The Lake of Dreams by Kim Edwards Page A

much—so thoughtful. And your stitches? Oh, good. Tonight? I’m sorry, I can’t. My daughter just got in and I don’t know our plans . ”
    I splayed the papers and pamphlets out against the glass table, trying to pretend I wasn’t listening in on my mother’s conversation. In full daylight they looked older and more worn, the paper brittle, the edges stained, the dust of decades woven into the fibers.
    “Your secret admirer?” I asked when my mother finished.
    “Andrew,” she said, flipping the phone closed. “He’s very jovial this morning.” My mother put the phone down so she could pick up a leaflet.
    “It’s okay if you want to have dinner with him tonight.”
    She looked up and smiled, amused. “I know.”
    “Okay with me, I mean. You don’t have to entertain me twenty-four- seven, that’s all.”
    “I know, sweetie. Thank you.” She went back to the pamphlet. “My goodness—this was published in 1913.”
    “Interesting, isn’t it? I found these in the cupola this morning. Stuffed away in a window seat.”
    She met my gaze, her eyes pale gray and curious. “I didn’t realize any of those seats opened.”
    “There’s a little keyhole below the lip of the seat facing the lake. With the cushions gone, you can see it. Dad’s tools are still on the ring.”
    “Ah—you picked the lock?”
    “I did. First try.”
    She smiled, her expression suddenly wistful. “Your father would have been very proud.”
    I looked out at the lake until I could speak again. “Mostly, that’s why I tried to open it—just because he’d taught me how. Nothing inside but dust, though—and these.”
    We sat at the table and leafed through the papers, drinking our coffee. It was an eclectic collection. There was an obituary for the last passenger pigeon in Cincinnati, Ohio, in 1914, and beneath a drawing of her was the word extinct . There was a page listing all the births in the county in March and April 1911—I scanned it, but none of the names seemed familiar. I found the wedding announcement of my great-grandfather to Cora Evanston, who was noted in the article to have shaken hands with Teddy Roosevelt when she was five years old. She was the widow of my great-grandfather’s cousin, Jesse Evanston. The rest were pamphlets, most published in New York City between 1911 and 1914, though there were a couple of flyers from much earlier, and some from other cities. Two little magazines were devoted to the work of women artists. One flyer, more intense in tone, advertised a rally in support of the right to vote for women, to be held in Canton, New York, in May 1914, with Carrie Chapman Catt as the featured speaker. “Just think,” I said, handing that one to my mother. “Maybe a suffragette lived right here in this house.”
    “Maybe so,” my mother said, pulling a pair of reading glasses from her pocket. “Well, this was certainly the area for that sort of thing. I’m trying to remember—I think the house was built in the 1880s, and then fell into disrepair for a while.” She waved her hand at the verdant chaos in every direction. “Not unlike now, perhaps. That’s how your great-grandfather got it for a song, or so the story goes. I think he bought it around 1925 and set about restoring it.”
    At the bottom of the stack, several more newsprint articles were held together with a rusty paper clip, the paper so brittle it crumbled at the edges, the type blurry.
    “Listen to this,” I said, touching my mother’s hand. “From 1913. It’s hilarious.
    “ ‘Fortunately, we have come to realize that healthy outdoor play is as good for the little girl as it is for the little boy, and the ideas of our grand-mothers’ day—that boys were to play ball, ride horseback, swim, shoot, etc., while the girl’s play was restricted to sedentary pursuits, such as sewing, doll-playing, etc.—have been placed on the relic heap, and the girl today keeps pace with her brother in physical freedom and activity.’