Summer's End

by Joel A. Sutherland

  The microfilm reader was large and bulky. It consisted of a big, boxy screen that sat above a lamp, reels and a few different buttons and knobs. Although it was probably built in the last forty or fifty years, it looked like something from the age of the dinosaurs.

  Looks like it weighs as much as a Mack Truck, Jacob thought, wondering how the wooden table it rested on hadn’t cracked under its weight.

  A lamp lit the reel and projected the first page of the Valeton Voice onto the screen. Rio gave Jacob and Ichiro a quick lesson on how to operate the machine, made sure they knew what they were doing and then turned to leave. He paused just outside the door. “Guess I’m going to be teaching a lot of kids how to do that in the days ahead.”

  “What?” Jacob said.

  “Operate the reader. You know, because of your assignment. I assume you two aren’t the only ones in summer school who have to complete it, right?”

  “Oh, yeah. Right.”

  “Okay, then. The next three 1906 reels are there on the table if you need them. I’ll leave the cabinet unlocked. Do me a favour and put them back when you’re done. You know where to find me if you require any more assistance.”

  Once they were alone, Ichiro said, “He’s going to wonder what happened when no one else comes in to use the microfilm reader.”

  Jacob shrugged. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there. Right now, all I care about is trying to find out what happened to the Stockwells, and why Summer’s End has been empty and neglected for so long.” He placed his fingers on the dial and rotated it. Images of newspaper pages from January 1906 scrolled left to right. They scanned the article titles for anything that might be linked to Summer’s End or the Stockwells. There were marriage notices, but not one for James and Tresa. They scanned headlines for any mention of Sepequoi Lake, but still nothing caught their eye. Day by day, week by week, month by month, all they found were reports about local agriculture, politics and small-town events. Jacob’s back and neck were sore by the time they had finished the first reel of the year. He removed it from the reader, set up the reel from the box labelled 1906, Apr. to Jun., stretched his spine and dove back in.

  As pages zipped by, an article caught Jacob’s attention and he stopped. The word hospital had jumped out, so he pointed to the screen and he and Ichiro read for a moment in silence.

  ASSISTANCE NEEDED FOR MUSKOKA FREE HOSPITAL FOR CONSUMPTIVES

  The Muskoka Free Hospital for Consumptives has cured many patients afflicted by tuberculosis. Since this institution opened in Gravenhurst more than three years ago, 560 patients have been cared for. Not a single applicant has ever been refused admission to the Muskoka Free Hospital for Consumptives due to his or her poverty.

  Within the previous month accommodation has been increased by twenty-five beds, adding to the burdens of maintenance, but in the faith that a generous public will come to the aid of the trustees.

  Contributions may be sent to W.J. Gage, Esq., Osgoode Hall, Toronto.

  “What’s tuberculosis?” Ichiro asked.

  “It’s a contagious disease that affects the lungs. It can be fatal but I think it’s not as serious in North America as it used to be, like, a hundred years ago.”

  “How do you know this stuff?”

  “I read,” Jacob said, deadpan. “You should try it sometime.”

  “Hey, I read!”

  “Cereal boxes don’t count.”

  Ichiro didn’t miss a beat: “But there’s some fascinating information printed on them. For example, did you know that Cocoa Krispies now helps support your child’s immunity? It’s true! According to the box.”

  “You know they can claim just about anything they want to on the box, right?”

  “Sure, just don’t tell my mom that.”

  “My lips are sealed.” Jacob turned to face the microfilm reader again. “Back to the reason we’re here. This article didn’t mention Dr. Stockwell, so let’s move on.”

  April ended. May came and went. June wound down, and they had skimmed their way through half the year but had nothing to show for it.

  Ichiro sighed. “Is it possible they didn’t get married in 1906? Maybe someone put the wrong year on the back of that photo. Or maybe their wedding wasn’t published in the paper.”

  “Maybe. But what do we do? Go through every single year? I wouldn’t have the patience for that, especially since we’re already looking for a needle in a haystack, and that needle might not even exist.”

  “Do you want to stop and go home? You can come over to my house for dinner. My mother’s making a traditional Japanese dinner.”

  “Maybe,” Jacob said. Ichiro’s parents were great cooks, but Jacob’s mother would be getting off work soon and he didn’t want to leave her alone with such short notice. He pointed to the last two boxes, labelled 1906, Jul. to Sept. and 1906, Oct. to Dec.

  “Let’s just go through these first. I want to do it now while we’ve got them. Once Rio starts to question the story we gave him, we might not have another opportunity without raising suspicion.”

  Ichiro sighed and slumped in his seat. “All right. One more hour, max.”

  Jacob caught on to the pattern the newspapers followed from issue to issue. Local news in the front, entertainment and sports in the middle and classifieds and town gossip in the back. He flew through each issue and stopped on the classifieds, scanned the marriage notices for the Stockwells’ names, and then, when he didn’t find anything relevant, he flew to the back of the next issue. Scroll, search, strike out, repeat.

  Ichiro grew bored and used Jacob’s library card to log on to the computer. He checked a couple of social media sites, looked up the baseball scores and played a few online games. “What was the name of the record in Summer’s End? The German one?”

  Jacob pulled his gaze away from the microfilm reader, thankful for the break, and tried to recall. “It started with the letter W. Wiggenlead, or something like that. The two words I definitely remember under the title were ‘guten’ and ‘nacht.’”

  Ichiro typed those two words into the search engine and hit return. “You were right, they’re German for ‘good’ and ‘night.’” He then searched for “wiggenlead guten nacht.” Google corrected his spelling and displayed a parade of results. “You were close. It says here it’s ‘Wiegenlied: Guten Abend, gute Nacht.’ In English it’s known as ‘Brahms’ Lullaby: Good Evening, Good Night,’ or the ‘Cradle Song.’” Ichiro clicked on one of the search results. “Wikipedia says it’s one of the most famous melodies in the world. Check it out: they have an embedded audio clip.” He hit the play arrow and sat back as muffled crackling sounds hissed out of the speakers.

  It was slow and sad, soothing and melancholic. The music pulsed through the speakers and seemed to fill the small room with icy blue waves of electricity that made the afternoon feel dark and suffocating. It was a different recording but the same song that had played from the phonograph.

  Lullaby and good night,

  With roses bedight,

  With lilies o’er spread

  Is baby’s wee bed.

  Lay thee down now and rest,

  May thy slumber be blessed.

  Lullaby and good night,

  Thy mother’s delight,

  Bright angels beside

  My darling abide.

  They will guard thee at rest,

  Thou shalt wake on my breast.

  The music ended, and after a brief moment of static hiss, the recording stopped and the room fell deafeningly quiet.

  “My mom used to sing that to me when I was little,” Jacob said. His thoughts ebbed and flowed, from his mother, to the calming sound of the lake lapping against the canoe as if calling him to the island, to the old phonograph and family quotes in Summer’s End.

  Family

  Where life begins

  and love never ends …

  Family is everything.

  Bless the food before us,

  the family beside us,

&n
bsp; and the love between us.

  Amen.

  Let them sleep,

  for when they wake

  they will move mountains.

  Other than the last one, each of the expressions specifically mentioned family. And Jacob assumed the last one must refer to sleeping children.

  “The Stockwells must have had kids,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “The lullaby in the phonograph, the family quotes in every room, the crib …” pushed up against the door, Jacob thought.

  “The sound of children whispering in the basement,” Ichiro added. “But if they were such a happy family, why did those whispers turn to screams? Why had the basement door been nailed shut at some point?”

  “I don’t know,” Jacob said. He had a feeling he didn’t want to know the answers to those particular questions. He couldn’t think of anything else to say, so he turned back to the microfilm reader and resumed scrolling through days long past.

  He was in the middle of August when Ichiro sat up suddenly and told Jacob to stop.

  “What?” Jacob asked, his interest piqued.

  “Go back a bit. I think I saw something.”

  Jacob’s heartbeat sped up. He flexed his sore fingers and turned the dial in the opposite direction. The pages passed slowly from right to left.

  Ichiro’s eyes darted over the screen, searching for whatever he thought he might have seen. “There!” he shouted, tapping the screen in triumph. “Right there.”

  It wasn’t a simple marriage notice. It was a full article, and Jacob felt like they had hit the jackpot.

  DOCTOR BUILDS DREAM HOUSE

  The Town of Valeton can boast one of the most beautiful private residences in the Muskoka Region — perhaps north of the City of Toronto. It is in process of completion by Dr. James A. Stockwell, previously a surgeon at Toronto General and currently Doctor of Medicine at the Muskoka Free Hospital for Consumptives in nearby Gravenhurst. Construction of the home was commenced two years ago last spring, and was to have been ready for occupation in three years; but, we are told, it is now expected to be completed by the first of December, some three or four months earlier than contracted. Destined as it is to be the leading architectural ornament of the town, and so far as private residences are concerned, the leading one of the region, some description of it must prove of interest to our readers, local as well as distant.

  In the fashion of a country cottage, the house has been constructed primarily of wood, but it is no mere summer home, for it has been built to be habitable year round, and includes a basement dug nearly six feet below ground level. Perhaps the crowning achievement of the property is rightfully the property itself, for the house occupies a private island on Sepequoi Lake that is breathtaking in its natural beauty and majesty.

  Our readers will readily judge that such an immense structure could not be erected and finished in such a remote location without a corresponding outlay of capital. The property, including the building, has already cost Dr. Stockwell the sum of $11,000. But the actual cost of the house when finished will not be less than $13,000, to say nothing of the money that will be necessary to furnish in a suitable style the numerous magnificent rooms.

  Dr. Stockwell, who has dedicated his life’s work to the treatment of consumptives, and his fiancee Tresa Althaus have named the house “Summer’s End” in the English tradition of designating a private residence of suitable worth and grandeur. They plan to wed in fall of this year, and Miss Althaus desires to fill their home with the pitter-patter of little feet and laughter of small children with all due speed, God willing. Our readers will surely wish them well on this grand adventure on which they are about to embark.

  “Hoo boy,” Ichiro said once they had finished reading. “Thirteen thousand dollars. I think my family’s flight to Japan cost that much.”

  “So now we know that the Stockwells not only lived in Summer’s End,” Jacob said, “but that they built it too. And James treated tuberculosis patients in Gravenhurst.” It was an odd coincidence, Jacob thought, that they had chanced on an article about the Muskoka Free Hospital for Consumptives. But then again, if it was over crowded during an epidemic, he assumed there would have been regular pleas in the paper for assistance and donations. There were probably articles about the hospital in every other edition. He must have missed them.

  “And look at that,” Ichiro said. He pointed to the bottom of the article and read aloud. “‘They plan to wed in fall of this year, and Miss Althaus desires to fill their home with the pitter-patter of little feet and laughter of small children with all due speed, God willing.’ Tresa was baby crazy. You were right, once again.”

  Just this once, Jacob wished he had been wrong. He had a feeling that something bad — something sinister — had happened to the Stockwells’ children.

  SEVEN

  July 23

  The mid-afternoon sun, swollen and bright, dominated the cloudless sky. Its heat radiated upon the earth, drying the grass yellow and burning anyone caught outdoors too long.

  Jacob and Ichiro sat in the shade of a tall elm tree, fanning themselves with their ball caps and trying to keep cool. Although they had both walked off the basketball court more than ten minutes before, sweat continued to bead on their foreheads and run down their necks.

  “Man, it’s hot,” Ichiro said

  “That’s the understatement of the century,” Jacob said.

  “I feel like I should be sitting on a rocking chair, mopping my brow with my pocket handkerchief and speaking in a southern accent.”

  “While sipping a sarsaparilla.”

  “I’ve always wondered what sarsaparilla is.”

  “I have no idea,” Jacob said. “But it sounds delicious.”

  They were too hot to laugh. Instead, Ichiro laid back and closed his eyes, and Jacob pinched his shirt near his collar and pulled it back and forth rapidly to create a little airflow around his neck. Insects buzzed loudly from their cool hiding places under blades of grass and within folds of tree bark.

  “I don’t even care that I got knocked out so early,” Ichiro said. “Better to be soundly beaten and horribly embarrassed than to die of heatstroke, that’s my motto.”

  “Words to live by.” Jacob idly watched the game of HORSE through half-closed eyes. Clear, shimmering heat waves radiated off the cracked asphalt, giving the basketball court the appearance of a desert mirage.

  Hannah stood at half court, eyeing the net, the ball clutched in her hands. Her brother stood to her right, while Blake, an older boy with a buzz cut and oily skin, stood to Hannah’s left. They were the last three kids remaining in the game. An assortment of other neighbourhood kids of various ages had either been knocked out or decided to quit early, forfeiting their dollar entry and leaving the park in search of swimming pools and air-conditioned basements. Jacob and Ichiro were the only spectators.

  “I’m going to take three strides while dribbling,” Hannah said, just loud enough for Jacob to hear from the cool-but-not-quite-cool-enough shade of the elm, “jump, layup, spin around in the air and land facing you two losers.”

  “Good luck with that,” Blake said, a pinch of sarcasm peppering his tone. “I have no doubt you’ll make the basket.”

  “Thank you,” Hannah replied nonchalantly. Then, without further pause, she took three strides while dribbling, jumped, did a layup, spun around in the air and landed facing her two opponents, who did happen to be losing. The ball bounced off the backboard and swished through the net. Hannah laughed and dribbled the ball back to Blake. She passed it to him and said, “Thanks again, buddy. Your vote of confidence gave me the boost I needed to make the shot.”

  Blake caught the ball but didn’t respond. With sweat coating every bit of his skin and his cheeks flushed bright red, he looked like he might pass out at any moment. Hayden didn’t look much better. Hannah, on the other hand, looked like she could continue playing for hours without needing to take a break.

  Blake dribbled the bal
l twice, then paused to wipe his palms on his camouflage-patterned shorts. He eyed the court before him, no doubt planning the shot in his mind.

  “Take your time,” Hannah said, and Jacob could hear a smile in her every word. “But just a friendly reminder: you’re at H-O-R-S. Miss this shot and you’re out.”

  Blake opened his mouth, no doubt searching for an insult or comeback, but when nothing materialized he pinched his lips together tightly and turned his attention back to the net. After one more stationary dribble, he started across the baking-hot court. He needed four strides to make it to the net — a slight change from Hannah’s shot but not enough to disqualify him — jumped, released the ball, spun in the air and landed, miraculously, facing Hannah. For a brief moment he smiled in disbelief, but the ball bounced twice off the rim and back to the ground without falling through the hoop. Instead of picking the ball up and passing it to Hayden, Blake left the ball and walked off the court, his eyes pointed at his feet. As he passed Hannah he held up a hand without bothering to look at her and said, “Whatever.” When he entered the shade of the elm tree he practically collapsed on his back without a word. He draped his arm over his eyes.

  “Hey, man,” Ichiro whispered to Blake. “You dead?”

  “Maybe,” Blake croaked through chapped lips. “I’m not sure. But if this is heaven, I want my money back.”

  Jacob handed over his water bottle and Blake drank half the contents in one long pull, then fell silent again. When Jacob turned his attention back to the game, he saw Hayden land under the backboard, facing his sister, as the ball passed through the net.