Summer Sons(88)

The requested text arrived fifteen minutes later as he parked on campus: Appalachian Folk Knowledge and History by E. Gerson, circa 1943. In the hours following, he combed the library stacks one shelf at a time, repeating Riley’s work, looking across the full spectrum of reasonably related shelves—tedious, eye-straining work that turned up nothing. The alarm on his phone rang at 2:45. He crossed campus to Troth’s office, sore-eyed from the fluorescent lighting and towering, shaded shelves.

She greeted him from her desk. “Welcome, Mr. Blur. I hope you’re having a productive afternoon?”

“Something like that,” he said, taking his accustomed uncomfortable seat.

“Let me get the door.” She pushed it closed, the thick wood muffling the enclosed space in an instant. “You said you’d had a breakthrough?”

“Yeah—or, I guess I caught up to the breakthrough Eddie made at the end? I talked to the McCormicks,” he said.

“And what came of that?” she asked with laced fingers, elbows propped on the desktop.

Andrew spread his hands on his knees and sat deeper into the vinyl chair. Their distinct postures, her leaning in and him withdrawing, struck him. “So, the last thing Eddie was looking into was the Fulton family curse itself. Mrs. McCormick knew a version of that ghost story, and she told it to me. She said he postponed their interview because he found another version somewhere else.”

Troth smiled, uncomfortably eager, and said, “Excellent, to be making progress so soon. Were you able to record the interview for transcription? I’d like to hear the original, as soon as possible.”

Andrew winced; that hadn’t occurred to him, but he knew it was proper procedure. “I didn’t get audio, no, but I’ll send over the notes I took. The setup was more casual, and I haven’t done an interview since my thesis. The story doesn’t stand out much from, you know, the standards of the genre, but it’s about his own family, so I’m sure it had special interest.”

Her manicured nail tapped her first knuckle on the opposite hand, a hint of agitation cracking through her veneer of concerned care. “Of course. Next time, do make a recording; it would be good to return and request an oral history from the participants. Otherwise, it doesn’t count much for the archival record. And while I’m sure the text Edward found was fascinating enough for him, an original interview contributes more to the field than any rehash of prior work.”

The concept of returning to the McCormicks and sitting through that tale again, with his phone recording as they sat around their sunny table, made him feel sick. Troth needed to wrangle a publication out of the mess, but that was beyond Andrew’s scope or interests, and he wouldn’t be derailed.

“Sure, but if the other version he told them he found is out there, I’d appreciate seeing it for comparison’s sake,” he said.

“Certainly, and I wouldn’t want to discourage good research habits. If you’ll send me the title, I’ll look into it as well.” As he started to respond, half a consonant out of his mouth, she cut him off to continue, “I’d also intended to extend you an invitation to a small gathering of students and faculty at our home this Friday, but lost track of time. Would you be able to attend?”

“That’s tomorrow,” Andrew said.

“Yes, I apologize for the short notice, but I believe you’d benefit from speaking with my partner. He might prove most helpful on your research into family lore. And you are my advisee, after all. If you’d care to, bring the notes along and tell us both the tale. We’ll offer feedback on avenues worth pursuing. I believe Mr. Sowell and some of your other cohort-mates will be attending,” she said.

Andrew hesitated. The invitation was forceful and abrupt, and she hadn’t extended it to him at the same time as the rest of her students. But, an opportunity was an opportunity.

“All right, sure, sounds useful,” he agreed.

“Perfect. I’ll email the invitation with the address, and the gathering begins at seven. I do have a course to prepare for, though—if you’ll excuse me?” She gestured him to the door.

Steamrolled, he got up and crossed the room without another word. As he pulled the door shut between them, sweating palm slipping on the cold door handle, she pressed the bridge of her joined hands to her mouth, giving him no further notice.





24


The bottle of top-shelf bourbon Riley clasped by the neck was their contribution to the get-together. He cleaned up well, as usual: hair styled in an artful side part, glasses perched on his nose, a grey sweater-vest over a black Oxford. Andrew’s combination of persistently stubbled jawline, rumpled Henley, and black jeans were shabby in comparison, but he doubted it mattered. Impressing the faculty and making it through to graduation weren’t his driving motivations.

“I don’t dig this place,” Riley said under his breath as he rang the doorbell.

The house was grand, ancient, about an hour from campus. Cars speckled the paved drive. Extensive lawns spoke to the builders’ life of leisure, as did the ostentatious columned veranda and the house’s two tall stories that sprawled far in either direction. The ancestral home creaked at the seams with the weight of contained histories, a constant pressure that ached in his nail-beds and molars. While Andrew hadn’t run across much detail about the Troths during his perusal of Eddie’s research, he bet with enough dedicated attention he’d unearth their ghosts as well; no old families around these parts came without some monstrous history. He scratched at the seam of his jeans to soothe the soreness of his fingertips.