Laurie had been a wildlife journalist, writing about critters and bugs and birds and fish—just about everything that swam, walked, wriggled, or flew—long enough that June expected a certain amount of animal trivia. “Are wood ducks endangered? Did you spend six months chasing them across Michigan or something and then write a heartbreaking article about how they’re getting slammed by climate change?”
“Some ducks are endangered,” Laurie said, “but not these ducks, at least not right now. They were before, partly because of hunting, but then the Migratory Bird Treaty Act”—she looked over and saw that June’s eyes had gone wide—“they were protected long enough to recover.” Laurie smiled and ran her fingers down the wings. “But I did write a story for The Outdoors about a kind of botulism that knocked out a lot of waterfowl up in Oregon and Washington, and some of them were ordinary ducks, like this guy. So I’m not totally without relevant waterfowl experience.”
“That reminds me, you said you had an assignment in a few weeks, but you haven’t told me what it is.”
Laurie put the duck down next to her. “Turtle trafficking.”
“People traffic turtles?”
“Absolutely. They catch them in traps, gather them up, ship them off to places where they’re in demand as exotic pets. Box turtles especially. So I’m going to South Carolina to meet a reformed turtle trafficker named Puppy Tavishaw who’s helping the fish and wildlife guys bust them.”
June stopped what she was doing. “Puppy? His name is Puppy?”
“Just one of the many things I’m looking forward to investigating while I’m embedded with Law & Order: Turtle Unit.”
“Spe-shell Victims Unit,” June offered.
“Turtles are chased by two separate yet equally pokey groups. These are their slow-ries,” Laurie said. “Please, let’s stop before I start googling turtle species that rhyme with ‘criminal minds.’？”
June went back to her work. “Hopefully, Puppy isn’t dangerous.”
“I think the most dangerous part is probably the threat of getting about six million mosquito bites. That, and the fact that I have to take pictures myself, at least for online. I’m still not completely used to it. Which reminds me, wait here, I’m ready to move on to the next box.”
By the time Laurie returned to the living room with the CAMERAS AND 8-TRACK TAPES box, June had put her feet up on the ottoman. “Okay, it’s time to see what’s in here. I found one camera on the kitchen table, so I don’t know what this is.” The ancient masking tape gave way easily, and the dusty flaps of the box puffed motes into the sunlight.
At the very bottom of the box, there were two short rows of 8-track tapes lined up. “So for music, our selections include Dolly Parton, Kenny Rogers, The Beach Boys, Fleetwood Mac, Smokey Robinson, Santana, David Bowie, and Van Halen.”
“Dot listened to Van Halen?”
“Well, let’s see. This is Van Halen II. From this label it looks like it came out in 1979. Dot would have been, what, about fifty? That tracks. I hope to still be listening to cool new music in ten years.” She picked up the tape, and found something stuffed into the cardboard sleeve. When Laurie slid it out and unfolded it, she grinned and looked at June. “It’s a ticket stub. Dot saw Van Halen in Boston, at the Paradise Theater, on March 27, 1978. Opening for Journey.” She handed it to June.
“Wow. My mind is completely blown. The idea of my grandmother or even my mother rocking out is so baffling to me.”
“I’m clearly going to have to pick through all her music, in case she has anything else stashed in here. The rest of this bin is supposed to be cameras, but everything’s in these fabric boxes.” She took the lid off one, and inside were two Polaroid cameras. One looked older than any of the Polaroid cameras Laurie had ever seen, and one was the same kind of OneStep her parents had when she was a toddler. She unloaded all the fabric boxes, and she kept finding instant cameras. A total of five Polaroids, two Kodaks, and a Fujifilm. Some looked like they were of an 8-track vintage; others looked like they were probably made right before digital cameras upended instant photography. One or two looked practically current.
The last box she opened was labeled on top 2007. Laurie pulled the lid off, and inside were Polaroid photos. Long rows of Polaroids, or Fujifilms or whatever, filed with unlabeled dividers that separated them into bunches. She pulled one stack out. This was a trip to New York. The Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, the marquee at Radio City Music Hall. There was a picture of Dot, then almost eighty years old and silver-haired, her beaming face pressed next to that of a man who looked about the same age, under the marquee for Avenue Q. There was a single word written in Sharpie in the white border under the photo: “Leo.” She turned the picture around and showed it to June. “I knew she liked Broadway.”