Family Skeletons: A Spunky Missouri Genealogist Traces A Family's Roots...And Digs Up A Deadly Secret Read online

  The man in the photograph was superbly handsome. His hair was wavy black, accompanied by dark, sparkling eyes and a full, pouty lower lip. The overall impression was that of a Mediterranean background.

  “Ms. Zumwalt, I don’t really have time right now, with the festival and such, to take on any more projects. Besides, this sounds more like a missing-persons type of thing.”

  “Please. I would like my whole family tree done, but in particular I’d like to find out what happened to my father. I’ll pay you as much as you like.”

  “Well, I normally charge ten dollars an hour plus photocopies, but I still don’t know if I’ll have the time. The museum is opening this June.”

  Lord, why can’t I just say no to people? I honestly didn’t have the time to mess with this. And I wasn’t so sure I’d do it even if I had the time. Maybe it was because I’d always thought she was a snob. Whatever the reason, it left me as quickly as it came when I saw her wringing her hands, and I looked down at his photograph again. What must it be like to be fifty years old and not know your father?

  “What’s his name?” I heard myself ask.

  “Eugene Counts,” she said as she sat down in a chair next to the wall and smiled.

  “When was he born?”

  “Probably in 1923.”

  “Where was he born?”

  “Probably in Missouri.”

  “And his parents?” I asked, expecting her to say, “Probably somebody.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Well, at least she was certain of her lack of information. After ten years of doing this sort of thing, it still amazes me that people can know so little about their own parents.

  “Did he die in the war?” I asked. I tried to take notes by bending over my desk.

  “Probably.” Back to that again. She looked around the room. It was a tiny room, just off from the ballroom. She stared at the poster, which also served as a map of New Kassel. It read: “Step Back in Time. Discover Historic New Kassel, Missouri, and All It Has to Offer.”

  “My mother and father never married, and I guess he felt like he didn’t have to come home to her when the war was over. He may have found somebody, a woman, in Europe and stayed. All I know is he used to write, then one day he stopped. My mother never asked him about his family.”

  She pulled out several yellowed pieces of paper from her purse. They were letters, addressed to Viola Pritcher. The lighting in the office wasn’t the best, and I had a difficult time reading the faded ink.

  “These are two of the last letters that he sent her. I have all the others at home,” she said as she arose and went over to the wall opposite the window, where a very old, very pretty rose of Sharon quilt hung on the wall.

  The quilt was a donation from an elderly member of the society. The rose parts of the quilt were appliquéd one on top of the other in different shades of pink to give a multidimensional look, and the green vine swirled around connecting the roses. The quilting was very fine, with the stitches accenting the flowers themselves.

  “The rose of Sharon quilt was traditionally the bridal quilt,” I said to Norah. “Most brides generally had one quilt in that design.”

  She smiled and hugged herself. “I always want to touch them. Do you?”

  “Yes. Quilts have that effect. Go ahead, if you like.”

  She ran her small fingers across the appliqué roses, lost in her private thoughts.

  “So, how far do you want me to go back? How many generations?”

  “I don’t know. I’d like to know at least who my great-great-grandparents were.”

  “All right,” I said. I reached into the upper left-hand drawer of the Civil War–era desk. It was one of the first items Hermann Gaheimer had acquired for himself when he arrived. “Fill out this form, as best you can. I’ll be right back.”

  I went to the ladies’ room. I have no idea why all the women in the nineteenth century didn’t die of bladder infections. If I had to live in one of these dresses all the time, I’d limit myself to peeing twice a day.

  It took me awhile to get back to the office. I stopped by the soda machine in the hallway and got a Dr Pepper. The soda machine is definitely out of place. It’s like a satellite dish in the Amazon forest. Oh well, we must have our caffeine.

  When I got back to my office, she was gone. The form, which requested the names, dates, and places of birth and death for the ancestors that she could remember, was barely written on. The photograph and the letters were neatly placed on top of it. Had I really just promised to trace her family tree? Good Lord, it had been at least a year since I had hired out my services.

  There was something about Norah Zumwalt and the photograph of her father that rested peculiarly in my consciousness. Now that she was gone, it was as if she had been a mirage or a dream. Why did she follow me through my tour just to ask me this? Why didn’t she call me at home or catch me some other time in the office? Why now? Why not five years ago?

  Two

  Sunlight filtered through my lavender curtains. It had taken me quite a while to fall asleep the night before because over and over I had read the letters that were written by Norah’s father. My eyes were matted shut, my shoulders were sore, and my stomach rumbled.

  Our bedroom, along with my office and a bathroom, is located on the second floor of my eighty-five-year-old home. I heard the shower running, and I knew that it was after seven and Rudy was getting ready for work. I got up slowly, wiped the sleep from my eyes, and looked out my window.

  The Mississippi River wound in front of my house ever so slowly. A barge crept up the river and the morning sun gleamed off of the ripples it left as it went to its destination somewhere north.

  New Kassel is far enough south of St. Louis that we are not bothered by the problems that plague a big city, yet we are still close enough for convenience. My house is on the northeast side of town, away from the shops and tourism, and is perched just right, on a cliff that overlooks Old Man River.

  Our property, which is roughly two acres, is bordered by woods on the north side, and Charity Bergermeister’s property on the south. River Point Road, and of course the river, are on the east. On the west side of our property, or our backyard, is Mayor Castlereagh’s property and home. He owns about eight acres, all fenced, and I can barely see the top of his roof from Rachel’s bedroom window.

  “Ave Mariiiiia,” Rudy sang from the shower. The shower seems to be the only place that he remembers his Catholic upbringing. Unless you want a horror story about one of the saints or martyrs. He is very good at telling stories. He’s Irish, and they tell tales with a lot of zeal.

  I snuggled back in bed and smelled the Downy on the pillowcases. The girls were up. The aroma of the pancakes that my mother was cooking for them soon smothered out the Downy. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to eat or sleep. Finally, my stomach won out, and I headed downstairs.

  Rachel was dressed for school. Mary stood on her chair drinking a glass of apple juice. She made gurgling noises in her cup, but stopped after I had given her the evil eye two times.

  “Mommy,” she said.

  “Good morning, girls,” I said, and kissed each one of them on the top of the head.

  “Mom,” Rachel began. She stopped putting “-my” on the end of Mom when she started kindergarten.

  “What?”

  “Do you know that there are people in this world that don’t have arms?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Yes, it is. Did you discuss this in class or something?” I asked, wondering why she had brought up the subject. Every morning it’s something different.

  “No. There was a man at the park yesterday that didn’t have any arms.”

  “Oh.”

  She looked at me wide-eyed, as if I couldn’t possibly leave the conversation with just an “Oh.”

  “That’s terrible, honey.”

  “Mommy,” Mary said. “I want a tootie.”

  “N
o cookies for breakfast. Finish your pancakes.”

  I found my mother, who is fifty-two, sitting out on the porch just off from the kitchen. She drank her coffee and watched the river in silence. My parents have been divorced for fifteen years, and after several years of living alone, she moved in with us. She is confined to a wheelchair thanks to polio when she was ten years old. The fact that Rachel has a grandmother in a wheelchair could be why she is always so sensitive to people with other disabilities.

  “Morning, Mom. Thanks for getting Rachel ready for school.”

  “That’s okay. I knew you were really tired from all the work you’ve been doing with the festival.”

  “Yeah, and I’ve still got today through Saturday to go.”

  She seemed to be deep in her own thoughts. I’ve always thought my mother resembled the Madonna. A Raphaelite version of Madonna, not the version on MTV. She had an oval-shaped face with a small bow mouth and aquiline nose. Her skin was smooth and creamy, and I am completely jealous. Her dark hair was now turning gray and no matter what inner struggle she was dealing with she always seemed calm and in complete control. Just how I would imagine the Virgin Mary. Wonder what Freud would have to say about that?

  I left her alone to drink her coffee, grabbed a Dr Pepper, and walked Rachel out to catch the bus. She wore her green-and-red dress with the cows on it. As the bus approached, she looked up at me with serious black eyes and said, “Mom, do you know what the worst part about not having arms is?”

  “No, what?”

  “All the clothes have sleeves.”

  In her innocence she couldn’t see the much more devastating things in life that a serious disability would cause. To her it was what to do with sleeves. I crouched down next to her and gave her a big hug.

  “I think the saddest part would be not being able to hug my children,” I said.

  Enlightenment dawned on her just as her bus pulled up. I could see the full implications of what I’d just said play in those dark eyes of hers. She waved then. “Bye, Mom. See you tonight.”

  I waved and watched the bus until it was completely down the street, then went back inside and headed upstairs to my office. Passing Rudy on the way up, I stopped and gave him a kiss.

  I sat down at my desk and dialed the number for the National Personnel Records Center in St. Louis.

  “Defense Department,” a woman said.

  “Howard Braukman, please.”

  I waited a few minutes for Howard to come on the line. Howard used to be a neighbor when I was a kid in Progress, Missouri. I thought he could save me some footwork on Norah’s family tree. While I waited, I took a folder from the middle left-hand drawer and wrote in black magic marker, Counts/Pritcher Client: Norah Zumwalt.

  “Braukman,” a voice said.

  “Howie, are you still trying to sound like a boot camp sergeant? It just doesn’t fit you.” He was actually sort of cute. It had been at least six months since I’d seen Howie at an anniversary dinner for his parents. Then I saw him again three weeks later, when his mother died. He wore Coke-bottle glasses and had white blond hair. There was something so insecure about him that you couldn’t help but befriend him.

  “Hi, Torie. How’s your mom?”

  “Fine.” Everybody always asks about my mother first. “Listen, I have a client whose father served in World War II.”

  “You’ll have to have her fill out a form. You know that,” he said.

  ‘Yes, I know. The NA13075 and the NA13055. Send them to me, and I’ll have her fill them out. But could you do me a big favor?”

  “No.”

  “Come on. You owe me,” I said, teasing.

  “What do you want?”

  “Could you just take a peek and tell me when he died?”

  “Absolutely not. Torie, I could get in big trouble.”

  I waited a few seconds, thinking of what I could do to persuade him. “I could always tell your mother about Henrietta Pierce.”

  He was silent for a few moments.

  “You know I have done lots of favors for you, Howie. Kept lots of secrets.”

  “This is blackmail.”

  “I know. Look, I just want to know when he died. The woman doesn’t know when her own father died.”

  “Shit.”

  “Cuss all you want. But you’ll do it? You’ll look?”

  “It may take me a few days. I do have real work I have to do.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I suppose I can still keep your secrets quiet.” I am just too ornery for my own good.

  He didn’t say good-bye. He just took down the important information on Eugene Counts and hung up. I really didn’t have anything horrible that I was hanging over his head. Henrietta Pierce was his “baby” sitter when he was younger. I walked in on them once when … well, let’s just say they gave a whole new meaning to the words “finger painting.” Anyway, I would never really tell his mother. Heck, she probably already knew. Mothers have ways of knowing those types of things. And I learned a long time ago that I didn’t really have to threaten him to get favors from him. But he liked to create the illusion that he was being coerced into doing me favors.

  I glanced down at the photograph of Eugene Counts. From his letters, I did not get the impression that he was the type to forget all about his “dearest Viola” and stay abroad with ma cherie. His letters professed his love for her over and over, and that he wished that he could see his hometown of St. Mary’s again. I wondered what he was thinking at the time the photo was taken. Too bad the camera couldn’t freeze his thoughts as well as his image.

  * * *

  It was Thursday before anything earthshaking happened. I was in the office at the Gaheimer House when the phone rang. I had just finished a tour and was still in the vintage clothing.

  “New Kassel Historical Society, Victory O’Shea speaking.”

  “Hi, it’s Howie. I mean Howard,” he corrected.

  “Oh, great. Whatcha got?” I grabbed a pen and tore a piece of paper off of a scratch pad. I suppose I was too excited that he was getting back to me to wonder why he was calling me at my office.

  “He’s a live one.”

  “What?” I said. I searched for the chair behind me with my free hand. I found it and sat down, dress and all.

  “He didn’t die in the service.”

  “I can’t believe it,” I said, a rush of excitement bubbling up. I could just see visions of Norah Zumwalt and an ancient Eugene Counts running, arms open to embrace each other, reunited after fifty years. I am such a romantic.

  “This is great,” I said.

  “Yeah. Remember that fire back in seventy-three?” Howie asked.

  “Well, I was about ten years old, but I know about it.”

  “Wiped out over half of our army records up to 1959. But they reconstructed the files for the veterans still alive so they can still get their pensions.”

  “Terrific. You got an address?” I said, still amazed that the man was alive.

  “You said all you wanted to know was if he was dead or alive.

  “Jesus, Howie. Have some compassion. I get to tell this woman that her father whom she has never met is alive. But sorry, Howie wouldn’t give me an address.”

  Before I could threaten him with any long-lost secret, his strained voice said, “Eleven-oh-nine West Second Street. Vitzland.”

  “You gotta be kidding me. That’s just down the highway about twenty miles.” I wrote it down as quickly as I could. “Anyone else? What’s his mother’s name?”

  “Torie!”

  “Last thing.”

  “Edith.”

  “Thanks. We’re even.”

  “We better be,” he said as he hung up the phone.

  Wow. He was alive. I had done several lineages before, but this was the first time I really had something exciting to report to a client, something that would make a difference. I dialed Norah’s antique shop immediately. No answer. She must have closed down again. I decided I would try her at her h
ome and realized that I didn’t have that number with me. I’d call her from my house.

  Which I did. No answer there either. Rachel came home, followed by Rudy. I fixed dinner, and we ate. All through dinner I found myself anticipating the moment that I could actually give Norah the good news. Finally, the girls were in bed, and I sat down at the kitchen table to try and call Norah one more time. As I dialed her number, Mom set a spice cake on the table. I immediately devoured a piece.

  Mom always has fattening things like that lurking around every nook and cranny. And I feel that I should give them my undivided attention. I consider myself fairly strong willed, but we all have our limits. Some more than others.

  The receiver picked up.

  “Norah … hi. Torie O’Shea.”

  “Oh, Torie, hello,” she said, a little surprised.

  My mother came in the kitchen then and gave me a dirty look at the huge chunk that was missing out of the once whole cake. She knew I was the guilty party because I had icing on my upper lip. I tried to lick it off, but I was too late. She laid an open St. Louis Post Dispatch on the table and rolled her chair past me to the porch.

  “Norah, I’ve got great news. I’m not anywhere near finished with your family tree. Truth is, I’ve barely got started. I mean, I’ve ordered some death certificates, marriage records, you know, standard things. Listen, your father … he’s alive.”

  “Yes … oh, just a minute. Somebody is at the door.” She put the phone down. I heard muffled voices in the background as she answered the door.

  Mother came back in the room and frowned even more because this time I had got caught with the cake in front of me. Yes, I was eating another piece of cake as I read the open newspaper. Something caught my eye, and I barely noticed that Norah had come back on the line.

  “Can I call you back?” she asked me.

  “Well, okay,” I said, befuddled. Norah hadn’t even given me a chance to say good-bye. That was not exactly the reaction that I had expected. I stared at the phone as if it were the phone’s fault.