The Lake of Dreams by Kim Edwards Page B

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    My mother laughed. “Well, I’m glad I was born when I was,” she said. “No way could I have made you play with dolls all day, Lucy.”
    “Imagine living in this house and not being able to swim in the lake.”
    “I bet they snuck out and swam anyway.”
    “I hope so.”
    Between the last two articles I found a small envelope, square, made of heavy paper, the size of an invitation. The flap was tucked, not glued, and inside was a single sheet of paper, folded once. A dried flower, mostly brown but faintly purple in the center, slipped out and crumbled into fragments as it touched the glass-topped table.
    The handwriting was faded, pale brown, the letters slanted, sharp, and certain.
     
    21 September 1925
    If Iris is to leave your household, Joseph, then I beg you, do not have her go to strangers, but have her come to me, or if she will not, send her instead to the address I enclose, to Mrs. Alice Stokley, a friend of my friends here, who will provide her with schooling and employment suitable to her age—she is only 14.
    My heart aches to write this. I understand the expenses you list of clothes, books, and housing, but I cannot see how the money has not been enough. I have sent all I have. If you say it is so, then it must be, though today I cannot sign this note with love, R.
     
    I read the words over and over, trying to puzzle out a meaning, my image of a well-dressed suffragette quickly fading. Joseph must certainly be my great-grandfather, the dreamer, who had climbed the church tower to view the comet. But who was R, the writer of this note? And who was Iris? The letter was forceful, intimate; this was no passing acquaintance.
    “Do you know who these people are?” I asked, handing my mother the paper.
    She read the note, shaking her head, while I wondered about the author of this note, and who had saved it. Was it perhaps Cora, my great-grandmother, who had hidden these papers? Maybe she had even attended this speech by Carrie Chapman Catt. We knew very little about Cora—only that she had married my great-grandfather Joseph Jarrett after her first husband died in a fall. Like so much of the rest of the family, she existed largely in the shadows cast by my great-grandfather’s unremitting light, so it was exciting to consider her inner life, to imagine her sitting in the cupola, reading avidly, sliding her pamphlets into the window seat if footsteps started up the stairs. “No. I’ve never heard them mentioned. There are so many Jarretts here and there and everywhere, maybe I’ve forgotten—but no, I don’t think so. I’ve never heard those names.”
    “Poor Iris,” I said. “Whoever she was. Being sent off to work at fourteen.”
    “That’s what happened in those days, though. It happened to my grandmother, too. Relatives took her in when she was orphaned, but not out of kindness. They needed an extra pair of hands. I don’t think she was treated very well.”
    “I wonder if Iris was orphaned, too?” I said softly.
    “I wonder.” My mother was thoughtful. “You know what? There’s a note I found, years ago, that might be connected to these papers. Let me get the key, and I’ll see if I can find it. It’s packed away upstairs in the trunk.”
    “Everything’s open,” I said. “I unlocked all the rooms.”
    “Did you?” She considered this, an expression of sadness and then annoyance passing swiftly over her face. I knew I’d crossed a line. “Well. I suppose I’ll have to look at that stuff sometime, won’t I? Anyway, hang on a second. I’ll be right back.”
    Her footsteps sounded lightly on the steps. I wondered how many years had passed since she’d been up there, what she’d feel to find the rooms all open again. I went through the articles, reading more carefully. A slip of paper, inscribed with the same sharp, slanted handwriting of the previous note, fell out from between the pages.
     
    I have read these pages so many times. I have to write it down, how I