friends at a local historical society that I’d be by for a visit at some point, and that trip would expand my horizons for the afternoon, at least. I left a note on the table, the phone rang; it was Sasha asking if I was okay, because I hadn’t shown up. I told her my plans and got into the car.
As I drove farther away from the complex, losing myself on the highway, I felt as though a weight was falling from me; not only had my horizons been limited by the trees and buildings of Shrewsbury, but my spirit had been bound up by the place as well. It was almost as though I hadn’t taken a good deep breath in weeks, something that felt too much like distress, as opposed to plain old common or garden variety stress.
And speaking of stress…Ol’ Bessy made an uncomfortable grinding sound as I shifted gears going up another foothill. It wasn’t so bad the next time, but it persisted nonetheless. All of this gearwork was taking its toll on her, and this time I was convinced that there wasn’t going to be a nice, cheap quick fix for whatever was making that noise. It sounded terminal. I didn’t see any lights go on, and I had checked all the fluids repeatedly since I’d come out here, but I got the impression that if I made it through this trip, I’d be lucky.
It was fortunate that the last unkind hill had brought me within level distance of my destination, the Redfield County Historic District. My friends Nell and Chris were in charge there; having started out years ago as the archaeological component of the visitor center’s crew of six, dwindling funds and increasing cutbacks insured that they now covered everything including geology, history, natural history, and, occasionally, archaeological fieldwork. Still, they were happy about it; the schools who perennially dropped off thousands of students from all over the state were happy about it, and they just kept crossing their fingers every time budget time came around.
The visitor center was an ugly, squat concrete building that was meant to look exciting and modern but only managed to look like a bunker, stark and hideously out of place against its wooded location. The last hopeful gasp before the funds dried up in the 1980s, the building was just one story tall, with long banks of windows that afforded good views of the outside.
I pulled into the parking lot, recently repaved to repair the damage from the frost heaves. It was a patchwork quilt of filled-in potholes, the tar stained with salt like the edge of a margarita glass. I found myself noticing, out of habit, which ones overlay others and were therefore later repairs. At one point, I was so busy following one long patch of purplish asphalt that I found myself observing that a break in the surface resembled two fragments of broken pottery that would mend together. I shook my head and thought, I need to get out more often. Really.
The door to the building opened and a heavyset man stepped out, wearing a down vest over a dress shirt and tie, along with a wool cap. As I approached, Chris sipped on a can of soda and leaned against the frame of the closed door, letting the weak March sun warm his teddy-bear face.
I guess he hadn’t changed much in the years since we first crossed paths, archaeologists studying a similar time period and working within a couple of hours’ drive of each other, but the lines on his round face were a little deeper, and I got the impression that the cap was covering an ever-diminishing amount of wavy brown hair. The times we met were at conferences for the most part, though our e-mails were filled as much with personal updates as bibliographic exchanges. He and Nell were good people, into the work with a good balance of reality and idealism, juggling their growing family with complicated schedules, diminishing state and local budgets, and their mutual passion for colonial reenactment.
I waved and he responded, tentatively, until I walked closer and he recognized me.
“Hey, Emma! You still driving that piece of shit?” Chris and I had been friends since Bessy was a proud and recent acquisition.
“Not for too much longer, if that nasty sound it was making up the last hill was any indication.” We shook hands warmly. “How you been, Chris?”
“Overworked and underpaid. Damn glad it’s spring, though it always