Every Hill and Mountain

by Deborah Heal

  “Prepare more lectures. It takes a while to get them polished into the scintillating gems that they are.”

  “Don’t be hard on yourself. You’ll hit your stride soon enough.”

  He held the door for her and she went out ahead of him onto the quad. Brilliant orange maple leaves, carrying the scent of autumn, fluttered by against a deep blue sky. Nearby, Alyssa Holderman and four other girls, busily texting on their phones, paused and looked up with interest.

  Brett doled out one of his smiles. “Hello, ladies. Nice day, isn’t it?”

  The girls preened and twittered like pretty birds in designer jeans. “Yes, Dr. Garrison,” one said. “It sure is.”

  The girls’ heads swiveled in unison as they watched their idol pass by. Merrideth was pretty sure she heard a sigh. Surprisingly, Brett Garrison didn’t seem to notice their worshipful adoration.

  “So what about family?” he said.

  “Oh, I’m all in favor of them,” Merrideth said. “How about you?”

  He chuckled. “I’ll go first so you’ll know how to answer that question. I have a brother in Texas and a sister in North Carolina. My parents are deceased, but I do have an Aunt Nelda.”

  She smiled. “You do not have an Aunt Nelda.”

  “I do, in fact, have an Aunt Nelda. A very nice Aunt Nelda.”

  “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “And you being a history expert would like Aunt Nelda, for her old house if nothing else.”

  “Really? How old?”

  “Aunt Nelda or her house?”

  “The house,” she said, smiling in spite of herself.

  “I’m not sure of the exact date. The family has owned the property for generations.”

  “I love old houses.”

  “Then you should take the Haunted Lebanon tour in town. I know someone who could get you a ticket, if you’re interested.”

  “No, I’m good. I did the Haunted Alton tour a couple of years ago, and once was quite enough for me. Life is scary enough as it is. Besides, I’m tied up with the dig.”

  “See, you do other things besides preparing lectures. Where is it?”

  “We’re looking for a fort that was once down in the American Bottom.”

  He laughed uproariously. “I know I’m reverting to my junior high self, but a fort in the bottom? Really?”

  Merrideth rolled her eyes. “The American Bottom is the southern Illinois floodplain of the Mississippi River. After the Revolutionary War it was the western frontier of the brand new United States, hence the name American. The French who had lived there for more than a century, migrated across the river to the French city of St. Louis, and the Americans began to arrive. The early settlers built several blockhouse forts there.”

  “And you think you know where one was.”

  “We hope so. Fort Piggot was the largest of them, but ironically, historians didn’t even know of its existence until relatively recently when the so-called Piggot Papers were discovered. Just by coincidence, someone found them concealed inside a framed river pilot’s license that had been hanging on a wall in the Green County Museum since forever. It’s really fascinating and…I’m boring you to death. Sorry. I get carried away talking about this stuff.”

  “I’m not bored at all.”

  “Really?” And she realized that he wasn’t. Either that, or he was a good actor.

  “Sure. I don’t even particularly enjoy history, but you’ve made me curious to know where this fort was.”

  “Near Columbia. About thirty minutes from here.”

  He laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I never kid about history.”

  “My Aunt Nelda’s farm is not far from Columbia, above the famous American Bottom, although I had no idea that historians had given the area such a charming name. Come have coffee and tell me more.”

  Inexplicably, Merrideth found herself standing at the sidewalk that led up to the 1828 Cafe. Somehow while she was yammering on about the fort, she had forgotten to make the turn that would take her to Hunter Street where her apartment was. Somehow, she had just followed where Brett Garrison led like a mindless twit. Worse, students were staring at them from the cafe’s windows. Marla White had warned her that rumors spread faster than the speed of light in a small town, faster still in a small college. There was no way would she let false rumors about her and Brett Garrison prevent her from achieving her career goals.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I have to get home. Enjoy your coffee.”

  “Then I’ll say goodbye. And, Merrideth? You should get carried away in your classroom like you did just now. Enthusiasm is contagious. Your students will sit up and take notice.”

  “Thanks for the advice. See you.”

  He made it sound so simple. As if being enthusiastic was all it took to be a successful instructor. It went counter to her own personality, and besides, her friend Abby, who was an excellent elementary teacher, had told her that the old “Don’t Smile Until Christmas” guideline that worked for her fifth grade classes would work equally well for her college students, especially the freshmen. “If you’re too friendly,” she’d said, “they’ll think you’re soft and take advantage of you.”

  Maybe she’d ask some of the faculty friendlies, like Marla White and Jillian Burch, their opinion of the subject. But for now, her first line of defense was to be prepared with the best lecture in the world, tomorrow and every day thereafter. Sure, that didn’t allow much time for a life, but what did that matter to an introvert anyway?

  Today, as she did on most days, she had left her old Subaru parked behind her apartment and walked to work. The ghost of her obese pre-teen self still haunted her sometimes, even though mentally she recognized that she was now at a good weight for her height. But even if she didn’t need the exercise, it was a glorious walk on a bright fall day.

  It was ironic that she had ended up living in another small southern Illinois town, when for years she had longed to leave her mother’s home in Miles Station and get back to Chicago where they had lived before her parents’ divorce. But Merrideth had come to appreciate small towns. And Lebanon was a pretty little town of just under 6,000 souls, with quiet streets and beautiful old homes. Everyone at McKendree had assured her it was virtually crime-free and safe enough for her to walk about alone. She had already explored quite a bit of the historic district.

  Charles Dickens had put Lebanon on the map when he mentioned his stay at the Mermaid Inn in his 1842 travelogue American Notes. The inn still stood and was open to the public, although Merrideth had not yet taken the tour.

  But McKendree College was Lebanon’s greatest achievement. It was the oldest college in Illinois, established in 1828 by pioneer Methodists. It was rich in tradition and proud of its history. Several of the oldest buildings on campus were rumored to be haunted. There had been much talk of it as Halloween approached.

  Her friends Abby and John, who loved old buildings as much as she did, had come one weekend to tour the school and town. Abby had gone a little nuts shopping in the antique stores on St. Louis Street. Their own Victorian home was filled to the brim with beautiful old things, but Abby had an insatiable need for more antiques. When she wasn’t buying for herself, she was looking for little things to spruce up Merrideth’s apartment.

  Hunter Street was quiet and lined with mature trees that were slowly releasing their leaves onto the sidewalk. She lived on the second floor of a huge old house that had been subdivided into four apartments. Her landlord Mr. O’Conner looked as old as the house and wasn’t able to keep up with repairs as well as she might like. But Merrideth didn’t mind. The house had character, the rent was cheap, and the other tenants were quiet. It would do until she had the money for a down payment on a house of her own.

  She trotted up onto the porch and checked her mailbox. There wasn’t anything in it, nor had she expected there to be. The utilities weren’t due yet, and the credit card company hadn’t gotten her change of address
yet. Her mother had never been a letter writer even back in the day when most people were. But when November rolled around she’d have at least one letter in her mailbox. The return address would read, Bradley Randall, #1254387, Route 53 Joliet, IL 60403. She wasn’t certain he’d ever be “rehabilitated,” but fifteen years of the state’s hospitality had turned her father into a faithful letter writer. She’d give him that much.

  She reminded herself to tread quietly on the stairs. Mr. Haskell worked nights and slept during the day. That’s all she’d been able to discover about him since she’d been living above his apartment. He gave her suspicious looks whenever they met. She still hadn’t decided whether it was his natural temperament or only sleep-deprivation. In any case, the poor man had even less of a life outside work than she did.

  Once inside, she laid her keys on the mantel. The fireplace was no longer operational, and the mantel was only faux marble, but she displayed some of her most valued possessions there. In the center was a framed family photo, taken during a brief moment of calm before her parents split. It was a terribly unflattering picture for all three of them, especially her. She was overweight and under-groomed, her dishwater blond hair hanging in her brown eyes. But everyone was smiling in the photo, so she kept it on display because it gave the appearance of a happy family.

  To each side of the photo were the silver candlesticks she’d bought for herself to celebrate finishing her doctoral thesis. And then there were the treasures from Abby and John’s girls Lauren and Natalie for whom she was an honorary aunt: a homemade birthday card, a “fairy house” made from a tissue box, and a garland of construction paper fall leaves. All were heavily glittered, as were nearly all the crafts she and the girls made together whenever she babysat them.

  Merrideth smiled and went to see what was in the fridge for dinner.