Juneau: Wisdom Tree 4 by Nick Earls Page B

means the same cemetery but, in epidemics, it can mean the same grave. But there is no money for a stone, so…’ She shrugs. ‘These men are somewhere in Evergreen Cemetery, in one of the older parts.’
    â€˜Somewhere,’ my father says. ‘Near Juneau and Harris, under the trees.’ 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. ‘I had a feeling he was there.’
    â€˜Yes, but not just there,’ she says. ‘Maybe not just there. Look at the ‘do’ marks. He is not with that group. See? Stanton Harper, Evergreen. Thomas, ‘do’. Then another Evergreen and ‘do’ 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 ‘Evergreen’ on the list, there is just one ‘do’. 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.’
    It takes a moment for my father’s 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.
    â€˜Yes,’ he says. He starts to push himself up, as though we’re leaving already. ‘Yes. Please.’
    â€˜I have my car.’
    My father is halfway to standing, his hands still on the arms of the chair, launch incomplete, as if there’s a chance he hasn’t got it right, there is no grave, we aren’t going. He surveys the table—the pan, the knives, the blanket, the papers.
    â€˜That book…’ He points to Northwest of Everything . ‘Is it available anywhere? I want to know about him. Stanton Harper.’ Before Hope can answer, he turns to me, and the pointing comes my way, too. Point, point, point. ‘The iPad Mini. There’s free wi-fi here, isn’t there?’
    Hope nods. He takes the pack as soon as it’s off my back and pulls his iPad Mini out. He flips the cover open, flicks a switch and starts tapping at the screen.
    â€˜Come on, come on…’
    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.
    â€˜A few used hardbacks and paperbacks,’ he says, eyes not leaving the screen. ‘But I can get it for Kindle now.’
    As he makes the purchase, Hope packs the museum’s objects into the record box.
    â€˜The writer of the book,’ she says. ‘I didn’t 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 don’t know. Maybe he was just tall. Things get exaggerated. It was before the time when people took photos of everything. I don’t know for sure what he found. I don’t know how much he wanted the book to be a true story.’
    â€˜I want to make a donation,’ my father tells her. He’s already put his iPad down and unzipped his bumbag. ‘To the museum or the genealogical society or both.’
    He starts pulling notes from the bumbag, as if a wound has opened up and he’s gushing greenbacks.
    â€˜Oh.’ Hope steps back. ‘I don’t know how. The museum people who take donations aren’t here today. I don’t know how to do a receipt.’
    â€˜I don’t need a receipt.’ He folds up a wad ofbills, takes Hope’s hand and presses the money into it. ‘I’ll leave it with you. It can all go to your society, if that’s easier. Buy more software, whatever you need to make it easy to do what you do. Or just buy everyone a drink or