“There’s cobwebs in your hair,” he observed and I almost smiled; he was as forthright as ever.
“I’m sure there’s plenty of them.” My voice was reedy with tension and need.
He reached and gently grasped a sticky skein, elongating one of my curls like uncoiling a wire. He stretched until it was almost fully extended before letting it spring back, next rubbing together his fingertips to shed the cobweb.
“That was so cool! Is your hair naturally curly?”
Our first winter as a couple and without a place of our own, we had often made love in Bull’s ice-fishing shack out on Flickertail Lake. The cramped, chilly space became our blissful private heaven; laughing as we struggled to free ourselves from inhibiting winter garments, the threat of getting caught only stimulating the urgent desire, knocking over coffee mugs and sling chairs in our need to come together. Memories swarmed, overpowering and undeniable; I could kneel here and pretend I didn’t know this man but it did not change the truth. To be near him and feign indifference was a cruelty too bizarre to comprehend.
“It is,” I muttered, referring to my hair, still refusing to look at him.
He proceeded to pepper me with questions, exactly as he had when we first met. I kept my answers succinct at first but familiarity, the sum total of our years together, began to win out and before I knew it I was outright flirting with him. I was flirting with my husband, the father of my children, who was currently married to another woman. I knew he sensed the connection that bound us, even if he couldn’t explain why. We kept finding little excuses to briefly touch each other. He’d nudge my arm or touch my wrist to gain my attention; I pretended to find a smudge of dust on his shoulder, just so I could brush it away.
“Your family owns Shore Leave, right? But you’re from Chicago?”
“What made you decide to move here from the city?”
“How’d you decide to major in history?”
“Are you planning to live at Shore Leave or in the apartments by the co-op? My friend Skid Erickson lives there with his girlfriend. It’s a nice place.”
“Have you seen the northern lights up here? They are something else.” He made this comment as he extracted yet another cobweb from my hair, completely at ease.
“Do you mind?” I pretended to gripe, ducking away.
“Sorry,” he said, dimple flashing, not truly sorry at all. His grin widened. “There’s dirt on your cheek.”
There was also a pile of newspapers on my lap; I sat cross-legged, facing him as I riffled carefully through a stack of faded newsprint, ancient editions of The Landon Sentinel. I looked up at this comment and my heart struck a solid blow to my breastbone.
His smile faded like smoke in a sudden breeze.
“What?” I whispered.
Dispensing with small talk, he spoke with sudden seriousness. “You’ll think I’m crazy, but I swear we’ve met before today.”
I returned my attention at once to my lap. “I don’t think so.”
He resituated, resting one forearm on a bent knee, focusing his full intensity upon me while I tried not to squirm. “Are you sure?”
Goddammit, don’t do this to me, Carter.
I refused to look at him. And then something completely different caught my eye – a typewritten name in a slim column.
“Look!” I cried, angling the paper toward him, indicating with my index finger. “Look right there.”
“‘Edward Tilson,’” he read. “Do you know him?”
“Oh my God,” I breathed, blood coursing as I flipped to the front page of the three-page paper, seeking the publication date. Sunday, May 20, 1906.
Mathias used his shoulder to gently nudge mine. “Who is he?”
I had no answer yet, reading intently, with mounting purpose. An obituary, I realized, detailing the life of a ninety-nine year old doctor named Edward Tilson; a man beloved by the entire county according to the subsequent paragraphs beneath a grainy image.
Tilson…
It can’t be a coincidence.
“‘A resident of the area since 1869, Dr. Tilson, a veteran of the War Between the States, was proceeded in death by his wife, Adeline Tilson, an infant daughter, and four sons, also veterans. Three of Dr. Tilson’s sons, Justus, Amon, and Bridger, died in the service of their country, while his eldest, Blythe, was killed in 1882.’” I looked over at Mathias, stunned by this revelation. He waited with eyebrows raised, surprised by my obvious agitation over these long-ago deaths.
Blythe Tilson. Oh, my God…
At least one of Blythe’s ancestors had lived in Landon during the nineteenth century.
“Holy shit,” I whispered, lightheaded with astonishment, resting my left thumb against my lips as I reread the line about Dr. Tilson’s eldest son, killed in 1882. Ruthann was in 1882. I couldn’t process this wealth of information quickly enough. It couldn’t be a coincidence. “Holy shit, do you know what this means?!”
“I’m dying to know what this means,” Mathias said. “You have no idea.”
I read the remainder of the obituary, hawk-eyed for more information. Dr. Tilson was survived by his nephew, Clinton Clemens, his niece, Rebecca Carter, and –
“Look!” I exclaimed again, tears bulging along my lower eyelids without my consent; it was inevitable. Mathias couldn’t begin to know the depth of my emotional investment.
“I’m looking, I promise.” Mathias scooted even closer; we almost clocked heads.
“It’s Malcolm,” I breathed, composure crumbling fast. “And Rebecca’s husband is Boyd Carter. Oh God, if only we’d found this after we found Malcolm’s picture and his Christmas Eve telegram, Thias. To think it’s been in your attic this whole time. Malcolm lived to 1906…” Tears dripped from my chin, creating a rainstorm of damp dots on the newspaper; I scrubbed at my face, choking back sobs.
“What did you call me, just now?” Mathias spoke with a dead-serious tone and I heard his confusion, the sincerity of his desire to understand more than I was currently telling him.
I froze, unable to dredge up an answer; in our real lives,
