Assumptions by C.E. Pietrowiak

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