Family Skeletons: A Spunky Missouri Genealogist Traces A Family's Roots...And Digs Up A Deadly Secret Read Free Page B

a wheelchair thanks to polio when she was ten years old. The fact that Rachel has a grandmother in a wheelchair could be why she is always so sensitive to people with other disabilities.
    â€œMorning, Mom. Thanks for getting Rachel ready for school.”
    â€œThat’s okay. I knew you were really tired from all the work you’ve been doing with the festival.”
    â€œYeah, and I’ve still got today through Saturday to go.”
    She seemed to be deep in her own thoughts. I’ve always thought my mother resembled the Madonna. A Raphaelite version of Madonna, not the version on MTV. She had an oval-shaped face with a small bow mouth and aquiline nose. Her skin was smooth and creamy, and I am completely jealous. Her dark hair was now turning gray and no matter what inner struggle she was dealing with she always seemed calm and in complete control. Just how I would imagine the Virgin Mary. Wonder what Freud would have to say about that?
    I left her alone to drink her coffee, grabbed a Dr Pepper, and walked Rachel out to catch the bus. She wore her green-and-red dress with the cows on it. As the bus approached, she looked up at me with serious black eyes and said, “Mom, do you know what the worst part about not having arms is?”
    â€œNo, what?”
    â€œAll the clothes have sleeves.”
    In her innocence she couldn’t see the much more devastating things in life that a serious disability would cause. To her it was what to do with sleeves. I crouched down next to her and gave her a big hug.
    â€œI think the saddest part would be not being able to hug my children,” I said.
    Enlightenment dawned on her just as her bus pulled up. I could see the full implications of what I’d just said play in those dark eyes of hers. She waved then. “Bye, Mom. See you tonight.”
    I waved and watched the bus until it was completely down the street, then went back inside and headed upstairs to my office. Passing Rudy on the way up, I stopped and gave him a kiss.
    I sat down at my desk and dialed the number for the National Personnel Records Center in St. Louis.
    â€œDefense Department,” a woman said.
    â€œHoward Braukman, please.”
    I waited a few minutes for Howard to come on the line. Howard used to be a neighbor when I was a kid in Progress, Missouri. I thought he could save me some footwork on Norah’s family tree. While I waited, I took a folder from the middle left-hand drawer and wrote in black magic marker, Counts/Pritcher Client: Norah Zumwalt.
    â€œBraukman,” a voice said.
    â€œHowie, are you still trying to sound like a boot camp sergeant? It just doesn’t fit you.” He was actually sort of cute. It had been at least six months since I’d seen Howie at an anniversary dinner for his parents. Then I saw him again three weeks later, when his mother died. He wore Coke-bottle glasses and had white blond hair. There was something so insecure about him that you couldn’t help but befriend him.
    â€œHi, Torie. How’s your mom?”
    â€œFine.” Everybody always asks about my mother first. “Listen, I have a client whose father served in World War II.”
    â€œYou’ll have to have her fill out a form. You know that,” he said.
    â€˜Yes, I know. The NA13075 and the NA13055. Send them to me, and I’ll have her fill them out. But could you do me a big favor?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œCome on. You owe me,” I said, teasing.
    â€œWhat do you want?”
    â€œCould you just take a peek and tell me when he died?”
    â€œAbsolutely not. Torie, I could get in big trouble.”
    I waited a few seconds, thinking of what I could do to persuade him. “I could always tell your mother about Henrietta Pierce.”
    He was silent for a few moments.
    â€œYou know I have done lots of favors for you, Howie. Kept lots of secrets.”
    â€œThis is blackmail.”
    â€œI know. Look, I just want to know