Текст книги "Swains Lock"

Автор книги: Edward A. Stabler

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

Chapter 19

Silver and Gold

Friday, March 28, 1924

By mid-morning Friday the rain was gone, the sky a wash of pale blue with innocent clouds on the horizon. Wearing his wool vest and cleanest collared shirt, Kevin carried his toolbox west on M Street. M is for Morrison. He pictured the enervated ex-banker arraying last season’s gold and silver coins on a marble table before a high, bright Georgetown window, fifty miles but a world away from the wooded hills of Kevin’s Washington County. He adjusted his fedora and spat into the M Street gutter.

When he reached Wisconsin Avenue he turned right and struck a leisurely pace as the brick sidewalk rose gradually to P Street. P is for parasite – what Morrison was, what all money changers were. One of the prices you had to pay to survive in a world that was angled against the common man. He turned onto P Street and continued half a block to Morrison’s brick rowhouse, which was painted gray and faced south. Front steps led to a black door, and black-shuttered bay windows dominated the right side of the facade. A walkway across the lawn passed a weeping cherry tree; two warm days since his last visit had swollen the blossoms from glowing points to strands of pink bells that hung like necklaces.

Kevin disgorged his chaw and wiped his mouth with a grimy handkerchief, then followed the walkway to the steps and pulled the brass bell-pull. The door opened and an elderly oriental woman peered out – the same woman who had guided him to Morrison’s sitting room on Wednesday. He smiled through stained teeth and removed his hat as she gestured for him to enter. She led him up the tilted wooden stairway to the third floor in silence, padded down the hallway to a door on the right, and knocked. Opening the door halfway, she nodded and withdrew to the stairway. When he’d visited two days ago, he thought, she’d listened to his inquiry and guided him here while uttering no more than a few words. Today she needed none. Every Chinaman born at night, he remembered, was mute like a puppet. He crossed the threshold into the room.

A worn oriental rug covered most of the floor, its faded colors indigo and sage, rust and gold. Kevin guessed that it must once have been worth a fortune. Morrison was sitting where Kevin had seen him last, in a leather armchair with its back to one side of the bay window. A matching armchair fronted the opposite side and a round table of amber marble anchored the window, uniting the chairs. The room was unlit but the morning sunlight flooded in, illuminating ribbons of cigarette smoke that spun and folded in the upper half of the bay. Morrison remained seated as Kevin entered the room carrying his toolbox and hat.

“Good morning, Mr. Emory.” Morrison’s voice was breathy and sing-song, with a trace of condescension hiding behind the cadence. Like the voice of a mischievous schoolchild, Kevin thought, greeting a substitute teacher in class. “I see you brought your safe deposit box.”

Kevin grinned, tapping the toolbox as he crossed to the empty chair. “It’s a burden I never mind bearing.”

“Please forgive my inability to meet you at the door,” Morrison said. He took a drag and set his cigarette down in an ashtray. “My neurasthenia makes sudden movement difficult.”

Kevin sat down with the box between his feet, then turned so he could look directly at Morrison. The trader’s thin face was pale and hairless, with wispy eyebrows lost behind his wire-rimmed frames and slick, dark hair brushed back from his high forehead. He could have been almost any age, Kevin thought. Thirty or sixty.

“Were you able to find the currency we agreed on?”

“Of course,” Morrison said in a disarming voice. Kevin heard the black sleeve of his silk jacket rustle as he retrieved his cigarette and took a drag, then transferred the ashtray to the windowsill. He reached down for a leather satchel, snapped its jaws open, and withdrew two coins that he laid on the table, angled toward Kevin. The first was silver and the second gold.

“1922 Peace Dollar,” he said. “Eight-tenths of an ounce of silver.” Morrison handed it to Kevin. Its face showed the crowned head and flowing tresses of a young woman in profile, lips parted, engraved beneath the word “Liberty.” On the reverse a bald eagle perched on an olive branch above the word “Peace.” The coin felt sharp-edged and clean in his fingers. He nodded and set it back on the table.

Morrison picked up the gold piece. “1924 St. Gaudens Double Eagle,” he said, handing Kevin the gleaming coin. “Not yet circulated.” On its face, Lady Liberty stood backlit by the fan-shaped rays of the sun. A bald eagle with raised wings was set against the same rays on the other side, beneath the words “Twenty Dollars.” The images dissolved into pools of gold as the coin caught sunlight while Kevin turned it in his fingers.

“Very nice,” he said, laying it beside the Peace Dollar. “Should outlast my paper.”

Morrison smiled and exhaled smoke into the air above the table. “Gold and silver are timeless, my friend. They will outlive you and me. Paper is disposable, vulgar, and cheap – like the life we all live.” He paused to flick an ash. “But paper is grist for the grind mill, and our pathetic lives need grain.” As he spoke, Kevin watched his eyes turn to almond-shaped ciphers, shifting and dancing in a recessed world. The eyes grew still as Morrison leveled them on Kevin. “So let’s count your worthless paper.”

Kevin forced a smile as he bent to open the toolbox. He withdrew Geary’s bill-stuffed envelope, to which he’d added the appropriate amount, and pulled out the stack of bills. “For two hundred silver dollars at six percent?” Morrison nodded and Kevin counted out the bills. “Two hundred and twelve,” he said. He pushed the stack halfway across the table but Morrison made no gesture toward it. Kevin looked at him, then continued.

“And for twenty-four Double-Eagles at twelve percent…” He counted out four-hundred and eighty dollars and asked for help calculating the fee.

“Let’s call it fifty-seven,” Morrison said with a fleeting smile. “That will give you an extra sixty cents for entertainment in Georgetown.” Kevin added smaller bills to the second stack. Leaning forward, Morrison swept the bills to the perimeter of the table, where they came to rest on top of a circumferential scarlet band. Embedded in the band was a pattern of nested green and gold triangles, and in the triangles multi-colored flecks and flakes of marble swirled like seabirds. The money, shapes, and patterns mesmerized Kevin, and he made a conscious effort to re-focus on the center of the table.

The Double Eagle and Peace Dollar were gone, and Morrison was extracting paper sleeves – pale green, with $20 printed on one side – from his satchel. He centered them on the table. “Six. Eight. Ten,” he said, sitting back. “Those are your two-hundred Peace Dollars.”

Kevin plucked four random sleeves and opened their seams; their contents spilled into rows of silver coins. Nodding at the quantities, he stacked the coins and pushed them to the center of the table.

“And your gold,” Morrison said. He placed a single tan sleeve stamped “$500” alongside the others. “There were twenty-five coins in that sleeve. I removed the piece you saw earlier, so there are now twenty-four.”

Kevin peeled it open and let the virgin coins slide onto the table, where sunlight transformed them into a pool of liquid gold. An involuntary smile spread across his face. He assembled stacks of five from the glowing pile, leaving four coins for his flattened palm. Two faces showed Lady Liberty standing and two showed an eagle in flight.

“I count twenty-four as well. Pretty as a sunset on the water.”

“Fair enough, then,” Morrison said. He deposited the bills in his satchel and snapped the jaws shut while Kevin transferred the sleeves into the bottom of his toolbox and laid the stacked coins in the hanging coin tray. With the coins secured, he locked the toolbox and stood up, adjusting his fingers for a better grip. Empty it weighed almost fifteen pounds, but now it felt heavier. He snared his hat from the chair and extended his hand across the table.

Morrison exhaled smoke toward the ceiling and leaned forward to shake Kevin’s hand with limp, pale fingers. His lips were pressed into an ironic smile and behind his glasses his eyes were again dancing a private dance. “Take care, my friend. Your appreciation of precious metals is well-founded, but you should try to keep them at some distance. Otherwise they can drag you down.”

“So long, Mr. Morrison,” Kevin said. He started across the carpet toward the door. “No need to call your woman, I know the way out.”

***

As Kevin turned onto the dirt road to the Rock Creek boat basin, the toolbox felt heavy in his hand but his heart was light. He and Tom had accomplished the tasks they had set for themselves in Georgetown. They had delivered two barrels of whiskey to Finn Geary, which Kevin hoped would solidify the relationship they had established with him last fall. Most of Geary’s paper had been converted into hard money. Reddy Bogue had finally arrived yesterday evening and paid fifteen dollars for the seven cords. Reddy and his kid had carted away two wagons full last night and appeared again at first light to take the rest. They had been stacking the last load as Kevin set out to visit Morrison.

Yesterday morning he had even found time to visit the M-Street store Ellie had steered him to for fabric. And while the remains of the rockfish had been consigned to the creek, a trip to the M-Street grocer on Wednesday had yielded smoked beef, potatoes, and carrots for the trip back up the canal.

It wasn’t noon yet but the thought of food made his stomach growl as he approached the scow, which had been tied up in the basin for over two days now. Mike and Bess were grazing thin grass and Tom was sitting with his back to the nearest tree, knees bent and hat lowered over his eyes. The feed trough was set up, but when Kevin reached it he saw it was empty. The water bucket next to it was half-full. He walked over to Tom and kicked his boots.

“Think they might want a little hay before we ask ‘em to pull us back to Harpers Ferry?” He put the toolbox down and stretched his tired hand.

“I fed ‘em!” Tom protested, pushing his hat back and looking up at Kevin. “Didn’t want to give out too much, since there ain’t a whole lot of hay left. Maybe one of us should go out and get ‘em some corn.”

“Hell with that. We can get canal-company corn for nothing. We’ll feed ‘em again on the way up. And they’re pulling a light boat now anyway.”

Tom stood up and brushed the dirt from his pants. “Morrison come through?”

Kevin grinned, tapping the toolbox with his boot and rattling the coins in the tray.

“You ready to get going?”

“Yep,” Kevin said. “Let’s get ‘em harnessed.” Tom went to the hay-house to retrieve the tack while Kevin took the toolbox down to the cabin and set it under the table. He carved two hunks of smoked beef from the side in the cupboard, refilled his hip flask with whiskey, and returned to the deck as Tom was emerging with the bridles, breast pads, and spreader bars.

“Tommy, a toast.” Kevin screwed the top off his flask and held the vessel high. “To our first Georgetown run of 1924. An unmasticated success.” He took a long swig, then presented the flask and a hunk of beef to Tom.

“First of many,” Tom muttered. “But the trip ain’t over ‘til we’re back in Washington County.” He knocked back a comparable shot. “Now let’s get boating.”

They set their teeth into the smoked meat in unison, and Kevin followed Tom toward the mooring lines and the mules.

Chapter 20

Sunset

Friday, March 28, 1924

Lee Fisher pedaled hard and jerked the handlebars up as the front wheel reached the descending pitch of towpath below Pennyfield Lock. For a split second the bicycle felt airborne. When the wheel reconnected with the dirt, he spread his feet from the pedals and let the bike coast as the towpath flattened again. As it lost momentum, he squeezed the brake-lever until it stopped. He stepped off, spun it around, and admired it again.

Charlie Pennyfield’s bicycle was a black Mead Ranger with diamond-shaped white accents. Mounted between the parallel top tubes was a narrow tool compartment also painted black and white. That compartment was a nice feature, Lee thought, since it could hold the old leg-irons that he used to lock the bike. And earlier today when he’d pedaled up to the crossroads market to shop for tonight’s dinner with Katie, he’d been able to stuff the sausages and potato salad in the compartment, then somehow make it back to Pennyfield balancing the cherry pie on the handlebars!

He felt the blood rush to his face as he envisioned meeting Katie again tonight. The interminable five-day wait was almost over. His hand drifted into his pocket to touch the note that he’d found pinned to the lockhouse door at Pennyfield when he returned from the store. He read it again for reassurance. “Lee, I’ll see you tonight at 6. Katie.” It still confirmed what he’d hoped for – Katie had returned from her trip to Alexandria and would visit tonight.

If she had forsaken their date, he wasn’t sure when he would have seen her again. The Emorys should be starting their run back upstream today, and slow as his cousins were, even they would reach Pennyfield by noon tomorrow. Lee was boating with them up to Harpers Ferry, so once they got here he’d be gone. From Harpers Ferry he would have to find his own way up to Hancock to join Ben Myers because the season would be starting soon. The repair crews that Lee had locked through this week said that the canal should be running on all levels down from Cumberland by April 1. That was Tuesday, only four days away. Spring sunshine was finally reaching the Appalachian mountains of the upper Potomac Valley and bearing down on the winter’s sullen layers of snow and ice.

But Lee was looking forward to a mild March night far downstream, a night just hours away and full of promise. Tomorrow morning would leave time for short-term goodbyes, and for plans to reconvene with Katie along the canal during the weeks ahead.

***

In the kitchen of the lockhouse at Swains, Cy arrayed four pint-flasks of whiskey on the scarred wooden table next to his untapped five-gallon cask. He’d sold fourteen pints on Wednesday, seventeen on Thursday, and five so far today at the lock, all at a dollar seventy-five. He grabbed a ceramic jar from the counter, fished out his roll of bills, and rifled through it. Sixty-eight dollars. He pocketed a handful of coins, peeled off a dozen dollar bills, and stashed the rest back in the jar.

The flasks on the table had drained the first five-gallon cask, but the second cask was full, so he had forty-four pints of whiskey left. Selling another eight tonight would give him enough to pay the Emorys when they came through tomorrow, plus a little to spare. Hell, he could probably even sell a few pints Saturday morning before the Emorys arrived. But selling whiskey tonight was critical. With the repair crews around and a few weekend sightseers, there should be enough potential customers at the Great Falls Tavern. “Tavern,” he muttered derisively. “A tavern that don’t sell nothing to drink.” Bad for the patrons, but an opportunity for Cy. A sudden stab of pain in his left hip overrode the usual dull ache. He grimaced and an image of Zimmerman intruded on his thoughts.

To banish it and fend off the pain, he pulled out his personal flask for a quick shot. He caught his breath and limped over to the crate in the corner to study the rows of empty, cork-topped bottles inside. Forty-eight, and I’ll need almost that many to empty the second cask, he thought. He withdrew four flasks, filled them with fast-running whiskey, then corked them on the table alongside the first four. Eight was all he wanted to carry to the Tavern tonight. His pocket watch read quarter to five – might as well head over. He distributed the pints into the pockets of his wool jacket and overcoat. There was no place for his personal flask, so he left it on the table. He snatched his hat from a hook and walked outside. Katie was sitting on the bench in front of the lockhouse.

“Cyrus, aren’t you feeling well? You’re bundled up like you’re going to the North Pole!”

“Never mind that,” he grumbled. “You know which way the crow flies. I’m headed down to Great Falls, so count me out for dinner.” He adjusted the contours of his hat and put it on. “You feed the mules?”

Katie nodded. “Take Jewel. I saddled her for you.”

He limped around to the small corral near the backyard, then led Jewel back toward the lock, where Katie took the reins to guide her across. Jewel was a good one, Cy thought, a veteran canal mule. The walkway didn’t scare her. He shuffled across, put a hand on the pommel, and bit his lip as he mounted the mule.

“Keep an eye on the lock,” he said, turning Jewel down the towpath. “And don’t wait up for me. I’ll be late.”

***

After Cy and Jewel disappeared down the towpath, Katie headed for the berm above the entrance to the lock. Pete was kneeling in a floating green canoe that was tied to a tree and served as a platform from which he could launch a parade of broken sticks into the lazy current. They drifted toward the mouth of the flume, crossed the threshold, and accelerated down the ramp toward the next level of the canal.

“Pete! Doesn’t that canoe have a leak in it?”

Pete looked up from his stick-launching position. “It’s OK. The hole is way above the water. Even when Cy and me was both in it, it didn’t leak.”

Katie looked at the rack of canoes nearby. “Still, can’t you use one of the good canoes?”

“Nope,” Pete said. “Cause of the cable. They’s all locked to the rack.” He selected more sticks from his collection and leaned back over the gunwale.

“Pete,” Katie said. “I’m going to set out soup and cornbread for you in the kitchen. After that, I need to visit a friend for a few hours. Cy wants you to stay near the house while I’m gone, in case any boats need help locking through. Five more minutes, then it’s dinnertime.”

She headed for the lockhouse kitchen. After heating up Pete’s dinner, she assessed the cask on the table. When she pushed lightly against the rim, it felt almost full. Good. She counted Cy’s empty pint flasks in the crate. Forty-four was the kind of number he would remember – better not take one. His personal flask was lying on the table. She could return it before he missed it. She unscrewed the cap and as she filled the flask her eyes fell on the name inscribed on the holster. “C. F. Elgin.” The leather was worn smooth from years of encounters with his hands.

She slipped it into the pocket of her coat on the rack and retreated to the bathroom, where she examined herself in the mirror. She straightened the collar on her dress, smiled at herself, and ran both hands through her wavy hair, letting it fall against her neck. Her smile drained into an expression of resolve and her eyes sought out the eyes in the mirror for reassurance. She was being guided now by something inapprehensible in those hazel eyes, and whatever it was left no room for uncertainty or fear. Her fingers idly stroked the pendant necklace before falling to smooth the wrinkles on her dress.

Remembering the photo, she climbed the stairs to her bedroom and retrieved a stiff paper folder. She opened it and looked at the image inside. They both looked so solemn! It was a beautiful picture, framed by rocks and water on all sides, but it couldn’t capture the essence of Great Falls. The motion, the power, the endlessness – all were missing. She carried the folder downstairs. By now it was past 5:00 so she took her coat and left the lockhouse.

“Pete!” she called toward the green canoe, “get out and go in for dinner! Now!”

“OK, OK!” Pete said, scowling at his sister’s intransigence as he climbed out.

Folder and photograph in hand, Katie set off for Pennyfield.

***

Cy tied Jewel to a tree near Lock 20. The sun hadn’t set but the outdoor lights of the Tavern were lit. Near the entrance, half a dozen cars were parked in the dirt lot at the end of the driveway. Two Fords, a Packard, and three he couldn’t identify. He crossed over the lock.

Three round tables were set up on the bricks under the portico, two empty and the third occupied by men he didn’t recognize. He passed the tables and rounded the corner to the tall facade of the T-shaped building. Standing near the entrance was skinny Billy Walters, whom Cy had seen in the same position the past two nights. His jacket was buttoned almost to his collar, revealing only the knot of his necktie.

“Good evenin’, Mr. Cy.”

“Evenin’, Billy.” Cy buried his hands in his overcoat and jerked his head toward the nearby cars at the end of the driveway. “How’s business tonight?”

“Oh, passable… passable for a Friday.” Billy looked out at the cars and pushed his hands into his own pockets as if the cooling air were slowly penetrating his bones. “Should be a few more parties coming in through the evening. Getting warmer now in the city, some of them folks want to motor out to the Falls and take the night air.”

“That’s good,” Cy said. “Anyone here you think I should meet?”

Billy’s brow furrowed before a smile flashed across his face. “Could be,” he said. “There was two English gents staying at the Inn. They left a while ago but said they would be back for dinner. They was in a new Chandler Six.”

Cy pulled two quarters from his pocket and handed them to Billy. “I’ll be at my table,” he said. “Send them over if they sound interested. Anyone else looks thirsty, you can do the same.”

“Happy to do it, Mr. Cy.” Billy nodded and shifted his weight from foot to foot, hands again stuffed in his pockets.

Cy turned back toward the patio. Standing still after riding had tightened the ligaments of his hip, and the cords awoke with a jarring throb. He clenched his teeth as he limped back around the corner. The two far tables were still empty and he opted for most distant. It was past six now, so the walkway out to the Falls was closed. Twilight meant that sightseers on the towpath would find their way back to the Tavern. And some of the crew from the repair scows should be milling around as well. He sat down in a chair that gave him a view back up along the patio and across Lock 20 to the towpath. Suddenly tired, he rubbed the gray-blond stubble on his cheeks while stifling a yawn. It would be a long night. He placed his index fingers against the bridge of his nose and slowly pulled them apart, tightening the sagging skin beneath his eyes.

***

“I’m slipping off!”, Katie screeched, her laughter extending the last syllable into vibrato.

“I got you,” Lee said earnestly. He stood on the pedals and supported her back with his shoulder while gripping the handles and pedaling hard to maintain momentum. She braced against his shoulder while trying to balance her thighs diagonally across the bars. The wheels crossed a fallen stick on the towpath that set the bike wobbling, and his foot slipped off the pedal when Katie’s weight shifted. It was no use. He squeezed the brake and brought the bike to a stop, planted a leg on the towpath, and lowered the frame until her feet reached the ground.

She straightened her coat and dress. “Is that the end of my ride?” she asked with unconvincing indignation. “We barely made a quarter mile!”

Lee shook his head apologetically and smiled. “I guess I need more practice before I join the circus.”

“I’d say so,” Katie admonished. “I think circus riders can cross a tightrope on a bicycle.”

“But they don’t have a pretty girl distracting them,” he said, heart pounding both from exertion and the exposure of its intent.

Katie looked away. “I think they have a balance pole. You might try one of those.”

Lee conjured this circus image to avoid parsing her response. “How could they hold the pole and the handlebars at the same time? Maybe you meant a unicycle.”

She looked at the empty stretch of towpath ahead. “So what about your plan to watch the sunset?”

“The spot’s only a mile away. We can walk.” He leaned the bike against a young tree, then opened the tool compartment and pulled out the leg-irons he used as a lock.

“Who are you planning to arrest with those? They look like they fell off a chain gang.”

“I found ‘em at the war surplus store in Georgetown,” he said. “They work OK as a lock.” Both cuffs were open, so he clamped one around the top tube and the other around the tree. They fit with an inch or two to spare. He tugged the chain to make sure both cuffs were locked and propped the bike against the far side of the tree. “It’s Charlie’s bike, so I need to make sure some towpath drifter don’t ride off with it. I reckon we’ll be back before anyone decides to cut down that tree. You ready to walk?”

“The sunset won’t wait.”

He thought about offering Katie his hand but decided to wait. It was better to build up to that. They walked side by side through the slanting rays of early evening. He asked about her visit to the Glen Echo amusement park with Pete and her friend. The season was just starting and the roller coaster wasn’t open yet, but they rode the Carousel and tried the bumper cars on the new Skooter ride. And Pete had loved the Hall of Mirrors.

Alexandria was nice, Katie said, but not as interesting as Georgetown. One of the things she’d liked best was crossing the river from Georgetown to Rosslyn on the new Key Bridge. It seemed like the roadway was a hundred feet above the water, and you could see the Washington Monument and the Capitol presiding over the D.C. skyline to the east. Looking west you saw the tiny Three Sisters islands poking up from the middle of the river, and beyond them the tree-lined banks and the broad Potomac receding into the distance upstream.

When she occasionally boated with her father growing up, she said she always looked forward to the days they spent unloading in Georgetown. After visiting the paymaster’s office, her father would give Katie and her brother George two dollars each as payment for the run from Cumberland to Georgetown. Then Katie and George would go up to M Street, to the Candy Kitchen. Mostly they bought caramels and black licorice, but when it was really hot they bought ice cream and banana splits. That was when she was ten. After that Katie stopped boating so she wouldn’t miss school in the spring and fall. Cy and George quit school after eighth grade and worked on the canal during the season and around Williamsport during the winters.

Shortly after the towpath began to curve, Lee pointed to a narrow seam that carried a small spring down to the canal from the steepening berm. Past the drainage, the berm rose into wooded cliffs that looked out over the canal, the towpath, and river to their left through the trees.

“That little creek comes down the hill from Blockhouse Point,” he said. “So the 21-mile marker should be just ahead.” When they reached it, the apron of woods between the towpath and the river was only thirty feet wide. Lee helped Katie down onto the path to a cove-like eddy fringed by a sandy beach and thick sycamores leaning out over the water. The sun had fallen below the horizon and pale pink and orange streaks were emerging in the sky.

Shallow whitewater twisted through a field of low rocks in the center of the river. Lee pointed upstream past the rocks and a narrow island. “If you listen hard,” he said, “you can hear the rapids above that island. That’s Seneca Falls, though it ain’t really much of a falls. Just fast, shallow water. Above Seneca Falls is Dam 2, where the feeder comes in at Violettes Lock. And Seneca Creek, where I growed up, is less than a mile past Violettes.”

“I remember seeing rowboats and kids swimming when our boat crossed over Seneca Creek on the aqueduct,” Katie said. She sat down on a fallen trunk at the near end of the cove, facing the sunset with her feet on the sand. She gestured for Lee to join her and a little surge of pride rippled through his chest as he walked over.

“Did you do all your boating and fishing in the creek, or did you get out onto the river?”

“We’d do both,” he said. “Fish in the creek sometimes, or take canoes out under the aqueduct into the river. Come downstream and explore. We could pick our way through the rapids along the Maryland shore, then paddle home on the canal. There was a rope swing into the river from a tree just down the shore, near where that creek come down from Blockhouse Point. Or sometimes we’d pull our canoes up on this beach and carry ‘em up to the canal. We’d paddle to that gulch, leave the canoes on the berm, and follow the creek uphill into the woods. Climb up to the cliffs and look out at the river.”

He turned to look at Katie. She was staring at the colors of sunset over the water upstream, seemingly lost in thought. He waited for her to say something but she just turned toward him and smiled, which encouraged him to finish his story.

“The Union Army used to scout the river from these cliffs during the Civil War,” he said, looking back at the steep slope of the berm. “They’d try to stop the rebels from fording the river and raiding the canal. If the rebels could split the towpath and drain a level, that would cut the supply lines to Washington. So the Union built a blockhouse camp up there in the woods. Once my friend Raymond and me went exploring up there and found some old foundation walls near the creek. Raymond found a medicine bottle and I found a bayonet blade. I took it home and I still have it.” He turned toward Katie again and exhaled, happy to have shared his reminiscence. She was idly toeing an eyebrow-shaped arc in the sand.

“Did you ever find something as a kid that you kept and still have?” he asked.

She turned as if pulled back from a distance and her hand floated to the reddish sandstone pendant that hung against her breastbone. “I found this necklace on the riverbank when I was nine,” she said, her hazel eyes focusing intently on Lee for a second before drifting again. “I had never seen anything like it before. I remember thinking that it must be very old.”