A Story to Tell
After Michelle Romeyn graduated college with a degree in media journalism, she accepted a job offer from family friend Grant McCrory and began working for his family-run newspaper, The Brookdale Times. Assigned to covering community events, the novice reporter found there were often times when nothing newsworthy was happening in the small New England village. On those days when there was no rummage sale, food drive, pancake breakfast or charity walkathon to cover, Michelle was left with little to write about.
Such was the situation one day in early November. All the autumn harvest fairs and Halloween attractions were over, and it was too soon to write about the upcoming events for Christmas. Pressed with finding an idea for her next column, she drove to the Willow Tree Mall to talk to Waldo Paston, the mall manager. She had heard there was to be a winter fashion show in the center court. If so, she ought to be able to write about what the local women might be wearing in January and February.
After learning that Mr. Paston had called in sick that morning, Michelle decided to have a cup of coffee at Starbucks so that her trip would not be a complete waste of time. As she was sipping her cup of mocha, she could not help overhearing the conversation of two women sitting at the next table.
"I worked beside her for twelve years," one woman said, "and I didn't have any idea that she had been married with a child when she was younger. I just naturally assumed she was a spinster."
"It just goes to show you," her companion concluded. "You never really know someone. Just look at my next-door neighbor. On the outside, she looks like a sweet grandmotherly type who spends her time crocheting and baking cookies. Who would ever guess that she was a radical activist back in the Sixties?"
The first woman laughed.
"I'll bet there are many more family skeletons buried beneath all the scenic New England charm of our little village."
"Maybe we ought to change the name from Brookdale to Peyton Place."
Michelle finished her coffee and headed toward the parking lot. Before she reached her car, an idea for a column was starting to form. Andy Warhol once said that "everyone would be world-famous for fifteen minutes." The reporter did not know if Warhol was correct or not, but she theorized that everyone—even the most bland, innocuous-looking people we come across—has a story to tell. Maybe the boy who bagged groceries at Market Basket or the woman who waited tables at the Cracker Barrel would never inspire a novel, but Michelle was willing to bet that at some point in their lives, there was a moment to inspire at least a column.
What was to become the first in a long series of articles that told of an event in the life of an ordinary citizen was written about Dorothy Grisham, a second-grade teacher at Brookdale Elementary Center. Ms. Grisham, the readers were soon to discover, had once dreamed of becoming an actress. She lived in New York for two years where she even had a modest, ten-line role on a daytime soap opera before returning to Brookdale to care for her ailing mother.
There was an immediate and favorable response to the piece. Readers sent letters to the editor, asking for more such stories. The articles became so popular that another reporter was assigned the responsibility of covering community events, and Michelle was given a permanent column in which to showcase her tales of everyday people.
Eventually, the stories began to mount up. Everyone, it seemed, wanted their Warholian fifteen minutes of fame, or at least they all wanted to see their names in print. With the blessings of her editor, Ezra Graves, Michelle decided to publish a collection of stories she wrote about people she met at the Brookdale Public Library. The book, appropriately entitled Everyone Has a Story to Tell, sold well not only in and around Brookdale but on a national level as well. The first book's success was surpassed by that of the second. In fact, with each new book she wrote, Michelle increased her sales, and her number of readers grew.
After her seventh book was completed, the reporter-turned-author went out to celebrate with Stephen Pryor, her husband of five years. It was not a big celebration since there were six previous, similar occasions. Yet even though writing a book had become somewhat routine, Michelle and Stephen still acknowledged the accomplishment with a night out on the town.
The hostess at the Silver Pines Inn, who had been the subject of one of Michelle's newspaper columns several years earlier, showed the Pryors to one of the restaurant's best tables.
"Are you working on another book?" she asked as she handed the couple two dinner menus.
"No, actually I just finished one. I probably won't start the next one for at least another month."
After the hostess left, Stephen glanced at the menu, even though he already knew what to order. Once his wife made her selection, he asked if she had any ideas about book number eight.
"So far, you've talked with people at a library, a coffee shop, a Laundromat, a Fourth of July fireworks display, a flea market, a wedding reception and a beauty salon. Where is your enquiring mind going to take you next?"
"Since it's a presidential election year, I might try our local polling place."
Stephen nodded his approval. It was not a bad idea.
"Or," his wife said after the waitress took their drink order, "I was giving some thought to talking to some of the residents at Golden Years."
"The senior citizens home in West Haversham? Are you sure that's wise? I've got nothing against old people, but they don't always have the most accurate memories, and you're such a stickler for printing unvarnished tales."
As she ate her salad and appetizer, Michelle gave the seniors' home idea more thought.
"I could talk to the staff beforehand," she said. "I'm sure they can tell me which residents might have trouble remembering and which don't."
"Why don't you do it, then?" Stephen suggested encouragingly. "Those people might have interesting stories to tell. After all, they've lived through fascinating times in our country's history."
By the time the entrees were served, Michelle Romeyn Pryor, sharing her husband's opinion about the wealth of personal histories she might uncover, had decided in favor of the Golden Years Seniors Center over the election polling station.
* * *
"I've read every one of your books!" Yolanda Hernandez, the senior nurse on duty exclaimed when Michelle introduced herself. "I didn't realize you had a relative here at Golden Years."
"I don't," the writer admitted. "Actually, I'd like to talk to some of your residents if that's all right with the staff and management—and the residents themselves, of course."
The nurse's eyes widened and her face brightened.
"You want the people here to be in your next book? How exciting! I'm sure everyone will be delighted by your visits."
"I realize, because of their age, some of the residents might have problems recalling certain facts, but ...."
Michelle hesitated, not wanting to seem insensitive to those senior citizens with failing mental faculties.
"Don't worry," the nurse assured her. "I'll steer you clear of the ones who are suffering from dementia."
Not only was Yolanda able to advise Michelle on the residents' mental status, but she also provided valuable recommendations concerning individuals who had led more extraordinary lives.
The first person the nurse introduced the writer to was Maxwell Swales, a retired photographer who had, in his fifty-six years behind the lens of a camera, photographed such diverse luminaries as baseball great Ted Williams, poet Robert Frost, psychedelic guru Timothy Leary and most of the Kennedy family including the late president and his wife. Perhaps his fondest memory, he confided to Michelle, was meeting the legendary Bette Davis.
"One of the best actresses who ever appeared on film," Maxwell declared. "She was born in Lowell, Massachusetts. Did you know that?"
"No, I didn't," Michelle replied.
After speaking with his visitor for more than two hours, the former photographer grew tired and had to call an end to the interview.
"It's my heart," he apologized. "Doctor says I need plenty of rest. Maybe you can come back again some other time and we can continue our talk."
"I'd like that very much."
Michelle already had more than enough material to write a chapter on Maxwell Swales, but she realized he wanted her to come back because he enjoyed the company. It was really quite sad that a man of Maxwell's talent and exuberance should end his days doing jigsaw puzzles in a home for senior citizens. No wonder he wanted her to come back.
The next person Michelle talked to was Mae Dirckson, an elderly woman who, after losing a husband in World War II and a son in Vietnam, became a physical therapist at the VA hospital in Brockton.
"Most of the people in this place don't have any relatives," Mae confided to the writer. "Either that or their relatives are too busy to visit. Maxwell's son put him here and only comes to see him on Father's Day and around Christmas time. But me, I've got a daughter who faithfully visits once a week."
"Oh, really? Does she live nearby?"
"Not too far. She has a gift shop in Newburyport. She's repeatedly asked me to go and live with her, but I don't want to be an inconvenience. Besides, she's thinking of retiring soon. When she does, I'm sure we'll see even more of each other."
Michelle spent an hour talking with Mae Dirckson and then had to leave because she and Stephen had plans for the evening.
"You will come back, won't you?" the elderly woman asked.
"Certainly. You have a good weekend, and I'll be back next week.
* * *
When Michelle returned to Golden Years, she immediately noticed a change in the atmosphere. There was no friendly welcome for her at the front desk, just a clipboard with a visitors' sign-in and sign-out sheet. The common room, where there were usually two dozen or so seniors reading, watching television, playing cards or dozing off in one of the recliners, was nearly empty. Only three people were there, one man and two women.
"Where is everyone today?" Michelle asked the man who was the only one to look up when she entered the room.
"Sleeping late, I imagine. We had a death late last night, and the ambulance showed up with its siren blaring to collect the body."
"A death? Oh, I'm sorry."
"Don't be. Death is no stranger around here. We lose, on average, ten people a year."
"Poor Maxwell," observed Eloise Cartland, who had been watching The Price is Right.
Michelle was stunned.
"Maxwell Swales? Was he the one who died? I just spoke to him last week."
"Had a heart attack," the man explained. "He had three others before this one got him."
"You're that woman who's writing a book, aren't you?" Eloise asked.
"Yes, I am."
"When are you going to get around to interviewing me?"
"If you're feeling up to it, we can talk right now."
Eloise immediately picked up the remote and turned off the television.
"I hope you have a lot of battery life left in that tape recorder of yours because I've got quite a lot to say."
In her years of interviewing people for first her newspaper column and then her books, Michelle developed a keen "bullshit meter." She could tell when someone was stretching the truth or, in many cases, completely fabricating stories. Five minutes into her discussion with Eloise Cartland, the needle on that meter went off the scale.
The old lady continued rambling on even after Michelle turned the digital voice recorder off.
"After I graduated from Harvard, I got a job working at the Oceanographic Institute in Woods Hole. I was on the expedition with Dr. Robert Ballard when he located the Titanic."
"The hell you were!" the man shouted across the room. "You were a secretary at Gorton's over in Gloucester."
"That was after I stopped working for Senator Ted Kennedy."
The old man shook his head in disgust and left the room.
"Thanks for your time, Mrs. Cartland," Michelle said as she stood up to leave.
"You're not going already? But I've got so much more to tell you."
"Maybe next time, okay?"
Michelle signed out at the still-empty desk, but as she exited the front door, she passed a woman sitting alone on a lounge chair, beneath a shade tree. The writer recognized her as the third person in the common room that morning. She must have gone outside during the interview with Eloise Cartland.
"I don't suppose you want to talk to me," Marion Humphreys said shyly.
"And why do you think that?"
"Because I haven't had a remarkable life like Maxwell Swales and Mae Dirckson."
"Every life is remarkable in some way," Michelle said, sitting down on a lawn chair next to Marion. "Why don't you tell me something about yourself?"
"I was born in New Jersey."
"See!" the writer laughed. "There's something remarkable. Now, what happened in your life that you wound up in Massachusetts?"
* * *
Marion Humphreys's early life was not much different from that of other young women in her day and in her economic bracket. She had not been encouraged to get an education or to prepare for a career since she was expected to marry, raise children and become a homemaker.
"When the war came, things changed," the old woman said. "With the men off fighting in Europe and in the Pacific, it became acceptable for women to join the workforce. I got a job working for a defense plant. That was where I met Alan Rediker. He was classified 4-F by the draft board, so to help the war effort he went to work at the plant, too."
A bittersweet smile appeared on the old woman's face, and Michelle could see that she must have been quite beautiful when she was younger.
"Was that your husband?"
"Oh, no. I never married Alan. My father would never have allowed it. He wasn't a Catholic, you see. Back in those days, I wouldn't dream of disobeying my parents by marrying outside the faith."
"But you had feelings for him?"
"Oh, yes. He was the love of my life. He had everything I wanted in a man. Not only was he as handsome as any Hollywood film star, but he was a truly gifted sculptor. He was also kind, gentle and intelligent."
"Please tell me more about him—and you."
"We dated quite a bit until my father found out. After that, we only saw each other at work or whenever I could evade my father's watchful eye. Then the war ended. The defense plant closed, and Alan went back to working for his father. I got letters and phone calls, but I rarely saw him. Then in 1946, I married a man who had my father's approval: he was Catholic, he fought in the war and he came from a family that had money."
"But you didn't love him?"
"I never loved any man except for Alan."
"What happened to him after you got married?"
"Not much. He continued working for his father, and when Mr. Rediker retired, Alan took over the business."
"Did he ever marry?"
"No. He became—how would you say it?—a 'colorful character.' He earned a reputation across Cumberland County for being a crackpot."
Michelle was intrigued.
"Why? What did he do?"
"His father owned a large junkyard, and one of the ways Alan indulged his love of art was by creating sculptures made from trash. After the war, he got the idea of making a castle entirely of debris, so he cleared a few acres of his father's land and began laying a foundation. He spent years working on that castle. It became something of a local attraction. People came from as far away as New York and Pennsylvania to see it. Of course, by then, I had moved from New Jersey to Massachusetts, so I never got to visit the place myself."
"Is Alan still alive?"
"I don't know," Marion said, her eyes suddenly avoiding Michelle's. "We lost touch. I had a husband, three kids and a house, after all. I didn't have much time to correspond with my old friends in New Jersey."
"I could probably find out if you'd like me to," the writer suggested.
The old woman quickly declined the offer.
"Oh, no. If he's .... well, I'd just as soon not want to know."
* * *
Eight months later, Michelle Romeyn Pryor finished the first draft of her book. Believing it was her best work to date, she felt a sense of accomplishment as she emailed the Word files to her editor. It would be at least a week, most likely longer, before she heard back.
"All done with the book?" Stephen asked when he came home from work that evening and saw his wife sitting in the recliner, watching television.
"For now."
"How do you feel about taking a little vacation?"
"Where to?"
"Atlantic City."
"You know I'm not much of a gambler. Once I'm down two rolls of quarters on the slots, I'm finished."
"We don't have to spend all our time in the casinos. We can lie on the beach, walk the famous Boardwalk and do some sightseeing. If you'd like, we can stop in New York on the way down, maybe catch a Broadway show."
"And do some shopping?" Michelle asked, her eyes sparkling at the thought of strolling down Fifth Avenue with her credit card in hand.
"Why not? I could use a new suit."
After four days in New York, the couple headed south on the Garden State Parkway. They spent three days at the Showboat Resort, during which time Michelle managed to exceed her usual gambling limit and spend three rolls of quarters at the slot machines.
On their last day of vacation, Stephen wanted to get an early start and hopefully avoid the heavy rush-hour traffic. They had checked out, eaten breakfast and put their bags in the car by seven.
"Mind if we take a little detour?" Michelle asked as they made their way north through New Jersey.
"No. Where do you want to go?"
"Remember the woman from Golden Years, the one whose former boyfriend built a castle out of trash?"
"Yeah. He lived in Jersey, didn't he?"
"In Cumberland County. I'd like to stop and see if anyone there knows what became of him."
"Do you remember his name?"
"Alan Rediker. He owned a junkyard, which once belonged to his father. Maybe it's still in business."
The Pryors were in luck. The first person they questioned had the answer.
"Yeah, I remember Rediker's junkyard," the middle-aged man who worked at the Shell station told them. "Used to be out on the old highway."
"Used to be? Does that mean it's gone?" Michelle asked, disappointed.
"Technically, no, because there's still some junk on the property, but it's no longer in operation. A developer purchased the land a few years back, intending to put up one of those outlet shopping centers. That was before the new state highway went through and the businesses began relocating on the other side of town."
"I heard the owner of the junkyard built a castle out of trash."
The gas station owner laughed.
"Old Alan Rediker! He was quite a character! Took him years to build that pile of junk. Said he was building a castle for the woman he loved. It didn't matter to him that she'd married someone else and moved up north. No, he kept right on building. Didn't stop until the day he died."
"And what about the castle? Is it still there?"
The man shook his head. Got struck by lightning not long after Rediker passed away. Caused quite a fire. Now there're only some stones and a foundation left."
"I'd like to see the ruins," Michelle told her husband.
"Can you give me directions?" Stephen asked the gas station attendant.
"Sure thing," the man replied, "but take it from me. There's not much left to see."
* * *
The poignant sight of the charred foundation nearly overgrown with weeds brought tears to Michelle's eyes.
"How sad!"
"It sure is," her husband agreed. "The poor guy threw his life away on a dream that never came true. Nothing left to show for his years on earth but a pile of rubble."
"The tragic part about this story is that two people deeply loved one another and circumstances kept them apart."
"Circumstances? It was more like her father kept them apart."
Michelle walked up to her husband and hugged him.
"I'm glad nothing prevented us from marrying," she said.
As they walked back to the car, arm in arm, Stephen asked his wife, "Are you going to tell Marion Humphreys about what you found here?"
"No. She won't want to know that the man she loved met such a sad, lonely end, and I don't blame her."
As the writer opened the car door, she turned for one last look at the former junkyard. Suddenly, she grabbed onto the door handle and called her husband's name.
"Look!" she cried.
The young couple stood gaping, open-mouthed at a shared vision. The refuse and overgrown vegetation that formerly filled the site of the old, abandoned Rediker junkyard were gone. In their place was a stone castle, not nearly as the Steamboat Resort or any of the other Atlantic City casinos but regal nonetheless. Two people stood on the parapet, smiling down at them. The man was a stranger, but Michelle recognized the woman as a young and beautiful version of Marion Humphreys.
The Pryors stared for several moments, but then the image faded and disappeared, leaving behind the dismal remains of the Rediker junkyard and the burned-out foundation of the castle.
"What the hell was that?" Stephen asked, clearly shaken by the bizarre experience.
For once in her life, his wife was at a loss for words.
* * *
The following morning Michelle drove to Golden Years. There was a sinking feeling in her stomach when she saw the clipboard with the visitors' sign-in and sign-out sheet lying on the vacant front desk.
A somber Nurse Hernandez greeted her in the common room.
"I didn't think you'd be coming back here now that the book is finished."
"I wanted to see Marion Humphreys."
"There was no way you could know, but Marion passed away yesterday morning."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."
"No need to be sorry," said the same man Michelle had spoken to the day after Maxwell Swales died. "Death's just another phase of life."
"I suppose you're right," she said, remembering the image of a beautiful young Marion Humphreys standing on a rampart beside the man she loved.
As Michelle headed toward the exit, she passed Eloise Cartland coming her way, making slow but steady progress with her aluminum walker.
"If it isn't the author!" the old woman cackled. "Have you come here to talk to me? I still haven't told you about my days at MIT."
"I thought you went to Harvard."
"I attended both of them."
"Maybe we'll talk next time," Michelle said.
Then she wrote her name on the sign-out sheet and drove to a nearby grocery store where she hoped to find someone with a story to tell.
This story was partly inspired by the Palace of Depression, a castle made from junk, that once existed in Vineland, New Jersey.
The imagine in the upper left corner is of Gillette Castle located in East Haddam, Connecticut.
Salem once built a castle, not one made from trash but one made from--you guessted it--CHOCOLATE!
