Page 77 of The Treasure House

“Marly!” Priscilla’s head popped out of the big front bedroom. “There you are! Don’t go disappearing. It’s time!”

Numbly, Marly took the small bunch of carnations and daisies and took her place in the procession. Uncle Don had joined them and was already weepy as he regarded Sylvie in all her lacy glory.

“Aunt Bet?” Paul had arrived to escort their Aunt Betty down the aisle to her seat.

The wedding itself went by in a blur. The makeshift altar had been set up near the rose garden, which was in vigorous full bloom, and the powdery sweet scent of roses mingled with the sea air. Uncle Don cried through the whole wedding, and so did Mom, but Marly didn’t think they were crying for the same reason. Marly’s heart was hurting in her chest. As she walked down the aisle, she saw her father holding her mother’s hands and she almost cried herself.

What was wrong with Mom?

She was so caught up in her thoughts, she didn’t even look for Freddie de Marche in the crowd, even though she’d spent all morning fussing over her appearance for him. It wasn’t until the ceremony was in full swing that she remembered and darted a glance at the crowd. He was up the back on the aisle, so she must have walked straight past him.

He was in a suit, with a bow tie, and his hair was slicked back neatly. He had a brooding expression, at least until he caught her staring at him. Then he winked.

Marly blushed and jerked her attention back to the bride and groom.

Elton Coutts was beaming ear to ear, his blond hair in a side part, and his brown eyes shining. He looked like a man who’d just found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. And Sylvie was giggling and blushing and acting the schoolgirl. They were so cute it was sickening. Marly’s attention wandered again, this time back to her parents. Her mother was leaning into her father, and he was still holding her hands, his thumb stroking hers.

And to her horror, Marly found herself crying, in front of all those people.

Eighteen

It was Halloween and Flo was at the school dance. I’d finished up at the NA family meeting—something I’d been helping out with more regularly—and was in the car waiting for her. I’d brought a box to sort through while I waited. I was glad of the distraction because the meetings always threw me. Today I’d listened to a woman describe going no-contact with her son and I’d felt a sharp sting of recognition. I didn’t want to think about all Tina’s unanswered letters and the fact I hadn’t visited her in years. It was a relief to distract myself with boxes of culch.

I never knew what I’d find in the boxes. I’d found one full of old tin toys, which had turned out to be quite in demand on eBay. And another one of vintage Christmas ornaments, which were an unexpected joy. They were a mix of glass in various abstract shapes and bright colors, shiny and tactile, and there was a kitschy little angel tree topper holding a candle. I’d kept that box aside, to revisit in December.

As I pulled on my thick down jacket, beanie, and gloves and opened up the back of my hatchback, I wondered what I’d find. I climbed in and sat down with my legs crossed, leaving the hatch up. It was only forty degrees out, but there was a beautiful sea fog rolling through Camden and I wanted to enjoy it as it crept across the parking lot in thickening veils, muting the streetlights and the sound of music thudding from the gymnasium. I’d brought a thermos of hot tea to keep me warm.

This box had been up in the “costume room” as Flo called it. We’d found a little clutch of boxes when she’d hunted through the racks of clothes for something to wear for Halloween. In the end Flo had chosen an old black suit and painted her face white, with black shadows under her eyes and cheekbones.

“I’m from the black-and-white times,” she told me, posing.

If it didn’t win the prize for best costume, it might at least win for most interesting. It was certainly weird.

This box was labeled MARLY’S. The handwriting was firm and decisive. Dying of curiosity, I’d packed it into the car, so I’d have something to do while I waited for Flo.

Inside there were a few old diaries—the kind you use to keep track of your appointments, not the personal kind. The oldest one was from 1957. It was well thumbed and full of notes. It was when I saw the words “Homecoming Dance” on a Saturday night that I realized the diary belonged to a teenager. Teenage Marly, to be precise. The first page listed her contact details, giving the name Marly Orcutt, an address in Boston, and a phone number that didn’t seem to have enough numbers. I turned the pages. There were dates for her SATs, which seemed to correspond with a week where there were a lot of appointments: “Mom: Dr. Wesley”; “Mom: blood tests”; and “Mom to hospital.” There was no record of her mother ever coming out of the hospital, but lots of visiting hours were listed.

There was a single wrist-length white glove in the box. It had little flowers in open lace on the back. And there was a heavy hardback book without a cover. I hefted it out and looked at the spine. Forever Amber. I’d never heard of it. I flipped the pages and found a series of old postcards and letters tucked between the pages. The first was a screamingly bright graphic postcard that said, “Greetings from New Jersey.” Inside the letters were beachy pictures of cartoon people having fun in the sun. I flipped it over.

Hey, pixie stick. Did you get the cat I sent you? It’s to start your collection. x F

It was postmarked from Fort Dix, New Jersey, and dated November 1956.

There were postcards from West Germany, Korea, Hawaii, Japan, and then Washington, D.C. More than one asked if the recipient (Marly, I assumed) had received her latest cat, and I began to get an idea of why there were so many figurines of cats in our house.

There was a postcard from late 1957, the writing all tiny and cramped so it would fit on the card:

Kid, you kill me. Nothing from you for all those months, and then you write me the War and Peace of letters. I must have sent you a postcard a month and NOW you write, right when I’m leaving. I’ll send you a letter when I get where I’m going. Hopefully they’ll bounce on your other letters—assuming there are other letters. If there aren’t, write some, will you? I’m sorry to hear about your mom. I can’t imagine what it must be like. Hang in there. Promise I’ll write. x F

And write he did, whoever he was. There were dozens of postcards, from all over the world, and letters written on thin onionskin airmail paper. The dates ranged from 1956 to 1962.

I can’t tell you much about my day to day, short stuff, or the censors will black out so much of the letter there won’t be any letter left. Instead, why don’t I tell you something about a guy I met last week. He’s a very mannered sort, soft spoken, with a sideways smile. Very Southern and prone to deferring to others. Which might not be what you’d expect from a man who makes girls scream just by walking into a room. He doesn’t live in barracks but rents a private house. Maybe so he’s got somewhere to store his blue suede shoes and his hound dog.

Oh my God, he was talking about Elvis, I realized, checking the envelope and date. West Germany, 1958. I felt a thrill run through me.

There was a postcard from Paris in 1962: I was supposed to be here with a girl I know, but she stood me up. x F

And one from Palermo: I’m getting fat on leave in Italy. Thinking I could live here when I’m discharged. x F