"Well then, you don't want to be late." Barrett took a thick book off his desk and shelved it.
"I love that book. Too bad he doesn't write anymore."
"You read Pritchard? Oh, right, your father. You're in luck, then. I'll be using it for class."
"I actually met him once. I was eight or nine. We had tea at the Albright. He and my father argued about the provenance of some artifact. I can't even remember what it was. I just wanted more biscuits. Dumb little kid. His work is amazing."
"Indeed, it is."
The lunch line was already out the door of the commons. Jordyn leaned against a wall in the corridor. Will jogged toward her. She pointed to the wall clock. Five past twelve.
Will shrugged. "Sorry. Habit."
"Not funny, Emerson." Jordyn brushed past Will. She smelled like white bar soap, clean and comforting. "I'm starving."
Jordyn grabbed a tray and got in line. "Cheese and sausage pizza again? Haven't you people heard of vegetables?"
"Welcome to the Midwest. Come with me." Will led Jordyn past the pizza to a small cooler with pre-packaged sandwiches and cheerful Jell-O cups. "Here, Quig. Turkey on wheat. Looks like there's even a little lettuce." He took two, tossing one at Jordyn. "Heads up." The sandwich nearly fell out of her hand, held up in defense against the flying package. "I'll get some water," said Will.
They paid the cashier and found a small table in the corner of the room. Jordyn unwrapped her sandwich, rearranging the floppy lettuce and a paper thin slice of tomato. Will devoured half his lunch, carefully avoiding the bruised side of his mouth.
"That looks painful," said Jordyn.
"I always eat like this."
"I'm serious."
"Me, too.” He winced when he tried to smile. “It’s nothing. It’ll be gone in a few days. Are you going to eat that?"
Jordyn re-assembled her sandwich, took a few bites, and pushed it away. "It took a lot of courage to stand up to Logan."
"I’m not so sure about that. Seems more like stupidity now."
"You did the right thing. It’s too easy to go along, to be who your friends want you to be."
"I wouldn't know."
Jordyn took a sip of water and screwed the top back onto the bottle. "You're lucky," she said.
"You done?" he asked. Jordyn nodded. Will cleared the table, then returned to his seat.
Jordyn leaned across the table and gently touched Will's lip. "I'm sorry. I meant, for me, it can be hard to separate who I am from everyone else's expectations. Sometimes I think it would be easier to be alone."
"Alone." Will sat back in his seat.
"Sorry. Again. I . . ."
"No, it's okay. I understand. Sometimes it is easier to be alone." Will stood. "It's almost time for fifth period."
"Where are you going?"
"Third floor. World Cultures. You?"
"Same."
Will extended his hand. "Wouldn't want to be late."
Jordyn smiled. "How is it?"
"World Cultures? You'll like it. Except for the paper due next week."
"Next week!"
"Don’t worry, I'll help. Come on or we’ll be late."
After class, the students poured out of the room smelling of tzatziki and wiping powdered sugar off their faces from the cookies they ate while Mrs. Lafayette discussed the finer points of Greek civilization.
Will held the door for Jordyn. "What did I tell you?"
"Cool. What's with you and food?" She gently brushed a streak of white powder off Will's chin. "Still have no idea what to do for this paper, though."
"Doing anything tomorrow after school?"
"I can clear my schedule. Library?"
"I was thinking my place."
"Really."
Will turned pink. "Uh, my father, he has a lot of books. He does this for a living. I mean, he's an archaeologist."
"I see."
"I'm sure the school library has something . . ."
"No. Your place. What time?"
"Five?" Will looked casually at the ceiling, then down the corridor, anything but eye contact.
"Sounds good."
Deirdre Callaghan wound her way through the crowd. Will watched as she moved toward them.
Jordyn kept talking. "Should I bring anything? Snacks or something? Emerson? Hello?"
"That girl with the black hair . . . I’ve seen her before."
"Deirdre? Yeah, she's a student here."
"Here?"
"Would you like to meet her?"
"What? No."
"Oh, come on, Emerson." Jordyn called out to her. "Deirdre!" She turned, waved at Jordyn, and walked quickly toward them.
Will crossed himself sheepishly, looking down at his unpolished shoes.
"Deirdre, this is Emerson – I mean, William Emerson," said Jordyn.
"Nice to meet you, William." Deirdre smiled softly.
"Uh, ‘Will’ is fine. You're Irish," said Will.
Deirdre and Jordyn exchanged a look. Deirdre took Will's hand in both of hers and shook it warmly. "Of course. Will."
Will felt the pink rise in his cheeks again. "Sorry, have I seen you somewhere before?"
"You have."
Will opened his mouth to speak. The bell interrupted.
Jordyn reminded him of their plans. "See you tomorrow, Emerson."
"Yeah. I mean, yes. Absolutely." Will motioned over his shoulder. "I'm headed that way. Nice to meet you, Deirdre. I, uh, I have to go. See you later, Quig." Will turned and retreated down the corridor.
"See you, Emerson,” called Jordyn after him. She and Deirdre snickered and headed the opposite direction. Will looked over his shoulder. The girls chatted, heads together. Deirdre turned back toward him and smiled.
CHAPTER TWELVE: CLEAN
It had been days since Timothy Stillman packed up his truck and left the comfort of Provident. From time to time he stopped to eat or to rest, but mostly he drove, taking the long way back to the city. The thumping of washboard grooves along the side of the dark highway startled him from his half-sleep. Tired and hungry, he checked into the nearest and cheapest motel he could find.
The lobby vending machine would have to do until the complementary breakfast. "Served 6 AM to 9AM," the clerk explained. “Don’t be late. They take it all away right on the dot and you’ll miss it if you’re a minute past. Alarm clock’s on the nightstand.”
Stillman stood before the machine and considered his options. He pulled out his wallet, empty except for a single wrinkled dollar bill, an OTB receipt, and a check for ten-grand, made out to him, dated six months earlier. The machine rejected his dollar twice. Stillman tucked it back into place and pocketed his wallet, the appeal of peanut butter and imitation cheese crackers not tempting enough to warrant a third attempt, not even on an empty stomach.
He wished the clerk a good night and walked to his room a few doors down the hall. He dropped his duffel bag on the foot of the bed and tossed his keys onto a small desk with a miniature coffee maker, a thin bar of hand soap, and a brochure with a watercolor portrait of Abraham Lincoln on the front. Welcome to Ottawa, Home of the Lincoln-Douglas Debates.
Stillman leafed through the brochure and dropped it on the nightstand next to the alarm clock. He sunk onto the edge of the worn mattress and kicked off his boots. The dingy teal bedspread invited sleep despite its disagreeable color. Unpacking nothing, he crawled under, pulling the covers close around his unshaved chin. He clicked off the lamp and slept off and on until the late morning light sliced through a crack between the stiff vinyl curtains.
Stillman crawled out of bed, pulled a toothbrush from his bag, and dragged himself to the bathroom, not bothering to look in the small mirror mounted above the vanity. He had missed breakfast.
He re-packed his toothbrush then fumbled with the coffee maker. He ripped open the complimentary packet of coffee, nearly losing the grounds to the olive shag. He snapped the carafe into place, switched the machine on, and waited for the aroma to fill th
e room.
Stillman guzzled a cup of weak coffee and dumped the rest, collected his things, and checked out. He plugged his phone into the charger in his truck and merged onto Interstate 80. He settled behind a slow moving minivan, camping gear loosely bungeed to the top, clean Starved Rock bumper magnet on the dirty liftgate, kids' eyes glued to the DVD.
Two hours later, he arrived on the north side of Chicago and collected a thick bundle of mail from the local post office where, he swore, the clerk snarled at him as she handed it over.
Stillman circled the block near his apartment twice before he found a spot big enough. He grabbed his mail and his bag and walked down the street.
The sensor on the door of his neighborhood mini-mart bing-bonged as he swung open the door. The store was empty of customers. The clerk greeted him from the storeroom door. "Afternoon, mister." His accent was thick and his English broken, but he seemed eager to chat. "Help you, mister?" he offered.
"Just grabbing a few things, thanks." Stillman gathered a small bag of coffee, white bread, packing tape, and a quart of milk.
"Good weather today. No rain, only sun."
"Yeah. It's good." Stillman dropped his items on the counter. "This'll be all." He paid with a credit card.
"Nice day, mister." The clerk pulled out a paperback and a dictionary and sat down behind the cash register.
"You, too." The door sensor bing-bonged as he left for home.
Stillman walked carefully down the mossy steps in front of his garden apartment. He dropped his duffel bag on the ripped couch inside the front door. He took the rest to the kitchenette. He tossed the mail onto a second-hand bistro table. His stained mug still sat upside down in the plastic dish drainer on the counter. He unpacked his mini-mart bag, put a pot of coffee on to brew, and sifted through the envelopes, most marked "confidential" or "past due" or both.
The yellow box of sugar had solidified in his absence. He chiseled out a couple of good-sized lumps with a butter knife and doctored his coffee the way he liked it. He took a slow sip then went to his bedroom.
His laundry hamper bulged. He pulled the sheets off his bed and stuffed them into the flimsy basket. He dragged it to the front door, pulled the clothes out of his duffel bag, and piled them on top. He hauled it all across the courtyard, down to the coin-op laundry room in the apartment opposite his. He spent the next two hours washing, drying, folding, thinking.
When he returned to his apartment, the sun hung low in the sky. He made the bed and left the rest of the clean laundry folded in the hamper. He went to pour himself another cup of coffee. His mobile phone rang, number unknown. Stillman answered the call.
"Where are you?" the voice on the other end demanded.
"What?"
"Are you in the city?"
"Yes," answered Stillman.
"You were supposed to deliver it by now. You have the money. There's another ten for you when I get it. You need the money and I need the package. I need it! Don't you understand?"
Stillman did not speak.
The voice softened. "Look, a man like you could clean up a few messes with twenty grand. That’s what you want, isn’t it?"
Stillman frowned. "I'll call you when I get settled."
"Fine. But, don't take too long." The line went dead.
Stillman looked at his phone. "Why does every conversation with you end this way?" He tossed the phone hard onto the counter. The battery cover popped off and skittered across the kitchen floor.
Stillman dug a suitcase out of the coat closet, packed away his clean clothes, and zipped it shut, leaving it next to his duffel bag at the door. He went back to the kitchenette to finish his coffee. He sat at the wobbly table, picking at his unopened mail then went for carry-out at the Thai place around the corner.
After dinner, he shaved and showered. He made his bed and slipped between the fresh sheets. He reached for the lamp, hesitating before turning the switch. He pushed his covers away and jogged to the front room. He rummaged through his duffel bag and pulled out the small brown-paper package and Dotty's bible, running his fingers along the deckled edges of the bible's pages as he walked back to his room. He sat on the side of his bed and read the passage marked with the blue ribbon. He laid the bible and the package on his nightstand, crawled back under the covers, and turned off the lamp, sleeping soundly for the first time in months.
Morning came too soon. Stillman stumbled to the kitchenette and reheated a cup of stale coffee in the microwave. He popped a couple slices of bread into the toaster and picked up the pieces of his phone. He shut off the ringer and put it in a drawer. The toaster began to smoke. He rescued the too dark bread, scraping it over the sink until it seemed edible. He finished his meal, cleared the envelopes from the table, and stashed them in the drawer with his phone.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: THE STUDY
Jordyn ran home after school. She changed out of her scratchy uniform into Levi’s and a white t-shirt, plain except for the word ‘maybe’ in clean letters written across her chest. She threw on her favorite leather jacket and her new sunglasses and headed for the el. She arrived on Will's doorstep at five sharp and rang number two.
"Jordyn?" answered Will.
"Expecting someone else?"
"I'll buzz you in. We're on the second floor."
“Number two. Think I got that.”
The lock clicked open. Will waited on the landing, still in his school uniform. He watched Jordyn come up the stairs. "Wow, not what I expected.”
“Did you think I’d show up in a prom dress or something?”
“Or something. Nice shades.”
“Like ‘em? They’re Italian. From Rome. My father’s idea of a souvenir.”
“Come in. Let me take your coat." Will took her coat and disappeared down the hall, returning a couple of minutes later with a large book in his hands. “Study's this way. Follow me."
Will sped down the hall to a cozy room lined floor to ceiling with mahogany bookshelves except for one wall, papered in maroon and gold stripes. A pair of well-worn leather armchairs flanked a side table with a small reading lamp. Somewhere among the books, a carriage clock tick-tocked softly. Will laid his book on one of the chairs and motioned to the other. "You can put your stuff there. Hungry? I'll go grab a snack. Be right back."
Before Jordyn could speak, he was gone. She tossed her backpack beside the chair and dropped her sunglasses on the table. Two diplomas hung high on the bookless wall, one a Master of Philosophy in Archaeological Heritage and Museums, the other a Doctorate in Archaeological Studies, both granted to William Robert Emerson, Sr., both with the four-lion crest of Cambridge. Below the diplomas hung a few framed photos of a light-haired man standing in the desert and below the photos several vivid rectangles where the wallpaper had been protected, unfaded behind whatever was there before.
An open box full of framed photos sat on the floor. Jordyn pulled one off the top. A woman beamed at the camera. Jordyn recognized her thoughtful brown eyes and dark hair. She took another out of the box. A young boy and his family enjoyed tea under the shade of a palm in a walled garden.
Will returned, two cups in his hands and a box of biscuits tucked under his elbow. The bright smell of lemon followed him in.
Jordyn held the photos in her hands. "You moving?"
"No. Why?"
"The pictures."
"My dad took them down when we got back. He didn't want any reminders."
"Reminders? Of what?" asked Jordyn.
"I thought you knew. Doesn't everyone?"
"Newbie here, remember?"
"Oh, right. It's a long story."
"I'm listening."
"Um, well, it's my mother. She's . . . she disappeared," said Will.
"My mom took off when I was two. It's been me and my dad ever since. I don't get it. How do they just leave like that?"
"No. She didn't leave. I meant she was . . . abducted."
"I'm so sorry."
"Yeah. So's everyone. It's okay
. Really. I shouldn’t have told you."
"No. I'm glad you did.” Jordyn pulled out another photo of a young family in the middle of a crowded plaza. “The woman in the photos, she's your mother?"
"Yeah. That’s Manger Square. In Bethlehem. We were visiting some of my mother’s family at Christmas. A few of them still live near there.”
“In Israel?”
“No. West Bank. They’re Palestinian Christians.” Will squeezed the cups onto the small table.
“Just like in your photo. The tea, I mean.”
“It’s okay, isn’t it? I got used to tea over the summer. I forget I’m here now. I can get some water.”
Jordyn curled into the soft leather chair. “No, it’s nice.” Jordyn sipped her tea, amber and sweet-tart. "Deirdre invited me for elevenses; not this Saturday, but next. Elevenses is tea, isn't it? You should come."
"Me?" Will shoved a biscuit into his mouth.
"Is there someone else in the room?"
Will shrugged.
Jordyn shook her head. "We're meeting at a place called Molly's. It's only a few blocks from here. Have you been?"
Will took his cup and hastily washed down the biscuit. "No. But, I . . ."
"You're coming. I'll meet you here at ten-thirty." Jordyn took another sip of tea. “How long were you abroad?”
“My parents started taking me on their digs when I was seven. I’ve been every summer since. Mostly Israel.”
“My dad travels all the time and I never get to go.”
Will wiped his hands on his pants. “We should get started with your paper."
"Right. Paper.” Jordyn pulled a thin laptop from her backpack and booted it up.
Will watched the machine come to life. A photo of Jordyn and her father standing on a beach filled the screen. “Nice wallpaper. Are you wearing a wetsuit?”
“That’s how I spend my summers. My dad tried to teach me to surf. I sucked, but I totally miss it.”
“Totally, dude.”
“Emerson, are you mocking me?”
“Yes, Quig. I am." He smirked as best he could without re-opening the gash on his lip. "It's dark in here. I should turn on some lights.” Will pulled the chain on the lamp. “Now we can . . .” he paused, staring at Jordyn. “Your eyes.”
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