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to collect his things, still at the front door where he left
them the day before. He picked up his backpack and
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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
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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.
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CHAPTER TEN
MANY HOPES LIE BURIED HERE
Will passed through the pale limestone gatehouse of
Rosehill Cemetery. He drifted 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
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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.
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"It seems only natural."
"Does it? I'm not so sure." They walked along a
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