San Francisco Silent Film Festival

I am looking forward to tomorrow's San Francisco Silent Film Festival winter event. It's an all day affair - with a great line-up of films and stars and special guests.

I hope internet friends and members of the Louise Brooks Society attend the event. It's a lot of fun. I"ll be wearing a nifty mini Louise Brooks button. I hope to see you there.

Unusual 1954 Louise Brooks image for sale

A rather uncommon news photo, which includes Louise Brooks and a number of other silent film stars, is currently for sale on eBay. What makes it so uncommon, first of all, is that there aren't that many images of Brooks with other actors and actresses. Most images of Brooks are portraits. And secondly, it dates from 1954 - years after Brooks had left  films, was largely forgotten, and was thought to be living a solitary life. And what's more, she is smiling.

The photo was taken at a New York City reception honoring silent film stars and other theatrical personalities. It most likely was occasioned by a series of screenings held in New York at the time.

The image above was taken by a photographer for the Central Press Association. It is quite similar to an image taken by a photographer for International News (another wire service) which ran in newspapers in early April, 1954. That image can be seen below. It's caption helps identify the various individuals depicted in each photo.

Anita Loos, Lillian Gish, Gloria Swanson, Aileen Pringle and Josef von Sternberg can all be seen. Neil Hamilton, who in 1925 starred in The Street of Forgotten Men (the first film in which Brooks had a part - though she was uncredited), stands smiling next to the actress in the first image. In the second image, he stands on the far left. In the following years, Hamilton would make numerous television appearances - and gain pop culture immortality as Commissioner Gordon on Batman.

A new silent film blog

The San Francisco Silent Film Festival has launched a new blog featuring news, announcements, notes and more. The blog can be found at http://sfsilentfilmfestival.blogspot.com/ Be sure and check it out!

This is nifty

For sale on eBay, a large original one sheet post of Fay Lanphier made to promote the 1926 film, The American Venus. That film, of course, was the first in which Louise Brooks had a creditted role. Kinda cool, don't you think?

This is cool

For sale on eBay, a rather large, 6 panel art print of Louise Brooks. Kinda cool, don't you think?

"The Vanity" - a Louise Brooks short story, part 10

Here is the tenth and final installment of "The Vanity," a short story by Robert Murillo. Thank you for reading.

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What could possibly be in the garage? What would Eddie have given Louise for a wedding present that George wouldn’t want her to keep? Could it actually be the car? That seemed a little exorbitant. And what type of condition would it be in today? Was it a fur coat? I could imagine its condition! A diamond engagement ring? Other jewelry? Possibly. Just what thing of value could still be sitting there after all these years? Something not taken by Eddie when he sold the house. Something never investigated by the Stephens family, something never checked out by the real estate agent. What could it be—if it’s still there—that Louise would want me to have?

For the next thirty minutes, I hacked and hewed and attacked that unyielding hedge from hell in front of the garage. Vines and ivy fell. Weeds toppled. Still, they fought back. I took a couple of thorns in the forearm through the sweatshirt, was doused by dust clouds that caused vicious and prolonged sneezing attacks, and possibly suffered a pulled muscle in my lower back due to some exuberant swings with the hatchet. Finally, I had the advantage: I had taken the enemy down to ground level and raked my opponent into a neat pile. I stood there triumphant and beaming, leaning on the rake, sweat pouring tap-like down my face, my UCLA sweatshirt drenched.

“Veni! Vidi! Vici!”

While I had battled Mother Nature’s merciless garden, the lock had enjoyed several generous dousings of WD-40. I cradled the padlock in my left hand and, with my right, I took the key from my jeans’ watch pocket and inserted it. I cautiously turned the key to feel for some internal give. I wiggled it and put a little pressure on the tumblers. A little more. A little more. Suddenly, there was a click and I could almost hear the lock yell out “Hallelujah!” The arm popped out the base and I pulled the padlock off  and flipped open the metal latch plate that held the doors together. I stuck the lock and key in the pouch of my sweatshirt and pulled open first one door and then the other. I wiped the persistent sweat from my forehead and shaded my eyes. Though the sun had passed overhead, there was ample light to see clearly into the garage.

An Egyptologist discovering a pharaoh king’s tomb could not have been more awed. I gazed upon Louise Brooks’ pristine Duesenberg. Not over eighty years old. Not decomposing or rusting out. Not a home for rats and insects. But in perfect, showroom condition, exactly as I had seen it Sunday morning in front of my house. Could it be? I looked at the license plate number on the car:

255-323

Of course! Louise had figured it out! Anything sent now—during this time connection—would retain its age in the future—and vice versa. Otherwise how else was I able to receive her letters in the condition I did—and she, mine? The car then, delivered to the garage in her time, would also be preserved as if it were just parked there Sunday morning. After all, it had been! 

“Wow! That’s a  ‘27 Duesenberg,” came a female voice.

Still stunned with my discovery, I continued to stare into the garage before realizing that someone was behind me.  I turned to see who was there—and was about to say, “That’s right, but how did you…?”—when I locked eyes with an athletic, lithe and lovely woman, not too tall, with large green eyes and a silly smirk that can only be described as adorable.

She stood there, holding two tall glasses of what looked like lemonade. She wore a maroon sweatshirt with white letters that spelled TEXAS A&M across the front, white capris that went—and fit—well with the white sandals that finished off the ensemble. Her dark hair, loose and falling, was damp. For a few awkward seconds, our eyes would not let go till finally we broke the silence with an embarrassed laugh.

“I was watching you from the window next door. I told Lorraine that you were attacking the garage. She said, and I quote, ‘Darlin’, he’s nevah done that before. He mus’ be sufferin’ sunstroke. Now you go out there and take ‘im a glass of lemonade, right now!’  So here I am.” Her green eyes sparkled. She took a step toward him. “I’m the infamous Connie. And you are Mike Lundy?”

I awkwardly nodded.

She handed me a glass of lemonade, we clinked glasses but didn’t drink. I still hadn’t said a word; we continued to stare at each other.

“Connie?” The word popped from my mouth like a hiccup. I stood there like the Scarecrow in search of his brain. “But…I thought…Jay said…” And promptly and properly stuck my foot into my mouth.

“I can imagine what Jay said!” she laughed, her teeth gleaming as white as the letters on the sweatshirt. “He’s got a good heart but he’s not a good listener. I teach Comparative Languages at A&M. Mostly French and Middle-Eastern dialects. I’m up here teaching classes in Farsi at USC.”

“So…you’re not some lonely-heart schoolmarm from the dusty plains of Texas?”

“Not exactly. But would it matter?” Putting me correctly in my place. She winked a forgiveness. I smiled.

“So how did a totally restored Duesenberg get into a garage that looks like it hasn’t been opened since FDR ran for class president?”

“Well, the thing…” I said, attempting to regain some of my cool. Was I really shuffling my feet? “…the thing is, the garage hasn’t been opened since 1927. So the car is actually original.”

“Well, well, I find that a little hard to believe,” she said, her twang nothing like the syrupy Lorraine’s. Just damn appealing. “Can’t be more three or four left in the world.” She stood there watching me perspire, smiling—those eyes could have melted steel—and then with a quick nod toward the Duesenberg, she said, “So tell me, Mike, why’d you pick today to exhume the body?”

“You really want to hear the story?” I looked back and stared long at Louise Brooks’ gleaming wedding present before turning back to Connie. “You’re not going to believe it.”

Connie looked down at her lemonade. “Well, try me—that is if you’ve got something better than lemonade.”

THE END

"The Vanity" - a Louise Brooks short story, part 9

Here is the ninth installment of "The Vanity," a short story by Robert Murillo.

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I fell into my old leather chair after turning it slightly toward the window. I put my feet up on the ottoman, put my head back and closed my eyes. God, I hope my note doesn’t freak her out. It was obviously too late to pull it. Maybe I should have placed some sort of a memento from my time in the envelope—a movie magazine, today’s newspaper, even a Macy’s catalogue—to prove to her I existed, that my letter was real. I wondered if I…

Leave it alone, Mike. Let it go. Your note’s enough. Stay on your side of the net.

A few minutes before three. I grabbed a Corona, turned off all the lights in the house and found my way to the front window—crunch time. Would she show?

Then I thought, what if she just sends her driver? I mean why would she come?  If she’s confident Eddie’s going to come through, she may not feel it necessary to personally collect the negatives. Or—and maybe wisely—she may want to avoid the possibility that Eddie might confront her.

What a disappointment if she didn’t show!

I would know soon enough. To my left, I could see the orange glow of those two round headlights growing larger and larger and larger.

I took a step back into the living room. In the dark, I was sure I could not be seen. The car pulled over, stopped in front; the soft hum of the engine barely audible. The driver’s door opened, then closed. Around the backside of the car came a large individual, maybe six foot, well over 200 pounds. His athletic body filled his black suit, and he sported a driver’s cap and wore driving gloves. He never looked toward the house. He marched to the mailbox, removed the envelope and walked quickly to the car’s rear passenger door, closest to the house. The window went down and a white-gloved hand reached out and took the envelope. Immediately, the overhead light in the backseat went on. The driver returned to his position behind the wheel. The car stayed. I was sure she was checking the contents—and reading my letter? A few minutes went by.

Suddenly her face appeared in the open window of the rear door—and I held my breath. How pretty she was! She did not seem confused, as I had anticipated. She appeared focused, those large dark eyes curious, her celebrated bangs dangling and her plum of a mouth forcing a smile. She stared straight into my front window and right into my eyes—eyes I knew she could not see. Or could see? Suddenly, a gloved hand appeared, almost like a puppet, from the lower part of the car window. She waved it slowly, back and forth. Her mouth went from that tight smile to form three words I actually could read. ‘Thank you, Mike.’  She then sat back, disappearing from view; the driver shifted the black beauty into low gear and the motorcar rolled silently into the night.

Two things.

One, as the car pulled away, I noted the license plate number,

255-323

I hadn’t thought about getting the license plate number. But the night was clear, the numbers were large and lit and easy to remember. And now that I had the number, I had the opportunity to check the auto’s registration. How? Because I had a wonderful but rather acerbic sister-in-law (Jeanne’s sister), Janet, who worked in Sacramento at the DMV. If anyone could check the registration records for the original owners of vehicles with California license plates going back to 1927, it would be her.

And two, sometime early Monday morning, probably at three o’clock, Louise Brooks returned and left a note in my letterbox—along with a small gift. How I wish I had known she was coming again, to be able to see her one more time. The thing was, I had no reason to believe she’d return. We had completed our business, and I figured the portal between the present and 1927 had closed.

I spent part of Sunday afternoon getting the chapters ready to send off to Alan. Later, Molly actually dropped by and we worked to about eight that evening before we both conked out. I hadn’t forgotten that Sunday night was the night I was supposed to be out with Alan—my excuse to avoid dinner at Jay’s with cousin Connie. Because I was genuinely tired, I decided I would turn out the lights and go to bed early. I ended up falling asleep around 9:30 and not waking up until after eight the next morning. Long after Louise’s early morning visit.

After my usual morning prep, I retrieved the newspaper off the front porch and found myself in the kitchen, starving. After putting the coffee on, I started with a three-egg ham omelet, diced potatoes, and two slices of wheat toast. I made a small smoothie for a jumpstart while things cooked and perked and finally set it all down on the round table, scooted into the booth and while I ate, I read the paper. Nothing about a mysterious car cruising Beverly Hills. No law suits against photographers. No Louise Brooks’ movies playing.

I grabbed a second cup of coffee, wandered over to the dining room and picked up my cell phone. Deep breath.  I tapped Janet’s work number off the speed dial and prepared for her onslaught. After a friendly exchange of ‘how are you’s,’ I presented my request. Listen in: “You can’t be serious?” “Are you crazy?” “How in the world do you expect…?” There was more. But finally she said she would get back to me one way or the other “…if she could locate the skeleton keys that opened the rusted gates down to the dungeons where those archives might be!” My “Thank you” was cut off by her hanging up. You had to love her. The thing was, that’s just the way she was. Her sarcasm was her personality. I remember when Jeanne was alive; we often drove up to Sacramento to spend long weekends with Janet and her husband, Chuck. It didn’t matter whether we visited local sites like the apple harvests, Old Town, the Train Museum or we’d jump up to Tahoe or Reno for something more exciting, Janet always had an opinion: the traffic, the tourists, little kids, the food—even the slot machines at Reno were not exempt. I still can hear her dryly addressing a tightfisted, chromed one-armed bandit when it finally dropped a few coins with the likes of, “Can you spare it?” or after a particularly long dry spell, “Should I just write you a check, or can I pay you in installments?” I honestly believe she could have been a successful stand-up comedienne. Anyway, point being, that Janet really was a sweetheart of a lady once you realized that her bark was far worse than her bite.

I knew that if those records still existed, my lovable, caustic sister-in-law would find them. Forty minutes later, my cell rang. “The car was a 1927 Duesenberg, originally registered to a Mary Louise Brooks of Beverly Hills, California. Okay, kiddo, you going to tell me what the hell this is all about? Who’s Mary Louise Brooks?”

“I owe you one, Jan! All details later. Love you!” And I hung up. The car actually belonged to Louise. Fantastic.

I looked at my watch. Ten after eleven. I decided to wander out to check the mail. It was a magnificent Indian summer day. The sky was crystal blue, a color not often seen over the L.A. area. The temperature was already pushing seventy and that soft breeze from the Pacific danced through the taller palms across the street. Things were in their place.  Again. No Jay this morning, but that was normal. On Mondays, he would be gone by now, making his rounds at his dealerships, checking sales, talking with his managers and whatever else he did. I glanced up and down N. Bedford. No Duesenbergs. I removed my stack of mail from the letterbox when I heard her front door open.

“Mike! Oooh, Mike!  Oh there you are!”

It was Lorraine.

“You been hidin’, Mike?” she drawled. She had a clear shot of me over the short hedge that separated our yards.

“Hey! Lorraine! No…of course not.” I smiled broadly. “How are you this fine October morning?” Lorraine stood on her front porch, wearing a bright pink peasant blouse, doing things to the material that would have made Jayne Mansfield envious.

I waved a polite goodbye, looked down at my mail and started walking back toward my house, wishing my hedge were taller.

“Mike, you sure-er were missed las’ night!” Here it comes. She continued, “I so want ya to meet my Connie!  She’s spent tha’ night and is still here-uh. She’s in the showah now. Any chance, you can come, stop by a lit’l later? I’d just so want you two to meet!” Lorraine is the only person I know that can divide the words ‘sure’ and ‘here’ into two syllables.

Come on, Mike. You’re a writer. Use your imagination! Think!  You did it the other day!

“Aaaaah… I don’t know, Lorraine. I’m awfully busy right…”

Way to go, Mike. You’re a frickin’ Clive Cussler, Stephen King and Dean Koontz all rolled into one.

“Oh jest for a few minutes of your time, Mike. Howabout we say one o’clock?”

“Yeah, sure, Lorraine. One o’clock.”

Good job, Mike. Pulitzer prize for Oratory Response.

Lorraine giggled and jiggled. “Bye bye, Mike. Seeya in awhile!”

I waved. Guess it’s best to just get it done, get it out of the way.

As I walked back toward the house, I filed through the mail doing my usual “Junk, junk bill,” when there at the bottom of the stack was an envelope I immediately recognized. On the front, in the same handwriting on the same stationery as Louise had used for her original communiqué to Eddie, was neatly scribed:

Mr. Michael Lundy

Once inside, I tossed the junk mail on the dining room table, located my Fuller Brush letter opener, and neatly and quickly ripped the top of the envelope. A lilac smell sweetened the air. I removed the note and read:

October 10th

Mike—

I guess I don’t need to tell you how your letter struck me upon my first reading! I thought Eddie was playing some sort of joke on me. But, knowing Eddie, he could never have written a message like that. Your sincerity, Mike, along with your comments about the future—will there really be a Louise Brooks Society?—convinced me that something strange was going on. And I do realize that from wherever—or whenever you are—you did not have to return the negatives. That you did, I am forever grateful—and indebted to you.

This morning, I came by and delivered something to Eddie. He had bought it for me as a wedding gift. My George—jealous to a fault—was adamant that I return it. Which brings me to the enclosed. Mike, I never put that key in the envelope with the negatives. But I’m glad you did! It made things much easier.

I’m sure you will figure out where it goes. And what you find within, if it’s still there, is yours—small compensation for what you have done for me.

I wish we could have met, Mike…

Louise—

My eyes went from the letter to the key that rested on the table. It definitely was the key I had found in the envelope with the film sheets. But what did she mean, she had never placed the key in the hidden envelope? How could that be? And why would she say “glad you did”?

I’m sure you will figure out where it goes.

But there is nothing in the house that this key…

Oh my God!

I picked up the key. It goes to the padlock on the garage!

I pushed back my chair, stood up and quickly marched through the kitchen, through the small utility room and out the side door that led to the driveway. Turning left, I half-jogged toward the garage. At the end of the two concrete driveway strips, well into the backyard, stood two large wooden doors—the front of the garage. Its paint long chipped off, hinges rusted, each door sagged in pain. A set of window panels filled the upper third of each door, but they were so filthy from the years, it was impossible to see anything inside the garage. A mossy grass, thick with its own weeds, plastered the roof. Around the garage, about three or four feet high, a dense hedge of blackberry bushes, ivy and weeds held the frail sides together. A few of the blackberry vines had found their way up the sides and to the roofline, the ivy intertwining and weaving its way through—adding any needed support to the structure.

Fortunately, because of the concrete strips leading right up to the front of the garage, the heavier growth was limited to the other three sides. Mounted on each of the wide doors, about five feet up, were the rusted metal plates that allowed for a padlock to insert its arm through a steel loop where once through and then locked, would secure the doors together until someone either came along to open the lock—or the whole garage collapsed. By the looks of things, if I didn’t hurry, the latter might happen first.  And whatever I find will be destroyed.

And what you find within, if it’s still there, is yours—

How could she have hidden anything in this overgrown mausoleum?  Unopened for over four generations?  Again, I was forced to believe the inconceivable: when she was here this morning, it was 1927.  Here stood a new garage with a new padlock—and she had the key.

For me, though, the old padlock hung like a pendant on the rusting metal latches. I leaned over the thick hedge of wild growth between the concrete, shoved the key into the rusty lock, and it slid right in. I quickly pulled it out. I wasn’t going to chance breaking the key by attempting to open the lock—and possibly breaking any spell that may accompany it. I needed to find some 3-in-1 oil, WD-40 or something to free the tumblers within. And to get those big doors once again to swing open, I would have to chop away the dense, wild hedge in front, including the thick vines that escaped and slithered their way across the doors and up to the roof like great thorned snakes. I foresaw battle here. I returned to the house to prepare.

I found a pair of old Levis hanging from a hook in my closet. My unwashed UCLA sweatshirt was curled up on the bedroom floor. There were work boots on the rear porch and a brand-new pair of leather gloves in the cupboard above the washer and dryer. I located some WD-40 underneath the sink in the kitchen. I tracked down a small hatchet, an old pair of hedge clippers, and a rake in the utility room next to the kitchen. I was ready: Paul Bunyan, Private Investigator. 

"The Vanity" - a Louise Brooks short story, part 8

Here is the eighth installment of "The Vanity," a short story by Robert Murillo.

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A key?

There was nothing else in the envelope. No note explaining what the key might open, no small label taped to the key head giving a hint to what door, what lock, what keyhole it might fit. Short and flat, it wasn’t the type of key that I would use for my front door lock but more like a key for a drawer, a trunk, or a locker. I knew there were no locks in any of the drawers or cupboards in the main part of the house. And now that I had made the full tour of the basement and the attic, I could say with certainty there were no locks that required keys in the whole house. All the trunks and suitcases I saw were already open.

With no mention of the key in her note, I wondered if she knew it were there? But that wouldn’t make sense. Of course she would. In her time, it would not have been that long ago since she actually taped the envelope to the bottom of the vanity drawer. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder why she would hide a key in the envelope.

I tossed it back, returned the film sheets, and before sliding the news clipping safely back into the envelope I made a copy.

I checked the time. 12:37. I sat for a few minutes deciding whether to write a message to her explaining what was happening. I felt compelled to share with her that these past three nights when she had driven by the house that it was not 1927, that Eddie Sutherland no longer lived there, that she had leapt into the future some eighty-plus years. But what kind of a note would convince her of that? Particularly if she wasn’t seeing me in the window, that she actually saw Eddie standing there.  She’d probably think the note was written by Eddie, that it was some feeble attempt at a ridiculous joke and wonder where in hell her husband had come up with the name Mike Lundy.

I sat there. Waiting to wake up from this Rod Serling-ian dream. I smiled at the thought of sharing this with Jay. Or Alan. Can you imagine if I were to say to Jay, “You know that car I mentioned to you the other day? Yeah, well there was this silent movie star in the backseat that used to live here back in the 1920’s. She left a note in the mailbox telling me she wanted some negatives she’d left taped in her vanity. Yeah. Pretty cool, huh?” Or saying to Alan, my agent, “Sorry about the delay on my book. I spent the weekend searching my basement and attic for negatives of Louise Brooks in the buff (No, I wasn’t in the buff!  She was!).  Yeah, the silent film star. She dropped by the house in her chic limo at three a.m. to pick them up.”

Oh yeah!

I was definitely into this solo. Dream or not, I believed the woman in the motorcar was Louise Brooks, a starlet of the 1920’s. I believed that she had confused me with her husband, a successful Hollywood film director, and I believed she had left him a letter that somehow ended up in my mailbox…in my time. I had also fended off foul spiders and other creepy crawlers in my search for an envelope taped to a drawer of a vanity that I didn’t know existed in my own house. I also believed that if I wrote a note to her and placed it in the envelope, it would travel back to 1927. I also believed I was a little nuts.

I found some stationery. Although it had been years since I had written a letter or even a note in script, I was not going to use the computer to write this message. No Word document, no Spellchecker, no Comic Sans font. And so, with that despondent and beautiful face before me, I handwrote the following:

Dear Miss Brooks,

You do not know me, but I am the man you have seen the past three nights standing in the window when you have driven by. I believe you may have thought I was your husband, Eddie, but I am not. Also, and I know you will not believe this, but I live in Eddie’s house some 80 years after the date on the letter you left here last night. I am writing to you from the 21st century.

I have no idea how this has happened—or why. But I have done some research and know for a fact that you and Eddie lived here in 1926 and that you left him in 1927 to be with a gentleman named George Marshall. I have also compared your letter with a sample of your handwriting provided by a society bearing your name, proving to me that your letter was authentic. And you will be pleased to know that even with all the time that has passed, your vanity still exists and was still hiding the envelope you sought.

Forgive me for opening the envelope. I can only say that in my world where nudity is more prolific and generally more acceptable, your timeless beauty would still set you apart from the models and celebrities of my time.

I do know your future and I will only say this: for all that you will endure, you will be admired for your spirit, your independence, even your ‘sassy’ ways. And always for your beauty and acting ability. Stay focused, never change and enjoy a long life.
Sincerely,

A fan from the future, Michael Lundy

By the way, I found a key in the envelope. You’ll find it there with the film sheets and the news clipping. 

Mike.

It took me most of an hour to compose the letter. I looked at my watch. It was one forty-eight. If there were any logic in this craziness, she would be here at the same time of her previous visits: three a.m. Seventy-two minutes. I slid my note without folding it into the envelope where it joined the treasures of another time and then closed off the envelope by inserting the flap inside. I leaned it against the vanity drawer and stared at the penciled lettering on the front again:

Louise Brooks

My mind wandered. I imagined meeting her. I thought about going out to the car when she arrived. Introducing myself, trying to explain to her who I was—that I was from the future and that I was the one who had found the vanity and her envelope. But I knew that would be wrong. Not so much that she would think I was a raving maniac, but because I knew somehow that it wasn’t part of the plan. Call it a feeling, but I knew I must follow the letter’s instructions, not alter what was unfolding before me. I was the pawn in this affair—to follow orders, perform my duty, make the sacrifice, and deliver the goods even if those instructions came from a young, egocentric, tough, unfaithful, beauty from 1927. It was obvious that Louise Brooks had no idea she was visiting the twilight zone. My theory? For her, this was no more than a clandestine business concern. She had written a letter to husband Eddie requesting he return the negatives she was fearful might prove scandalous. To recover them, she felt she had to sneak out in the middle of the night so her new lover, George, would not know. Meanwhile, it was my job to stay on my side, and she on hers—like players in a tennis match. Once I had placed the envelope in the mailbox, I would return to the living room—on my side of the net—and wait and watch for her return.

I got up, envelope in hand, and walked to the front door.  I opened it and was greeted by a warm, Southern California night. Was that lilac in the air? I would like to have thought it was, but, in fact, it was the sweet jasmine from Jay’s yard. The neighborhood was quiet—the only sounds were my steps on the pathway stones that led toward the street and my old mailbox. A cricket let me know I was not alone. My mailbox was next to Jay’s, both boxes mounted onto a stone pedestal that was mostly covered with ivy. They were really letterboxes, unlike the typical horizontal cave-like boxes prevalent today. They were made of something other than tin—maybe pewter? I was sure they had been there since the houses were built. Mine had ornamental vertical lines running top to bottom. In the center there was the same star motif as on the cherry-wood furniture. I felt sure that somehow that weathered box was a part of the connection between 1927 and the present. Then again, wasn’t the house? I opened the lid at the top—made of the same sturdy blue-gray metal—and dropped the envelope inside. It disappeared.

I immediately felt a change. The temperature? A slight breeze? Lilac? My unscientific guess was that I had just set off the sequence of events making the hand-off through time possible. And, I swear to you, I could feel it. I stared down N. Bedford. I knew—I knew—for sure she was coming.

And she would be here in less than an hour.