The Book of Illumination

by Mary Ann Winkowski

  I took the back road over Belmont Hill and down Concord Avenue. There was so little traffic that I decided to go home before picking up Henry at after-school. I could dump the groceries, throw in a load of laundry, and still get to the school in plenty of time.

  Sorting laundry, I thought back to the turn things had taken when we opened the bindery door. Amanda Perkins, Sylvia’s boss, was leading some very well dressed individuals—trustees? potential benefactors?—on what I presumed to be a private backstage tour.

  Chandler, flushed and damp, was holding forth with animation (and a slight British accent that he seemed to have acquired overnight) about a book on British and Irish ferns that had been donated to the library by the architect John Sturgis. He wore weird German glasses, the kind they made fun of on Saturday Night Live. These apparently represented a random stab at sartorial edginess, as he was otherwise attired in faded Dockers, a blue oxford shirt that appeared to be no-iron, and sneakers that definitely hailed from the “Comfort Shoe” aisle of the New Balance factory outlet. I know, because I checked it out when I took Henry there for soccer cleats. Not being opposed to comfort, I even tried some on, and they sure did feel great. But I just couldn’t. The day may come, but I’m not there yet.

  Amanda, a slight, trim blonde in a sleek navy suit, eyed me over horn-rimmed half glasses. Her hair, expertly frosted, was cut short in the manner of a chic Parisian. I could tell she wasn’t thrilled by the interruption. I suspected she was buttering up these CEOs for donations.

  I was starting to get a little worried about time, so as soon as I could politely pull Sylvia away from the group, I did. It was obvious that we wouldn’t have the opportunity to sneak the manuscript out of there anytime soon, and Amanda, whom Sylvia had particularly wanted me to meet, was clearly engaged for the time being.

  “I’ll talk to her this afternoon,” she whispered. “I’m sure she won’t have a problem with me bringing you on.”

  “All right,” I said. I was walking kind of slowly, half-hoping that the monks would deign to appear to us as Sylvia escorted me to the elevator. They didn’t.

  “Could I maybe start on Monday? I’ve got some loose ends to tie up, and I have to chaperone my son’s field trip on Friday.”

  She smiled. “Sure. Where are you going?”

  “Apple picking.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  I nodded. To be honest, I don’t much look forward to these things. I’d put in so much time “parent helping” at Henry’s nursery school—scrubbing toilets, washing out the dozens of yogurt tubs used for painting projects, freezing my tail off on the weekends before Christmas, serving my obligatory shifts at the annual tree sale—that I hoped never again to be asked to sign up for anything. But so many of the parents have “real” jobs, sometimes two, that the teachers tend to rely on people like me, who apparently don’t have to be anywhere at any special time. And the trips are always nicer than I think they’ll be. There’s often a moment when I unexpectedly find myself on the verge of tears, thinking of Henry going off to college.

  “What time should I come in?” I asked.

  “Ten all right?”

  The rain woke me up in the wee hours of Friday morning and my first thought was, Oh no! Followed instantly by, Oh, yeah! Maybe they’ll cancel the field trip and reschedule it for next week, when I won’t be able to chaperone because I have a job.

  I particularly looked forward to making this fact known, somehow, to my nemesis, Julia Swensen, who had absolutely no idea how largely she figured in my imagination. We rarely spoke more than a couple of words, as she was as unaware of me as I was aware of her.

  I’d stopped introducing myself to her after the third or fourth time, when it became abundantly clear that she had filed my name, and me, in the folder marked “No Reason to Remember.” Julia was always perfectly turned out, with great shoes that I coveted, waiting to usher little Neela inside the minute the school doors opened at seven thirty. School doesn’t start until eight; I have only been there earlier than that a couple of times, and never by choice.

  Julia’s cell phone would already be ringing, and you could practically smell how important it made her feel to have people absolutely desperate to reach her at seven twenty-five in the morning. She would roll her eyes at the rest of us, huddled in a dazed little group, clutching our travel mugs. Her look said, Can’t I please be left in peace to droop my only child at school? Am I that indispensable?

  Julia didn’t chaperone. Ever. She didn’t have time. She was very, very busy, terribly busy, crushingly busy. According to my friend Lianne, who volunteered part-time in the school’s newly established development office, she gave the school money, instead.

  Lying in bed listening to the rain on the eaves, I imagined the interaction unfolding like this.

  I would show up at seven thirty some morning in my one nice suit (if it still fit—I hadn’t had it on since before Henry was born). Julia would practically do a double take and say:

  “It’s—Anne, isn’t it?”

  Wrong, sister, but we’ll let it pass.

  “Uh, Anza, actually.”

  Julia would secretly be congratulating herself for dredging something fairly close to my name up from the depths of her memory. She’d smile wearily. “Early meeting?”

  I’d sigh and nod but offer no details, making her work for the information she wanted.

  “Where do you work?” she would finally ask, curious to place me somewhere on the grid.

  “Oh, at the Boston Athenaeum,” I’d coolly respond, in a tone of voice that conveyed my surprise at the fact that she didn’t already know this. My suit would send the signal: And not sweeping floors, baby.

  “Really? I had no idea,” she would no doubt go on, relegating to her thoughts the second half of the sentence, Because you always struck me as such a schlump.

  “I’m restoring a collection of rare books,” I could now say, casually. Topping that with, “and consulting on the provenance of a priceless medieval manuscript.”

  Julia would then respond with, “Wow!” Or something like that. Which is all I really wanted. That one moment in which she instantly understood how profoundly she had underestimated me.

  I didn’t like Julia at all. I didn’t want to be friends with her. I didn’t want to meet her husband or be invited to dinner or asked to a party to which I would have nothing fun to wear. I just didn’t want her to look at me first thing in the morning through her chic, tasteful glasses and think, Loser.

  Henry was up in a tree. I wasn’t sure that the owners of the orchard would be crazy about this, the health of their branches being closely tied to the wealth in their coffers, but the low-hanging limbs were proving irresistible, not only to Henry, but also to several other kids.

  “Henry,” I called.

  He ignored me.

  “Henry!” He looked down.

  “Come on down. It’s not good for the branches.” “I’m not hurting them!”

  I gave him a look, the kind that meant, Did you hear what I just said?

  “I’m not,” he insisted. Then I heard, much more quietly, “You’re not in charge.”

  He glanced at me guiltily. He knew I had heard him. I took a deep breath, recalling this phenomenon from my days of parent helping. You show up. Your kid seems overjoyed to have you there, and for five minutes, you cannot peel him off your leg. Then, for the rest of the day, he acts like a monster.

  “Henry!” I heard his teacher, Miss O’Hara, say sharply. “Hannah! Miles! Get down this minute and come over here!” They scrambled down the trees so quickly they hardly could have fallen faster.

  I was a little in awe of Miss O’Hara, whom the kids called Miss O. Where did they get these teachers? These attractive, smart, organized young women, and a couple of men, who are so woefully underpaid that they have to support their teaching habit with second jobs?

  The children squirmed and threw glances at one another. Miss O. stood for a few moments without speaking. T
hen she said quietly, “Did the three of you sign a contract this morning?”

  They nodded.

  “Henry?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, Miss O.”

  “And what is a contract, Hannah?”

  “A pwomith,” Hannah lisped. She was missing all four of her front teeth.

  “Louder, please.” Her tone was even and kind.

  “A pwomith.”

  “A promise, what?”

  “A pwomith, Mith O.”

  Miss O’Hara nodded. “Miles, did the contract say anything about trees?”

  “It said I will not climb on trees. Miss O.”

  The teacher nodded.

  “All right. Since I’m sure you have all learned from your mistake, I’m going to give you one—more—chance. One.”

  She sounded like me when I say, “I am going to count to three.” You hope the tone of voice does the trick, because you haven’t got a clue what you’ll do if the standoff continues past three. But Miss O. probably knows. She is definitely a person with a plan.

  The phone in the kitchen was ringing as Henry and I climbed the stairs, but the call went to the machine before I could get the door open. I figured it was just Hollywood Express, calling to let me know that the 24 DVD was overdue.

  It was nearly seven o’clock. Sunshine, fresh air, and the excitement of the day had worn the kids out, but I was still surprised when Henry followed me to a seat on the bus and slid in beside me. He was asleep before we hit Route 2 and slept all the way back to Cambridge, waking only when the bus pulled into the schoolyard. He sat up sharply, damp from the heat of the sun through the window, momentarily disoriented. Then he smiled, sighed, and slumped back down.

  I’d forgotten to pick up coffee at Wilson Farms, so we’d driven to Whole Foods before heading home. I had steeled myself to resist the rows of delectable out-of-season fruit shipped halfway around the globe, but the scent of the ever-expanding take-out section captured us the minute we walked in the door. Sure, I had a fridge full of fresh produce and a chicken just waiting to be roasted, but that would take a while. We were both starving, and I wasn’t up for the effort it would take to hold Henry off until I could get a proper meal on the table. Besides, the time would come when I would no longer be able to delight my son simply by springing for a six-inch pizza. Me, I went for chowder and corn bread. We ate at a table by the windows.

  I checked for a phone message, but it was too soon. Normally I’d be steering Henry toward the tub at this point, but his hour-long nap had revived him, so I decided to let him play while I cleaned up the kitchen. Junk mail had been piling up, offers from credit card companies and hopeful postcards from local Realtors, who had obviously bought the wrong mailing list. The phone rang again. I picked it up.

  “Anza!” someone said, but I couldn’t tell who. There was a little series of sobs, and then a whisper so low I could hardly hear. “The book,” I heard her say. I recognized the voice: it was Sylvia’s.

  “The manuscript! It’s gone.”

  Chapter Seven

  MAX AND ELLIE had just finished supper when I knocked on their door. Ellie was about to leave, already late for a class she was taking, something to do with home organization and freeing your spirit by getting rid of clutter. I hoped she didn’t get rid of too much; I loved her eccentric arrangements of shells and stones, the tables strewn with old magazines and dishes of hard candy, postcards and photos propped against the books on the bookshelves, and her kitchen, which seemed not to have two matching anything, each plate and cup apparently a lone survivor of a set an aunt or a friend had formerly owned.

  Max was more than happy to have company, so I hustled Henry into the tub, extracting from him a promise that he would go to bed without any drama if nine o’clock came and I still wasn’t home.

  Max was setting up the chessboard when we arrived. Henry pulled over his favorite chair, piling it up with the pillows he needed to be able to see the board. A package of Oreos, two glasses, and a quart of milk were on the table. I bit my tongue, thanked Max again, and promised to be back as quickly as I could.

  “Don’t hurry,” Max said.

  “Yeah,” Henry chimed in.

  It took me half an hour to get to Sylvia’s. I’d been stunned to hear that the manuscript had disappeared from her apartment, not the bindery, but that was all I knew so far. I had convinced her not to touch anything or to call anyone—not the police, not the Athenaeum, nobody—until I got there. Having a detective in the family, at least sort of in the family, can be handy. My plan was to get in touch with Declan as soon as I got the lay of the land.

  Sylvia lives in a well-kept brick building near Cleveland Circle in Brookline, on a street lined with elegant postwar apartment buildings. In the downstairs lobby, unlocked from the street, were eight brass doorbells and mailboxes. Anyone could walk right in and follow a resident into the inner stairwell, or even be buzzed inside by a careless resident of one of the other apartments. I pressed her button, waiting on the polished-granite landing until I heard her buzz me in. I paused inside to see if the inner door closed all the way on its own. It did.

  I climbed to the fourth floor, where Sylvia stood in her doorway. She launched right in as she led me into her living room, a floral, feminine nest that looked out onto the treetops.

  “My door was locked, like nothing was wrong,” she began. “I must have been home for half an hour before I realized something had happened. I can’t believe it. I feel sick.”

  She sat down on the sofa, looking pasty and distraught.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “My … son’s dad is a Boston cop, a detective.”

  “Really?”

  I nodded. “I’ll call him in a minute. Just tell me what happened.”

  I sat down beside her. She closed her eyes, as though trying to collect her thoughts.

  “I don’t know where to start,” she finally admitted. “I’m just—”

  “I thought the book was at the Athenaeum,” I interrupted.

  “Okay,” she said, taking a deep breath. “After you left on Tuesday, I went back to talk to Amanda. Let her know you were going to be starting.”

  “Who were those people she was showing around?”

  “Two guys from Oxford and a rare books dealer from Sussex. And a viscount. Lord Brisley or Risley or something.” Sylvia shrugged. “They’re in town for a conference at Harvard.”

  “The same one?”

  She gave me a puzzled look.

  “The same what?”

  “The symposium at Harvard? The reason James Wescott said he was coming over.”

  Her expression went blank and she let out a deep sigh. “Oh my God. I never put it together. Maybe that’s where Sam’s been.”

  “You’re losing me. Back up.”

  “Sorry.” She took another breath and started over. “I worked in the bindery until about five thirty. Chandler was there all afternoon, so I couldn’t get the manuscript out of the back room. He’s so nosy; he would have been all over me. I had to wait until he left, which he did, at about six o’clock. I figured he was gone for the night, but I took the book up to my office, just to be safe. That thing Paola Moretti said about the knot pattern in the borders? I wanted to see if I could find it.”

  I nodded. In the letter Tad had given Sylvia, Paola Moretti had described a variation on the classic Celtic knot: a rare symmetrical pattern in which the four knots forming the painted symbol point toward the center of the illustration. The presence of this variation in Sylvia’s manuscript could help to establish the time and place of its creation.

  “I found them. In seven or eight places. They were so beautiful. Anyway, about an hour later, I took the book back downstairs, but when I got off the elevator, I saw Chandler unlocking the bindery door. He had a Starbucks and a shopping bag from DeLuca’s—”

  “So he was settling in for the night,” I concluded.

  “Lately, he’s there when I get
to work in the morning and he’s there when I leave. Sometimes I wonder if he even goes home. I don’t know what’s going on in his personal life—”

  “Not much, apparently,” I commented.

  “Right, which is why I decided to bring the book home with me and take it over to Sam’s. Who knows what Chandler does when he gets bored? I could easily see him poking around late at night and finding it.”

  “Couldn’t you have left it in your office?”

  “The cleaners come in every night, plus the temperature’s always up and down. I knew Sam would be really excited about the letter, and I knew I could talk him into keeping the book for me. But I couldn’t get in touch with him. I called the house four or five times. I even drove down there.”

  “Doesn’t he have a cell phone?” I asked.

  “He doesn’t even have an answering machine,” she said.

  She paused, leaned forward, and straightened some magazines that were already straight. She didn’t say anything for a minute or two. Finally she looked over.

  “Could the ghosts have taken it? The monks?” she asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Are you sure?”

  “They probably didn’t even know it was here. Ghosts are like people that way: they only know about what they’ve actually seen and heard.”

  Sylvia looked completely baffled.

  “They’re not omniscient. They don’t see and know everything that happens in the world just because they’re—in the air. If they didn’t actually see you take the book out of the bindery, carry it to your office, and then bring it here, they wouldn’t have any idea where it went. We’ll probably hear from them on Monday, when they suddenly notice it’s missing.”