Chapter 11. Callan
Callan
By design, I have never set foot inside the old clapboard church that houses the Whitbury Historical Society and Museum—until today.
I hold the door open for Lenore and scowl up at the classic white steeple.
My dad’s house is close enough to downtown that I was roused from sleep against my will at sunrise on the weekends to the bells chiming the Westminster Quarters.
These days, I’m a morning person, but the teenager in me still holds a grudge.
Lenore pauses in the small foyer. “Did you want to wait outside?”
I shake my head. I’d like to wait outside, but in a strange turn of events, I agreed to this.
Yesterday, Lenore hung up the phone and relayed, “We can bring them in first thing tomorrow,” and for some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to contradict her saying we.
Which is how I landed here, at eight thirty in the morning, with a large painting wrapped in a bedsheet tucked beneath my arm.
I step into the shadow of the foyer. Inside is indistinguishable from any other small-town church, despite not functioning as a place of worship for twenty-some years. The dark gray industrial carpet is fraying in the areas that get high foot traffic.
Lenore pushes through a second set of doors.
An aisle between empty wooden pews leads to a small podium. Along the walls, display cases house local history, ranging from sepia-toned photographs to rusted plow handles. A frighteningly bad taxidermy beaver perches atop one case, its beady eyes staring down at us.
I bend over a glass case to inspect a town charter dated 1775.
Local legend holds that my ancestors were among the six families that founded Whitbury.
There was even a Corporal Bradford who fought in the Revolutionary War, but unlike the French family—who had managed, until now, to hold on to their historic plot of land, selling off only small parcels from the original 106 acres—the Bradfords have little to show for it.
My gaze lifts to Lenore, standing across the room with her hands clasped in front of her, observing a stuffy-looking Victorian dress displayed on a mannequin.
It’s a study in opposites. Her turtleneck sweater is tucked into a tweed miniskirt, worn over sheer black tights with the barest suggestion of skin showing through.
Modest enough, by modern standards. I feel like a square-toed puritan, driven to lust by a flash of bare ankle.
“Ah! I thought I heard you come in.”
Patty emerges through the doors behind us. Her gray eyes widen a fraction at the sight of me, but she quickly recovers and addresses Lenore. “If you’ll just follow me to the office, we can get started.”
With that, she leads the way back into the foyer and through a side door.
The office is small and sparsely decorated, ironically lacking any historic charm. I indicate the letterboard on an otherwise blank white wall, which lists meeting times for various organizations. “I thought this building belonged to the historical society.”
“It does.” Patty smooths her long skirt and sits behind the desk. “We rent out the meeting hall to a few local clubs to raise money for our continued operation. Preserving our history doesn’t pay for itself, I’m afraid. Well, don’t just stand there. Have a seat.”
We settle onto twin hardback chairs. I’m not sure what to do with the painting, so I set it across my lap, the loose sheet sagging onto the floor. I’m reminded of countless visits to see the principal in middle school. A wall clock ticks away behind the desk.
“I found a few things you might be interested in, but mostly, I wanted to talk to you about the paintings,” Lenore says.
“My grandmother never even mentioned them to me, as far as I can remember. It’s possible she didn’t even know that they existed.
I have no idea how long they were sitting up there. ”
Patty polishes her lenses with her shirt and pops her glasses on, beaded chain dangling around her ears. “Let’s see what you’ve got there.”
I unfold the sheet to reveal the portrait of the woman and set it on the desk.
“Wow,” Patty says with a surprised chuckle. “Bigger than I was expecting.”
It takes every ounce of my willpower not to laugh at the unintended innuendo. I train my face into a neutral expression, but it must not look entirely convincing, because Lenore shoots me an amused-but-disapproving look, her lips pursed with a withheld smile.
“I took some pictures of the others,” Lenore says to Patty, and angles her phone across the desk as she swipes through the photos. On one of the pictures, she pinches the screen to zoom in on the signature. “We thought maybe it said ‘Button.’ Does that sound familiar at all?”
“It doesn’t ring a bell, but then, I’ve hardly memorized every surname that’s ever passed through town.” Somehow, I have a hard time believing that. Patty looks back and forth between the screen and the painting, comparing. “Yes, that does look like ‘Button,’” she agrees.
Lenore settles back in her seat, wood creaking, and stows her phone in her bag. “We tried googling the name, but didn’t find anything that matched.”
“Well, not everything has been digitized,” Patty says reasonably.
“What about church records?” Lenore asks.
“Yes, well,” Patty says with a sigh, and unhooks her glasses from her ears.
As she goes on to explain the retention policies of the various denominations who have passed through the church, I look at Lenore, who seems to be hanging on Patty’s every tedious word.
I can’t help but wonder why she cares about these paintings.
“We have some baptismal records dating back to the forties or so, but I suspect we’ll need to look a bit further back than that. ”
“What do you suggest?” asks Lenore.
“I’d check with the town clerk for vital records, things like birth or death certificates, anything that might provide some clue as to whether a ‘Button’ has ever lived in town.”
“Thank you,” Lenore says, rising from her seat. “This has been really helpful.”
I toss the sheet over the painting, almost knocking over a pencil holder in the process. Lenore catches it and sets it right.
“Oh, and Callan,” Patty calls when I’m almost to the door. “You’re welcome to join us for our monthly meetings sometime. We’re always looking for new members. Not enough young people investing time into their community these days.”
There are few things I’d enjoy less. I manage a curt nod. “I’ll think about it.”
Minutes later, we emerge back onto High Street with the painting bundled tight. Downtown is slow on a Thursday; there are scattered cars parked outside the hardware store and Chandi’s.
Autumn road trippers have yet to hit our small town in full force, but it’s bound to start soon.
“So,” Lenore says as we walk. “I guess the next step is to pay a visit to the town clerk.”
I adjust the painting beneath my arm to keep it from sliding down. “You’ll have to wait until Monday. The town office is closed for the weekend.”
“It’s Thursday,” she says in mild disbelief.
“Welcome to rural Vermont, where everything is closed eight days a week.”
Her impatience is palpable.
“Why the sudden interest?” I ask.
Lenore blinks out of her thoughts. “What?”
I lift the painting beneath my arm to indicate it. “In the paintings. Town history. Whatever.”
It takes her a few seconds to organize her thoughts. “Don’t you ever feel a little…” She trails off with a faraway expression, arms folded across her chest. I give her time to find whatever word she’s searching for. “Small,” she says finally, like it’s an answer rather than a question.
I laugh under my breath. “Just what every man wants to hear.”
There’s that look again, amusement tinged with disapproval, like she wants to be above the joke, but is tempted to laugh along anyway.
“I meant in the scheme of things. A hundred years can pass in a town like this without anyone doing anything. People like Patty make this big show about preserving local history, but New England is filled with small towns exactly like this one, and every single one of them has their own historical society, little graveyards dating back three centuries, but no one’s done anything more memorable than, I don’t know, inventing earmuffs. ”
I tilt my head. “Pretty practical, if you ask me. No one wants to lose an ear to frostbite.”
Lenore humors me with a small smile. “Maybe.” We walk in silence for a moment, both considering. “I think it’s the forgetting that scares me,” she says finally. “Not mattering, in the long run.”
“Who cares whether you matter a hundred years from now?” I say. “You’ll never know any of those people.”
Her shoulders hunch in a defensive sort of shrug. “No, but maybe they’d know me. Don’t you ever think it would be nice to leave a mark?”
“Sure,” I say, with a small shake of my head. “On the people I care about. Maybe my future children, or grandchildren.”
I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth, understanding clicking into place. This is about her grandmother. About forgetting, but also about being forgotten. A person’s identity outside the boundaries of memory.
I don’t have the answers. I’ve never lost anyone like that, so it’s not my place to have an opinion, but letting her ponder in silence feels like abandoning her to her grief.
As usual, I’m compelled to try to fix, to seek out a clear series of steps that will solve the problem, but sometimes there is no right answer.
“Hey.” Lenore stops in her tracks, staring at the window display in the old-timey candy shop: rainbow-swirl pops and bubblegum and licorice straws, a visual assault of sugary color.
“I wonder whether they still sell that maple candy.” Her eyes flick to mine, glossy in the warm glow of the window.
“Gran used to keep them in that little glass dish on the coffee table, do you remember? I always hated them as a kid, but they sort of grew on me, after a while.”