by Geoff Ryman
After they had talked for a while, Bill gave Jonathan something to help him sleep. Jonathan crept back to bed in a darkened room, and found Karl waiting for him there. Karl’s body was smooth and cold. He kissed the tip of Jonathan’s nose and asked the question that everyone asked.
“What,” Karl asked Jonathan, “do you want to do?”
“I want to stay here in Kansas,” said Jonathan. “With you.”
Manhattan, Kansas
September 1989
“Öz Ev”
“Real Home”—
a motto on many trucks in Turkey, usually accompanied by a painting of a white house in green fields by a river
In the morning, Jonathan wasn’t in his room.
Bill walked out into the parking lot. There was a low, golden light pouring across Highway 24, the trucks tirelessly rumbling past. On the other side of the road there was a warehouse made of aluminum sheeting with an orange sign—REX’S TIRE C. Above that there was a rise of large trees, like clouds, up a slope to a deliberate clearing. MANHATTAN, said giant white letters. On the top of the hill there was a water tower, like a white upside-down test tube. There was an apple painted on it. MANHATTAN, said the water tower, THE LITTLE APPLE.
Bill saw Jonathan walking out of the shrubbery. Jonathan was walking backward. A newspaper was curled up and held firmly under his arm.
“There you are,” said Bill. “I was getting worried.”
Jonathan answered with his back toward Bill. “The river moved. I was trying to find it.”
“By walking backward? Come on, Jonathan.” Bill tugged Jonathan around to face him. Jonathan was grinning. As soon as Bill let him go, like a door on a spring, Jonathan spun back around.
“Jonathan, turn around, please.”
“I could walk into the river backward,” he said.
“We’re going to have breakfast. Are you up for breakfast?”
“Oh, yeah, I could eat a horse.”
“Good, then let me look at you.” He pulled Jonathan back around. Jonathan was still grinning. Bill held him in place and peered into his eyes, which had gone yellow.
“What color is your pee?” Bill asked.
“Bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Come on, just tell me what color it is.”
“How should I know? I’m color-blind!” Jonathan replied.
“Open wide.” Jonathan stared back at him like Groucho Marx. “Your mouth, not your eyes.”
Beginning at the back of Jonathan’s throat there were ulcers, patches of yellow in pink swellings.
“Can you hold anything down?”
“Not even a job.” Released, Jonathan spun around again. “If I walk backward, I’ll go backward. Maybe I’ll disappear.”
“Jonathan,” said Bill, to his back. “Do you want to find Dorothy?”
Silence.
“If you keep acting up, I’ll have to take you straight to the nearest hospital. So turn around. You can turn around.”
“Nope. Can’t,” said Jonathan, and turned around to face him.
“You’re jaundiced, Jonathan. You may have something wrong with your liver. And you’ve got something very nasty down your gullet. You should be in the hospital. Now. I can give you today, Jonathan, but by evening, I want you in the hospital.”
“Sure, Ira,” said Jonathan.
There was a steakhouse next door to the Best Western, next door being about a fifth of a mile away. They walked across dirt to a breeze-block bungalow. The floor was made of tiles designed to look like blocks of wood. The Formica tables looked like wood. The food looked like wood. The hash browns looked like sawdust, the egg like putty. Breaded mushrooms steamed in tin basins like wooden knobs. Caterers had finally found a way to bottom-line breakfast.
Jonathan stared at the buffet, looking ill.
“You could try some bacon,” said Bill. It looked purple and soggy. Jonathan firmly shook his head, no.
“Jonathan, you’ve got to take something. How about some coffee? Tea?” Jonathan kept shaking his head.
Bill’s heart sank. The physical symptoms were bad enough, but it was the presenting behavior that was really worrying him. “Okay, let’s sit down. Do you think you could swallow some soup?”
Jonathan’s eyes moved sideways, terrorized by the prospect of food. He nodded yes. Bill took him by the arm and let him to a table.
A waitress came up to their table. “Coffee?” she asked. She had brown circles under her eyes and slightly hunched shoulders, but she seemed cheerful.
Bill said yes, and she poured coffee, not from the spout, but from the side, over the edge of the black-rimmed glass container.
“Did you catch my awesome backhand?” she asked.
Jonathan was staring up at the lights overhead. They were imitation oil lamps, with pink roses printed on them. Bill could see the dots.
“Are those old?” Jonathan asked the waitress.
“I don’t know, we just got them in last week.” The waitress giggled. “I’ll come back for your order in just a sec.” She waddled up to the next table and gave a gladsome cry. “Hi, Horace, how are you?”
An officer of the law in a brown uniform placed his cowboy hat on the table. “Well how you doing, boss lady?” he boomed.
“How was Ira?” Jonathan asked.
At last, a sensible question. Bill almost sighed with relief.
“He’s hysterical,” said Bill. “He blames himself, he’s full of worry. He thinks you can’t cope on your own. I told him how you’d used the credit card to buy a ticket and rent a car and said it didn’t sound exactly helpless to me. I—um—told him it would probably be better if he didn’t come along.”
“He told me to go away.”
“He may not have meant that.”
“I don’t want to go back.”
“Okay. But do you think you could write him a card or something?”
Without looking at him, without saying anything, Jonathan took the newspaper out from under his arm and gave it to Bill. It was a local newspaper, and the edge was ringed around and around with Jonathan’s handwriting. It was a letter to Ira.
The waitress was back with them, breathing good cheer, perfume and sweat. “Right, gentlemen, what will it be?”
“Do you cook any breakfast fresh?” Bill asked.
They found the car. Jonathan had the keys, and they had a plastic tag that said the license number, model, color.
They drove it to the Registry Office. Jonathan’s knees jiggled with nerves, and he hummed to himself. In the office, Sally greeted them.
“Sally, Sally,” he said, bobbing up and down. “I found the school!”
“Great!” she said. “Which one is it?”
“Sunflower School?” he asked.
“We’ll find it for you. Who’s your good-looking friend?”
“This is Bill,” said Jonathan, rather proudly. “He’s my psychiatrist.”
Sally shook hands properly. “You think he could be my psychiatrist, too?”
“Sure,” said Jonathan in a faraway voice. “But you have to be sick like me.”
Her smile faltered for a second. “Right,” she said. “Let’s check out that school.”
In the safe room, the big book was taken out, and Sally’s metallic pink fingernails raced across the pages. “We need its number,” she said. “Here we are. Sunflower School, number forty-three. It’s Zeandale Township but where exactly…” Scowling slightly, she went to another book. “Uh. Okay. I’ll show you where that is.”
She led them out of the main records room to the map on the wall and pointed. “That’s it, there, Zeandale Township, smack dab where Sectors 23, 24, 25 and 26 all meet.” She stood back and with a hooked finger delicately rubbed the tip of her nose.
Both Bill and Jonathan crowded around the map. Beside the main road was a tiny square with a number. It was near the Kaw, not far from the main road.
“So we’ve got about eight big pages to look through. What were those
names again?”
“Branscomb or Gael,” said Bill.
“That’s right, or another name if there was a marriage.”
Another huge book thumped down on the sloping desk, and Sector 25, Township 10, Range 8, was found, northwest and southwest.
“Pillsbury, Lewis, Long and…Monroe Scranton,” she murmured.
“Monroe Scranton?” said Jonathan, leaping forward, slightly frog-like. “He was hung for stealing Ed Pillsbury’s horses!”
Sally looked up. “Really? How do you know that?”
“I read it last night.”
“Well I’ll trade you. This guy Lewis here was jailed for theft. And this guy Long lost the property because he didn’t pay his taxes. SO this was kind of the bad corner of Zeandale. But…” she scanned the page. “No Branscomb or Gael.”
She turned the page. “Look at this. This is why we have so much trouble. You got L. H. Pillsbury deeding this quarter to Minerva Wiley in April ’82, and then it goes in reverse in the same month—well, she mortgages to him. But then in September ’82, you got George Pillsbury giving it to L. H. Pillsbury by relation—but it just doesn’t show how George got it. Then in ’83 the District Court is giving it to Minerva. Oh, I get it! They’ve divided the quarters into halves. And I bet that court deed is a divorce.”
Jonathan was making a rapid hissing noise through his nostrils.
“Jonathan,” asked Bill, “are the tips of your fingers buzzing?”
Jonathan looked around at him in woozy surprise. “How did you know?”
“Because you’re hyperventilating. Just breathe slowly, calmly.” Bill’s hands and chest moved outward, slowly, showing him how to breathe. “Relax. We have all day.”
“We only have today!” said Jonathan, in sharp dismay. His face crumpled up.
Sally ignored it. “Right, next page,” she said lightly, and looked up and around, still smiling. “Sorry, I just find all of this so much fun, I get distracted.”
And her glance caught Bill’s as she looked back to the pages.
I wonder how far you’ve gotten, Bill thought. He watched her scanning the pages. I would say you’ve probably decided that Jonathan is not exactly a mental patient. You’ve probably decided there is a physiological element. You’re used to puzzles. I wonder if you’ve worked this one out.
“Here we go,” said Sally. “Branscomb.” She stepped back and tapped the place with a fingernail.
“You’ve found it?” Jonathan’s voice rose high and thin.
The farm was listed in Sector 26, southeast quarter. It passed from J. Pillsbury to E. Pillsbury to Branscomb, all in 1857. They were listed out of date order, widely separated by other sales or mortgages, mostly in the early 1900s. The next entry by date was in 1890—a deed to J. Pillsbury from the government.
“That will just be a late copy entry,” said Sally. “I bet when we look at it, the deed will be typed, with a typed signature of Abraham Lincoln.”
“So what’s the story?” Bill asked.
“Matthew gets it in 1857…” Silence. Sally read, chin resting on her hand. “After that, I don’t know. In 1890 it passes from the Pillsburys to the Eakins. So maybe it did go back to the government and then to the Pillsburys.”
“That is the farm, though,” insisted Jonathan.
“We don’t see it passing from Matthew to anyone,” said Bill. “Not even his daughter?”
“They should show it passing by relation, but they don’t.” Sally lifted her hands up and let them drop. “Sometimes they didn’t.”
“What we’re looking for,” said Bill, “is the farm going to Emma, and then from Emma to her husband. That way we would know her married name.”
“That is the farm, isn’t it?” Jonathan’s voice rose.
“Unless Matthew had some land somewhere else as well,” said Sally.
“That’s not the farm?” Jonathan danced with confusion.
Sally looked at him. “Oh, we’ll find it. We know it’s somewhere around here.”
They skimmed the other pages. There was no other entry for Branscomb.
“Okay,” said Sally, still cheerful. “That means that must be the farm. Come on, I’ll show you.”
She walked to the map. “There it is,” she said, pointing. The sectors looked dead and cold.
“Could we find the farm from this map?” Bill asked.
“Sure! Sure we could!” exclaimed Jonathan. “Couldn’t we?”
Sally’s boss came in. “Excuse me. Sally, there’s a call for you about those mineral rights in Ogden. I’m sorry, gentlemen.”
“I don’t know how these sector maps related to the roads. What I suggest you do,” said Sally, talking quickly, “is find that schoolhouse. Get a hold of a plat book or something and use the schoolhouse to orient yourself.”
“Sally, I’m sorry, they’re holding on.”
“Okay,” said Sally. “Let me know what happens, huh?” She backed away, toward the outer office. She looked directly at Bill and said, “Take care of him.”
“Back so soon?” said the pale young man at the museum.
Jonathan seemed to blurt his way through the door, like an unintended remark. He did not wait for the young man to step aside from the entrance and jostled into him. The young man’s lips went thin.
“We got it,” said Jonathan. “We found the farm!” He was as awkward as a newborn colt. “We know the school she went to, so we can find the farm from that. Zeandale Township, Sector Twenty-six.”
“Hold it. Hold it,” said the young man.
Jonathan wavered in place, unable to understand why the librarian didn’t show more enthusiasm.
“What would you like to look at?”
“Hello,” said Bill. “We need to find a particular schoolhouse and farm in Zeandale. Basically, I think if we had a plat book for the 1870s, 1880s, that would help.”
The young man breathed out. “Do you mind telling me what this is for? Is it a research project? Is it connected with KSU?”
“It’s only a personal interest,” said Bill. “We’d be happy to talk to somebody if that would help.”
The young man sighed. “Our director is Kathy James. She’ll be in about ten today. If you wouldn’t mind talking to her.”
“Thank you, I’d be happy to.”
Back in the big, book-lined room. Hole punches and paper cutters, index printouts, stacks of wooden drawers out of their chests, cardboard tubes with maps inside, globes of the world.
“We’ve got a very good plat book for 1881,” said the young man. “It has engravings of local farms, shows the railways, has a list of businesses.”
“Perfect. Thank you,” said Bill.
“Your friend owes us ten sixty for photocopies,” said the young man. “He left without paying.”
“I’m sorry,” said Bill. “He’s very ill.”
The pale young man walked around to the front of the filing cabinets. They faced the wall. Bill sat down at the table, opposite Jonathan.
Jonathan’s knees bounced up and down, and the rims of his eyes looked almost brown. He had thrown up his breakfast soup.
“How ya doing, buddy?” Bill whispered.
“I’m going to ring the church bell,” answered Jonathan.
“Which church bell?” Bill asked quietly.
“The one in the little tower. In the school.”
Then Jonathan looked up in the direction of the doorway and beamed and greeted someone. “Hello,” he said.
Bill turned around in his chair. There was no one.
“Who’s been visiting?” Bill asked.
“Ira was standing beside the Coke machine,” said Jonathan.
“Was he?” said Bill.
“He hadn’t graduated yet.”
There was the sound of a filing cabinet rumbling shut.
“This do you?” asked the librarian.
He passed Bill a Xerox. It showed a sweep of river in flowing curves and centipede lines of railways. Manhattan the town
was blanked out by corduroy lines. At the bottom of the page there was a very fine, tiny engraving of a man on horseback looking at a distant train.
Jonathan stood up and rested his chin on Bill’s shoulder, as if it were a pillow.
There was a little square marked “No. 43.” It was on the corner of the main road and a lane that ran south toward hills. There were the sectors and quarters with names.
“It says Gulch,” said Bill. “Is that a name or a geographical feature?”
“I don’t know,” said the young man. “I also had this.”
He tossed down onto the table a Xerox of a photograph.
It showed a white, one-room wooden building with two windows on either side of a narrow roofed porch. The building also had a small bell tower.
Lined up outside it were about ten children in gingham checks or knickerbockers and a woman. She stood very stiffly, hands behind her back, smiling and young in a long, dark skirt and white blouse with mutton sleeves. In crabbed handwriting were the words “Sunflower School.”
“That will make it ten seventy for copies,” said the young man.
“Oh golly. Oh golly,” said Jonathan. “What if it’s her? What if it’s her in the photograph? Huh? Huh?”
The pale young man looked at him. “Whatever it is you’re looking for,” he said, “you’re not going to find it in an old photograph. It’s only history, you know.”
They drove. Bill had great difficulty finding Highway 18 out of town—the on-ramp rose out of the old streets that had not been razed for the shopping mall. Then very quickly they were passing over the levee, a great hump of green grass, then trees, and then they were driving over the Kansas River on a narrow bridge with narrow railed walkways. There were sandbanks in the river and the concrete supports of another modern bridge, crossing diagonally under them. It had been washed away.
Then the river was gone in a flurry of leaves. The highway divided. ZEANDALE, said a sign to the left. The road eased itself up a slope and down again. On one side there was flat, open farmland, on the other steep shaded woodland.
“Look at it!” said Jonathan. To the left were wide fields of almost orange sorghum, the heads in thick clumps. There were windmills far away and old farmhouses surrounded by beech and walnut that had been planted a hundred years before. Trees in a long line marked where the river flowed. Running parallel to the road, through hedges and fields and shrubbery, there was a gap where the railroad once had been.
