“If I hadn’t, would you want to hire me?”
When she hesitated, he smiled. “It’s really easy, actually. You could do it yourself. Start with a utility to remove unwanted files and extensions—”
“Okay. I’ll stop you right there. Fifty dollars is fine.”
She removed the ice pack, started to stand up slowly, and sat back down again, surprised by the pain. She knew how she looked: eighty years old instead of thirty-two. This was ridiculous. But that was always her thought, and it never helped. She took a sip of her tea and prepared, pushed herself up to a standing position again, then went inside the house, gesturing for him to follow.
A half hour later, Reece was running the defrag from the kitchen table she’d half-cleared for his work while she did the dishes, trying to look busy until the chore was done and she could see him out. The journal was where she’d left it, on the coffee table in front of the couch.
He stood up and wandered toward the nearest bookshelves, which lined the kitchen as they lined every other room: presidential biographies, American Indian wars, Victoriana. She waited to see if he’d pull out a book, but he didn’t. She remembered the feeling from when she was younger, trying to find the right corner of history to step into. There was just so much, most of it unapproachable and seemingly irrelevant. Then you found one person or event, tugged that single thread and waited to see if something tugged back.
She asked, “How much longer will this take?”
“Hard to say. Could be thirty minutes.”
He started to pull something out of his pocket—his phone, she assumed. He would lose himself in YouTube, Facebook or Instagram, probably. Instead, he pulled out a Sharpie marker and started rubbing his thumb against the cap. A nervous tic.
“I think we’re wasting time,” he said.
Why had he just said that?
“I think so, too.”
Why had she said that? The words were out before she could think, but now she found herself frowning, embarrassed, as if an enormous burp had just slipped out.
Ruth wanted to add, If we’re going to work together, you need to think historically, whether it’s the distant or recent past: technological changes, social context. And you have to stop smoking. Your body is a temple.
She heard her inner monologue and thought, Work together? She didn’t even know this kid.
And, Your body is a temple? That wasn’t even a phrase she used. It was bad enough to have a senseless thought. Worse to have one in a voice that didn’t seem like your own.
She pointed at his shirt. “Rockets—is that a band?”
“Cheerleading, although the other guys call it ‘tumbling’ to save their reputations. It’s a gymnastics alternative that some of us started because we refuse to run around to really bad music with smiles on our faces. The senior who founded it graduated, so I took over this year. It’s a stupid name, but we’re not bad.”
“You’re a cheerleader?”
“Cheerleaders were all men once.”
True. She knew that. “But Rockets isn’t your passion?”
“It’s not high art. But it’s something to do for an hour. Which still leaves the rest of every day to be bored.”
“Is there anything that does interest you?”
“Used to be dance,” he said. “Ballet, modern.”
“Used to be?”
“Also computers. But that’s like saying you like some type of car when what you mean is you want to go somewhere. What I mean is, I don’t actually care about the car. I don’t want to code or work for Google or Microsoft, which is what teachers assume, just because I can optimize a laptop and I like to look things up. Sometimes I think I hate the Internet, actually, but I can’t stay off it, because I’m just looking.”
“That’s normal.”
“No, it’s not.” He squinted. “I’ll have my fingers on my phone like I’m supposed to be searching for something, but I don’t know the right terms to type in. You know? There’s this feeling, like I was just about to do something. Just about to find something out. But I’ve already lost it.”
“Have you ever described that feeling to anyone? Maybe a school counselor?”
“At school they’d just say I have ADD, like I’m not paying attention, or OCD, because I can’t stop wanting to search.”
“And your parents? What do they say?”
He rolled his eyes. “My mom likes me to take zinc.”
“Does that help?”
Ruth detected a hint of a smile. No words were needed.
One of Ruth’s arguments about not being ready for kids anytime soon had been that she didn’t know how to talk to children. Teens were even harder. To which Scott had replied, You don’t have to talk most of the time. You just have to listen.
“I like to solve problems,” Reece said. “But I don’t have any good ones at the moment. I mean, obviously, I don’t know what I don’t know.”
“Okay,” she said, sympathizing. And deciding.
“Okay what?”
“I’ve got a problem, or maybe a puzzle, which could be a hoax. But I’m really hoping not.” She took a deep breath. “You might learn something interesting.”
Ruth pulled the bubble-wrapped package from the box, shaking her head. The journal should have been wrapped in glassine or tissue paper, then further supported by firm boards and cushioned so it wouldn’t slide in the box, to start.
“Reece?”
They’d relocated to the couch in the living room. Now he looked over her shoulder, studying the plastic-wrapped book in her hands.
“Yes.”
“If you ever send a very old, rare journal to someone, don’t wrap it in non-breathable plastic. With big temperature changes, you’re asking for condensation.”
“I will absolutely remember that. What are we waiting for now?”
“We’re reminding ourselves that research takes time, no matter what nervous collectors or greedy dealers might want to think.”
“Right.”
Reece had taken the Sharpie out of his back pocket and was holding it between two fingers, restlessly tapping his knee. Ticka-ticka.
“Just a second,” she said.
Ticka-ticka.
“Shhhh.”
Ticka-ticka-ticka-ticka.
Ruth placed a hand over Reece’s in order to stop the sound. He tensed in response.