No one can work in this heat
, she insisted to herself, and the thought of Chilton dissipated. She wondered if Liz would want to come up for a swim. Then Connie remembered that it was a Wednesday—Liz would be teaching.
“Small rocky road, please,” she said to the teenage girl behind the ice cream counter as she pulled a crumpled dollar bill out of her pocket.
The girl looked at her, then turned back to the television sitting on the counter behind her.
Days of Our Lives
, from the look of it.
“Be right with ya,” said the girl. On any other day Connie would have been impatient with the girl, but it was too hot even for that. She hooked her thumbs in her cutoff pockets and leaned against the counter to wait. She ought to be grateful that she, at least, did not have to wear a pink-and-white-striped hat while working. But Connie knew that she could not in good conscience laze at the beach that afternoon. If she was putting off pawing through Granna’s house, she must at least make progress on her research. She dangled her flip-flop on the end of a toe, turning over in her mind the lack of Deliverances in the town records.
Perhaps this means that Chilton is wrong. Maybe it isn’t a name. Maybe it’s something else. But what?
When the show cut to commercial, the girl unfolded herself from her chair and sashayed up to the register. “What size’d ya want again?” she asked.
“Small,” said Connie. Then adding, “In a waffle cone.”
Life is short
, she thought. Get it in a waffle cone.
“Shah,” said the girl, making clear to Connie that she was doing her a favor. Connie watched her carve round balls of ice cream out of the vats in the cooler below, suntanned arms sinewy from the effort. Under her striped hat, the girl radiated the casual indifference of the townie. In another year or two, her prettiness would start to look a little tough, and the lines around her mouth would harden.
“You all set?” she asked, passing Connie the cone.
“Actually,” Connie said, sliding her dollar across the countertop, “I wonder if you could give me directions to the First Church in Salem.”
The girl regarded Connie impassively, rolling her gum to the other side of her mouth. She chewed once. Twice.
“’S Wensdee,” said the girl.
“Yeah,” said Connie.
The girl stared at her a moment more, then shrugged. “One fawteen,” she said, jerking her thumb, “then ya left on Practah.”
“Thanks,” said Connie. The girl arched her eyebrows, nodding toward the coffee can on the counter marked
TIPS
. Connie stuffed a quarter into the can and moved back into the glaring day.
A
N HOUR OR SO LATER
C
ONNIE STOOD IN THE DOORWAY OF THE MEETINGHOUSE
, unable to discern any shapes more precise than the shadowy rows of pews marching forward into the dark. The door swung shut behind her, blocking out the summer day and encasing her in cool air, scented with wood and furniture polish. She had knocked at the door to the office across the street but found it locked. A peek through the mail slot had revealed a tidy gray office with all papers put away, and empty chairs. She waited, her eyes straining to adjust. The outlines of tall, arched windows began to resolve themselves along the walls, and the room’s contours gradually emerged
from within the dimness. Occasional rustlings and creakings circulated around the periphery, but the stark, echoing interior made Connie unsure where they were coming from.
“Hello?” she called, and her voice sounded hollow in the cavernous room.
“Yeah?” someone replied, and again the sound was placeless. Connie peered left and right but saw no one.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she began, “but I am looking for the minister?” She felt irritated with herself for turning the statement into a question.
“He’s on the Vineyard,” called the muffled, disembodied voice. “Not back ’til August.”
An unexpected development. Connie paused. This would be the perfect opportunity to go recuperate on the beach. But she felt the key’s weight in her pocket, its outline pressed into her thigh.
“Well I don’t really need to see him, exactly,” Connie demurred. “I just wanted to check something in the church archives.”
“Hold on,” said the voice, which now sounded as if it were coming from above. Connie heard more rustlings, followed by a shrill whine like a fishing reel being cast, and a dark shape thunked down about three feet in front of her, right in the center aisle of the church. She stepped back in surprise. Presently the shape unfolded into the form of a rangy young man, dressed in paint-dappled coveralls, with a tool belt slung around his slim hips. He unhooked his rappelling harness from the ropes that Connie now perceived to be hanging from a scaffold near the ceiling, and strode forward to take her hand.
“Hello,” he said, grinning crookedly at her surprise.
“Oh!” she gasped. Her mouth opened and, when no further sound came out, closed again, and her hand snaked up to grasp hold of the end of her braid where it dangled over her shoulder, as it often did when she was nervous or excited. His smile widened.
“Hello,” Connie said finally, releasing the braid and returning his handshake. His palm was dry and firm, and Connie suddenly was aware of how sweaty and rumpled she felt.
“I don’t think Bob would mind if I showed you the archives,” said the man, pulling her back into the conversation. “Hardly anyone ever wants to look in there.” Under his nose Connie just glimpsed a septum ring, and she smiled, amused. He probably had a grunge band. Connie pictured him explaining sincerely to some hapless girl that he really needed to get serious about his
music
. She smothered a giggle.
“Bob?” she asked, holding her laughter under her tongue.
“The minister. I thought you knew him?” The man looked at her curiously.
“Oh, no,” she said. “I don’t, no. I’m a graduate student. Starting research on my dissertation.”
“Yeah?” said the young man, leading Connie down the side aisle toward a stairwell. “Where? I went to BU for my master’s. Preservation studies.”
Connie was surprised, and just as quickly ashamed of herself. She had taken him for a handyman. “Harvard,” she said, sheepish. “I do American colonial history. My name’s Connie.”
“I knew some people in that program. Few years ago, now. But if you’re a colonialist, then you are in the right place.” He smiled. If he had sensed her error, he did not let on.
The young man ushered Connie toward a doorway hidden under the staircase that led, Connie presumed, to a choir loft, and pulled a large ring of keys off of his tool belt. He located a small, ornate one and fit it into the door, pushed the door open, and gestured for her to enter. Connie felt his eyes on her as she edged past him through the doorway, close enough that her T-shirt brushed against his coveralls.
The room was windowless, illuminated by a single overhead fluorescent light that hissed and snapped as it was turned on. On each wall towered row upon row of almost identical leather-bound reference books, ranging in appearance from tattered to almost new. To the immediate right,
tucked under the curve of the stairwell, stood wooden card catalogue files, and in the center of the tiny room rested a plain card table flanked by folding chairs.
“Christenings,” said the man, pointing to each of the bookcases in turn, “Marriages, Deaths, and—my favorite—Annals of Membership. That’s where you will find who was permitted to officially join the church.” He paused. “And who was required to leave it.”
“This is incredible,” Connie exclaimed, surveying the room. “I’m amazed that you all have so much material. And intact!” She placed her hand atop the card catalogue. “Indexed, even!”
“Mostly, yes. A few gaps here and there.” The man folded his arms, smiling. “It’s not ‘me all,’ however. I’m just working on the restoration of the cupola. Should be done by July, August sometime. Then I’ll do the steeple, and then it’s off to another job up in Topsfield.” He produced a business card from a pocket in his coverall and handed it to Connie.
SAMUEL HARTLEY
, it read.
STEEPLEJACK.
“I’m Sam,” he clarified.
Connie broke out in laughter before she could check herself. “
Steeplejack?
Are you serious?”
The man—Sam—looked at her with mock wounded pride. “But of course!” he replied. “I’ll admit there aren’t that many of us around. After grad school I worked for a while at the Society for the Advancement of New England Antiquarianism.”
“They have an awesome preservation program,” Connie interjected, recognizing the name. “Some of those properties would just be knocked down if it weren’t for them.”
“That’s true,” Sam agreed. “They do great things. But I hated sitting at a desk all day. I mean, I went into preservation so that I could touch cool old stuff that no one else is allowed to. So”—he gestured to his tool belt—“I moved into restoration work. New England is just about the only place with enough antique steeples to go around.”
Connie grinned at him. “Plus you get to wear your rappelling gear,” she said.
“That, too,” said Sam, smiling back at her. “So. What are we researching?”
Connie was tempted to show him the key. She found his warmth and enthusiasm infectious—so different from the detached chill of the career academic. She tried to picture Manning Chilton radiating fervor for his obscure histories of alchemy, but the image fell flat. Even her thesis student, Thomas, who Connie felt certain was destined for the academic life, approached his passion in a methodical manner that seemed already purged of wonder. Talking to Sam reminded her of a time when she still found history exciting, tantalizing. He leaned in the doorway, one boot crossed over the other, arms folded. His forearms, under the rolled sleeves of his work clothes, were tanned and lined with muscle. She realized that she was staring and pulled her gaze away.
“I was going through some old papers in my grandmother’s house in Marblehead,” she said, hedging somewhat in her description, leaving out mention of the key. “And I found something. I think it’s a name, but I’m not certain.” She pulled the tiny parchment from her pocket and handed it to him.
Sam rubbed his thumb over the paper, gazing at it. “Could be.” He nodded. “And you’ve tried the historical society out there, I take it.”
“Nothing. No Deliverances of any kind. Then I tried the church, and they told me that their records are all here.”
“And you’re thinking it dates from the first period of colonial settlement?” he asked. “Why?”
“Well, the age of the paper and the handwriting, for one,” said Connie. “And if it is a name, it seems too old-fashioned to be Revolutionary. And if it were nineteenth century, wouldn’t it more likely be ‘Temperance’ than ‘Deliverance’? But really I’m just working on a guess. It might not even be a name at all.”
Sam scratched the stubble under his chin. “All your reasoning seems to make sense. The handwriting certainly resembles some early examples I’ve seen.” He caught her looking at him, eyebrows raised. “I spend a lot of time at the landmarks commission office,” he explained.
Connie paused, surveying the rows of undisturbed records books. “I guess this could take a while,” she said.
“I needed a break from painting anyway,” Sam said with a laugh.
T
HREE HOURS LATER
, S
AM AND
C
ONNIE SAT BACK TO BACK AT THE CARD
table, hands grimy with book spine fragments, resting. They had checked the card catalogue for the name in a myriad of different spellings, and when that proved futile, they started pulling ledgers off the shelves two and three at a time, beginning with the oldest. Their search had been fruitless so far—no Deliverance Dane in any of the christening records from 1629 all the way through 1720.
“’Course, if Dane was her married name, she wouldn’t be in the christening records,” Sam pointed out.
“True enough,” said Connie. “But I had to start somewhere. That’s one reason researching women can be so much trickier than researching men. Their names can change several times, depending on how many times they marry.” She paused. “It’s like they become different people.”
Next they found only scattered marriage records for people with the last name Dane, including a Marcy Dane who married someone named Lamson in 1713. Neither of the married Danes were named Deliverance, and they did not appear to be related. They could not be completely sure, as some pages seemed to be missing from the marriage records for the 1670s, but after a few hours’ unproductive research both were starting to suspect that the phrase might not be a name after all.
Then they plunged into the death records, skimming rapidly.
“Aw, here’s poor Marcy Lamson again,” murmured Connie, turning a brittle page in the deaths ledger dated
1750–1770
. “She died in 1763.” She felt a strange tugging in her chest, unfamiliar and solemn. Connie propped her chin on one dirty hand and gazed into the middle distance.
“Something the matter?” asked Sam, looking up from the
1730–1750
deaths volume open across his knee.
“Oh, not really.” Connie sighed. “Just thinking.”
“It’s weird, isn’t it?” asked Sam, leaning closer to her over the card table and dropping his voice.
“What’s weird?” she said, turning to him.
“That you can have this whole entire life, with all your opinions, your loves, your fears. Eventually those parts of you disappear. And then the people who could remember those parts of you disappear, and before long all that’s left is your name in some ledger. This Marcy person—she had a favorite food. She had friends and people she disliked. We don’t even know how she died.” Sam smiled sadly. “I guess that’s why I like preservation better than history. In preservation I feel like I can keep some of it from slipping away.”
As he spoke Connie noticed that his face was attractive in a wonderfully flawed sort of way; it held a sharp, straight nose peeling with sunburn, and mischievous green eyes bracketed by deep smile lines. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail, a brown color bleached by the sun. Connie smiled at him.