Will raised an eyebrow at Deirdre. He reached across the table to touch Jordyn’s arm.
Jordyn turned around. "Huh? Sorry. Did you say something?"
"Deirdre was just telling me there's going to be a ceili the week before Thanksgiving."
"A what?" Jordyn tried to catch up.
Deirdre laughed. "A ceili. Think of it as a big Irish dance party. You and Will should come.” She picked up her cup. “Drink your tea. It'll be getting cold by now."
After tea, Will walked Jordyn to the el station. “You’re still smiling,” he said.
“What? I am not. Am I?”
“You are.”
“Well, that was nicer than I thought. The tea, I mean.”
“It was.”
Will opened the door to the station beneath the tracks. Not far away, the train clattered.
“Better get up there. They don’t run very often on weekends,” said Will.
“See you at school, Emerson.” Jordyn pushed through the turnstile and sprinted up the stairs.
Will headed for home. When he reached the door, the mail carrier was just leaving. “Couple of letters for your dad today, Will,” she said.
“Thanks. You’re early.”
“Little bit. See you Monday. You have a nice day now," she called out, already halfway to the next address.
Will took the letters upstairs. He laid them on the credenza with the rest of the unopened mail. The apartment was quiet. He went to his room, flicked the light switch, and picked up Pritchard's book. He flipped to the back and removed the file. Thumbing the corner, he walked it to the kitchen and placed it on top of the stack.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: THE SAPPHIRE BOOK
Wednesday morning. Will walked into geography just before the last bell. At the front of the room, Logan and Alex compared notes. Jilly tapped the chewed end of a pen on her desk. Will took his seat unnoticed. Jordyn had her head buried in a book. He leaned toward her. "He didn't show again?"
"Nope." She looked up and nodded toward Logan. "Half of them didn't even get here early."
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. After school, Will met the mail carrier at the door. She handed him one letter wrapped in an ad from the local carpet cleaner. He dumped the ad in the recycle bin below the mailboxes and carried the letter upstairs. The pile of mail on the credenza was beginning to overflow the edges. Will took a handful to the kitchen table. He dropped his backpack near the back door and sat down to sort the pieces by urgency. The ad for satellite television and a renewal notice for Biblical Archeologist went to the bottom, the letter from National Risk to the top. Utility bills were opened and stacked by due date, leaving for last a well-sealed manila envelope. Will picked at the edge of the packing tape, bits of it broke off under his nails. He took the package to the study. His father kept scissors in the side table.
Will sat in one of the armchairs. He opened the scissors wide and, with one blade, slit the tape at the top of the envelope. He turned the package open side down and shook. A small leather-bound book landed face down in his hand. He tossed the envelope onto the top of the already full trash can. The book, heavy for its size, fit comfortably in his palm. Dust had settled in the stitching and folds of the binding. Will tightened his fingers around the edges. Something cold and sharp pressed against his skin. He turned it over.
The book was held closed by a metal clasp decorated with scratchy letters and a single rough-cut stone of deepest blue. Will ran his fingertips over the hard edges of the dime-sized sapphire. He pinched the clasp open, pulling it gently so as not to break the old pins inside. It slipped apart without resistance. Will opened the book. Its pages fell open to a note tucked a few pages inside the front cover. The handwriting was tidy. Dr. Emerson, I think this is what you are looking for. Forgive me for not returning it sooner. TS
Will turned a page, then another, and another until he reached the back. Every page was blank. He closed it and fastened the clasp. The carriage clock on the shelf chimed four. Will bolted to the kitchen and retrieved the file he had returned a few days before. He slid the sapphire book and the file into his backpack, shouldered it, and ran out the kitchen door.
The el rattled overhead as it entered the station. Will waved his pass at the turnstile sensor, pushed through, and ran up the stairs to the platform. He threw his body between the closing doors of the nearest car, squeezing his way onto the train. He braced himself against the pole nearest the door and rode there until the doors opened at Belmont. Will ran down the stairs and kept running for blocks, not stopping until he stood inside Iain Pritchard's apartment.
Pritchard handed Will a glass of water. Will took a sip and set it aside, still breathing hard. "I need your help. I need more information. About the book."
"I'm not sure there is much more I can tell you, Will." Pritchard tapped his index finger on his chin. "I may have one more reference. Wait here." Pritchard opened and closed the library doors twice then disappeared into the room.
Will called from the sitting room. "Dr. Pritchard?"
"Sorry? Had my head buried," came Pritchard's muffled voice.
Will went to the library doorway. "I was just wondering . . ." his voice trailed off. The books were no longer visible, every surface hidden by thousands of small brown paper bags on the floor, pinned to the walls, taped to the windows.
Pritchard's head popped up on the far side of the room. "Sorry for the mess. I've been working." Each of the bags had been tagged. Bottle cap (domestic), 4 September, 08:14, Eastview. Bent key ring, 31 October, 08:32, Eastview. Pink gum (chewed), 4 November, 08:25, Eastview.
"Uh, I was just wondering how you would know for sure if something was real." Will pulled his backpack onto his shoulder and held the strap tight to his body with both hands.
Pritchard poked at the bags. He pulled one out and re-filed it in a stack at the center of the room. "Archaeological context, carbon dating, and so on. There are a number of ways to authenticate an artifact. Surely your father would have taught you that." He snapped up another bag and examined its contents.
"Yes, of course. But what if there isn't any of that?"
"Then you learn what you can and you hypothesize until you have more information." Pritchard stood very still. The brown paper bag fell out of his hand. “Where is it, Will?”
"What?" Will stepped back.
"You’ve found the book, haven’t you?”
“No. Not really,” Will answered honestly.
“Where is it?" Pritchard snarled.
“It’s safe." Will’s knuckles turned white.
“Will, it is not a toy.”
“I know."
“That book, it’s meant for . . .” Pritchard’s brows furrowed. He folded his arms and turned his back toward Will. He looked up and down his wall of bags then spoke slowly, “I’ll ask you one more time, Will. Where is the book?”
Will stepped back again. “It’s safe.”
“How can you be expected to protect it? You’re only a boy.”
“I know what it can do.”
“Do you?" Pritchard’s voice began to sharpen. He wheeled around to face Will. “Do you have any idea what it is like to have your honor . . . to have everything stolen from you? Do you!”
Will stepped back again. "I . . . I don’t think it’s authentic. The pages . . . they’re all blank."
Pritchard looked at the bags taped to the window, blocking out most of what little daylight remained. He whispered to himself, “He opened it. How? It’s supposed to be impossible to unlock." He glared at Will. "What did you do? You must tell me! Exactly! Is it still open?”
“I . . . I didn’t do anything.” Will held the strap of his backpack tightly. “I should go now.”
“I don’t think I can let you go just yet. I need that book.” Pritchard rushed across the room and lunged at Will, knocking him to the floor. “Stand up!” Pritchard growled.
Will stayed down, glowering.
“Stand up!” Pritchard grabbed Will by
the arm and forced him up. He dragged Will into the library and, with both hands, pulled him so close he could feel the heat coming off Pritchard’s contorted face.
“Where is it!” Pritchard screamed desperately. The sweat from his brow splashed onto Will's cheek.
Will tightened his mouth. He tried to pull away from Pritchard.
Pritchard's expression softened. “Don't you understand? A book like that could set things right.”
Pritchard looked down at his fists as if they belonged to a stranger. He opened his hands and stumbled back, scattering the bags like fallen leaves.
“Will, I’m so sorry." He looked around the library. “I have to fix this. I know you will do the right thing.” Prichard sunk to his knees in the middle of his brown paper sea.
CHAPTER NINETEEN: VESPERS
Will ran out of Pritchard’s apartment and took the first train north. By the time he reached his stop, the sun had set. His coat offered little protection from the cold November evening and, even though the walk from the el station to St. Ita had been only a few blocks, the chill found its way to his bones. Will settled into the pew under Ita's window and rubbed his hands together until he could once again feel his fingers.
Will reached into his backpack, blindly hunting for the book. He pulled it out, held it between his hands, and prayed, mouthing the words, giving them physical form, if only for an instant.
The church door slammed. An old man with thinning hair at the crown of his head sat directly in front of Will.
“Cold out there. Needs to snow,” said the man.
Will inched away down the pew.
The man continued, “Yep. Snow.” He crossed himself and knelt, saying a quick prayer. He pushed himself back on his seat. “Bad for my knees, all this cold.” He twisted his body around and slung an elbow over the back of the pew.
Will closed his eyes, hoping the man would give up on a conversation.
“See you here every Wednesday. I across the way. Felt like a little change tonight. So nice to see young people at church.”
Will opened his eyes. He offered an obliging smile. The man turned forward. “Oh, looks like Deacon Barrett is out. Poor man. Sometimes it gets to him, the cold. That's when it happened, you know."
Will leaned forward. "When what happened?"
"So, you do speak.” The man turned back around. “Course, he doesn't like to talk about it. Thinks he failed that little girl. Oh, it's been years now.” The old man dug out a white cotton handkerchief he'd stashed in his shirt pocket. He covered his mouth and coughed hard like old men do. "He nearly died, you know, trying to save her. But, sometimes there's just nothing to be done. Some things are meant to be. Told me he never wanted to see that look her father had at the funeral ever again. I think he honestly hates those people for pulling him out that pond. Such a shame." At the front of the church, the priest began to sing.
Barrett twisted the knob on the radiator to full open. He curled up under the quilt on his bed, chin to his knees, and he prayed to stay awake until his body would no longer be denied. His dream swallowed him whole.
Snow blanketed the quiet schoolyard in a pillowy layer, undisturbed except for the footprints of one small animal. The overnight storm had given way to a clear morning, the sky saturated a blue only achieved in the stark contrasts of winter. The cross atop the neighboring church cast a sharp shadow. Around the playground, a waist-high wrought-iron fence stood guard, black and severe against the undulating snowdrifts piled against it. A cardinal nibbled the last of the berries on a nearby shrub. Down a low hill, a half-frozen creek chattered in the cold air.
The nun ticked off her roster while her assistant, a young seminarian, held open the side door of St. Anne's Catholic School, releasing a torrent of chirping six-year-olds, reveling in their long awaited freedom, kicking up joyful clouds of snow.
The nun called after the children, "Remember, only fifteen minutes, boys and girls. It's still very cold." The children scattered.
At the end of recess, the seminarian counted heads. Thirteen, fourteen . . . no fifteen. No Mary Catherine. The young man called her name. He ran to the opposite side of the jungle gym. "Mary Catherine," he called again.
The other children lined up by the door to go inside. A pair of tracks, rabbit and child, disappeared over the snowdrift near the gate at the far side of the playground. Beyond the low ridge, a pale pink hat with a white pom-pom bobbed up and down. The seminarian ran, calling the little girl’s name.
By the time he reached the creek, the rabbit was on the opposite side digging for hidden bits of green. Halfway across, on the edge of a stationary chunk of ice, was the pale pink hat with a white pom-pom.
Barrett followed the edge of the creek downstream to where it flowed into a pond. Mary Catherine clawed at the ice, crying for her mother. Barrett screamed, “Don’t be afraid!”
The girl disappeared into the water and drifted under the ice. Barrett ran across the frozen pond sweeping the snow away until he found her. Mary Catherine’s loose hair fanned out around her sweet, still face. Barrett took off his shoe and hammered at the ice with all his strength. A crack began to form. “Thank God!” And then he fell into the cold and the dark.
They recovered Mary Catherine’s body three days later. Barrett, released from the hospital a day before, attended her funeral Mass where the priest reminded everyone about the light she’d brought into the world. Her father followed the small casket out of the church, his expression hollow, his heart empty.
The radiator hissed. Barrett woke and wiped the tears off his face. Outside, the snow began to fall.
CHAPTER TWENTY: DIVING
Will left the apartment early on Thursday morning. The roads and monuments of Rosehill were clean, already warmed enough by the sun to melt away winter's first snow. Will had grown accustomed to these deceivingly sunny days, but was always unprepared for their bitter flawlessness, finding no comfort in the beauty, especially so early in the season. He wrapped his scarf high on his neck, pulled his knit hat low over his ears, and made his way to the Pearce monument. Their white stone bed rose out of the snow like a crystal sprung up from bedrock, solid and immovable.
Will pulled the book out of his backpack and pinched open the clasp. He turned the blank pages then closed it and held it to his heart, praying hard in the midst of the dead.
An hour later, he walked into Geography, fifteen minutes late and soaked to the knees. Professor Embry worked down the list of talking points in his slide presentation and, without missing a beat, said, "Nice of you to join us, Mr. Emerson. Please, open your textbook and follow along.”
Will dropped his backpack beside his chair and slunk into the seat. Jordyn showed him the page they were on. He reached for his backpack, knocking it over into the aisle, spilling its contents out onto the floor. The book slid under Jordyn's feet.
She hissed, "Emerson! Is that it? That's it, isn't it!" She picked it up.
"Shhhh." Will snatched it out of her hand, pushed it into the bottom of his backpack, and got out his textbook and some notepaper.
"I can’t believe this. How long have you had it?” Jordyn whispered.
Will put a finger to his lips.
Jordyn scowled. "When were you planning on telling me?"
Professor Embry stopped his lecture in mid-sentence. “Miss Quig, care to share?”
Several students turned toward the back of the room. “Sorry.” Jordyn shrunk down in her seat.
Will scribbled on the corner of his notepaper. He tore off the message and handed it to Jordyn. Courtyard after class.
She wrote below, SEE YOU THERE, then crumpled the note and pitched it back at Will. She crossed her arms and re-focused her attention on the front of the room.
After class, Jordyn and Will walked down to the courtyard without speaking.
Will hugged himself. "It’s freezing out here."
"It is, isn’t it,” said Jordyn. She crossed her arms and waited for Will’s explanation.
&nbs
p; "I've only had it since yesterday. I found it after school.”
"Can I see it?"
Will turned his back to the courtyard windows and moved close to Jordyn. He pulled the book out and handed it to her. She held it near her face, squinting to see the marks around the stone. "It looked bigger in the picture. Are you sure this is it?"
"Everything matches the file, but I can't tell if it’s real. Not for sure."
"Where did you find it?"
"It was mixed in with my father's mail. I always sort through it for him."
Jordyn ran her fingertip over the stone. “Do you think your dad would be able to tell if it’s real?”
“Maybe. But . . .”
“What about Pritchard?" asked Jordyn.
Will's brows furrowed. "I went to see him yesterday, after I found it.”
“And?”
“I don't think he can help us.”
“Did you show it to him?”
“No. I didn't get a chance. He . . . attacked me.”
"He did what?"
"He came at me. Knocked me down.”
“Why would he do that?” asked Jordyn.
“He made a mistake with some paperwork and it cost him everything. I think he would do anything to get his life back and the book . . .”
". . . would give him what he wants.”
“If it’s real,” said Will.
“Right. That.” Jordyn paced a few steps. “Maybe the person who sent it could tell us more. It came wrapped, didn’t it?" Will nodded. "Was there a return address?” asked Jordyn.
"I didn't really look."
"So, where’s the wrapper?"
"It was an envelope. I threw it away."
"Then it's still at your place."
"Not exactly. I took out the trash."
Jordyn sighed.
"But the City doesn’t pick up garbage until tomorrow,” Will added quickly.
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