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“Really?” I say excitedly.
He nods. “I can look for the photo albums in the basement if you want.”
“I’d really appreciate it.”
“Come on in,” he says warmly. “I’m Henry, by the way.”
“Thanks so much. I’m Beatrice.”
He opens the front door and leads me down a flight of stairs to a basement with a large metal storage unit which he unlocks with a key. Inside are a couple of dozen dusty cardboard boxes. They’re stacked and labeled with black Sharpie marker. He looks around until he spots three boxes labeledPHOTOS.
“Let’s see,” he says, opening one of the boxes. It’s filled with family photo albums. “I haven’t seen these pictures in years.” He opens another box—more family albums. He goes through them quickly, checking the dates and setting them aside. “Let’s try this last box,” he says.
He opens it, and on top is a thick, brown, old-fashioned three-ring photo album. Its cover picture is of a woman with black hair proudly standing in front of the building we’re in.
“This is my grandmother,” he tells me, pointing to her. He opens the album. Inside are pictures of the building undergoing interior renovations.
He reaches for another album in the box, opens it, and it’s filled with photographs of tenants standing in front of their respective apartment doors. Each picture is meticulously labeled with names and dates, beginning in the 1960s.
“Wow, I didn’t know she had all of these pictures. I think this is the photo box you’re going to want to look through,” he says, closing the album. “I’ll carry it upstairs for you.”
I follow him up three flights. He lets me inside his place and drops the box filled with the photo albums on a coffee table in the living room.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” he says. “But I just finished an overnight shift at the hospital, and I need to shower and change.”
“Thanks again for taking the time to help me,” I say.
“My grandmother wouldn’t have it any other way. Her tenants have always been like family to her. Feel free to sit on the couch and look through them.”
He leaves the room, and I take out all the albums from the box. I quickly go through each one filled with pictures of tenants and their respective apartments, making my way through the 1960s. Four albums in, and I get to one that starts in 1973.
I turn the pages until I reach 1974, searching for Mom. Finally I spot her—young, smiling, and looking morepregnantthan she did in Dr. Siegel’s interview, maybe six or seven months. She’s standing in front of an apartment door with her hand placed on top of her growing stomach.
A man is standing next to her with his arm slung over one of her shoulders. The same man she was standing next to in the picture from Laura Poitier’s yearbook page. The man who she told me was her second cousin.
The handwritten caption underneath the photograph reads:Irene Mayer and “Baby Sally,” 1974.
Sally. Mom was pregnant with a girl.
Henry reappears in the living room dressed in regular clothes. “Any luck?” he asks.
“I found my mom,” I say, pointing to the picture. “She’s pregnant and standing next to a man, but your grandmother didn’t write his name underneath the picture.”
He looks at it. “Whoa, your mom was Irene Mayer?”
I blink, confused. “How do you know about my mom?”
“My grandma told me all about her. She didn’t write the guy’s name because she didn’t like him,” he says.
“Your grandmother talked to you about him too?” I say, pointing to the man standing next to Mom.
“She never stops. He was her only famous tenant.”
Famous?The father of Mom’s secret child wasfamous?
“Who is he?” I ask.
Henry picks up a copy of theNew York Timesnext to the box of photo albums on the coffee table and hands it to me. The cover story, about the Cadell brothers seeking information regarding Cristina’s whereabouts, includes a picture of Quentin Cadell and his older brother, William Cadell, Jr., talking with reporters.
