splashed
across them as if they had spilled from tubes of pigment. Phrases trickled down the margins. There was a secret code of asterisks
and arrows and underlined words to remind him that some detail was particularly juicy, that it went to what he thought of
as the heart of a matter. When the Weeder wasstill an undergraduate at Yale, a professor of Colonial military history had caught a glimpse of his raw notes and had concluded
he would never amount to much as a historian; too unfocused to be scholarly, he said, too willing to fill historical gaps
with figments of his imagination. If only the professor, long buried, could have seen him lecturing to this gathering of alumni
at a class reunion.
“Which brings me to what we don’t know,” the Weeder had heard himself saying. “We have a fairly complete picture of what happened
to the subject of my study before September fifteenth. We certainly know what happened to him on the twenty-second. But the
week between the two is missing—it’s a blank, a black hole in history. Where did he go during the missing week? Whom did he
contact? What, if anything, did he accomplish? I have discovered a hint buried in an old orderly book that codes were involved,
which would suggest that a message might have been sent back. I’ve also come across reminiscences written many years after
the events in question by one of the subject’s brothers, Enoch. In it he refers to someone in Brooklyn whom Nate was supposed
to get in touch with, a patriot who would provide him with a cover story—Nate would pretend to be an itinerant artisan boarding
with families while he repaired shoes. Enoch appeared to know exactly what had happened to his brother during the missing
week and claimed to have gotten the information from A. Hamilton in a letter that has unfortunately been lost. I am hot on
the trail of the A. Hamilton letter, as well as any record that may have been kept by the patriot in Brooklyn. With their
help I hope to solve one of the great mysteries of American history—to tell the world what happened to the subject of my study
during the missing week.”
There had been applause. Nothing to register on the Richter scale, but polite. The professor who had invited the Weeder to
give the lecture had lunged forward to shake his hand. Collecting his index cards on the lectern, the Weeder had glanced at
his former roommate, Wanamaker, in the last row.
He was stifling a yawn.
Once again the Weeder had been struck by the tendency of people who haven’t seen each other for long periods to pick up, emotionally
speaking, precisely where they had left off.
He and Wanamaker had roomed together in Branford College until the incident; the accident; the murder. Wanamaker, afterward,
had putout his hand and said he hoped there would be no hard feelings. Trying the capsules had been her idea, he explained. He merely
told her where she could find some. If he hadn’t helped her, somebody else would have. As for what happened to her well, nobody
could have foreseen that; nobody could have taken precautions.
If the Weeder had been hoping to avoid Wanamaker at the reunion, he ran out of luck after the alumni luncheon under the blue-and-white
striped awning. By coincidence they bumped into each other near the statue of Nate outside Connecticut Hall, the one with
his feet tied at the ankles, his wrists tied behind his back, his fists clenched—in fear? in anger? in exhilaration (the Weeder’s
pet theory, unproven) at the prospect of putting one over on the enemy?
“That was an interesting talk you gave this morning,” Wanamaker remarked.
“I didn’t think you heard a word I said,” the Weeder retorted.
“Actually, I didn’t. I was just being polite.” Wanamaker hadn’t been able to cap the giggle that bubbled to the surface.
“Well,” the Weeder said, “everyone steps out of character now and then.” He eyed Wanamaker suspiciously. He
across them as if they had spilled from tubes of pigment. Phrases trickled down the margins. There was a secret code of asterisks
and arrows and underlined words to remind him that some detail was particularly juicy, that it went to what he thought of
as the heart of a matter. When the Weeder wasstill an undergraduate at Yale, a professor of Colonial military history had caught a glimpse of his raw notes and had concluded
he would never amount to much as a historian; too unfocused to be scholarly, he said, too willing to fill historical gaps
with figments of his imagination. If only the professor, long buried, could have seen him lecturing to this gathering of alumni
at a class reunion.
“Which brings me to what we don’t know,” the Weeder had heard himself saying. “We have a fairly complete picture of what happened
to the subject of my study before September fifteenth. We certainly know what happened to him on the twenty-second. But the
week between the two is missing—it’s a blank, a black hole in history. Where did he go during the missing week? Whom did he
contact? What, if anything, did he accomplish? I have discovered a hint buried in an old orderly book that codes were involved,
which would suggest that a message might have been sent back. I’ve also come across reminiscences written many years after
the events in question by one of the subject’s brothers, Enoch. In it he refers to someone in Brooklyn whom Nate was supposed
to get in touch with, a patriot who would provide him with a cover story—Nate would pretend to be an itinerant artisan boarding
with families while he repaired shoes. Enoch appeared to know exactly what had happened to his brother during the missing
week and claimed to have gotten the information from A. Hamilton in a letter that has unfortunately been lost. I am hot on
the trail of the A. Hamilton letter, as well as any record that may have been kept by the patriot in Brooklyn. With their
help I hope to solve one of the great mysteries of American history—to tell the world what happened to the subject of my study
during the missing week.”
There had been applause. Nothing to register on the Richter scale, but polite. The professor who had invited the Weeder to
give the lecture had lunged forward to shake his hand. Collecting his index cards on the lectern, the Weeder had glanced at
his former roommate, Wanamaker, in the last row.
He was stifling a yawn.
Once again the Weeder had been struck by the tendency of people who haven’t seen each other for long periods to pick up, emotionally
speaking, precisely where they had left off.
He and Wanamaker had roomed together in Branford College until the incident; the accident; the murder. Wanamaker, afterward,
had putout his hand and said he hoped there would be no hard feelings. Trying the capsules had been her idea, he explained. He merely
told her where she could find some. If he hadn’t helped her, somebody else would have. As for what happened to her well, nobody
could have foreseen that; nobody could have taken precautions.
If the Weeder had been hoping to avoid Wanamaker at the reunion, he ran out of luck after the alumni luncheon under the blue-and-white
striped awning. By coincidence they bumped into each other near the statue of Nate outside Connecticut Hall, the one with
his feet tied at the ankles, his wrists tied behind his back, his fists clenched—in fear? in anger? in exhilaration (the Weeder’s
pet theory, unproven) at the prospect of putting one over on the enemy?
“That was an interesting talk you gave this morning,” Wanamaker remarked.
“I didn’t think you heard a word I said,” the Weeder retorted.
“Actually, I didn’t. I was just being polite.” Wanamaker hadn’t been able to cap the giggle that bubbled to the surface.
“Well,” the Weeder said, “everyone steps out of character now and then.” He eyed Wanamaker suspiciously. He
Similar Books
