Assumptions Read online

  She smiled a sideways smile then returned the note to her backpack. She knelt to re-tie the laces of her oxfords, savoring a last few minutes of anonymity.

  The school bell buzzed a cranky first warning. The girl popped up and flung her backpack over her shoulder. She brushed a stray bit of fuzz from her stiff navy blazer, adjusted the pleats in her gray plaid skirt, and jogged up a couple of steps to the door. Her shoes tapped against the well-worn limestone. She inhaled, preparing herself to pass through the thin barrier separating her from what waited for her on the other side.

  She reached for the door. It swung out fast, just missing her outstretched hand.

  “You must be Jordyn!” gleefully shouted a chunky girl with short, over-highlighted hair. “I’m Cooper Lawson, Year Ten Representative." She stood in the open doorway, straight and tall as she could, her chest puffed out as if she had rehearsed in front of a mirror more than twice. “Funny name, I know. I’m pretty sure Mom and Dad wanted a boy. Oh, well.” She let out a laugh that sounded nearly as unnatural as her introduction.

  “Come in, come in,” she added, enthusiastically shoving her chubby, pink hand toward Jordyn. A dozen other students, more boys than girls, watched the abrupt introduction with zealous interest.

  A woman with a frilly coral colored scarf at her neck poked her head out of a nearby office. “On your way now,” she chided, sending the gawkers down the corridor craning for a glimpse of Eastview’s newest.

  An athletic boy wearing an “Eastview Football” pin on his lapel lagged behind. He smiled in Jordyn’s direction and walked toward her. She looked over her shoulder hoping to see someone else.

  “Hi. I’m Logan Harris.” He offered his hand.

  Jordyn jerked her head forward, quickly crossing her arms behind herself, fiddling with the zippers on her backpack. Logan dropped his hand.

  “Hi,” Jordyn responded curtly, looking past him toward the office door.

  Logan persisted. “Don’t pay any attention to them. They’re just curious.”

  “About my dad, I know. M.L. Quig, my golden ticket."

  “Can you blame them?”

  “Guess not.”

  “Wow, your eyes are nice,” he said.

  Jordyn’s hand shot up to her face. She scratched her forehead then let her hand fall casually. “You say that to all the girls.”

  “That sounded really bad, didn’t it?”

  “Um, yeah. It really did."

  “I meant they’re so mocha-y, uh, -ish, uh, brown . . . uh . . . sorry.”

  “Maybe you should quit while you’re ahead.”

  “Yeah. I should.” The first period bell buzzed. “Saved by the bell.”

  “Very funny. I think it's me who's saved."

  “I gotta get to class. Maybe I’ll see you around?” He offered his hand again. “I’m Logan.”

  Jordyn took his hand. “Nice to meet you, Logan.”

  “Miss Quig,” interrupted the woman from the office, “please, come with me. We need to assign you a locker and get your class schedule.”

  “See you,” said Logan. He turned and jogged away.

  “Miss Quig, please step into the office for a minute while I get your schedule." The woman held the door wide open, tapping her index finger on the knob.

  The second bell buzzed. A dark-haired boy rushed down the corridor, clumsily peeling off his backpack and coat as he skidded around the far corner.

  The woman frowned in his direction. "Late and out of uniform again."

  Jordyn entered the office. She followed the woman to the far side of a large room filled tight with desks and beige file cabinets, all aligned in orderly rows. A fluorescent light flickered overhead.

  “I am Mrs. Hansen, Head of Student Services. Have a seat.” She motioned to a blue plastic chair in front of a desk with a computer, a printer, and nothing more. Mrs. Hansen sat at the desk and clicked the mouse a few times. The printer chugged. “I’ll walk you through orientation this morning. Looks like you’re missing one registration form. Your father will need to complete that." Mrs. Hansen pulled a single paper from the desk drawer and handed it to Jordyn. “Here you are. Make sure you return it on Monday." She checked her watch. "We’ll start with a tour of the school. Afterward, I’ll show you to your locker. You’ll have a few minutes to organize it before second period.”

  She took Jordyn’s schedule off the printer. “You have Geography first period, that’s now, on the second floor. Professor Embry knows you’ll be with me this morning. Miss Lawson attends that class. I’m sure she would be happy to share her notes.”

  “I’m sure," grumbled Jordyn.

  Mrs. Hansen’s face tightened.

  “I mean, I’m sure I’ll see her later. I’ll ask for the notes then.”

  “Come with me, Miss Quig. No time to waste.” Mrs. Hansen sprinted to the office door.

  They walked the empty corridors. Mrs. Hansen led Jordyn past the academic wings, the gym, and the commons which already smelled like meat sauce and garlic bread.

  “Pasta for lunch today,” said Mrs. Hansen. As she walked, she pointed to the bulletin board, decorated with paper cutouts of apples and milk cartons.

  “As you will see, our student body is quite diverse,” she explained.

  “Except for money,” Jordyn commented under her breath.

  “Some of our students receive generous scholarships. Nevertheless, we do have to keep the lights on somehow. This way to the library, Miss Quig.” She directed Jordyn up a wide terrazzo stairway.

  At the top of the stairs, Mrs. Hansen pulled open a heavy wood door and ushered Jordyn into an immense room filled with row after row of carved wood shelves and long heavy tables.

  “Follow me, Miss Quig,” directed Mrs. Hansen. She led Jordyn past the stacks and up another flight of stairs to the third floor. “As you can see, our collection is extensive. The library occupies a large portion of two floors. The lower floor holds most of our volumes and computer carrels.” They stopped at a cozy arrangement of cushy sofas and nubby chairs nestled in the sunlight streaming in from high arched windows. “The upper floor primarily holds reference material and reading clusters like this one. It is usually very quiet up here. Let’s keep moving, shall we.”

  When they reached the opposite side of the room, Mrs. Hansen stopped, leaning her backside against a low window sill. “Any questions, Miss Quig?”

  Jordyn looked past her down into an unkempt courtyard at the first floor.

  “Miss Quig? Any questions?”

  “How do I get down there?”

  “There?”

  “Yes. Is that the door?” Jordyn pointed toward an overgrown corner.

  “No one goes there. It’s just an old courtyard. We only use it for light these days."

  “My father used to take me to small gardens when I was little. He likes to work on his games there. Thinks they’re inspiring or something. Probably why I like them.” Jordyn looked Mrs. Hansen square in the face. “Too bad this one is so neglected."

  Mrs. Hansen fiddled with her scarf. She stepped away from the window and looked down into the scruff below. She checked her wristwatch. “Well, Miss Quig, it looks like we’ve used up all of our time.”

  Mrs. Hansen showed Jordyn to her locker. “Here you are. You have a few minutes before the bell. Please, let me know if there is anything else I can do for you.”

  “Thank you. I will.” Jordyn opened her locker.

  “Miss Quig?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Hansen?”

  “I’ll see if I can get maintenance into the courtyard. Maybe they can tidy up.”

  Jordyn Quig was no longer a nobody standing outside on a clear fall day.

  CHAPTER SIX: LEAVING

  Timothy Stillman savored one last bite of apple pecan pie. He scraped a stray crumb off his thick white plate, laid the fork on top, and pushed the empty dish toward the business side of the lunch counter. He took a long, slow sip from his oversized cup of black coffee. The mid-day rush had waned a
nd only he, a waitress named Sadie, and the cook remained in Twila’s Diner, Provident's best and only sit-down restaurant.

  “That be all, Mr. Stillman?” asked Sadie.

  “Top off my coffee, would you, please?” The waitress re-filled the heavy mug. “Thanks, Sadie.”

  “We’ve gotten used to having you around. Too bad you have to leave us.”

  “It’s time. My work’s done.”

  “You know she thought the world of you."

  “Not sure why,” Stillman wondered aloud.

  “She had good reason,” Sadie replied confidently with a half-wink. “Did you see the paper this morning?” She tilted her head toward the disheveled pile of newsprint at the far end of the counter.

  Stillman shook his head.

  Sadie frowned. “Ran her obit.”

  “Guess it’s finally official then.”

  “Wrote it herself . . . as a column.”

  “I didn’t know her very long, but that sounds about right.”

  Sadie gathered up the paper and shuffled through until she found the right page. “Paper staff put together a photo essay, too.” She folded it in half and then in half again and handed it to Stillman. “Here.” She pointed to a column in the upper left corner entitled 101 Things You Can Do With Hairspray by Dorothea Whitford, who, based on her headshot, used plenty of the stuff. Her stout black beehive evoked more helmet than hair.

  The column filled only a few inches.

  My Dear Friends,

  If you are reading this, I most certainly have met my untimely demise. No hard feelings. Though, I must confess, I will truly miss Twila’s apple pecan pie.

  Stillman glanced at his empty plate. The corner of his lip curled into a knowing smirk.

  Not for long-winded goodbyes, I will do my best to keep this short. No laughing, now.

  On January 15th, I rolled into this town in a rust bucket hatchback. It would not have been memorable to me or anyone else except for the fact that it was the coldest day on record. I stopped at Twila's for a bite on my way to the dilapidated farmhouse I would soon call home. I returned to my car to find every door frozen stiff. Not sure who noticed first, but within minutes, half a dozen of you were standing out in that cold with me, cans of deicer and hairdryers on extension cords in hand.

  We are rarely surprised when those close to us rise above our expectations and lay themselves down for us without hesitation. But, it's the mundane, like opening a door for a stranger, that reveals the divine in each of us.

  I must say, earthly life was magnificent. But, with God's grace, I've landed somewhere nice. Wherever I am, I hope there are friends like you and, of course, a big slice of apple pecan with my name on it.

  Stillman unfolded the paper, lingering on each of the photos filling the rest of the page.

  Dorothea Whitford was not an exceptionally large woman, but because of the way she wore her clothes she looked as if she were made of bubbles, one stacked slightly askew on the next. Time had faded the freshness of her youth, but she struck everyone she met as an unusually handsome woman, though they could never put their finger on just why.

  "Did you see this one, Sadie?" Stillman pointed to a picture of a sixty-ish woman, Santa hat squeezed onto her hairdo, handing out overstuffed Christmas stockings to grinning and wide-eyed children.

  "Those kids were thrilled. Oh, look at this one.” Sadie pointed to a picture of the woman, shovel in hand, dirt smudged across her forehead. “That was two summers ago at the groundbreaking for the library addition." Sadie scanned the page. "There she is drinking out of the Cross County Softball Cup. That tournament raised the money for the tot lot.” Sadie paused, looking at the smudgy images. “I never realized how much she did for this town . . . for us . . .”

  The cook shelved the last of his iron skillets with a clang then burst through the kitchen door, joining the waitress behind the counter. “Miss Whitford sure appreciated all your help, Mr. Stillman,” he said. “She was always going on about you. I’m sure she’d be pleased, you putting everything in order since, well, since she’s been gone.”

  Stillman looked up from the paper. “It’s nothing. Just my job." He folded the paper. “Mind if I hang onto this?”

  “She would have liked that,” said Sadie.

  Stillman stuffed the paper in his front pocket and reached for his wallet.

  “Not today, Mr. Stillman,” Sadie insisted.

  “Thanks." He reached over the counter and gave the cook single, firm handshake. "I’ll miss this place.”

  “Better hit the road soon if you want to make it before it gets dark,” said Sadie.

  “Yeah. I still have a couple of things to wrap up across the street.”

  The overhead bell on the door tinkled sweetly as Stillman walked out of diner onto the sunlit sidewalk. He looked both ways out of habit and crossed the empty street, stopping in front of a large, multi-colored building.

  Provident Theater and Studios stood at the dead center of town. It had been Timothy Stillman's home since his arrival four-and-a-half months earlier at Miss Dorothea Whitford's request. Over that time, Stillman documented every aspect of the theater turned museum and its contents, meticulously updating Miss Whitford's appraisal records for her insurance policy, which, upon her disappearance, had taken on unexpected significance. After the storm, he stayed on to clean up the damage.

  Since its dedication in 1922, the building had played host to decades of the famous and the obscure. Rumor had it the Studios once housed a Prohibition era speakeasy, though Stillman could never get anyone to confirm that.

  Unoccupied for months, the building now languished, its windows still clad in board-up plywood from the storm. Stillman ran his hand along the crackled terracotta façade, carefully fixing the time-mellowed gold and blue in his mind like a scrapbook memento.

  He pulled a thick brass key with worn letters from his hip pocket and, with a soft ker-clunk, unlocked the lobby doors. He punched the push-button light switch. A pair of amber-colored sconces dimly lit the three-story space. A squat jack-o-lantern, recently carved with a wide, Cheshire grin, smiled from the top of a dusty glass display case.

  Bits of cobalt-glazed ceiling plaster crunched beneath Stillman's feet as he crossed the shadowy lobby. He punched more switches, illuminating an immense chandelier and the riser lights along the sweeping stairs leading to either side of the mezzanine gallery.

  A flimsy brass sign stand lay on the floor near the lobby door. Limp poster board, deformed by the humidity of summer, slumped in the sign frame, rendering it's gracious message, Welcome to Dorothea’s Curiosity Shop and Museum of Unusual Objects, barely legible.

  An assortment of mismatched display cases stood exactly as they did the day of the storm, except the one nearest the front window which had toppled and shattered, spilling its contents across the floor. Stillman had painstakingly cleaned it up, documenting and packing each object with utmost care. The remnants of the exhibit barely filled two small boxes, which he had not yet placed in storage. The bent case stood empty in a dark corner of the lobby.

  Stillman plodded up the wide stairs, dust puffing up from the carpet with each step. When he reached the top, he opened the side door, turning the lock with the same key. The door opened into a long, whitewashed corridor with several identical doors.

  Stillmand entered the third studio. It held only a single empty bookshelf secured to the wall at the far corner. A thick layer of dust had settled on the oak floor. The faint remnants of footprints led from the door to the bookshelf and back again. Stillman followed his own steps. He reached under the chest-level shelf and tapped the top of the back panel, popping open a hidden compartment.

  He pulled out a cardboard moving box marked "kitchen" and folded back the loose flaps. He removed a brown paper wrapped package no larger than a deck of cards, the only object in the museum he did not appraise. He carefully tucked it into his back pocket.

  He left the box on the floor and returned to the lobby. With
the same key, he unlocked a padlock hanging from a chain looped through the graceful bronze handles of the theater house doors. He let the chain fall heavily to the floor.

  Stillman entered the space, his toe nudging one of the boxes now holding the contents of the shattered case. He turned a knob on the wall. The theater lights rose, soft amber illuminating the tops of ceiling high stacks of wood crates, each large enough to hold a small car, and open utility shelves filled with storage boxes.

  Stillman picked up the boxes at his feet and walked down the center aisle, stopping two-thirds of the way to the stage. He double-checked the identification tags and slid the boxes into their respective places. He walked back up the aisle, pausing every ten feet or so to double-check a box or a tag marking the location of each artifact like a catalog in three dimensions, the handwritten record of the last four months of his life. He closed the theater doors behind him, looped the chains through the handles, and secured the padlock, laying it gently against the old wood.

  Stillman collected the pumpkin from the lobby. It left a circular imprint on the dusty case. He walked out into the fading afternoon light, locked the doors, and tucked the old key back into his hip pocket. From his truck he retrieved a thick envelope and went back across the street to Twila’s. He set the pumpkin on the counter and handed the envelope to Sadie. “The insurance company will want this when they get here,” he said. Sadie nodded. Stillman left again.

  He slipped the small package out of his jeans and sunk into the cab of his truck, turning the package over in his hands from front to back to front. He laid it on top of the bible, riding shotgun since July, and tucked them both deep into a duffel bag stashed on the floor of the passenger side. He dug his phone out of the glove compartment. He scrolled through half a dozen missed calls from National Risk Insurance and one unknown. Then he dialed.