She sat up and leafed through the books, laying each on the sofa, open to the relevant page, until they crowded her out of her seat. The afternoon sky was still bright and she gave in to the distraction of the bare tree tops swaying on the other side of the glass.
William Emerson walked below. Logan and Mark followed, quickly gaining ground. Mark put his thick hand on Will's shoulder. Will stopped, turned toward them, and said something. Logan’s face twisted up and turned red.
Mark knocked Will’s backpack to the sidewalk. Will picked up his bag and walked away. Logan blocked his path, bumping him backwards. Mark ripped Will's backpack out of his hand and hurled it across the narrow yard. He grabbed Will from behind, holding him tight. Logan hit Will in the face. Blood ran from his mouth. Jordyn raised her hand to her lips. She looked at her fingertips, surprised to see her own clean skin.
Logan punched Will hard in the gut. He buckled, falling to the grass below. Logan kicked Will in the ribs, leaving him curled in a ball, gasping. Logan and Mark continued down the block as if nothing had happened.
Will lay still for a moment, then rolled to his back, arms wide as if to make a snow angel in the newly fallen leaves. Bits of dried grass clung to his bloody face. He closed his eyes.
"Get up!" whispered Jordyn. She looked around the room. The floor was empty. She glanced at Will, still lying in the grass. She threw her books into her backpack and looked out the window one more time. Will opened his eyes, staggered to his feet, and looked up at the library window. Jordyn jerked herself back. Her cheeks burned.
Will crossed himself, collected his backpack, and walked away. Jordyn pressed her face against the cool glass, watching his back until he turned a corner at the end of the block and she could see him no longer.
CHAPTER NINE: SHUT AND OPEN
Will got off the el at Berwyn. He caught a glimpse of himself in the security mirror of the convenience store tucked beneath the train station. He wiped his sleeve across his mouth smearing the blood still dribbling from his throbbing lip. It oozed, thick and salty, across his tongue.
He jogged two blocks home, fumbling in his pocket for keys as he reached the door of the graystone three-flat, rehabbed by his parents before he was born. Inside, he took the steps two at time to the middle floor. Will dropped his backpack at the front door, tossed his keys on the credenza, and headed for the bathroom sink. He splashed his face with water, recoiling from the cold sting on his split lip. A few ruby drops splattered onto the white subway tiles behind the sink and dripped down the wall; the rest spiraled down the drain until the water ran clear.
Will pulled off his coat and sat on the edge of the tub. He buried his bruised face in a towel and mumbled, "Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you. If someone strikes you on one cheek, turn to him the other also."
He dabbed at the corner of his mouth, wincing, and got up to look in the mirror. He scowled at his reflection. “Why? Why should I turn the other cheek? I'm still here. I'm still here bleeding!"
Will threw the towel at the mirror and stormed out. He paused outside his father's bedroom, putting his ear to the closed door. He traced up the jamb with his index finger and made a fist, drawing it back to knock. He loosened his hand and let it drop.
The following morning a sharp rap against the front door interrupted the pre-dawn hush. Will rolled over, bumping his battered chin on a thick book. Ancient Cult Objects by Iain Pritchard lay on the spare pillow, half-covered by a blanket, tucked in. Will opened his eyes, pushed the book off the bed, and kicked his covers half-way over the footboard. He slid down onto a small rug beside his bed and sat on his heels trying to focus on the blank wall in front of him. Rising tall on his knees, he closed his eyes, and turned his palms up in supplication. “Lord, help me to follow your example in all my thoughts and deeds.” He crossed himself, pulled on a sweatshirt, and went outside to retrieve the paper.
The sun's first rays lit the neighborhood a milky gray. Hundred-year-old parkway trees stretched over the street, holding back the pale sky with their leafless net. Will tiptoed barefoot onto the cold stoop. His flannel pajamas offered his legs little warmth. He picked up the paper and hurried back inside to the kitchen.
He set the kettle to boil and grabbed a box of sweet biscuits and a bag of loose tea from the cupboard. The kettle began to whistle its low harmonica note. He poured the steaming water into an oversized cup then spooned in heaps of dark leaves, brewing his tea strong, like the Bedouin had taught him under the shade of an open tent on a blazing summer afternoon in the middle of the desert.
A manila file lay open on the small kitchen table, its contents piled sloppily to one side. Will set down his cup and the box of biscuits, straightened the stray bits of paper, and closed the file, stamped NATIONAL RISK - CONFIDENTIAL across the front. He nudged it to the other side of the table and finished his breakfast.
Will brushed the biscuit dust off his hands and, as had become his habit, tossed his father’s stray file on top of a stack on the counter, already a dozen high, where it would likely sit for days. He cleared the table and went to shower.
Steam clouded the small bathroom. His coat still lay crumpled on the floor. Will pulled off his pajamas and wiped a clear circle onto the mirror. He studied his naked body, purple from his hip to his armpit, running his fingertips over the marks until the mirror fogged again, obscuring the damage. Will stood in the shower well beyond his usual ten minutes, allowing the water, clean and hot, to wash away the ache.
He toweled off, dressed, pulled on his coat, and went to collect his things, still at the front door where he left them the day before. He picked up his backpack and reached for his keys, now buried under another of his father's open files. Will fished out his keys, tidied the papers, and headed for the kitchen to deposit the file with the others.
He dropped it on the pile and opened a cabinet with his free hand while blindly tossing his backpack and keys onto the table behind him. Both hands now free, he opened the biscuit box, stuffed two into his mouth and two more into his coat pocket, leaving the open box on the counter.
He turned to grab his backpack. Another file lay on the table, closed, marked confidential, same as the others except for a large note in his father's tidy handwriting, MISSING - ACT OF GOD.
Will's father wouldn’t be out of bed until well after he left for school. He opened the file. A newspaper clipping drifted to the floor. Will picked it up.
Provident Museum Shuttered:
Owner Declared Dead
Dorothea Whitford, owner of a museum housing objects of unique and dubious origin was formally declared dead on October 31st. Miss Whitford, missing since a July storm destroyed her home, was in the process of documenting her large and unusual collection at the time of her disappearance. The collection, which included everything from Egyptian corn mummies to an elaborate taxidermy of frogs dancing a cancan, will be liquidated later this year. Miss Whitford will be eulogized November 1st, 4 p.m., at Twila's Diner, downtown Provident. Apple pecan pie will be served.
A tiny photo of a man standing near the museum’s boarded front doors. The caption read, "Timothy Stillman, temporary caretaker, keeps watch." Will placed the article face down on the table and leafed through the rest of the file. He found an appraisal and inventory, dated the week before, and a photo of beat up book with a metal clasp decorated by a rough-cut blue stone.
At the back of the file a communication log noted changes to the insurance policy, the status of the object under investigation, and the initials of everyone who had handled the file. His father had made the last entry, Sapphire = Raziel? Will read the note twice.
He tucked the papers neatly back into the file, closed it slowly. He drummed his fingers across his father's note then slipped the file into his backpack on his way out the door.
CHAPTER TEN: MANY HOPES LIE BURIED HERE
Will passed through the pale limestone gatehouse of Rosehill Cemetery. He d
rifted along the edge of a narrow roadway until he reached the heart of the place, where the dense neighborhood beyond the walls ceased to exist and, in the silence of the dead, he could hear the old trees whisper.
He strolled among the obelisks and covered urns, monuments to captains of industry, politicians, war heroes, and plain folk, hundreds of years of life now stilled, at rest. Lulu Fellows read under her tree, sixteen forever. Will imagined her at school, passing notes to friends or, maybe, daydreaming about a boy or a long summer day on the shore of Lake Michigan.
On hard days, Will always found himself in front of the Pearce monument, a young mother followed soon after by her child, lying together in sculpture and in death. He did not have to stretch his mind far to read his mother's name, along with his own, carved into the white stone.
Will tried to recall his mother’s smile, maybe from that last day in Jerusalem or maybe some other day, it didn't matter, but the image kept falling away from him like dry sand through open fingers.
"Mr. Emerson, how are you this fine morning?" said a man's voice, raspy from decades spent drinking cheap whiskey in the smoke of the corner tavern. Will turned to greet the Caretaker. "Oh, dear boy. What's happened to you?"
"Talked too much."
"Well, maybe you should avoid that from now on." The old man cracked a sly smile. "Or get some bigger friends."
"Probably should." Will shook the man's bony hand. "Sorry I couldn't make it for All Souls. Did you have a lot of visitors?"
"No. Not like it used to be. The train used to stop here, you know. Folks used to come and picnic by the pond and visit on special days. Not much anymore. No more train. Just steps to nowhere. No. Not like it used to be." The Caretaker shook his head. "Mr. Emerson, why is it I always find you here?"
"Huh? Oh." Will thought a moment. "It's peaceful, I guess."
"Peaceful? Young man, I think you would be hard pressed to find anywhere in this place that is not."
"Point taken."
"You miss her, don't you? Pond is lovely today. You should have a look. Come. Walk with me." The Caretaker wobbled across the leaf-littered grass. Will followed.
"I think about her all the time," said Will.
"It seems only natural."
"Does it? I'm not so sure." They walked along a curve in the road past a cluster of stone pillars. "I'm beginning to think my father has the right idea."
"How so?" asked the Caretaker.
"He's erased her. Packed away every photo. He never speaks her name. I don't see him for days. There's nothing left to remind him."
"Including you."
"Including me."
They arrived at the pond. It sparkled in the morning sun. Will inched to the very edge, knelt, and swished his hand in the water, already wintry cold. A gust of wind blew a ripple across the surface, distorting the reflections of nearby mausoleums and setting the Canada geese bobbing.
"I told you it was lovely," said the Caretaker.
"Yes. Lovely."
"So, my young friend, what will you do?"
"Ever notice there are no angels here?"
"Can't say as I have." The old man said no more. The sound of the rustling branches and the honking geese filled the void.
Will stood. “I pray. I pray for her return, I pray for my father to breathe again, I pray for everyone to stop looking at me . . . and . . . sometimes, I pray for Him to take me instead." Will looked out over the pond. "I don't know why I'm telling you all of this."
A shadow fell over Will's feet. He turned to face the visitor, but found no one. He checked his watch and adjusted his backpack. He would have to run to catch the el in time to make it to school before first bell.
Will barely saw the shadow pass from the trees across the roadway into the heavy stone portico at the front of May Chapel. He strained to see. He looked at his watch again then headed for the small building.
The portico was empty. He didn't expect to find the doors unlocked, but he pulled the handle anyway, nearly losing his balance as the door swung freely. The dim entryway gave way to the soft glow reflected off green and gold tiles at the front of the chapel. Will walked into the light.
"Hello? Anyone here?" He listened intently.
The flutter of wings swept across the darkness of the entryway. Will tiptoed toward the doors, eyes up. A mourning dove swooped low over his head, sending him to his knees. The bird landed on one of the wooden arches. Will picked himself up. “How did you get in here? Hold on. I'll let you out." He opened the door, propping it wide with his backpack. “Okay. Out you go.” He took off his coat and waved it at the dove. The bird flew from arch to arch until, ten minutes later, it flew out into the portico. Will grabbed his backpack. The chapel door slammed and the bird flew east into the sun, now high in the morning sky.
CHAPTER ELEVEN: ATONEMENT
The el arrived just as Jordyn reached the platform, leaving her twenty minutes of slush time to kill on the other end in the empty corridors of Eastview. She tidied her locker and looked over her O. Chem. paper. Ten minutes to the first bell and then five more to Geography. She walked, slow as she could, to Professor Embry's classroom.
"Jordyn!" Logan waved her over to join the crowd at the window. She took her seat. “C'mon, put your stuff down and get over here," he said.
“No, thanks.”
“Oh, come on," he whined.
Alex, standing on a chair, popped her head above the others. "Gimme those!" She yanked the binoculars out of Mark's hands. "Yeah, looks like Logan's gonna lose his . . .”
"Alex!" Cooper shouted.
Logan stared at Jordyn. “What’s the problem?” he asked.
“Me? No problem."
"Then come over here. Should be good today. Wait until you see what Mark planted this time."
"No. Thanks."
Will ran through the door, panting.
Logan sneered. "Lookin' good, Emerson. Maybe you'll mind your own business from now on."
Will opened his mouth. Jordyn's books crashed to the floor and all eyes focused on her. Even the students at the window abandoned their watch.
Logan sat in his seat next to Jordyn and leaned forward in a weak attempt at privacy. "What's the problem?"
"No problem,” said Jordyn. "You on the other
hand . . .”
“I don’t understand,” Logan whimpered.
“Well, that’s really the point, isn’t it?"
"Seriously, come on over. You’re going to miss the show."
"I said ‘no’, thanks."
"I don't get it. Yesterday . . ."
"Yesterday I was curious. But I thought about your little game and, well, it’s not very fun. Really, it’s just rude. Yesterday I thought you were someone else." She packed her books, walked to the back of the room, and took the open seat beside Will. The students at the window looked at Logan, whispered to each other, and promptly returned to their game. Logan sat at his desk at the front of the room, alone.
The bell rang and the students scurried to their places. Professor Embry flew through the door and began to speak immediately. "Ladies and gentlemen, we've a lot of material to cover today. Notebooks open, pens up. Today, I'll be telling you all about the political implications of cartography in the 1940s.” And he did just that, non-stop until the bell rang fifty minutes later.
Will packed his things quickly and headed for the door. Jordyn followed him out. By the time she got through the door, he was already half-way down the hall. She jogged to catch up.
“Hi, I’m Jordyn.”
“Quig. I know.” He kept walking. “You didn’t have to do that."
“Yes, I did.”
Will stopped.
Momentum carried Jordyn a couple of steps past him before she could turn around and continue the conversation. “Have lunch with me.”
Will looked at her, bewildered. "What?"
"I'm asking you to have lunch with me."
"That was a question?"
"Sorry. Habit.” She
cleared her throat. "Would you like to have lunch with me today? How was that?"
“Better."
"So?"
"Uh, sure. Why not?”
“Good. See you.” Jordyn turned sharply and continued on her way, leaving him standing in the corridor.
“I’m Will,” he called after her.
Jordyn wheeled back around and shot him a sideways smile. “Emerson. I know."
Will walked down the stairs to the first floor past the receiving dock to a door marked "Janitor" in peeling black paint. He knocked and the door gave way.
"Professor Barrett?"
"William, how nice to see you." Barrett poked his head around the door and pulled it open until it bumped against a box on the floor. "I'm afraid the place is still a mess."
“Should I come back?”
"No, no, come in. Students are always welcome here, such as it is."
Will entered the windowless room. It was crammed full with a desk wedged into the corner against a utility sink and already buried in papers and books, an old executive chair, and a single bookshelf. Barrett pulled a card table chair from the clutter, shoving away a box to make enough space to unfold it for Will. “Please, have a seat.”
Will sat. "How did you end up in here?"
"No space. It's not so bad. Beggars can't be choosers, right? Anyhow, they tell me they'll have the sink removed and the door fixed sometime next week. If they hadn't contracted out housekeeping I'd be sitting in the hall." Barrett did not smile.
"When do you start teaching?"
"This afternoon, actually. I'll push in to Philosophy for a couple of weeks. After that, I'll be in World Cultures for the rest of the term teaching a section on religion. Didn't I see your name on the roster?"
Will nodded.
"Now, William - or should I call you Mr. Emerson - what can I do for you?"
"I just came by to say hello." The bell rang. "Sorry, Professor. I have to get to class."
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