course. It’s on microfilm.” She led him in a different direction this time, glancing back to ask, “You said you graduated in ‘sixty-six? In June?”
He nodded.
“My daughter graduated that year. Linda Gates. Did you know her?”
Carl shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not. It was a big class.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.” She’d taken the tension in his voice for resentment, but Carl didn’t know what to do about it. “It’s just that you do look familiar. I’m almost sure I’ve seen you before.”
His knees loosened with relief and shock. “I used to come to the library fairly often.” He tried not to sound too eager. “Did you work here then?”
“Oh, no. Just these past three years. But I’m sure I’ve seen you.” She tilted her head. “A long time ago, though. It must have been your father … if you look like him.”
Carl sighed. “No, not really. I don’t think I look like my dad at all.”
They had reached the periodicals room. In a minute or two the woman had loaded the microfilm reel into a viewer. “Push the lever this way for forward, this way to back up,” she explained. “This knob focuses.”
“Thanks.”
Finally he came to Saturday, June 4, 1966: the graduating class of Morgantown High. No Johnson, Carl. No Barber, George. None of his other friends. No Ascenscio. No Haimbaugh. Only names he’d seen in the green yearbook on the shelf: Selvaggio. Coleman. Ramirez. Blake. And Linda Gates, the librarian’s daughter.
The urge to run did not grip him. Now he had only a hollow feeling that his past was being stripped away from him, faster the harder he chased it. He wondered why he was not more concerned.
“Could I—” He stopped, realizing the woman might have gone back to her work, but no, she was standing a little way off, her head cocked, as if she’d known he’d need more help. Carl cleared his throat. “Could I see the December 1969 reel?”
“Of course. And if there’s anything particular you want to look up, but you don’t know the exact date, that computer screen there will give you the index. It’ll walk you through the directions for finding what you need.”
“Oh. Sorry I bothered you, then.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
Page sixteen, it had been. Just before the classified ads. The third entry from the top—
It wasn’t there, either.
Shaking, Carl checked the date, looked at three days before and three days after what he knew was the right issue. No use. His father’s obituary just wasn’t there. Of course not, he thought with bitter humor. How can the father of a man who doesn’t exist die, let alone have that fact recorded? This library was so familiar. But could he really be in the wrong Morgantown?
“Thank you,” he said, holding onto a facade of calm as he hurried toward the exit. I should have looked up Mom’s, he thought. No. Because it wouldn’t have been there, either . And then she wouldn’t have existed, either. But maybe, if he didn’t look, she would still be there. Or even if he did take just a little peek? His steps slowed.
No. He couldn’t go back and look. He had to save his mother.
The image of her face floated before him. He tried to visualize her eyes, the last day she’d waved casually at him and he climbed into the car and driven away … going to look at something, buy something. He had money in his pocket. The last time he’d seen her. Or other times, younger times, outings or angers or pride in her son—
But he couldn’t. The more he concentrated, the fuzzier the image became. Green eyes? Or blue? That faint scar, almost invisible—on her right cheek, or her left?
She lived, he mouthed. I remember the pain of losing her, so she must have lived. I remember her life. I’ve touched her, held and been held by her. She was a warm, living woman. If not in this Morgantown, than another one.
But I remember my own life, too. And … somehow … it was this Morgantown.
His heart
He nodded.
“My daughter graduated that year. Linda Gates. Did you know her?”
Carl shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not. It was a big class.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.” She’d taken the tension in his voice for resentment, but Carl didn’t know what to do about it. “It’s just that you do look familiar. I’m almost sure I’ve seen you before.”
His knees loosened with relief and shock. “I used to come to the library fairly often.” He tried not to sound too eager. “Did you work here then?”
“Oh, no. Just these past three years. But I’m sure I’ve seen you.” She tilted her head. “A long time ago, though. It must have been your father … if you look like him.”
Carl sighed. “No, not really. I don’t think I look like my dad at all.”
They had reached the periodicals room. In a minute or two the woman had loaded the microfilm reel into a viewer. “Push the lever this way for forward, this way to back up,” she explained. “This knob focuses.”
“Thanks.”
Finally he came to Saturday, June 4, 1966: the graduating class of Morgantown High. No Johnson, Carl. No Barber, George. None of his other friends. No Ascenscio. No Haimbaugh. Only names he’d seen in the green yearbook on the shelf: Selvaggio. Coleman. Ramirez. Blake. And Linda Gates, the librarian’s daughter.
The urge to run did not grip him. Now he had only a hollow feeling that his past was being stripped away from him, faster the harder he chased it. He wondered why he was not more concerned.
“Could I—” He stopped, realizing the woman might have gone back to her work, but no, she was standing a little way off, her head cocked, as if she’d known he’d need more help. Carl cleared his throat. “Could I see the December 1969 reel?”
“Of course. And if there’s anything particular you want to look up, but you don’t know the exact date, that computer screen there will give you the index. It’ll walk you through the directions for finding what you need.”
“Oh. Sorry I bothered you, then.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
Page sixteen, it had been. Just before the classified ads. The third entry from the top—
It wasn’t there, either.
Shaking, Carl checked the date, looked at three days before and three days after what he knew was the right issue. No use. His father’s obituary just wasn’t there. Of course not, he thought with bitter humor. How can the father of a man who doesn’t exist die, let alone have that fact recorded? This library was so familiar. But could he really be in the wrong Morgantown?
“Thank you,” he said, holding onto a facade of calm as he hurried toward the exit. I should have looked up Mom’s, he thought. No. Because it wouldn’t have been there, either . And then she wouldn’t have existed, either. But maybe, if he didn’t look, she would still be there. Or even if he did take just a little peek? His steps slowed.
No. He couldn’t go back and look. He had to save his mother.
The image of her face floated before him. He tried to visualize her eyes, the last day she’d waved casually at him and he climbed into the car and driven away … going to look at something, buy something. He had money in his pocket. The last time he’d seen her. Or other times, younger times, outings or angers or pride in her son—
But he couldn’t. The more he concentrated, the fuzzier the image became. Green eyes? Or blue? That faint scar, almost invisible—on her right cheek, or her left?
She lived, he mouthed. I remember the pain of losing her, so she must have lived. I remember her life. I’ve touched her, held and been held by her. She was a warm, living woman. If not in this Morgantown, than another one.
But I remember my own life, too. And … somehow … it was this Morgantown.
His heart
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