The Book of Speculation by Erika Swyler

our curators do.”
    “I can’t vouch for my painting skills, but I can sort materials with the best.”
    She laughs. “Pardon me. I tend towards the flowery, and I so love Sanders-Beecher. It’s a very special place.”
    “Clearly,” I say, wishing I could add something smarter.
    “We’ve got a draft of the Constitution, did you know? Not the actual one, but a beautiful fake. It’s part of a wonderful collection on a local notorious forgery ring. The Georgia Historical Society has one of the real documents, but I do prefer ours.” She pauses to clear her throat. “There is drudgery, though. We do get so very many donations. Everyone wants to feel important, and there are so many old families here. It’s difficult to explain to someone that their grandmother’s Woolworth’s receipts aren’t significant.”
    And suddenly I know what to say. “Unless they’re receipts from the first purchase in the state’s first store, or if you were looking to document typical household expenses during a specific period.”
    I can hear Miss Anne smile through the phone. “Oh, you just might paint, Mr. Watson. Where is it you said you’re from?”
    “I didn’t.”
    Miss Anne is stunned but delighted that a man from New York would inquire about their little archive. Her delight breeds the urge to exaggerate my credentials. I promote myself to curator of the whaling archive. Before the call is over, Savannah becomes a reminder of places other than Napawset, other than Long Island. But other places don’t have Alice. And Enola could come back to stay.
    I’m hanging up when the sound of snapping wood cracks like a gunshot. I jump, sending papers flying, and take three, four, five heartbeats to calm myself. A walk down the hall finds pictures hanging crooked from their nails, but not the sound’s source. Everything looks fine until I reach my parents’ room.
    A thin split cuts up the wall by Mom’s dresser and runs all the way to the ceiling, straight as a stud. When I put my fingers to it the house groans as if in pain. I have a faded half memory of running toy trains across the floor in this room while my mother sang something in French. I don’t remember the words, only that she was braiding her hair at the dresser. I should check the other bedrooms.
    Enola’s room is unchanged. Iodine-stained quilt, a hole in the wall by her bed, a desk full of pencils chewed down to the leads. My bedroom door barely opens; it’s either swollen or the frame has jammed—no, it doesn’t hang straight either. Hell. I hardly spend time in there. Might as well keep my stuff in the living room until it’s fixed.
    Three armloads of clothing from the dresser, a stack of books, two pillows, and the summer sheets make the living room both bedroom and office, and me a refugee in my house. There’s nothing else for it—I have to call Frank. I’d rather not, but Alice wouldn’t have said anything about us yet. I asked her to not tell him about my losing my job either, not when it’s temporary, not when I know how protective Frank can be. Alice and I are still being careful. We still don’t know what we are.
    He picks up on the fifth ring and immediately starts in. “It’s not good to let the gutters go this long, you know. All the water straight off the roof can undermine your foundation.”
    I almost blurt that I’m sleeping with his daughter. Excellent. Now when I talk to him, I’m going to remember her calf wrapped around my back.
    “Yeah. I messed around with them a little, but it’s not straightforward. It looks like the eave needs work too. I think the house is settling. A crack opened up in the wall in my parents’ room.”
    He lets out a low whistle.
    “I’ll get someone over soon, but I was hoping you might know how to patch it.”
    “Something tells me this isn’t patch territory.”
    “I know, I need to hire somebody.” Out the front window the Sound is rough and high with whitecaps, a blue so angry it