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The night was young. Only half a musical. Bob opened a beer in the kitchen and shuffled into the living room to sit in his easy chair. His mind wanted to block out the evening but kept replaying it anyway. Well, at least he could tell his mother, and himself, that he had tried, that it wasn’t just speculation or mere logic that led him to think Julie was firmly attached to her boyfriend. Now it was tried and tested fact. He laughed, at himself. It felt good.
He stood up and reviewed the setup of his living room. Maybe it was time to shuffle a few things around, to turn a new leaf. The love seat sat across from the coffee table, the easy chair in the middle of the room as always. Maybe it was time to move it over near the wall and bring the straightback chair from the window to the coffee table. It would be nice to have another chair, so there could be two chairs opposite the love seat. He thought about places where he could shop for a new chair.
Bob leaned on the easy chair to slide it back toward the window, but after moving it only six inches, his eye spotted something out of place. Paper on the floor. Franck must have dropped it, or maybe it was mail that had slipped under the chair.
Bob leaned over the easy chair with a small grunt to reach the floor and pick up the folded sheet. It felt old and crinkly to the touch. It reminded him of the old newspaper but not quite that brittle. This was better quality stationery.
Bob hesitated a moment, then unfolded the paper. It was a handwritten letter. The date was 1867. He read it. A Samuel McIver was informing someone named Lutetia of the death of her brother Moses.
It took Bob’s breath away. He stared at it for a while before the machinery of his brain began whirring again and he was able to link this up with the old parsonage house. The newspaper, the box.
Bob stirred. Slowly, thoughtfully, he looked around him at the quiet apartment. The overhead light cast his shadow onto the easy chair. A few cars whooshed by on the road out front. Franck must be at Rosa’s by now. Bob wondered if he’d be getting a phone call from him. Maybe he’ll settle in and call tomorrow.
Bob opened Franck’s door, flipped on the light switch and tried to find a likely place in the mess to return the letter, until they could talk more about it. He assumed the letter came from the box. How had Franck opened the box? He hadn’t talked about a trip to the locksmith.
Bob spotted the box lying on Franck’s dresser. It was peeking out from under some pants and a dirty t-shirt. In the keyhole was a key. Franck had found the key somehow. Or had had one made.
Now Bob felt as he imagined Franck must have felt, sneaking into the house and its attic, and taking something precious. Bob took the box out of the room and back to his easy chair. He laid the box on the coffee table and opened it.
He took out the book and lifted out all the papers, placing the Samuel McIver letter in among them. Glancing through the letters, he spotted the deed right away, and pulled it out.
As he unfolded the deed, a small sheet of paper unfolded with it. He brought the paper and the deed to his desk and turned on the bright desk lamp. He read them carefully, and then dialed Julie’s number.
“Hi, Bob, I’m so sorry I was so tired. It was all that delicious food and the dark, quiet theater, I think,” said Julie.
“I didn’t think it was so quiet, but I understand, you had a long day, a long week. Listen, Julie, thanks for keeping me company, and I’m sorry to call so late.”
“Oh, not a problem for me. I’m usually up until 11.”
Then why did you fall asleep at 8:30? he thought, but said, “Julie, that deed I told you about. I have another copy.”
“Really? How did you get that?”
“Never mind. The thing is, it has a small extra sheet with it that authorizes Josiah McIver, the minister, to sell the house as he sees fit. So there shouldn’t be a cloud on the title. Just thought I’d let you know. But why wouldn’t there be a copy of that at the Registry?”
“I’ve been looking that house up since I got home, Bob.”
“You have?”
“Yes, you got me intrigued at dinner. I’ve got the history of the owners of that house. Up until 1858, it was owned by your family.”
“Are you sure? My Dad never wants to talk about it, and his family doesn’t either so it’s hard to know very much about it.”
“Yes, your family. There was a Robert McIver back then too, and the minister was Josiah. But then it went to different owners, still with the McIver name, strangely, but there’s no evidence of a connection. Josiah disappeared and there’s no indication in the genealogies that he got married or had kids. Same with his brother Jedediah. So that’s the end of their father’s line. Their uncle Robert had kids, and that line – James, Frederick, Robert, Jack…”
“My grandpa Jack.”
“Right, and then your father, Gary.”
“So we had some connection to that house. But nobody in my family would talk about that. How strange,” said Bob.
“There’s another strange thing I happened upon, too,” said Julie.
“What’s that?”
“It’s about the paper you found. Who signed it?”
“It was Robert McIver, on behalf of the land committee for the church.”
“He was a busy guy. I found his name somewhere else too. He was the Registrar of Deeds at the time.”
“So he full well knew all about that property whether the little paper was copied into the Registry or not. Why did he make that mistake? It’s almost as if he didn’t want his name associated with the property or something. Did he have something to hide?”
“Well I told you what information I could find. If I think of some other way to look up more about it, I’ll let you know.”
“Okay, Julie, thanks for the info.”
“Bye, Bob, see you Monday.”
Bob slipped the deed and paper back into the box, along with Samuel’s letter. He stared at the other folded letters for a moment, and then leafed through the pamphlet. But the letters beckoned to him. He finally took hold of them, sat down in the easy chair, and slowly read the messages Moses and Lutetia had written to each other more than 140 years earlier.
He sat stunned for some time. Moses’ story of the escape by boat to Boston was totally new to thim. He couldn’t even recall having studied anything like it in history classes. And then Lutetia’s rescue by Josiah at the parsonage house. So they were secretly married. And the uncle was involved somehow. “Den of sinners,” the uncle called that house. But from the sound of it, it’s as if he was talking about himself.
Bob’s head was spinning. Did this 18th century Robert want his nephew Josiah, the young minister from the South, out of the way? Had he been after Lutetia all along or did he just drink too much on that one night and make a fool of himself? He had to have a whisky bottle smashed into his head to get the message? Did he not know she was in love with Josiah? Why were there no records, even records amended later, showing Josiah’s marriage and children?
If Lutetia married a McIver, then Bob’s family was related to her by marriage, and to her children by blood. Was Bob related to the other Robert McIver in town, then? Was that why his mother thought they had "cousins" in North Carolina?
Bob sank into more ponderings, this time about Lucy. Was he really distant cousins with Lucy, dating back to the early 1800s? Would he find her again? She too talked of bashing a guy with a whisky bottle, in that dorm room. Maybe it was in the blood, he mused. Where could Lucy be? In Linton? With Rosa? Maybe Franck would run into her there. Why did he tell Julie at dinner tonight that he hoped to find Lucy again? Did he?
Julie. His parents. He started out of his reveries, and dialed his parents’ phone number. His father answered.
“What’s the matter, Bob? You in trouble?” his father said quickly.
“No, I’m just calling to say hi,” said Bob quietly.
“So why are you calling so late? You must be in trouble.”
“No, Dad, actually I had a date with Julie and wanted to tell Mom all about it.”
“Oh, God, okay, yes, you two should talk all about it. She’s been talking nonstop about it. When’s the wedding, Bob? Just kidding. Here she is.”
“Hello, Bob? How did it go? Isn’t she sweet? Are you going out again? I just knew you’d get along,” his mother babbled.
“Mom, we had a nice dinner and went to a show.”
“Oh, I knew it! That’s wonderful. What will you do next time?”
“Mom, all during dinner we had a nice conversation—about her boyfriend. And she fell asleep in the first half of the show so I took her home at intermission. And it was the Music Man. She’s never even seen a musical before.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone.
“Well you knew she had a boyfriend,” came his mother’s quiet response. “Not everybody knows all you do about musicals. She’ll be happy to have someone choose good ones to go to. She’s a sweetheart. I hope her boyfriend treats her right. Do you think so, Bob? Did you get a window on that? I’m so proud you asked her out, and happy that you had a great time. But it’s so late, why are you calling tonight?”
“Mom, I wasn’t really calling about Julie but I knew you couldn’t wait to find out about it. I really wanted to know about Rosa. Can you tell me, Mom, please – I really need to know this, and I know Dad doesn’t want to talk about it, so if you have to call me another time when you’re alone, just do that – but I want to know why you’re so sure she’s my cousin. How are those folks related to us?”
“Well, Bob, your father’s working on building a wooden model just now in the hobby room, so I can talk to you, just let me move…into the laundry room…here we are…
“I am not sure about the relations," she continued in a low voice, "but Rosa thinks we’re related because her ancestors were slaves belonging to the McIver farm down south there, and your father’s brother – now don’t you go telling your father this, please, and I shouldn’t probably say this myself, but you have a way of getting me to talk to you Bob and I think that’s a wonderful skill you have too – your father’s brother once confided in me about hearing that maybe there was some hanky panky going on with slaves back in some part of the family. It was all hush hush. Your uncle Larry was the one who gave me Rosa’s number. I hope your roommate learns lots down there this weekend. He seems like a nice boy.”
“He’s not really a boy, Mom, he’s 25. And Mom? I read some old letters that Franck discovered in his graduate research. They make it seem like there was not only hanky panky but a marriage, between someone in our family and a slave. I don’t think I see the connection to Rosa though. Have you ever met her?”
“No,” said Bob’s mother, “I just talked with her on the phone. Back when you were in North Carolina, I just thought it would be nice for you to have some relatives around, even distant ones. So I looked Rosa up. Larry really just gave me her last name, Vilner, and thought she was probably still in Linton. I found her number myself, and we had the nicest talk, she was so friendly. Every Christmas I pull out her number and think about calling her but I know your father would never forgive me if I did. It was so nice to talk to her again.“
“But she, or Larry, never told you what the connection was?”
“I can just tell you, dear, that Rosa seems sure of it but I never tried to pry and find out proof or anything. I just think she’s a peach and she wouldn’t make it up.”
“Well, I’m going to bed, Mom. I don’t suppose it makes too much difference either way about the relations. It’s probably all overblown. If we go back far enough we’re probably all related somehow. But I can't stop thinking about it.”