means the same cemetery but, in epidemics, it can mean the same grave. But there is no money for a stone, soâ¦â She shrugs. âThese men are somewhere in Evergreen Cemetery, in one of the older parts.â
âSomewhere,â my father says. âNear Juneau and Harris, under the trees.â He straightens up and winces as his back catches. He rotates a few degrees, twisting to one side and then the other. He breathes out, and settles his hands in his lap. âI had a feeling he was there.â
âYes, but not just there,â she says. âMaybe not just there. Look at the âdoâ marks. He is not with that group. See? Stanton Harper, Evergreen. Thomas, âdoâ. Then another Evergreen and âdoâ many times. Stanton Harper is not in an unmarked grave. The hospital, the community, they paid his expenses. There is a stone. And beneath his âEvergreenâ on the list, there is just one âdoâ. And that is Thomas. I spoke to othersin the Gastineau Genealogical Society, members who have done more of these ancestor look-ups than me, and they agree with me. It is likely that Stanton Harper and Thomas are buried in the same grave. And I can take you to it.â
It takes a moment for my fatherâs expression to change. He had settled for that section of the cemetery, the greening bronzes, the patches marked only with numbers or with nothing, Thomas somewhere in there among the unnamed miners.
âYes,â he says. He starts to push himself up, as though weâre leaving already. âYes. Please.â
âI have my car.â
My father is halfway to standing, his hands still on the arms of the chair, launch incomplete, as if thereâs a chance he hasnât got it right, there is no grave, we arenât going. He surveys the tableâthe pan, the knives, the blanket, the papers.
âThat bookâ¦â He points to Northwest of Everything . âIs it available anywhere? I want to know about him. Stanton Harper.â Before Hope can answer, he turns to me, and the pointing comes my way, too. Point, point, point. âThe iPad Mini. Thereâs free wi-fi here, isnât there?â
Hope nods. He takes the pack as soon as itâs off my back and pulls his iPad Mini out. He flips the cover open, flicks a switch and starts tapping at the screen.
âCome on, come onâ¦â
It comes to life and starts looking for a connection. He hands it to Hope so that she can enter the wi-fi password and then he goes straight to Amazon.
âA few used hardbacks and paperbacks,â he says, eyes not leaving the screen. âBut I can get it for Kindle now.â
As he makes the purchase, Hope packs the museumâs objects into the record box.
âThe writer of the book,â she says. âI didnât meet him. We were in Honolulu then. Carl was stationed at Pearl Harbour. My friends here, they remember the writer as a giant, but I donât know. Maybe he was just tall. Things get exaggerated. It was before the time when people took photos of everything. I donât know for sure what he found. I donât know how much he wanted the book to be a true story.â
âI want to make a donation,â my father tells her. Heâs already put his iPad down and unzipped his bumbag. âTo the museum or the genealogical society or both.â
He starts pulling notes from the bumbag, as if a wound has opened up and heâs gushing greenbacks.
âOh.â Hope steps back. âI donât know how. The museum people who take donations arenât here today. I donât know how to do a receipt.â
âI donât need a receipt.â He folds up a wad ofbills, takes Hopeâs hand and presses the money into it. âIâll leave it with you. It can all go to your society, if thatâs easier. Buy more software, whatever you need to make it easy to do what you do. Or just buy everyone a drink or
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