binder while Meg scribbled her name in the book and walked
around. There were many items and
documents on display to do with Alexander Hamilton, but there were also
ceramics from indigenous people, and a display dealing with environmental
conservation on the island.
“I hope we are able to help you find
what it is you are looking for.”
“I hardly know what it is I’m
looking for. As I told you on the phone,
I have come to own the property that was once the Eden plantation. I’m curious about the early
inhabitants of the plantation, the lore surrounding the place…”
“Unfortunately, it is very difficult
in our geographical location to preserve history. Hurricanes, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions,
strong tropical weather in general wipe away all traces of those who came
before us. Nature is still in command,
here. But what we do have we take good
care of, document carefully, and limit its handling. You’ll have to wear these
gloves when searching through the archives.”
As Meg reached to take the linen
gloves from Drew, she noticed his left hand looked as if it had been badly
burned. He was missing three of his
fingers, and the others looked as if they had been fused by some terrible
heat. Chalky patches of virgin flesh
moved up his arm and disappeared beneath the tan sleeves of his shirt. Meg averted her eyes, but Drew had seen her
studying his wounds. Meg grasped for
something to say to hide her embarrassment.
“Eden
is a miracle, it would seem,” she said. “It’s
amazing how much inside is still in tact.”
“Really? Perhaps, if you find anything historically
significant you could show it to me or donate it to the collection.”
“I’ll let you know.”
Drew led Meg to a large cabinet and
opened its locked doors.
“In here you’ll find old documents:
tax records, slave lists, parish records, even the occasional letter or
journal. Take as long as you’d
like. We’re open until four.”
“Thank you.”
Meg watched Drew walk back to his
desk. His black hair was graying at the
temples, his skin was dark and lined, and he favored his right foot when he
walked, creating a slight limp.
Meg checked her watch— 10:15 . She took out her notebook and set it on the table by the cabinet.
The
first hour passed slowly. She sifted
through ancient tax records she could barely decipher and found nothing on Eden. Several references to debt caused Meg’s
stomach to churn, and she thought of her father. Tears burned behind her eyes. Meg blinked back her tears and looked up at
Drew. He sat hunched over his desk with
a magnifying glass, pouring over some document. He didn’t notice her at all. Meg
looked at the tax record and then back at Drew. She smiled suddenly at her memory.
St. John’s
College—one of the oldest Liberal Arts
colleges in the country—was a short walk from Meg’s house in Annapolis. Housed in the basement of one of its dorms, Humphrey’s Hall, its tiny
bookstore was an abundance of literary treasures—well-known and unknown. Meg enjoyed picking up coffee from The City
Dock Café, strolling up
Prince
George Street to College Avenue , and wondering through the
shelves of the old bookstore to find new reading material.
One autumn day, Meg had walked to
the bookstore. It was the kind of day
when every leaf of every tree seemed to hold on in all its warm-hued glory
before shedding itself. Meg had wandered
into the bookstore and saw someone new working behind the counter. He looked young—mid-thirties, maybe—and
erudite. He was wearing glasses and was
hunched over some musical
around. There were many items and
documents on display to do with Alexander Hamilton, but there were also
ceramics from indigenous people, and a display dealing with environmental
conservation on the island.
“I hope we are able to help you find
what it is you are looking for.”
“I hardly know what it is I’m
looking for. As I told you on the phone,
I have come to own the property that was once the Eden plantation. I’m curious about the early
inhabitants of the plantation, the lore surrounding the place…”
“Unfortunately, it is very difficult
in our geographical location to preserve history. Hurricanes, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions,
strong tropical weather in general wipe away all traces of those who came
before us. Nature is still in command,
here. But what we do have we take good
care of, document carefully, and limit its handling. You’ll have to wear these
gloves when searching through the archives.”
As Meg reached to take the linen
gloves from Drew, she noticed his left hand looked as if it had been badly
burned. He was missing three of his
fingers, and the others looked as if they had been fused by some terrible
heat. Chalky patches of virgin flesh
moved up his arm and disappeared beneath the tan sleeves of his shirt. Meg averted her eyes, but Drew had seen her
studying his wounds. Meg grasped for
something to say to hide her embarrassment.
“Eden
is a miracle, it would seem,” she said. “It’s
amazing how much inside is still in tact.”
“Really? Perhaps, if you find anything historically
significant you could show it to me or donate it to the collection.”
“I’ll let you know.”
Drew led Meg to a large cabinet and
opened its locked doors.
“In here you’ll find old documents:
tax records, slave lists, parish records, even the occasional letter or
journal. Take as long as you’d
like. We’re open until four.”
“Thank you.”
Meg watched Drew walk back to his
desk. His black hair was graying at the
temples, his skin was dark and lined, and he favored his right foot when he
walked, creating a slight limp.
Meg checked her watch— 10:15 . She took out her notebook and set it on the table by the cabinet.
The
first hour passed slowly. She sifted
through ancient tax records she could barely decipher and found nothing on Eden. Several references to debt caused Meg’s
stomach to churn, and she thought of her father. Tears burned behind her eyes. Meg blinked back her tears and looked up at
Drew. He sat hunched over his desk with
a magnifying glass, pouring over some document. He didn’t notice her at all. Meg
looked at the tax record and then back at Drew. She smiled suddenly at her memory.
St. John’s
College—one of the oldest Liberal Arts
colleges in the country—was a short walk from Meg’s house in Annapolis. Housed in the basement of one of its dorms, Humphrey’s Hall, its tiny
bookstore was an abundance of literary treasures—well-known and unknown. Meg enjoyed picking up coffee from The City
Dock Café, strolling up
Prince
George Street to College Avenue , and wondering through the
shelves of the old bookstore to find new reading material.
One autumn day, Meg had walked to
the bookstore. It was the kind of day
when every leaf of every tree seemed to hold on in all its warm-hued glory
before shedding itself. Meg had wandered
into the bookstore and saw someone new working behind the counter. He looked young—mid-thirties, maybe—and
erudite. He was wearing glasses and was
hunched over some musical
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