whole entire life, with all your opinions, your loves, your fears. Eventually those parts of you disappear. And then the people who could remember those parts of you disappear, and before long all that’s left is your name in some ledger. This Marcy person—she had a favorite food. She had friends and people she disliked. We don’t even know how she died.” Sam smiled sadly. “I guess that’s why I like preservation better than history. In preservation I feel like I can keep some of it from slipping away.”
As he spoke Connie noticed that his face was attractive in a wonderfully flawed sort of way; it held a sharp, straight nose peeling with sunburn, and mischievous green eyes bracketed by deep smile lines. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail, a brown color bleached by the sun. Connie smiled at him.
“I can see that. But history’s not as different as you might think.” She brushed her fingers over Marcy Lamson’s name scrawled on the page. “Don’t you think Marcy would be surprised if she knew that some random people in 1991 were reading her name and thinking about her? She probably never even imagined 1991. In a way”—Connie hesitated—“it offers her a kind of immortality. At least this way she gets to be remembered. Or thought about. Noticed.”
As her fingertip touched the surface of the page, Connie saw with stunning clarity the image of a smiling woman’s face, freckled, shaded by a broad straw hat. She was old, her blue eyes lidded and soft, and she was laughing at something. Then just as instantly the impression vanished, and Connie felt like the breath had been squeezed out of her chest. The intensity of the effect was staggering. Connie no longer felt like she could explain it to herself as a daydream; the sensation was utterly different, like having the real world replaced with a bright cellophane film still, overlying her field of vision.
“True,” Sam was saying, closing the book on his lap and folding his hands behind his head. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling, not noticing anything amiss.
“Well,” she said, smoothing her voice and massaging her temple. She must discuss this with someone—Grace. Or maybe a doctor. “Looks like this was a waste of time. Thank you, Sam, for helping me out so much. I didn’t mean to take over your whole afternoon.”
“Are you kidding?” he said. “The cupola’ll be there. I love an excuse to mess around in these archives. But,” he said, “there’s one place left for us to look. Annals of Membership.”
Connie groaned. “Come on. If she was a person, which we don’t know, then she wasn’t born here, she wasn’t married here, and she didn’t die here. What would she be doing in Annals of Membership?”
Sam made a pshaw ing sound. “Look at this. And I thought Harvard was supposed to be a good school.” He rose, pulled three volumes from the bottom bookshelf by the door, and dropped them unceremoniously on the card table. “Don’t they teach you how to do thorough research at your big fancy university? This is a very second-tier-school attitude I am sensing. Let’s go, Cornell. One more hour and we’ll be done.”
Connie reached for the volume nearest her, laughing in spite of herself. Liz had gone to Cornell and was forever reminding people, bristling, that it was in the Ivy League. Sam’s teasing warmth pushed aside the spreading ache in Connie’s head, bringing her back to the real pleasures of her work. She cast an appreciative glance over this strange young man, who made her feel disarrayed and yet was somehow making her better at her work. He grinned back.
They worked for a further hour in silence, paging through lists of townspeople proposed for full church membership, some names appearing repeatedly over decades before their membership was confirmed. Connie marveled at the reserve, the closed-ness implied in these pages, and felt a sour bloom of distaste for this culture that she had given her life to
As he spoke Connie noticed that his face was attractive in a wonderfully flawed sort of way; it held a sharp, straight nose peeling with sunburn, and mischievous green eyes bracketed by deep smile lines. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail, a brown color bleached by the sun. Connie smiled at him.
“I can see that. But history’s not as different as you might think.” She brushed her fingers over Marcy Lamson’s name scrawled on the page. “Don’t you think Marcy would be surprised if she knew that some random people in 1991 were reading her name and thinking about her? She probably never even imagined 1991. In a way”—Connie hesitated—“it offers her a kind of immortality. At least this way she gets to be remembered. Or thought about. Noticed.”
As her fingertip touched the surface of the page, Connie saw with stunning clarity the image of a smiling woman’s face, freckled, shaded by a broad straw hat. She was old, her blue eyes lidded and soft, and she was laughing at something. Then just as instantly the impression vanished, and Connie felt like the breath had been squeezed out of her chest. The intensity of the effect was staggering. Connie no longer felt like she could explain it to herself as a daydream; the sensation was utterly different, like having the real world replaced with a bright cellophane film still, overlying her field of vision.
“True,” Sam was saying, closing the book on his lap and folding his hands behind his head. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling, not noticing anything amiss.
“Well,” she said, smoothing her voice and massaging her temple. She must discuss this with someone—Grace. Or maybe a doctor. “Looks like this was a waste of time. Thank you, Sam, for helping me out so much. I didn’t mean to take over your whole afternoon.”
“Are you kidding?” he said. “The cupola’ll be there. I love an excuse to mess around in these archives. But,” he said, “there’s one place left for us to look. Annals of Membership.”
Connie groaned. “Come on. If she was a person, which we don’t know, then she wasn’t born here, she wasn’t married here, and she didn’t die here. What would she be doing in Annals of Membership?”
Sam made a pshaw ing sound. “Look at this. And I thought Harvard was supposed to be a good school.” He rose, pulled three volumes from the bottom bookshelf by the door, and dropped them unceremoniously on the card table. “Don’t they teach you how to do thorough research at your big fancy university? This is a very second-tier-school attitude I am sensing. Let’s go, Cornell. One more hour and we’ll be done.”
Connie reached for the volume nearest her, laughing in spite of herself. Liz had gone to Cornell and was forever reminding people, bristling, that it was in the Ivy League. Sam’s teasing warmth pushed aside the spreading ache in Connie’s head, bringing her back to the real pleasures of her work. She cast an appreciative glance over this strange young man, who made her feel disarrayed and yet was somehow making her better at her work. He grinned back.
They worked for a further hour in silence, paging through lists of townspeople proposed for full church membership, some names appearing repeatedly over decades before their membership was confirmed. Connie marveled at the reserve, the closed-ness implied in these pages, and felt a sour bloom of distaste for this culture that she had given her life to
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