I could a tale unfold - 24

Ross and Kirk arrived in the theater's small library to find Otis sitting cross-legged on one of the tables, waiting for them. When they walked in he smiled, then gestured questioningly towards the bookshelves.  

“We need the ones on the theater’s history,” Ross told him as he scanned the titles.

“Over here,” Kirk called out from across the room. “There’s lots of published books. Unsurprising considering how old the building is.”

“Any that look like journals or memoirs?”

Kirk nodded, homing in on one section. “Now we just have to find the one we need. At least there seems to be some sort of chronological order to them,” he commented after pulling out a couple to take a quick scan a few pages.

Otis joined them, running his fingertips over the spines of the journals as if by doing that he’d be able to locate the correct one. Ross watched in amusement as he began opening each one in order, finding some interesting enough that he wished he had a few weeks to study them.

“Is this it?” Kirk said a few minutes later, holding out a time-worn volume, open to a page close to the front.

Otis was beside him before Ross could even start to move. He traced a finger across the words, nodding slowly. “His writing,” he mouthed and mimed.

“Then let’s take a look-see.” Kirk took the journal to one of the tables, waiting for the others to join him.

With a slight tug, Otis pulled it away, opening it to the front. There, in neat handwriting, were the words, ‘The Memoirs of Charles Mayes’.  It was dated at the bottom, in a different color, fresher ink, ‘Twelve, October, nineteen-hundred and fifty-two’ with the word ‘Completed’.

“He would have been what, early sixties when he started this?”

Otis gave a brief nod as he began reading, all his attention focused on the words in front of him. Ross moved to his other side so that he could see what Charles had written.

The first few pages gave a very brief history of Charles’ childhood as the son of a man who spent more time away from home than with his family. Charles was fourteen when Mr. Mayes purchased the building housing the theater. The purchase, according to Charles, was the direct result of the feud with Otis’s family, although he didn’t say so in that many words. It seemed that Mr. Mayes saw a chance to prove that he would be better at running this company than the man who owned a rival theater a few blocks away.

Kirk looked at Otis in surprise. “You never said you came from a theatrical family. Was that the basis of the dislike between Charles’s family and yours?”

Glancing at Kirk, Otis mimed that he needed something to write on. Ross quickly found paper and a pencil in a desk drawer and handed them to Otis.

“Both fathers actors first. When young they fought for roles. Then my father started theater. Made it good. Made money,” he wrote quickly. “His father hated him more then. I think.”

“That’s how you got into acting,” Kirk said. Otis nodded. “And Charles must have learned costuming to help out his father.”

Picking up the pencil again, Otis wrote, “His mother first. Then Charles. He loved to be creative and imaginative.”

“And costuming is a good outlet for that,” Ross commented with a smile.

“As you well know.” Kirk reached behind Otis to squeeze Ross’ shoulder before they both went back to reading as Otis slowly turned the pages.