget to look up sometimes,” he says. “You forget to see the stars.”

  “Harry, that sounds downright poetic.”

  “You’d think after all the calls I’ve been on in my life I wouldn’t get shook up anymore, but we had a bad one late last night. A teenager from Minnesota who just got his license last month.”

  “I heard something about it on the news. Will he be all right?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” I couldn’t handle seeing such tragedy, especially a child. I don’t imagine anyone can ever get used to that. “I understand if you don’t want to be here tonight.”

  “No. A day like this makes you want to be around others so you don’t think about it too much. Besid
es, I need a drink.”

  We pass the Buddy Holly memorial on the way in. Harry sighs. “Today we added another ghost to our town.”

  Funny that he would mention ghosts. It’s been two weeks since I saw, or thought I saw, Jimmy Dorsey. Hopefully tonight I won’t have any unwelcome visitors. I’ll sit in a booth and refuse to dance with anyone.

  “We better keep an eye on his drinking,” Daisy whispers as Harry opens the door for us.

  She waits until he’s ahead of us before she adds, “I don’t want him wallowing in liquor.”

  “I wasn’t aware Harry had a drinking problem,” I whisper back.

  “Not so much a problem as a solution on days like today.”

  Who could blame him after what he’d witnessed?

  Music floats out the open doorway. The band is already playing an upbeat number, not big band music, but still enjoyable. I’m glad for Harry’s sake that it isn’t too melancholy.

  A sign in the expansive lobby welcomes the Clear Lake Condominium Association members. In my nervousness, I had eaten a light supper and now I clutch my growling stomach.

  There are already a good number of people present. I know some of them from my own condo, people I’ve met over the last two years, although none of them have become close friends. I’ve been so preoccupied with Sid for the last year and a half that I haven’t really made an effort to get to know them.

  Jane is talking to a couple near the bar. She has on a yellow sundress that highlights her thin frame and brown hair. I wait until the music stops, then introduce Jane to Harry and Daisy.

  “This is Jane, our activities director. And Mr. and Mrs. Cullen, who live on the first floor.”

  Harry nods at them, then reaches out to shake each hand. “Nice to meet you, Jane,” he says, then greets both of the Cullens.

  Daisy regards Jane. “We met before, at the community center.”

  “Yes, so nice to see you again. Lorraine, will you be there next week?” Jane asks me.

  “I plan to be there,” I say, glancing at Daisy. I’m not sure if I should use the design I created, but I made a commitment. I want to at least see the project through.