Chapter Seventeen

Lucy got busy Saturday morning, taking advantage of a quiet news period to tackle some spring cleaning. After fueling up with a hearty bowl of oatmeal she started by swapping the flannel sheets on her bed for crisp percale and vacuumed up the dust bunnies that had gathered beneath the bed. She took down the curtains, tossing them in the basement washer along with the flannel sheets, and had just climbed back upstairs when Zoe appeared in the kitchen, still in pajamas and with rumpled hair and phone in hand. She didn’t speak but grabbed a yogurt from the fridge and disappeared into the family room.

Lucy bit her tongue, vowing not to antagonize her lazy daughter by criticizing her for sleeping so late, and decided to give the downstairs a quick vacuum before putting the machine away. She began in the living room, which was the least used room in the house despite its cozy fireplace, where the family gathered to open stockings on Christmas morning. The dining room saw more use, as the table was large enough for the whole family, but now that only Zoe remained at home, they tended to eat at the kitchen table except for holidays and special occasions. It didn’t take long for Lucy to zip through those rooms with the vacuum, then it was on to the family room. The family room got a lot more wear, thanks to the comfy sectional sofa, Bill’s recliner, and the huge flat-screen TV that was Bill’s pride and joy. He had been lobbying for one for years, and Lucy had resisted as long as she could, but when the Patriots went to the Super Bowl, which everyone had foolishly thought would be Tom Brady’s last Super Bowl, she relented. Truth be told, she admitted to herself as she dragged the vacuum through the kitchen, she also enjoyed the big TV for watching movies.

When she reached the family room, she noticed an empty yogurt container on its side on the coffee table and Zoe, sprawled on the sectional, watching cartoons and scrolling through her phone. “Aren’t you a bit old for cartoons?” she asked, plugging in the vacuum.

“No.” She glared at Lucy. “You’re not going to vacuum right now, are you?”

“Uh, yeah,” said Lucy. “Unless you’d like to do it for me?”

Zoe’s eyebrows shot up at the very notion. “Me?”

“Yeah,” began Lucy, finally losing her patience. “You live here, you leave yogurt containers on tables, and I see several pairs of shoes scattered about, not to mention this. . . .” She picked up a crumpled Winchester College hoodie and displayed it. “At the very least you could tidy up after yourself.”

“You know, if I had my own place this wouldn’t be a problem. What you didn’t see wouldn’t bother you. I could leave half-empty coffee cups and clothes and takeout containers anywhere I wanted.” She paused for an enormous yawn. “I’d only have to clean up if you were coming to visit.”

Lucy narrowed her eyes. “But you are living here now and I want this stuff out of here.”

“Gee, Mom, I was only joking,” she grumbled, making no move to get up, but reaching for the remote and turning off the TV. “Mom, I don’t think you and Dad realize how serious this is. I’m supposed to start work in a couple of months and I don’t have anywhere to live. I can’t commute from here, it’s too far. I’m going to have to sleep under a bridge or something.” She got to her feet slowly and picked up the yogurt pot and spoon, then paused to glance at her phone. “Not that you and Dad care what happens to me.”

“We care,” snapped Lucy. “We just don’t want you to make a big mistake that will cripple you financially for years when you’re just starting out.”

Zoe made her way listlessly around the room, still holding her phone and picking up her things as she went. “I am trying to get a roommate, you know,” she said, pausing with her arms full of shoes and clothes to indicate her phone. “If I had a roommate we could split the rent.”

“Any takers?”

“Not so far, but you never know.”

“A studio would be too small for two people, wouldn’t it?”

“I’m looking for a roommate who’s already got a place,” said Zoe, implying by her tone of voice that her mother was an idiot.

Lucy decided to let it pass. “Good idea,” she said, switching on the vacuum and proceeding to push the machine back and forth. When she turned toward the doorway, she saw that Zoe had gone, leaving behind a dirty sock that she’d dropped. She snatched it up before the vacuum sucked it up, then tried to decide what to do with it. It was definitely time for Zoe to move out, she decided, carrying the stinky sock to the cellar door and dropping it down the stairs. She’d grab it on her next trip down to the washing machine.

Zoe made herself scarce for the rest of the day, apparently holed up in her bedroom while Lucy did some grocery shopping, gassed up her car, and mailed an Easter package to her grandson, Patrick. She remembered to tuck in a bag of Toby’s favorite candy-coated chocolate mini-eggs, too. Zoe went out just before dinner, saying she was going to meet some friends at the diner that had become a popular hangout for the Winchester crowd, so Lucy and Bill enjoyed a rare dinner by themselves.

“I think I’ll open a bottle of wine to go with that steak,” suggested Bill.

“Good idea,” said Lucy, reaching for two glasses.

“But only if you promise not to talk about Zoe or any of the other kids,” he said, smiling naughtily and brandishing the corkscrew. “Let’s just talk about us.”

“You’ve got a deal,” said Lucy, accepting a glass of wine and smiling at him. “Do you have any special plans for after dinner? Since we’ve got the house to ourselves?”

Bill lifted his glass and they clinked, then took a sip. “You bet I do,” he said with a certain gleam in his eye.

* * *

On Sunday the weather turned gray and gloomy, and Zoe was pacing back and forth in the kitchen like a caged wildcat. “Can’t you find something to do?” asked Lucy, who was seated at the table working on the Sunday crossword. She was trying to think of a seven-letter word for a choral composition without much success.

Zoe dropped into a chair and propped her chin on her hand. “I’m bored. And look at the weather. It’s depressing.”

“This time of year always is,” said Lucy, penciling in otter for “weasel’s aquatic cousin.” That gave her a T for the fourth letter of the musical composition. “Can you think of a seven-letter musical composition with a ‘T’ in the middle?”

“Cantata,” said Zoe, gazing out at the birdfeeder, where pugnacious little goldfinches were fighting it out over the thistle seed. “Wow, those guys are really going at it.”

“Mating season’s coming,” said Lucy, a slight smile playing on her lips. “Listen, I’m going to a talk at the library this afternoon that I think you’d enjoy. The speaker is a prize-winning news photographer and I saw some of his work at a gallery in Portland. He’s been all over the world covering wars, earthquakes, inaugurations, even royal weddings.”

Zoe stared at her. “That’s supposed to cheer me up?”

“The weddings . . .” began Lucy in a hopeful tone.

“Precisely my point. Outdated rituals celebrating a bunch of overprivileged nincompoops. Not to mention the way they exploit women. Those girls are like flies walking into the spider’s parlor, just think of Princess Diana.”

“So I guess you don’t want to be a princess,” said Lucy.

Zoe gave her a disgusted look. “No way.” Then she pushed herself up off the table and dragged herself into the family room, scrolling through her phone as she went.

But after lunch, when Lucy was getting ready to leave for the library, Zoe surprised her by suddenly deciding to join her. “Beats watching hockey with Dad,” was her explanation. And when they arrived at the library and seated themselves in the book-lined downstairs meeting room, Matthieu Colon didn’t disappoint. With his full head of flowing gray hair, his craggy face, and a military-style vest, he was the very picture of a glamorous war correspondent. Zoe was definitely impressed, nudging her mother and whispering, “For an old guy, he’s actually pretty dope.” Lucy was amused by Zoe’s reaction, and hoped she wouldn’t be disappointed when Colon began the show with photos of Prince Charles and Lady Diana’s wedding.

“All us photographers knew it would never last,” he said, as a very tentative-looking Diana, swathed in yards and yards of white veiling, began her long walk down the aisle of Westminster Abbey. Gazing at the photo, Lucy thought he was right; the revealing shot didn’t bode well for a long and happy marriage. “See, I told you,” whispered Zoe. “They say she felt like a lamb going to the slaughter.”

That was followed by a picture of President George W. Bush seated at an easel, brush in hand. “He’s quite a painter,” commented the photographer. “Not many people know that about him.” He paused, yawning, and added an aside: “So is Prince Charles, by the way.”

“And I can sing and dance like J.Lo,” scoffed Zoe, rolling her eyes.

It wasn’t until he began showing his war photos that Zoe really became interested. It was then that the photographer really hit his stride, becoming more emotional and forceful as he displayed scenes of terrible destruction and violence. One by one he showed portraits of terrified and tearful children, exhausted and confused old people, and sometimes weary, sometimes determined soldiers. “These were all taken in Croatia, during the Bosnian War,” he said. “We’ve pretty much forgotten all about it, but people don’t go through something like this and forgive and forget.”

“How come I didn’t know about this?” whispered Zoe, clearly shocked.

“It was in the nineties, you weren’t born yet.” Lucy replied in a whisper.

Zoe gasped when the next photo appeared, a shot of a charred and crumbling stairwell with a pile of twisted and distorted bodies at the bottom. “This is the shot that won me the Pulitzer,” he said in a solemn voice. “I was with a terrific reporter, a fabulous gal, and we were in a town called Ahmii trying to reach a Bosniak commander when we came upon this hospital that had been destroyed in a fire. It was actually still smoking when we arrived and a handful of people, doctors and nurses, were trying to find survivors. They told us the hospital had been burned by Croat soldiers who were destroying everything in their path.” He sighed. “They’d been off-duty, they said, when the Croats attacked, that’s why they were still alive. Everyone in the hospital had been killed. They couldn’t find any survivors.”

After the show, and the Q and A, refreshments were offered. Zoe spotted some friends in the crowd and joined them, while Lucy approached the photographer for a word. “I really enjoyed your talk,” she began, “and I couldn’t help wondering if you’ve ever worked with a reporter named Agnes Neal?”

“Sure have! Do you know her? She was the one who was with me at the hospital.” His face fell as he recalled the awful destruction, then he gave a shrug and his expression brightened. “Those shots got me the Pulitzer.”

Lucy was both surprised and not surprised; she’d suspected Colon would have known Agnes, but hadn’t realized they’d been so closely connected. “I’m afraid I’ve got bad news for you,” she said. “Agnes died a few weeks ago. Oddly enough, her body was found in a stairwell in the senior residence where she was living. It’s not clear if her death was accidental.”

Colon stared at the paper cup of mulled cider he was holding for a long time. “That’s terrible news,” he finally said. “Agnes was very dear to me,” he said, in a husky voice, “but life took us in different directions. After Bosnia, she said she was done with wars. She wanted to settle down, and she came back to Maine. We stayed in touch, though. We used to call each other now and then.”

“Did you speak recently?” asked Lucy.

“Not too recently. I was covering a space launch in Florida, I actually went into quarantine to photograph the training and preparation of an astronaut. It was really intense and I was entirely consumed, living in the bubble, and didn’t reach out to anybody outside.” He shrugged, and continued, “That’s how I work, you know. I really get involved. But I knew I had this gig in Maine, where Agnes was living, and I was actually hoping I might see her here today. I called a couple of times, but . . .” He paused, his voice breaking. He took a minute or two to get control of himself, running his finger around the rim of the cup. “Well,” he finally said, “I left a couple of messages. When I didn’t see her in the crowd I thought I’d try to look her up after the talk.”

“Do you remember anything from your last conversation? Anything that struck you?” asked Lucy, persisting.

“Now that I think about it, yeah. She said she thought she might have found one of the Croat officers who ordered the assault on Ahmii, that’s the place with the hospital. She was real excited, said he was still wanted by the International Criminal Court, but I cautioned her to take it easy and not go making accusations.”

“You thought he was still dangerous?”

“No. I didn’t believe her. I thought she was going off the rails. What would a Croat officer be doing here in Maine? I was afraid she was going to make a fool of herself and get in trouble.” He looked up. “Now I’m not so sure. Maybe she was onto something.”

Before Lucy could reply, Zoe joined them and Matthieu immediately cheered up, clearly impressed by Zoe’s youthful good looks. “And who’s this?” he asked.

“My daughter Zoe,” said Lucy, hastening to add, “She’s twenty-two. Just finishing up college.”

“Good for you,” replied Colon, beaming at her. “And what are your career plans?”

“I’m going to be doing publicity for the Sea Dogs.”

“Have you considered journalism?” he asked, his eyes drifting below her neck. “I’d be happy to discuss it with you. Maybe you’d join me for a coffee? Or we could have dinner?”

“I can give her all the guidance she needs,” said Lucy, grabbing Zoe’s elbow. “It’s been lovely talking to you,” she added, steering Zoe through the dwindling crowd toward the exit.

“Mom!” Zoe protested in a hiss. “I wanted to have coffee with him.”

“I know. That’s why we’re leaving.”

“But I might’ve got some good tips from him. Insider stuff.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” said Lucy as they started up the stairs.

“But he was interested in my career . . .” protested Zoe.

Lucy stopped mid-flight and looked her daughter in the eye. “Zoe, he may be a celebrated photographer but he’s also an old lech. Trust me.” Lucy resumed her climb up the stairs. “I know the type.”

“Oh,” replied Zoe, mulling over her mother’s allegation. “Are you sure?”

“I’d bet the house on it.”

Zoe was silent as they walked to the car, then spoke up when Lucy started the engine. “I wonder what it’s like, actually being in the middle of a war.”

“I hope you never find out,” said Lucy, shifting into drive. “Never ever.”

* * *

She was still seeing Matthieu Colon’s wartime photos in her mind’s eye when she went to work on Monday. Phyllis was already at the reception desk, sorting through press releases for the events listings, and dressed head to toe in baby blue. Observing her rounded shape, Lucy realized she’d gained a few pounds over the winter and repressed the notion that she resembled a very large Easter egg.

“You’ve got that Easter spirit,” said Lucy by way of greeting. “I’m glad you gave up your beige phase.”

“I tried, but I really like color,” said Phyllis, peering at her over her blue cheaters. “How was your weekend?”

“The usual. I did a bit of spring cleaning.” She shrugged out of her jacket. “Zoe and I went to hear that photographer’s talk in the library while Bill watched the hockey game.”

“Bruins are on a roll,” offered Phyllis, who was a hockey fan. “I think they’ve got a good chance of winning the Stanley Cup.”

“That’s what Bill says, too.” Lucy was seating herself at her desk and powering up her PC. “I’d like to write about the talk but I’m not at all sure Ted will want it.”

“He’s playing up the bears big-time,” said Phyllis.

“Yeah. We’d have to print some of the photos, and I guess we’ve got too many already.”

When she ran the idea by Ted his response was a groan. “No, no, no. The preview was plenty.”

“How about for the online edition?”

“Nobody wants to look at old photos from a long ago, far-away war that everybody has forgotten. It’s spring in Maine, we’ve got bears and Easter bonnets. And now”—he paused dramatically—“alewives!”

“Oh, no,” said Lucy, who had covered the annual migration of the fish too many times. Visions of flopping and dying fish, circling and screaming flocks of gulls, and small children in danger of drowning in the fish ladder filled her mind. “I can’t face it, give it to someone else,” she pleaded.

“You’re the best, Lucy. And they’ve just finished the fish ladder restoration project and they’ve got a new fish-counting device. This is news that inquiring minds want to know.”

“I disagree,” said Lucy. “Nobody cares.”

“They do, Lucy. The alewives were endangered, the fish ladder was mostly blocked, and they couldn’t get to their spawning grounds. Folks ponied up thousands of dollars to fix that ladder and save the fishies, and the least we can do is show them that their contributions are making a big difference. George Waterman says the numbers are already far exceeding previous years.”

Thus it was that Lucy found herself standing beside the fish ladder in a chilly drizzle, interviewing alewife warden George Waterman. The newly restored fish ladder consisted of a series of stepped pools that enabled the migrating fish, who jumped against the current from pool to pool, to make the climb from their ocean home to their spawning ground in Blueberry Pond. “It’s really a miracle every spring,” said George. “You know these fish were actually born in this pond, this is where they hatched, and where they return every year. And when the ladder was blocked, well, only a few made it through. And this isn’t the only ladder that needed work, there’s plenty more in disrepair throughout New England. That means thousands, maybe even millions of alewives can’t get back to spawn. Just think about it, thousands of potential fish that never lived.” He nodded solemnly. “That’s why the species is threatened.”

“But I understand they’re recovering, thanks to efforts like this.”

George, dressed in a yellow slicker suit and muddy boots, nodded solemnly. “It’s a hopeful sign, but the population is still stressed. We’ll just have to see how many return to the ocean come fall, then we’ll know if it’s been a success or not.”

His phone was ringing and he fumbled in his pockets, trying to retrieve it. When he finally got it the ringtone had ended, but the caller had left a message. “My mom,” he said, apologetically. “She’s got a bee in her bonnet about something.” He returned the phone to his pocket, then pointed out the newly installed wire fencing. “We’ve fenced the ladder in, you see, it’s to keep the little kids from falling in and also to keep folks from throwing stuff in. You’d be surprised how many guys think it’s terrific fun to hit an alewife with a beer bottle. I’ve seen them making a game of it.” He shook his head, reaching again for his phone. This time he got it in time.

“Look, Mom, I’m being interviewed for the paper right now. I can’t talk.”

Lucy could hear George’s mother’s voice, reacting indignantly. “So some reporter is more important than your mother.” The voice sounded familiar and she realized George’s mother was Bev, who along with Bitsy and Dorothy made up the Gang of Three.

Amused by the mother-son exchange, Lucy looked around, noticing that the leaf buds on the bare trees were swelling, and male redwings were calling, advertising for mates. George, meanwhile, was trying to placate his mother.

“Not at all, Mom. It’s just bad timing. I’ll drop by at lunch, how about that?”

“I guess it’ll have to do,” replied his mother, throwing in a heavy, resigned sigh.

George fingered his phone after ending the call. “You know, I am a little worried. She’s over at Heritage House, where that lady died in the staircase.” He chewed his lip. “It’s awfully expensive to keep her there and I’m not convinced it’s the best place for her.”

“Is she happy there?” asked Lucy.

“Used to be, but not so much now,” said George, shelving his concerns for later. “Hey, let me show you the new fish counter. Computerized. It’s amazing.”

“I’m sure it is,” said Lucy, following him up the path to the top of the fish ladder, where the counter was located. “I just check it with my phone,” he said, demonstrating with a few swipes, “and voila, twenty thousand three hundred and forty-one fish have come through so far. What do you think about that?”

“That’s a lot of fish.”

“You said it,” added George, beaming. “We’re on our way to beating last year’s total for sure!”

On her way back to the office, Lucy couldn’t help smiling. Some folks rooted for their favorite hockey team, others preferred alewives.