Parts 28-30

      I find myself hitting one dead end after another, my path blocked by overgrown plants, or bridges that have collapsed after long years, or bogs that have appeared where once a creek bed flowed or pond was retained. The air only gets hotter as the sun climbs into the afternoon, and it's gotten awfully humid. However slowly I walk, I find beads of sweat trickling down my neck every few minutes, and the heat only makes me feel more frustrated when my way is blocked. So I head for home, I'll come back another day, maybe earlier in the morning next time – exploring in this heat is ridiculous.

      But at home, I'm restless, my thoughts continually going back to Calvin's death. I try to think of other things, try to distract myself by getting caught up on washing dishes, even cleaning the bathroom, headphones cranked up loud, but it's no use.
      Finally, exasperated, I flop down on the living room floor with a sketchbook and some pastels. I'm going to have to draw this kid, there's just no way around it. Hopefully that will get all of this weight off my chest...

      My doorbell rings.
      I jump about half a mile, narrowly missing drawing a line of cobalt blue all over my drawing. My doorbell rarely ever rings, I don't know all that many people in town... I stand up--- and stagger, finding my feet have fallen asleep again. I seriously need to get a drafting table or something, working on the floor just isn't cutting it anymore. Rubbing my hands together to try and get some of the pastel dust off, I manage to get to the door, taking a quick glance through the peephole – which I'm not in the habit of doing, but, I'm really confused about who's there.
      Then I laugh and fling open the door. “Dad!”
      He chuckles and gives me a hug. “Hey there, Kimber. Sorry to drop in without warning, but there was a trade show I had to go to today, and I realized on the drive down how close my route took me near you. So I thought I'd stop by if I had time on the way home. You up for some supper?”
      I grin, feeling much lighter at heart, now that I have a chance to be out of my own head for awhile. “Sure! Just let me go wash up, I'm a bit of a mess.” I hold out my rainbow-colored hands and smile sheepishly.
      He just smiles, shaking his head. “Some things never change...”
      “Just look out for my stuff! It's all over the floor,” I call out as I head to the bathroom to clean up.
      “I can see that... who's the kid?” he calls back, curiously.
      I stop a moment, unsure how to answer. I haven't even thought about how to explain these drawings to other people... saner people... “Just a sec,” I answer, a little weakly. I glance in the mirror, and, seeing color smudges on my cheek and forehead, wash my face, then dry my hands slowly, still not sure what to say.
      Walking back to the living room, I find Dad flipping carefully through the pile of drawings on the couch, all in various stages of completion.
      “These look really good, Kimber... the fountain's a little different for you, but I think it's interesting. Lot of details in everything.”
      “Thanks...”
      “Who are all these people?”
      “Well...” I rub the back of my neck, a little embarrassed – but it's my dad, I can give him pretty much the truth. Just leaving out a few of the unbelievable details. “There was this family that lived near here, but the house burned down a hundred years ago and they moved away. But the gardens are still there, sort of, they're really overgrown... but it's such a pretty place, and it's not all that far to walk, so I've been over there a lot this summer.”
      “Ah, I see. It does look like a beautiful spot.” Glancing down at the first drawing I did, of the boy by the creek bed: “Is that the original tile work? It looks almost Turkish.”
      I nod, smiling. “It's the original, yeah... it's missing in places now of course, but I cleaned one of the tiles and the colors really are still that bright.” I rummage through my pile of reference material (mostly print-outs of flower photographs, both ones I took myself and ones I found online), and hand him the tile.
      “Wow... hand painted, you think?”
      I nod. “Pretty sure – you can see the brush strokes, especially here, and here...”
      “Oh yeah... huh.”
      “I'm going to take it over to campus sometime, and have Dr. Reiff take a look at it, see what he thinks.”
      He nods. “That's a good idea. So! Where do you want to go eat, kid?”

      Half an hour later, we've placed our orders at a favorite local restaurant (something of a bar and grille, but a little upper-scale than that, some of the best food in town and a nice casual atmosphere), and have caught up on all the news from home.
      “The town pretty quiet, with college out of session?” Dad asks.
      I consider this. “Yeah, you know, it really is... I've hardly even noticed though, I've been so caught up in what I'm doing, with work too, but mostly the drawings, and walking through the garden, and trying to research...”
      I tell him about a few of my research efforts, and we both laugh at the banter among the historical society members.
      “The drawing you were working on today, was that one of the Masons?”
      I nod, suddenly saddened. “Yeah... That's Calvin, pretty sure he was the youngest of three kids – though I could still be missing one or two kids, it's hard finding mentions of them. But he died at the age of maybe five or something, really young.”
      “That's always so sad... What did he die from?”
      “You know, I'm actually not sure... something was wrong with his lungs, might have been tuberculosis or something. But he was weak pretty much his whole life, was always stuck in bed.”
      “Mmm.”
      I pull myself back to reality. I need to remember that not everyone is as obsessed with this family as I am. I'm probably starting to sound just the way he does, when he's going on and on about his latest audio project. At this, I start to laugh.
      “What're you laughing at?” He looks up at me, suspicious.
      “Nothing... just thinking that I'm starting to sound like you, rambling on and on about a hobby until your listeners fall asleep.”
      “Oh, my hobbies aren't that boring, are they?”
      “...hate to break it to you, but, yeah, they kind of are.”
      “Oh, you hypocrite. How many mp3s have I made for you and that silly iPod? You know how much it pained me to do that, right?”
      I giggle, nodding. “Yes, Dad...”
      “Still can't see why they couldn't have built in a little support for other file types... with the market cornered like that, they were really in a fantastic position to set a new standard for quality.”
      “Yes, Dad...”
      “Alright then, I'll try another hobby. You remember the transporters, on Star Trek?”
      I roll my eyes. I know I'm not the only one my age who was force-fed the show in its various incarnations, but it's still not something I like acknowledging in public. “Yes...”
      “We've done it.”
      I raise an eyebrow, skeptical. “Really.”
      “Really! ...alright, so we can't do anything much bigger than an atom, and it's not actually moving, but...”
      Our food arrives, and I take my plate gratefully. If I'm eating, I have an excuse to not answer coherently. Alongside the audiophile in my father, lies the inner science geek. I suppose it's all related – figuring out the inner workings of the world, understanding how things work, way down on the most basic structural levels. I can usually follow the general idea of what he's discussing, but I get lost pretty quickly when he gets really into it. Still, it makes him happy to have someone listen, so I'll listen – even if I don't entirely understand.
      “It's still a huge step in the physics world, and really, what it might do in the computer industry is pretty astounding. We really can't push computers much more in terms of speed, going on the current technology.” He takes a bite of a roast beef sandwich, nodding approval. “This's pretty good.”
      I grin, munching on a salad – well, barely a salad, it's so covered in pecan-crusted chicken, strawberries, blue cheese, bacon bits, some more fruit, and a raspberry vinaigrette. “Their food's always good, yeah. And I promise I'm listening to you.”
      “You know, I think they're actually working on this at your college – or maybe it was one of the college's extensions. Somewhere near here, anyway, they're working on some aspect of the whole thing. But anyway... So there's this whole quantum entanglement thing... which I'm sure you don't remember. Basically, two little bits of matter – on the subatomic level – have this invisible link between them. You know electrons though, right?”
      I nod, high-school chemistry drawings of electrons in their orbits skipping through my memory. (It figures, I remember the freaking drawings, if nothing else!)
      “Well, if you split an atom up, and take two of its electrons, they somehow remember that they once shared a connection of some kind, even if you move them really far apart.”
      I smile at this – that's actually a really cool, surprisingly romantic concept. And I know that anything I take from the garden, no matter where I may move to with it, will always cling to the memory of that place...
      “So. What they've done now, is taken two of those entangled particles. They take a look at the properties of those particles, and find that, say, they're forced to compliment each other. If one is polarized – that is, the field around it vibrates – at 45 degrees, the other one goes at 135 degrees.”
      He must have seen my eyes glazing over. “That's a 180 degree difference – it... well, it made it spin the opposite way, think of it that way.”
      I giggle. “Sorry. Okay.”
      “So a third particle is brought in, and they give it a specific set of properties. Then they measure that particle alongside the first entangled particle. The results are sent to the second entangled particle... and it changes. With the third particle sitting next to an entangled one, the other entangled one sees that new information, and changes into it!”
      He's practically bouncing in his seat. I think I have the gist of it... maybe. “So... without actually touching the second particle, we've reprogrammed it? Changed its properties... which basically turned it into something else, without us touching it?”
      “In essence, yes! Isn't that incredible? Think about that ability in a computer... in cloud computing, especially, you could edit files at a distance without any kind of wire, or even a wireless router or anything! ...at least I think so.” He sits in silence a moment, brows furrowed.
      I laugh. “Did we talk ourselves into a corner again?”
      He chuckles, shaking his head to clear it. “I suppose. I haven't had any more science classes than you have, and mine were much longer ago...”
      “That actually is very cool. Only... my science is pretty sketchy, but wouldn't that mess with conservation of mass or something?”
      “No, it doesn't – the information basically passes from one molecule to another, it's not actually adding or taking away anything from the universe.”
      “Alright...”
      “...but what it might mess with, is the whole space-time continuum.”
      I raise a skeptical eyebrow again. “Are you talking Star Trek, or physics?”
      “There's quite a bit of physics in Star Trek, thank you! But I do mean physics – space and time really are inextricably linked. So I have to think that if we're poking around, moving things – even just information, swapping properties – around space willy-nilly, it might start screwing with time a bit. Last I read, they were almost up to moving visible things around, there might well be experiments going on with things visible to the naked eye – nothing is ever really published until they've proven it and can explain it, I'm sure the cutting edge of science is far beyond what gets into the public.”
      “You're going into tangents,” I point out casually, popping a strawberry into my mouth. This is such a frequent occurrence that my sister and I have gotten into the habit of pointing it out to him, to save everyone involved time and sanity. He no longer bothers to be offended by the reminders, knowing full well that we're right.
      “So I am. But, space and time, definitely linked. Can't mess with one without messing with the other. They keep shifting bigger things around, they might just open up a giant wormhole into the past, which will suck people in, and then with the time line being affected, the people who went back in time would never have been born, and---”
      We're both laughing now, and he digs back into his sandwich.
      “Alright, well, I'm done. What else is new in your world, kid?”

      It was a long and leisurely dinner, finished by splitting a piece of the restaurant's absolutely amazing ice cream lasagna (which is really good, I promise! Layers of ice cream, crumbly cookie bits, hot fudge, that sort of thing). Dad drove me home, and then headed home himself, the sky turning dark with the oncoming night.
      The apartment always feels so quiet after I've had company... wish I was allowed to have some kind of pet here. (Fish do not count. Fish are not cuddly, and really don't have any personality to speak of.) But there on the living room floor, are the faces of those who... well, I suppose Evelyn and Calvin are almost friends, of a sort...
      “Are you Ev'lyn's friend, Kimber?”
      I smile sadly, my heart sore at the memory of that delicate young voice. He had asked it by way of confirming I was the same Kimber that she'd told him about, but I hear the question differently now. I am their friend... though removed by so much space, so much time...
      And I can't help but laugh, remembering my dinner conversation - how could time and space be anything but connected? Though just now, all I can feel is how they team up to keep me farther away from things... Farther away from friends who died a hundred years before I was born. And what makes it all the stranger, is that I know we would be friends, if we lived in the same world. As far removed as Evelyn's elaborate dresses are from my jeans and t-shirts, something in her eyes, in her speech, in the things she noticed, I know that we see the world in the same way. She's an artist too, though I have no idea if she's ever had a drawing class. And Calvin... who could help but love the child?
      Where were his parents, as he lay dying, could have died alone, in his bed? I blink back tears, a lump in my throat. Evelyn would have been there, whether I'd shown up or not, I'm sure of it, but... it was such a near thing. In all fairness, if the child had been sick his whole life, I guess I couldn't expect Cora to have been at his side every moment... but “charity begins at home”, as I'm sure she told a hundred other women in the town. I can't help but feel angry at her for her neglect. And to let the father treat the children so roughly, too! I'm almost glad Calvin spent his days in his room, it saved him from beatings, at least...
      I sit down, spreading the drawings around me, looking from one to the next, as at the faces of dear friends. I'll keep you all near... and Calvin, I'll give you what life I can, here in my time, where you would have been safe, and cured, and able to run free in that beautiful garden...
      I work a little more on the original drawing of Cal and the forget-me-nots, but soon another image is burning in my mind, demanding my attention, and I pull out a fresh sheet of paper. I begin to draw a new composition, sketching in the lines of a part of the garden I was in this morning. Bold-colored flowers are planted in large dots over the green ground, a mound of golden yarrow, a snowball of white daisies and spherical flame of red ones, a low pool of violet pansies... I put in a little pocket of Canterbury Bells near the border of the page – Evelyn wouldn't ever be far from her little brother, I'm sure of it. But the main feature is a long row of arbor vitae, and though the shapes are now blurred, I know they were once trained into perfect geometric forms – so that's how I'm drawing them, trimmed into spirals and pom-poms, and there, off to the left, that one's an elephant... a giant elephant-shaped bush, probably the size of a real elephant. And running toward it, laughing in delight, is a small boy with chestnut curls, joy in his every gesture.

      A few days later, I head to the library, to poke around at art books, history books, flower books... anything that catches my eye that might help shed some light on the Masons and their world. And their house. I really should check to see when I can drop by the town hall and flip through their old photos and things, but it's a weekend, I'm sure they'd be closed today.
      Stepping into the library, I pause a moment to savor the coolness of the building. Libraries are always just the right temperature in the summer – cool enough to be a fantastic relief, but not the ridiculously frigid freezers that big chain stores are.
      “Kimber! How are you?”
      Turning to face the desk, I grin - Mary Sueter is again at the helm of the library. “Doing all right, how are you?”
      “Oh, bored to tears, the usual for the summertime. I really shouldn't be reading while I'm on-duty, but there's only so much organizing you can do in one day. I cleaned up the old card catalog, making sure everything was where it should be – it's a ridiculous old behemoth to keep around, but, people my age just don't catch on to them new-fangled computers, don'tcha know.”
      I stifle a giggle at her impersonation of her peers. Despite the fact that her voice is full-volume, I still find it hard to break the quiet library habit that's been drilled into me since birth.
      “I don't feel I could look at another bit of typewritten text for weeks... and books aren't much relief. Please tell me there's something I can help you with? Please?”
      Now I can't help but laugh, and she joins in. “Well... I'm really not after anything specific I don't think, but...”
      “Oh that just makes the challenge all the better! I know – well, very nearly – every book in this place.”
      “Well... I'm really just looking for anything that might be relevant to the Masons, anything about their time period, or the history of the town then, or more on the culture of the time... or more about plants, or the type of sculptures in the garden, or...” I spread my hands in helplessness.
      She beams. “Five books have popped into my head already. You just find a seat and make yourself comfortable, and I'll be back in two shakes.”
      I'm a little amazed at how quickly she moves – and the efficiency. She makes a beeline for one aisle, scans along the Dewey numbers (which still manage to elude me) with a fingertip, then skims the titles, and slips a book off the shelf into her fingers, already turning her body toward her next destination.
      It can't be more than three minutes when she's returned to drop the promised five books into my lap. “There! Record time – but I have to admit that I cheated, I reshelved one of those first thing this morning. Now, you flip through and see if any of those suits your fancy. I have another in mind that I'll have to do a bit of a search for... would it be in with history, sociology, or botany...”
      I am officially in awe of this woman. Somehow, she makes being a librarian seem like an adventure, which I would have never thought possible.
      I take the first book off the pile on the low table beside me. A small paperback, with a history of the town outlined in it. Portions look pretty detailed, giving decent biographies of some of the town's founders, though there's not half as much detail as I'd like. Still, it looks like a great starting place – and skimming the index, I see Cora is mentioned in several places.
      I set it back on the table, picking up the next. It's another slim paperback, but I grin brightly as I spot the author's name: Dr. Carl Reiff, Ph. D. Hooray! It's actually a book on local architecture, showing photos of some of the older houses in town, with discussions of the different styles and trends in architecture. Not a topic that interests me a whole lot, but I wonder... I flip through the pages, pausing anywhere I see a tower at the left-hand corner of the house.
      And then I stop:
      It's such a dark, blurry image, I can barely make it out. There are huge trees to either side of the house – I almost missed the tower. But I know that pathway, and I know the shape of those rose bushes, and I'm sure those are day lilies blooming at the base of the house, those little white spots there among the leaves.
      The notes beneath the photo read:
      “Only remaining photograph of the Mason estate, near present-day Central Ave. and Walnut St. Possibly built 1820s, though date is uncertain. Style is largely in imitation of an Italian villa, however the touches of Gothic make it an unusual case. Burned in 1902.”
      I touch my fingertips reverently to the image, squinting to try and see more detail... but the photo must have been badly damaged by the years, and making a copy of it did it no favors. Still, the shape of the house is there, anyway. Taller than it is wide, looks like three stories? The tower on the left is actually square, and goes up to a fourth floor. The roof is fairly flat, looks like it might be tiled, Italian-style, but it's hard to be sure. There is a porch around the front door, and the columns form pointed arches around the entryway – those pointed arches are definitely Gothic, I remember that much from Dr. Reiff's lectures. And it looks like there's some intricate brickwork, there on the edge of the house... but it's impossible to make out, the shadows are too dense there, and the contrast in the image far too low. I sigh in frustration, trying to memorize the image anyway... wondering where Calvin's room was in that towering brick house.
      “Find anything interesting, dearie?” I jump, and Mary laughs kindly. “Sorry... I walk like a librarian, I know.”
      I point at the decrepit photo on the page, and grin up at her. “I found this – thank you!”
      She leans down and peers at the page. “Ahh... the Mason place, isn't it? Such a shame no better pictures survived the years... you'd think there would be more, a place that well-known.”
      “Cameras weren't really mainstream until just about when it burned down though,” I point out. “Anyway, if the family was that rich, they'd probably have wanted a painting done, rather than photos – photography was seen as a pretty low, imitative art form for a long time.”
      She beams down at me, nodding. “So it was! Come be a junior member of the historical society? We could use a breath of fresh air, in among all of us old fogies.”
      I laugh. “You're much farther away from being an old fogie than I am, Mary... But what other goodies have you brought me?”
      She holds a little red book above her head, triumphant. “Found it! It's only tangentially related to your request, but I just know you'll love it.”
      I reach up, and Mary puts the book into my hands.
      It's a very pretty little thing, the deep red leather covered in what were once bright gold vines and flowers, in intricate patterns. No title is on the front, and the one on the side is faded beyond reading. The first few pages are blank tissue, and then I find... “Is this the title page? This is officially the longest title I have ever, ever seen.”
      She chuckles. “Brevity was not their concern, it would seem.”
      I read it aloud, in pompous tones: “Our Deportment, or the Manners, Conduct, and Dress of the Most Refined Society; including Forms for Letters, Invitations, Etc., Etc. Also, Valuable Suggestions on Home Culture and Training. Compiled from the Latest Reliable Authorities, by John H. Young, A.M. Detroit: F.B. Dickerson & Co., 1883.”
      I take a deep, dramatic breath. “That... is ridiculous.”