Assumptions (6 page)

Alex stopped in the hall near the exit to the
boys’ locker room and cocked her hip to one side.

Cooper blushed. "Oh, Alex. Let's go. They're
coming."

"Kind of the point, isn't it." Alex
unbuttoned the top of her school blouse and pulled it open. A tiny
red heart stained the top of her breast just above her push-up bra.
The freshmen spilled into the hall. "Hey, boys! Got a new one.
Wanna see?"

Jilly giggled and dragged Alex down the hall
by her elbow.

Jordyn let the girls' antics drift past her,
not worth the effort of a reaction. Like the others before them,
this newest entourage didn’t care what she thought so long as they
were seen together by the ordinary students, the kids with little
hope of ever being her friend or theirs.

Jordyn stopped quickly, sending the girls
skidding. Standing squarely in front of her locker, she blocked it
top to bottom, frustrating the absurd curiosity of her newly
acquired friends. She turned the knob and popped open the door.
Alex and Jilly jockeyed for a glimpse inside the dark box even
though every book, pen, and magazine poster of a famous boy was
exactly the same as theirs. Jordyn closed the locker door with a
resonant clang. She turned around expecting to find the girls rapt,
but their attention had been redirected. Deirdre Callaghan walked
toward them.

Alex's words were acid. “Who wears
second-hand uniforms, anyway?”

"Poor people," answered Jilly. "Just look at
it.

Ug-ly."

Cooper shrunk behind them.

Deirdre passed by, and instantly Alex, Jilly,
and Cooper were gone, in pursuit of something far more interesting
than the contents of a high school locker.

Jordyn wandered down the hall. She looked out
the window into the ragged courtyard. She tried the door. It was
unlocked. She went outside.

The corner of a small concrete bench peeked
out from behind an overgrown evergreen. She brushed away the loose
needles, clearing a space large enough to sit concealed in the
stillness of the garden. Her eyes wandered up the amber-tinged ivy
still clinging tenuously to the brick wall to a square of clear
blue sky above.

Deirdre darted into the courtyard. Jordyn
tucked herself behind the branches of the evergreen. Deirdre stood
motionless a few feet inside the courtyard door. Loose curls fell
untamed over her shoulders, her clean porcelain face tinged pink at
the cheeks, her eyes wide.

Alex and Jilly crashed through the door and
forced her tight into a corner. Deirdre's hair fluttered with each
of Jilly's belligerent huffs. Alex, hands on hips, looked Deirdre
up and down. “Saw you talking to that freak. Asking for fashion
tips? You could use some.”

Deirdre said nothing.

Jilly brushed Deirdre's curls back from her
face. “Amazing blue eyes, don’t you think, Alex? And so delicate.”
Jilly ran her fingertip along the top edge of Deirdre's ear and
down her jawbone, stabbing her fingernail up into the soft hollow
beneath her chin. "Too bad she thinks she can just come in here and
do whatever she wants. Think maybe she should seriously consider
going back to wherever she came from?"

Alex grunted.

"Shame to mess up something so pretty," said
Jilly. She slowly stroked Deirdre's hair then kissed her lips and
laughed.

“I don’t know, Jilly. Remember that Anderson
girl?” Alex lunged forward, jamming Deirdre deeper into the corner.
“Watch yourself, Callaghan." And the pair left as quickly as they
had come.

Deirdre straightened her blazer and wiped
Jilly’s orange lipstick on her sleeve. She sat down, crisscross on
the damp concrete. Jordyn scooted forward on the bench and cleared
her throat. She shouldered her bag and walked across the
courtyard.

Jordyn extended her hand. "Are you okay? I'm
so sorry. I should’ve . . ."

Deirdre took her hand, hopped up, and brushed
off her uniform. "I'll be fine," she said, the words somehow more
reassuring in her soft brogue.

"Have you been at Eastview long?" asked
Jordyn.

"Long enough."

Jordyn looked through the window into the
busy corridor. Alex hung on the arm of one of the boys she'd caught
coming from the locker room earlier. Jilly and Cooper hovered
nearby. Deirdre looked around the courtyard. "Haven't been in here
before now. I’ve always been fond of the neglected."

"It must be hard for you, coming to a place
so different."

"I've been here awhile now."

"Oh, it's just . . . your accent . . ."

"That? Hasn't changed much."

The bell rang. Jordyn walked to the door and
held it open. "What do you have next?"

"American History."

"Me, too. I'll walk with you."

Jordyn had been in the library nearly an hour
after dismissal. She lugged a stack of chemistry books to the third
floor and found a deserted reading cluster near a window
overlooking the street in front of the school. She dropped the
books on side table and sat on the cushy sofa. She leaned into the
soft cushions and sighed. "Concrete examples," she said to herself.
"Right."

She sat up and leafed through the books,
laying each on the sofa, open to the relevant page, until they
crowded her out of her seat. The afternoon sky was still bright and
she gave in to the distraction of the bare tree tops swaying on the
other side of the glass.

William Emerson walked below. Logan and Mark
followed, quickly gaining ground. Mark put his thick hand on Will's
shoulder. Will stopped, turned toward them, and said something.
Logan’s face twisted up and turned red.

Mark knocked Will’s backpack to the sidewalk.
Will picked up his bag and walked away. Logan blocked his path,
bumping him backwards. Mark ripped Will's backpack out of his hand
and hurled it across the narrow yard. He grabbed Will from behind,
holding him tight. Logan hit Will in the face. Blood ran from his
mouth. Jordyn raised her hand to her lips. She looked at her
fingertips, surprised to see her own clean skin.

Logan punched Will hard in the gut. He
buckled, falling to the grass below. Logan kicked Will in the ribs,
leaving him curled in a ball, gasping. Logan and Mark continued
down the block as if nothing had happened.

Will lay still for a moment, then rolled to
his back, arms wide as if to make a snow angel in the newly fallen
leaves. Bits of dried grass clung to his bloody face. He closed his
eyes.

"Get up!" whispered Jordyn. She looked around
the room. The floor was empty. She glanced at Will, still lying in
the grass. She threw her books into her backpack and looked out the
window one more time. Will opened his eyes, staggered to his feet,
and looked up at the library window. Jordyn jerked herself back.
Her cheeks burned.

Will crossed himself, collected his backpack,
and walked away. Jordyn pressed her face against the cool glass,
watching his back until he turned a corner at the end of the block
and she could see him no longer.

CHAPTER NINE: SHUT AND OPEN

Will got off the el at Berwyn. He caught a
glimpse of himself in the security mirror of the convenience store
tucked beneath the train station. He wiped his sleeve across his
mouth smearing the blood still dribbling from his throbbing lip. It
oozed, thick and salty, across his tongue.

He jogged two blocks home, fumbling in his
pocket for keys as he reached the door of the graystone three-flat,
rehabbed by his parents before he was born. Inside, he took the
steps two at time to the middle floor. Will dropped his backpack at
the front door, tossed his keys on the credenza, and headed for the
bathroom sink. He splashed his face with water, recoiling from the
cold sting on his split lip. A few ruby drops splattered onto the
white subway tiles behind the sink and dripped down the wall; the
rest spiraled down the drain until the water ran clear.

Will pulled off his coat and sat on the edge
of the tub. He buried his bruised face in a towel and mumbled,
"Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who
curse you, pray for those who mistreat you. If someone strikes you
on one cheek, turn to him the other also."

He dabbed at the corner of his mouth,
wincing, and got up to look in the mirror. He scowled at his
reflection. “Why? Why should I turn the other cheek? I'm still
here. I'm still here bleeding!"

Will threw the towel at the mirror and
stormed out. He paused outside his father's bedroom, putting his
ear to the closed door. He traced up the jamb with his index finger
and made a fist, drawing it back to knock. He loosened his hand and
let it drop.

The following morning a sharp rap against the
front door interrupted the pre-dawn hush. Will rolled over, bumping
his battered chin on a thick book.
Ancient Cult Objects
by
Iain Pritchard lay on the spare pillow, half-covered by a blanket,
tucked in. Will opened his eyes, pushed the book off the bed, and
kicked his covers half-way over the footboard. He slid down onto a
small rug beside his bed and sat on his heels trying to focus on
the blank wall in front of him. Rising tall on his knees, he closed
his eyes, and turned his palms up in supplication. “Lord, help me
to follow your example in all my thoughts and deeds.” He crossed
himself, pulled on a sweatshirt, and went outside to retrieve the
paper.

The sun's first rays lit the neighborhood a
milky gray. Hundred-year-old parkway trees stretched over the
street, holding back the pale sky with their leafless net. Will
tiptoed barefoot onto the cold stoop. His flannel pajamas offered
his legs little warmth. He picked up the paper and hurried back
inside to the kitchen.

He set the kettle to boil and grabbed a box
of sweet biscuits and a bag of loose tea from the cupboard. The
kettle began to whistle its low harmonica note. He poured the
steaming water into an oversized cup then spooned in heaps of dark
leaves, brewing his tea strong, like the Bedouin had taught him
under the shade of an open tent on a blazing summer afternoon in
the middle of the desert.

A manila file lay open on the small kitchen
table, its contents piled sloppily to one side. Will set down his
cup and the box of biscuits, straightened the stray bits of paper,
and closed the file, stamped NATIONAL RISK - CONFIDENTIAL across
the front. He nudged it to the other side of the table and finished
his breakfast.

Will brushed the biscuit dust off his hands
and, as had become his habit, tossed his father’s stray file on top
of a stack on the counter, already a dozen high, where it would
likely sit for days. He cleared the table and went to shower.

Steam clouded the small bathroom. His coat
still lay crumpled on the floor. Will pulled off his pajamas and
wiped a clear circle onto the mirror. He studied his naked body,
purple from his hip to his armpit, running his fingertips over the
marks until the mirror fogged again, obscuring the damage. Will
stood in the shower well beyond his usual ten minutes, allowing the
water, clean and hot, to wash away the ache.

He toweled off, dressed, pulled on his coat,
and went to collect his things, still at the front door where he
left them the day before. He picked up his backpack and 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
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.

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.