Assumptions by C.E. Pietrowiak Page A
Authors: C.E. Pietrowiak
Tags: Suspense, Death, Paranormal, Twilight, Chicago, High School, Ghost, angel, loss, Novella, supernatural romance, Catholic, Saint, assumptions, emerson and quig, saint ita
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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.
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
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.
"It seems only natural."
"Does it? I'm not so sure." They walked along
a curve in the road past a cluster of stone pillars. "I'm beginning
to think my father has the right idea."
"How so?" asked the Caretaker.
"He's erased her. Packed away every photo. He
never speaks her name. I don't see him for days. There's nothing
left to remind him."
"Including you."
"Including me."
They arrived at the pond. It sparkled in the
morning sun. Will inched to the very edge, knelt, and swished his
hand in the water, already wintry cold. A gust of wind blew a
ripple across the surface, distorting
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.
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
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.
"It seems only natural."
"Does it? I'm not so sure." They walked along
a curve in the road past a cluster of stone pillars. "I'm beginning
to think my father has the right idea."
"How so?" asked the Caretaker.
"He's erased her. Packed away every photo. He
never speaks her name. I don't see him for days. There's nothing
left to remind him."
"Including you."
"Including me."
They arrived at the pond. It sparkled in the
morning sun. Will inched to the very edge, knelt, and swished his
hand in the water, already wintry cold. A gust of wind blew a
ripple across the surface, distorting
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