by Tucker, Todd
“Why?” my dad asked in a tone that sounded very close to “no” already.
“Tom and I want to watch the Perseid meteor shower.” This got his attention. He laid his cards flat down on the table. I knew that my sudden interest in astronomy sounded unlikely, but it also sounded scholarly enough for my parents to get their hopes up. Still, I saw the seeds of suspicion in my father’s eyes as he peered at me from across the table. I tried to stay calm. I was attempting to bullshit a true space groupie about a meteor shower.
“You want to watch the Perseid?” he asked.
“Yessir,” I said. “It’s a clear night and this is the peak time of year to watch them.” I paused. “It’s very interesting.” My mom now placed her cards on the table to better assist Dad in his evaluation.
“This is something you’ve taken a recent interest in?” he asked.
“We talked about it in school before summer break,” I said, “and I marked it on my calendar. I’ve been reading about meteors ever since, and now I’d like to actually see one.”
“I see,” said my father. “So you’ve made a study of this.”
“Yes,” I said. “Meteors are cool.”
Dad and Mom looked at each other, and I wondered if I had laid it on too thick. I still had my chief advantage intact. Dad really wanted to believe me.
“Yes, they are cool,” my father said, not yet convinced. “Tell me, since you’ve been looking into it, what are meteors made out of?”
“Most are made out of stone,” I said, regurgitating the information I had reviewed in the junior Britannica just before coming downstairs. “Some are made out of iron and nickel.”
My father nodded his head, impressed, unable now to keep a hopeful smile from flickering to life. But the logical, skeptical half of his brain still needed convincing.
“So, if you found a rock in the middle of the woods tomorrow that you suspected was a meteor, could you know for sure? How could you prove it came from outer space?”
“If I found it in the woods, it wouldn’t be a meteor, it’d be a meteorite.” He nodded approvingly. “You could look for the spherical chondrules in the rock, which don’t show up in earth rocks.” This was good, but I extracted one final piece of trivia from the Britannica that had lodged on the precarious edge of my short-term memory. “And, if it was an iron-nickel meteorite, the metallic crystals would be arranged in the Widmanstatten pattern.”
“Widmanstatten pattern?” my father said. I thought he was going to cry he looked so happy.
“Look to the northwestern sky,” he told me as I left.
I rode my bike down Cabin Hill Road, the setting sun shimmering behind me, and up to Tom, who was waiting beneath one of the towering tulip poplars outside the front entrance of the institute.
“How’d you get down here?” I asked him, proud of my meteorite fiction and wanting to share it.
“I rode down with my dad.” He gestured toward his father’s truck. An early load of firewood poked out from under the green tarp that covered it. Of course, I thought. Tom’s family didn’t think of union meetings as dangerous gatherings to be avoided, saving him the trouble of fabricating a lie.
In fact there were dozens of spectators milling around the outside of the institute. Union wives socialized on the lawn in jeans and pro-union T-shirts. Other locals who lived nearby had wandered over, as they probably always did whenever something big enough to require the use of the institute’s auditorium was going on. Many had shown up to witness the rumored arrival of representatives from “the National,” high-level union men spoken of in tones both reverent and apprehensive. For a second, my heart raced as I thought I saw Taffy’s blond hair in the crowd, but in an instant, I knew it wasn’t her: the girl I saw was too graceless to be Taffy, who could move like a cat and disappear in a crowd like a rabbit in a field. Seconds later, when I saw her dad arrive, I gave up all hope of seeing her.
Orpod Judd glared at Tom and me as he walked by, his watery eyes appraising me so intently that I had to look away. In the middle of that jovial crowd, he was noticeably alone, given wide clearance by his union brothers on an evening when brotherhood was on conspicuous display. Judd was fat, but the fat seemed to disguise a body that was still strong despite the years of abuse and encroaching disintegration. His head slowly turned to watch us as he followed the crowd inside, a movement that reminded me of the snake I had shared a pipe with the night before. Like the snake, Judd seemed to be a purely physical being, without thoughts deeper than attacking threats and surviving. I had never spoken to Orpod Judd, but from the way he glowered I thought he must know me, aware of my connection to Taffy and the cave in some instinctive or supernatural way. Then it occurred to me that he recognized my bike. I breathed a sigh of relief when he disappeared inside the doorway.
None of us on the lawn could see anything that was actually happening inside the building, as security was being enforced at the door by two burly but friendly-looking strikers who were checking the union cards of each person going inside. Tom and I watched as a self-important Courier-Journal reporter tried to bluster his way past, to no avail. He left in a huff as the men at the door looked embarrassed by the commotion.
“We’ll never get in through the front door,” said Tom.
Especially since one of us is the son of a manager, I thought.
It pissed me off. A big event was taking place inside the institute, in our town, and I didn’t like being excluded, as I was now in all things having to do with the union. I was as determined to get inside the institute as I was opposed to family secrets. I wanted to hear what the union had to say about the death of Don Strange and those responsible. And if hanging out with Tom all my life had taught me anything, it was this: you can usually get yourself from one place to another if you want to get there bad enough.
Tom was examining the building with a critical eye. “Let’s go around back.”
I rode around slowly, following Tom, the tread of my bike tires crunching on the dusty gravel of the driveway. In back we saw a number of potential entrances, narrow doors that looked like they had been designed for servants back during the institute’s glory days. I wondered who waited inside those doors now. Guards with guns? Cops? I was constantly being warned by those around me that I had an overactive imagination, and I tried to keep it in check, but the fact was that men who belonged to this group had killed a man, and the criminals were still at large. I worried that my staid German neighbors had imaginations that were not active enough. Disaster had already struck in Borden, and I saw no reason why it couldn’t again. Everyone but Tom and me seemed to have accepted on faith that Sanders and Kruer were gone, the trouble they caused a tragic but fleeting event, a lightning strike. I feared it might be more like a drought, something that could linger and worsen indefinitely.
Tom walked up to one of the small back doors and tugged on the knob. To my shock, the door swung open, and we looked right at the wide back of a man in a blue work shirt and jeans. Past him several other men stood in a relaxed circle inside a large, old-fashioned, institutional kitchen. It took the man just a second to feel the breeze at his back. When he turned around and saw us, he attempted to hide the dewy can of Falls City beer in his hand.
“You run along now,” he said, his eyes darting guiltily from Tom to me and back, his free hand reaching to shut the door quickly. He certainly wasn’t a guard or a cop—he was a regular dude sneaking a beer and a cigarette while locked safely away from a reproachful and possibly Baptist wife. Still, he might as well have been an armed sentry as far as Tom and I were concerned. The other back door opened into the same kitchen, no doubt, in view of the same men, who had every reason to keep us clear of their impromptu stag party.
“Hell’s bells,” said Tom. He scratched his chin and searched the building for another point of vulnerability.
My eyes followed his to a low roof that provided a small area of shelter for one of the narrow back doors, this one at the very back corner of the
building. I imagined it as a haven for a uniformed deliveryman in a pouring rain a hundred years ago. Above the small roof was a second-floor window. This was a tactic we knew well—my porch roof was the starting point for many of our recent adventures. We ambled over for a better look.
“How can we get up there?” I asked. In keeping with the grand scale of the institute, the door was tall and the small roof above it seemed out of reach.
Tom jumped at the roof with his hands up in the air. Even with his considerable athleticism, it was futile.
“Can you lift me?” he asked.
“Then how will I get up there?”
“I’ll pull you up after me.”
It seemed risky. It was not yet dark, and just on the other side of the building were a dozen or so folks who could saunter around the corner at any second and catch us in the act. Opening a back door was innocent enough. A manager’s son scaling the building to get to a second-floor window so that he could eavesdrop on a closed union meeting would be harder to explain. Tom either didn’t think about those possibilities or didn’t care.
I positioned myself with my back to the brick wall, and interlaced my fingers in front of me so that Tom could use them as a step. He stepped into my hands with one foot, and then deftly put the other foot on my shoulder. He continued his climb as he reached up to grab the edge of the small roof, which was now just slightly higher than his shoulders. I felt his full weight for just a moment, then he pulled himself up and swung his legs onto the roof. The whole maneuver took just seconds.
He lay on his stomach, and extended his arms to me. They were out of reach. When I jumped, our fingertips brushed, but we could not connect solidly enough for him to pull me up. Tom scooted out farther over the edge, to the point where if I did manage to grab his hands, I was pretty sure I would pull him off. We heard clapping and whistling from the front of the building, as some heroes of the union arrived. I pictured the beer drinkers in the kitchen hurriedly finishing their brews before the official business of the evening began.
“What now?” I whispered.
“Keep trying,” Tom said, scooting out farther.
“It’s not going to work,” I said. “Go on in by yourself.”
Tom thought it over for a minute. “Bring your bike over here,” he said.
I wheeled my bike directly under the roof, and stood it up on its kickstand.
“Climb up and stand on the seat,” he said.
“Stand on the seat?” It seemed like some kind of circus trick.
“Just climb up real quick, it’ll just take a second, then I can reach out and grab you.”
I decided to give it a try, just to humor Tom, because I thought there was no chance of it working. I put my feet on the pedals, facing away from the handlebars, and then, with my arms outstretched for balance, stepped onto the bike seat. I stood like that for a full second or two, and it was only because I hadn’t expected it to work that I wasn’t prepared to grab Tom’s outstretched hands. I jumped clear of the bike as I lost my balance. I readied for another try, this time with every intention of making it up to the small roof.
Feet in the pedals, feet on the seat—I was up. I grasped Tom’s forearms, and he grabbed mine, a perfect linkup, and he hauled me quickly onto the roof. My bike fell over with a clatter as my feet left the seat. Suddenly we were both on the small roof, with barely enough room to stand.
Tom turned to the window and began trying to open it—it occurred to me that it might have been a good idea to try that before devoting so much effort to getting us both on the roof. While it was locked in some way, the window frames were so old that the small lock just tore away from the crumbly wood, and the window opened with a screech. Tom jumped in and I followed, closing the window behind me, verifying that no adult on the ground was staring up in horror at us as we broke into the building.
We jumped down from the sill quickly to get out of the sight of anyone outside, kicking up a dry cloud of dust as we landed. It didn’t take long for our eyes to adjust—it was still not completely dark out, and the room was full of large windows. What we saw amazed us.
It seemed that the Smithsonian had not taken all of Professor Borden’s collections. The built-in cabinets lining the walls were crammed with leather-bound books, intricately carved wooden boxes, and a full complement of antique lab equipment: beakers, tubes, and delicate-looking scales. In addition, the room held three parallel rows of large, ornate lab tables. On top of every one stood stuffed and mounted animals. The professor seemed to have had a particular fondness for exotic rodents, all of them posed by the taxidermist with snarling faces to better expose their long, sharp teeth. Most spectacularly, on the walls above the cabinets, were mounted a score of antique swords and knives, a row of them completely circling the large room. Far, far away, I heard the bang of a gavel and a muted baritone cheer.
“Holy shit,” whispered Tom.
“Look at all this stuff.” It was difficult to decide where to begin.
First I walked carefully to what appeared to be the room’s only door, hoping I could lock it. I was afraid that at any minute someone would burst through it and roust us before we had a chance to take even a brief inventory. Wary of squeaks, I stepped carefully across the dusty wood floor, taking note as I passed of the crates and drawers I wanted to open later, when there was more time, if there was ever enough time. Next to the door, which I was disappointed to see held no lock, I found a glass-enclosed cabinet containing a number of artifacts relating to the institute itself. I got the impression that at some point decades earlier, a local historian had created the small display to inform visitors about the history of the Borden Institute.
A photograph of William Borden himself was at the center. He had a heavy beard and the comfortable smile of a wealthy man who knew exactly how lucky he was. Another document on display seemed to be an old bulletin for prospective students: The building is new and is one of the finest in the State. It is finely finished and well furnished. Afine Stereopticon has lately been added by Prof. Borden, with views of a great number of places of historic interest in this and other countries. The bulletin was signed by the principal of the institute, Francis M. Stalker. One of our five named roads in Borden was Stalker Street, and now I knew why.
Next to the bulletin I found Borden’s autobiography, Personal Reminiscences. I flipped through the first few pages, and scanned the part of the book that described his childhood in New Providence. The old philanthropist wrote that three major events from his youth were “indelibly impressed” on his mind. The first was the cholera epidemic of 1832. A friend of his had to quit school in order to help his father build coffins, a foreshadowing of what would become the town’s main enterprise. The second event was a plague of gray squirrels on a biblical scale in 1833, requiring organized squirrel hunts that slaughtered upward of three thousand of the animals every day: perhaps the origin of the good professor’s interest in stuffed rodents. The migrating squirrels were so insensible to danger that they allowed themselves to be killed with clubs. The final event was a spectacular meteor shower in 1834 of such intensity that sleeping people were awakened by the great light. One witness proclaimed, “Oh, my God, the world is on fire!” Borden went on to write, “Never did rain fall as thick as meteors fell toward the earth that day.”
I was shocked at the coincidence, since a meteor shower had been my pretense for getting out of the house that night. “Look at this!” I called to Tom. He didn’t respond.
I looked across the room to see that he had hastily stacked two crates onto one of the lab tables, and from that wobbly perch was attempting to pull a sword from its mount near the ceiling.
I hurried over. “What are you doing?”
At that moment he freed the sword with a grunt, lurched backward, and regained his balance atop the teetering crate, barely avoiding the fall that would have impaled one or both of us. He carefully climbed down to the floor, sword in hand.
“Look at this thing,” he s
aid, awe in his voice. The blade was large and straight, and sharp on both sides. The flange above the grip was slightly gilded, but most of the gold had worn or faded away. The metal had darkened in some places, as if it had been exposed to smoke, but the entire length of it was surprisingly smooth and unpitted—I wondered if that was an indicator of the quality of the steel. A small yellowing tag dangled from the handle, identifying it in old-fashioned script: Sword, Probably German, 1525-1550.
“Feel.” Tom handed it to me.
It was surprisingly light, weighing no more than my Springfield M6. Although I had never held a sword before, I could tell that it was superbly balanced at the grip—the thing begged to be swung through the air. Also like my M6, the German sword was almost completely unornamented, having been designed purely to serve its function. I assumed that function had been to hack apart invading godless hordes. It took my breath away.
“I’m keeping it,” said Tom as he took it back, already knowing I would object.
“You can’t do that,” I said, although my less scrupulous self was already scanning the walls for the sword I would most like to steal. A curved blade in the corner, like something Sinbad might use, caught my eye.
“Why not?” said Tom. “We keep stuff we find all the time.”
“It’s different when you take something that’s been lost, or left out,” I said. “This is a museum! This would be stealing.” I heard an agitated rumble from the crowd below. Someone must have said something controversial. Tom and I didn’t care. If Jesus Christ himself were addressing Local 1096, I’m not sure we could have torn ourselves away from all that medieval weaponry.
“This ain’t a museum,” said Tom. “This is no different from finding something in the woods. Locking stuff up in this room was the same as throwing it away.”
“This stuff belongs to someone.”
“I thought he left everything to the people of Borden,” said Tom, throwing me off by demonstrating a knowledge of William Borden. “This stuff is sitting here because everyone has forgotten about it.”