And yet, she had to admit a certain admiration for the man. If nothing else he looked astoundingly young. Solomon Clay had to be seventy, but he looked forty-five, at most. As they moved, he smoothed his wavy hair and tapped down the fine wisps above his ears. He even smoothed his eyebrows. Half-pathetic for a man his age, maybe, but he was
strangely beautiful for a man so old. Men grow handsomer over time; women just mature. Everyone seemed to agree.
Oh, she knew it was silly to care so much about aging. To think like those ladies whose comfortable lives let them be conceited full-time. But rich women weren’t the only ones yearning to save their sweet faces. What girl doesn’t watch her loosening skin with regret? Maybe even lady alligators sigh at their reflections in the river.
“Lake is inside packing your things,” Solomon said. “Then he’ll drive us to town. You handle our tickets.”
He pulled an envelope from a pocket inside his jacket. She snatched it from his hand, in a hurry to get away from him.
“That’s bad manners, Adele. You better work on that.”
“Or else what?”
She cocked her arm slightly and squeezed her hand around the envelope as if it were a weapon she could use to crack Solomon’s skull.
“You know I stopped calling you new folks Unlikely Scholars years ago.”
“What do you use instead?” She crossed her arms to defend against the inevitable insult.
“You all come here and start dressing like businesspeople, so I just call you pros.”
He looked her up and down.
“But I’m guessing you’ve been called a pro plenty of times before.”
He walked off, and she watched him go. He swaggered like a child.
The Dean had told her to crush anyone who threatened the Library. They might be going out into the field to negotiate with Mr. Washburn, but she hoped Solomon Clay would give her an excuse to inflict a little violence on him while they were there. Hurting a man like that would be very satisfying.
INSIDE THE CABIN
Lake had finished putting her things into suitcases, even her underwear. When she walked in, Lake stood by the kitchen table. He unplugged the old toaster on the kitchen counter, and in his enormous hand the black cord looked like a line of thread.
“I’ll take your bags down to the truck,” he said. “You can meet us there in fifteen minutes. Will that be enough time?”
“I’m sure.”
He went to prop the door open, but she stood there already and held it for him. So he went back to the kitchen table and lifted both bags. As he came closer, she couldn’t help it, she stepped backward as far as she could without letting the door swing shut.
Lake stopped there and said, “Mr. Clay was giving you hell.”
“You heard?”
“Through the door.”
“He’s the legend, I guess.”
Lake shrugged. The suitcases seemed weightless when he held them, but she hated to think how much heavier they’d be when she was on her own.
“He’s not actually from Chicago, you know. He’s from a town called Elgin.”
“Oh,” she said.
Adele knew what Lake was doing, trying to pop a few holes in that asshole’s balloon, but geography wouldn’t reduce him. She still felt small in comparison, intimidated by Mr. Clay. She appreciated Lake’s attempt, though, and smiled politely.
“Also, Solomon Clay is not that man’s given name. He took it on when he got here.”
Lake stooped and looked into her eyes.
“What’s his real name, then?” she whispered.
“Maurice Storch.”
Maybe Lake caught the first chuckles bubbling behind Adele’s eyes, but he didn’t wait around to watch.
Adele spent the next five minutes in the bedroom lying on her star of Bethlehem quilt, laughing herself into a stomachache. She imagined introducing herself to old Mr. Washburn. Hello, I’m
Maurice’s
shield bearer!
After that was through, she spent another five minutes talking to herself about this new position with the Library. Convincing herself to embrace it. To be brave. The sight of the Vermont woods through her cabin window helped give her courage. You made it here, she thought. And who would’ve believed you could? Not even you.
Adele went to the vanity table near her bed and pulled her hair down from its ponytail. The straight brown locks barely reached the tops of her shoulders, but she still felt good about the look. It had taken her six years to grow this much back. She brushed it a little, but not too hard because her scalp had always been tender. Then she pulled the brown hair together again, twisted it, and tied it off with a little maroon hair band. Adele turned her head and looked at the ponytail in profile. Like this she appeared business-minded, professional. One serious brunette. Adele Henry.
Keep going, she said to herself in the mirror. Keep going.
After that she put a few last supplies into her old purse, the big green one she’d brought with her from her previous life. The only item that remained
from those decades. Only as she left the cabin did she open the envelope and look at the pair of tickets she’d been given. Final destination: Garland, California. But the trip out there would take days, not hours.
Adele Henry and Maurice Storch were going Greyhound.
SEEING AMERICA BY BUS
is like touring the Louvre in a Porta Potti.
And that’s all that will ever need to be said about that.
THE LOUNGE
of the Garland bus station collected dust better than most vacuums. It wasn’t a dirty place, exactly, no trash on the waiting room floor, but Adele nearly had a coughing fit the moment she opened its doors. Solomon Clay didn’t make things any easier when he refused to carry his own bags inside. She had to make three trips from the bus to the waiting room, first carrying his things over, then hers. By the third trip she was heaving, inhaling great quantities of the gritty station air.
Meanwhile Solomon Clay sauntered over to the public telephones as if he were about to ring up another assistant to take her place. She got to rest, really gather herself, only after hauling in all five of their suitcases, and at one point Adele felt nostalgia for her carefree days at the Scarborough Women’s Correctional Facility.
Water, that’s what she needed, so she got in line at the concession counter but didn’t realize she had no money until the woman demanded a dollar. Mr. Clay had been buying all her meals at different spots on the road. She hadn’t received even a nickel before leaving the Library. Embarrassed, she slinked away.
Adele didn’t run right over to Solomon now, because then she’d feel too much like a kid looking for her allowance, and this guy didn’t need any more help treating her like a pup. So she crept toward him instead. He kept his back to the waiting room, phone receiver against his ear. Adele came close enough to pick Solomon’s pocket (which she considered), but then she heard him say, “We’re at the Greyhound station, Mr. Washburn.”
Hearing that name gave her the wobbles, and she couldn’t move any closer. Instead she stumbled over to some vending machines in an alcove to the right of the phones. Adele flopped against the plastic face of one machine so hard the candy bars shook in their silver coils.
Washburn.
Even though Lake had told her the rumor, she hadn’t truly believed it. Even when the Dean confirmed it, she’d remained suspect. But now, in
this city, hearing Solomon say the name, Adele was surprised to find just how much power it held. All those months of working at Mr. Washburn’s Library had deeply affected her.
Old Mr. Washburn. What would he be like? She imagined Moses and Frederick Douglass rolled together. A stooped but powerful old man with a curly gray beard and a walking stick. Lightning bolts shooting from his mouth when he spoke. She realized she was thinking of Judah this whole time. She’d come across some wild ideas at the Library, but a two-hundred-fifty-year-old man was the wildest yet. It wasn’t possible. Was it?
Solomon hung up, and Adele stepped away from the vending machine, saw herself in the plastic’s reflection. Did she look right? She snapped the collar of her powder-blue box coat. She rubbed the shine off her forehead.
Washburn!
Despite the noise she’d made when she’d smacked against the candy machine, Solomon didn’t realize she stood so near. He couldn’t see around corners, after all. So after hanging up with Mr. Washburn, he made a second call. Spoke as loudly, as calmly, as he had during the first.
“Hello, sir,” he said. “I’m in Garland. Just now. No, she made it too.”
Adele heard him turn, the creaky sound of a metal phone cord stretching. Was he speaking to the Dean? Must be. Only the Dean or Mr. Washburn could coax respect out of Solomon Clay.
“She
was
bringing in the luggage. Now? Eating a snack, probably.” He laughed.
Adele stepped back and looked at herself reflected in plastic again. She patted her waist with both hands sympathetically. Then she squeezed the flesh so hard it hurt.
“I’ve just spoken to him. We’re getting picked up. Yes. Why do you need to know? Don’t you trust me? Okay. Okay! I’m taking Mr. Wash-burn to the Devil’s Well. That’s right. I believe I do know where it is. I didn’t tell you because you would’ve wanted to come too. It’s bad enough I’ve got this bitch with me.”
Solomon Clay cleared his throat. His voice quieted, but she could still hear.
“I’ll take him to the Devil’s Well. That’s where I’ll plead our case. Judah heard the Voice there. Maybe we will too.”
Adele didn’t have time to search for a pen, so she committed the words to memory: the Devil’s Well. She’d investigate. TheDevil’sWell. But where to start? TheDevilsWell.
Why this instant desire to remember these words? Sniff out their meaning? Why not just wait until Solomon Clay led them there? Or ask
Mr. Washburn when he arrived? Adele remembered what the Dean had told her in his office. He didn’t trust Solomon. He didn’t trust Adele. Didn’t trust anyone. Considering the company, that seemed like the smart move. Who should Adele trust? Only herself. She would find her own answers, thank you.
“Window-shopping?” Mr. Clay asked. He stood behind her now. She watched him in the reflection. How long had he been there? Had she been repeating those words in her head or out loud? She’d been staring at the ground, trying to concentrate, but now she acted as though nothing could be more fascinating than the 3 Musketeers bar on bright display.
“You want something?” he asked as if she were a dog that wanted its bowl refilled.
She nodded. The Devil’s Well.
She repeated this to herself. It seemed like such an easy term to remember, but she didn’t entirely trust herself. Her drugs of choice back in the day? Amphetamine, dexamphetamine, and, of course, methamphetamine. All of which can have a negative effect on a person’s memory. Names and dates and places and faces.
Solomon went into one of his coat pockets and pulled out his wallet. Removed a dollar. But instead of giving it to her, he fed the bill to the machine and asked, “Which one?”
Adele imagined Mr. Washburn now as a man crippled by senility, a figure slouching in a tarnished wheelchair, his dirty gray beard just a matted mess. Who would protect this feeble codger? She tapped the glass lightly, mechanically.
Solomon Clay leaned forward. “CJ7.”
He punched in the code, and a blocky Whatchamacallit bar plopped down. The plunk of coins echoed in the alcove. Solomon stuck one long finger into the proper slot and retrieved a dime and a nickel. He left Adele to stoop and fish out the candy.
Which she did because she was hungry as hell.
But forget asking about another dollar for that water now. She’d drink out of a bus toilet before begging Solomon Clay for anything. While they waited for their ride, Adele went upstairs to the ladies’ room and drank handfuls of water out of the tap at the sink. Then she took a length of brown paper towel and wrote the term she’d heard with her lilac liner pencil.
The Devil’s Well.
Could Judah’s story be real? Why did this idea scare her more than anything else ever had?
When Adele returned to the lobby, some big guy was swiping her suitcases.
She came down the stairs and found him running off with her things. Solomon Clay was nowhere near. He’d just left their bags unguarded! Now some dude, dressed like a dockworker, was robbing her. His silhouette was as massive as the Grand Teton, but Ms. Henry didn’t hesitate. Hell, no. She jumped his ass. Practically landed on his back.
“I will beat your
ass
, motherfucker!”
This is what the lady yelled.
And that is how she introduced herself to Mr. Washburn.
AFTER AN EXPLANATION
, disentanglement, and mutual apologies, Adele and Mr. Washburn caught up to Solomon Clay. He waited for them out on San Pablo Avenue. A street that offered any of a dozen places for the poorest to flop: the Carson Arms, Sunshine Manor, By the Bay. Right now Adele Henry would’ve preferred to stay in any one of them rather than spend another millisecond in Mr. Washburn’s presence.
She was so embarrassed. Bum-rushing the boss. And using foul language too! All this because he’d been trying to carry her bags out to his car. After they’d cleared up the confusion, she wouldn’t let him touch her suitcases again, insisted on lifting them herself.
And now she stared at the ground, muttering, beating herself up even more. Putting down her own professionalism, her intelligence, her bad temper, even the way she wore her clothes.
How could you do that to Mr. Washburn? He’s going to send you back, and it’s all your fault. But you don’t deserve to be here anyway. You aren’t brave enough. And you’re just so
stupid
. Too violent. Too short. You’re no damn good at all. This is what she said to herself as they walked out to the car.
But Mr. Washburn didn’t seem to notice her turmoil. While Solomon Clay clearly didn’t care. Both men were too busy trying to fit three people and five suitcases inside a 1977 Mercedes-Benz 450 SLC Coupe. This wasn’t the slick roadster, that two-seater with lots of spirit, but its chunky cousin. A cheaper model, if we’re being blunt. Slightly roomier backseat, a little more headroom, but very little else to recommend it. A bit of a beanbag, as far as coupes go. Mr. Washburn opened the trunk and worked much more luggage in than physics should have allowed. Until finally only one suitcase remained, one of Adele’s.