by Brock Law
out on the floor, and he couldn’t read a single word.
With as many books sandwiched together as he could hold, Will lifted them up and transferred them to the bottom shelf. He checked each for damage and replaced them to the corresponding spot in which he thought they belonged. Despite the length of the exercise, he treated each volume with the same respect.
Next he approached the desk, beside which there was an odd pair of artifacts. What Will knew was a stereo stood alongside what he assumed was a gramophone, though he’d never actually seen one. The older device had a two-tone wooden box with a gold spiral inlay. The horn was an iridescent metallic green. A record remained in place under the needle, which luckily had survived the intrusion. The label was worn out, but Will could see the listening dog logo above the Victor sign. It was Rachmaninoff’s second piano concerto.
Curious, he wanted to make it start, but there were no buttons. Neither were there switches or cords or plugs. What he did find around the side was a small crank. As he could see nothing else, he reached back, pinched it gently and turned. The record began to spin. He then swung the needle around and dropped it on to the disc. Static crackled out of the horn. A second later the first chord and responding note of the song pierced the air and sent a chill throughout his body. After the pattern repeated three more times, Will watched more enthusiastically, fascinated by the mechanism. He listened to the tune until the record slowed and eventually stopped.
Feeling further intrigue, Will popped open the adjacent stereo to see what was in the CD player. The discovery brought a funny look to his face. Madonna.
Will went to the desk where he saw a pair of matching duffle bags. He propped them up on the bed and unzipped them. On top of the quilt were several pairs of ironed and folded pants. He surmised she must have previously been in the process of doing laundry when she was kidnapped. He stashed several pairs inside the bags, as well as running shoes and sandals that he found sticking out from under the bed.
He poked around through the wreckage on the floor to find a brush or makeup. There were several varieties of both emanating from the flipped dresser drawers. Most of the nail polish and lip stick containers had been smashed, and already soaked into an oriental rug that Will hoped wasn’t as old as it looked. The ones he found intact were added to the collection and the rest disposed of in the trash can under the desk.
While stopped at her work station, Will admired two carvings of alternately shield-carrying and sword-wielding lady liberties, cloaked in striped gowns on the desk’s panels. The majestic reliefs had a few kick marks to prove their age, but although worn, hinted at a fainter character. An overeager appraiser might not have attached the figures with Miss Franklin, but to Will the Columbia’s faces were undeniably modelled after their owner.
He picked up her chair and scooted it into the foot well. When he did, a Phillies jersey slipped off the back. He picked it up and shook it out. As with the rest of the objects in the room, Will assumed this too was as authentic as it appeared. It was a vintage Schmidt jersey, complete with a yellow mustard stain on the chest. He added it to the duffle bag.
The rest of the items on the desk were mostly picture frames. Will began to pick them up and arrange them around the writing space, but immediately found himself taking another trip back through time. The first one he grabbed was a tri-fold. Each section was a picture of Vivie and her dad standing in exactly the same pose, with exactly the same smiles in front of the house. However, the photos were from staggeringly separate eras.
The first sepia-toned photo depicted them in Civil War fashion. Franklin wore dark trousers, a long frock coat and a bow of thin black ribbon around his neck. Vivienne beamed in a hoop skirt that doubled her size, satin bodice and jacket to match. The black and white center fold showed the pair in 1920s chic as if they had just come from the Ritz. Vivie’s hair was cropped short as was her dress. There were gaudy pearls around her neck and a little clutch in her hands. Franklin impressed in a long tailed tuxedo and immaculate spats. The picture to the right looked as if it were taken yesterday. She wore a sundress and sandals. He wore khakis, loafers, and a green polo. Each time they had the same expressions, and Franklin always had one arm around her shoulder as he bent down to match her stature.
Will placed the photos down, overcome with sentimentalism. He retrieved another that had dislodged from its frame. The material was stiff and rigid. It was a tintype, like the ones his dad had in his office, developed on a thin piece of metal. This one was just of Vivienne. She was ankle deep in sand, standing in front of the Great Pyramids of Giza. A white dress of high Victorian embroidery robed her. Her hair was pulled back into a long braid that was slung over her shoulder and reached down to her waist. Over the other shoulder she rested a skinny, white lace parasol. He couldn’t help but appreciate her style, and drew the picture closer to admire the way her face was exactly the way it was when they first met. He placed it next to the tri-fold, and picked another photo.
This image was starker, utilitarian compared to the others. Vivienne was standing alongside someone Will didn’t recognize. A somewhat older man knelt down on one knee, on which he folded both hands. His face was long, as was his nose which began its extension between his eyebrows. His hair was clipped around the sides and back, ruffled on top and pushed forward into spikes down his forehead. Vivienne had both of her arms thrown around him in a tight embrace. The man was wearing a military uniform comprised of a greyish-blue trench coat with brass buttons, calf high boots and three medals pinned to his lapel. Vivienne had on a simple suit made of rough-looking brown wool. In her hands she held his hat. It had a brim in the front, gold band, and flat top. Behind them Will recognized the reliefs and profile of the Arc de Triomphe. He guessed the photo was taken during or just after World War I. On a hunch he opened the browser on his phone. A quick search revealed a later portrait of Lafayette made in the nineteenth century. Accounting for an artist’s interpretation, the man in the portrait and the man in the photo appeared to be the same.
Will positioned this in kind and clasped another memory, one more personal still. It was a miniature portrait, oil on wood perhaps, in a little gilt frame. The image was of a man about Will’s age, but far more distant. He was handsome with coal-colored eyes and hair swept to the side. A tall collar reached up to his jaw, along which there was extensive stitch work. No skin was bare below his chin as his neck was wrapped up in a white cravat. He looked back at the viewer with startling guile. Without knowing much about eighteenth century fashion, Will assumed he was a man of means.
Before righting more of Vivienne’s precious mementos, Will shifted a stack of magazines. Underneath he found yet another French inscribed leather journal without title or author. Upon inspecting it, he found a pen tucked between the pages. The next sheet, which the pen bookmarked, was still blank. Finally feeling useful, Will placed the diary carefully into the duffle bag and zipped it up.
All I Am I Owe To My Mother
Will dropped the set of sagging duffle bags at his feet outside the Washingtons’ suite. The overladen sacks crumpled against his legs, and jabbed him with pointed bathroom accessories. He quickly slicked back his hair and knocked on the door.
Martha yelled from inside, “Just a minute!”
Will hoisted up the bags and waited to the sound of her pattering inside. The locks clicked down the door and it suddenly flung open to reveal a flustered First Lady. She wore a grey suit, black heels, tight bun and blinking ear piece. She looked as if she’d just come from a board meeting.
“Oh good, it’s you, William,” said Martha. “Come in, come in, sit down.”
She left Will bewildered in the hallway, and rushed back to the sofa where her laptop was open. Martha plopped down, and started banging away at the keyboard. He followed, dragging the bags along and sat opposite her.
Martha perked up, “Hola Amiga! Si, bien bien… Jorge is fine, thank you for asking. I suppose you’ve heard one of his relatives is rather ill... Sí sí, we’v
e been in Philadelphia this past week helping out his family as much as we can…Well we don’t know yet, but it’s likely we’ll be away for some time. That’s why I wanted to check in with you. What’s going on with this tropical storm? How is the organic crop…Oh dear, how many hectares are affected?”
Martha punched the data into a spreadsheet and replied, “That’s approximately… oh goodness that’s a lot of plants. About 10% of production in the region?... Si si… that will put supply back months. Very untimely indeed… What about the spot market, is there anything worth buying out there? Oh heavens no, their number one is our number two. I’m not putting my name on that swill… Alright, I’ll get on the line with sales and let them know. Our customers with contract pricing will be protected of course. Anyone else is going to have to wait… Mmhmm, si si.”
Will spaced out to her blend of foreign language and foreign nomenclature, until she waved her fingers at him.
“Psst, Will,” Martha whispered away from the headset.
She motioned her head to indicate towards the balcony behind her. Will looked over her shoulder and saw a petite shrouded figure huddled in a chair, staring off into the dusk.
