“You really shouldn’t have coffee up here,” Rina points out, less quiet than usual. I know why.
Every month, the powers that be rank us archivists in order of how many people we’ve helped. From tourists who walk in, to the handwritten letters asking us to track down a dead relative, every response is counted and credited. Yes, it helps justify our jobs, but it also adds unnecessary competition, especially after this morning, when they told us Rina was, for the fifth month in a row, number two on the list.
“By the way, Beecher, congrats on the top spot again,” Dallas says, trying to be nice.
“Top spot in what?” Clementine asks, peering down the hall and hoping to buy a few more seconds for Orlando.
“Being helpful. Don’t you know that’s what Beecher’s best at?” Dallas asks. “He even answers the questions that get emailed though the National Archives website, which no one likes answering because when you email someone back, well, now you got a pen pal. It’s true, you’re walking with the nicest guy in the entire building-though maybe you can teach him how to help himself,” Dallas adds, thinking he’s again making nice.
Doesn’t matter. By now, Orlando should be long gone from the SCIF. Nothing to worry about. But as Clementine steps between me and Rina, Rina isn’t staring at me. Her eyes are on my coat.
“Clear the hallway,” a deep baritone calls out. I turn just as two uniformed Secret Service agents exit from the nearby staircase. On my left, the lights above the elevator tell us it’s back on the ground floor. The sirens are louder than ever. Here comes Moses.
Without a word, one of the agents motions to Dallas and Rina, who head back around the corner. Question answered. Rina and Dallas are the ones staffing Wallace in the SCIF.
I go to push the button for the elevator. The taller Secret Service agent shakes his head and points us to the staircase. Until the President’s in place, that’s the only way down.
“What happened to your coat?” the agent asks, pointing to the brown Rorschach blots.
“Coffee,” I call back, trying to look relaxed as I head for the waiting stairs.
“Beecher, just say it,” Clementine says as soon as we’re out of sight. “Tell me!”
I shake my head, speedwalking us back through the musty stacks. I’m tempted to run, but as the motion sensor lights pop on above us, I’m reminded of the very best reason to stay calm. The sensors are the Archives’ way of saving energy, but all they do is highlight us for the videocameras in the corner of each stack. And unlike the videotape Orlando swiped from the room, these beam right back to the Security Office.
“You sure this is right?” Clementine asks as we reach a section where the lights are already on. Like we’ve been here before.
“Of course it’s right,” I say, squinting at the record group locator numbers at the end of the row on our left. I pause a moment. A moment too long.
“You’re lost, aren’t you?”
“I’m not lost.”
She studies me, strong as ever. “Beecher…”
“I’m not. Yes, I’m turned around a little. But I’m not lost,” I insist.
“Listen, even if you are, it’s okay,” she says with no judgment in her voice. But as she looks away, she starts… chuckling.
“You’re laughing?”
“I–I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head, unable to hide it. The worst part is, she’s got a great laugh-a laugh from deep in her stomach, not one of those fake mouth ones. “It’s just-All this running… and the videotape and the Secret Service… and everyone’s got guns… This is the President, Beecher! What’re we doing?” she asks, her laugh coming faster.
Before I know it, I’m chuckling with her. It starts slowly, with just a hiccup, then quickly starts to gallop. She’s absolutely right. To be lost like this… what the hell are we doing?
My belly lurches, catapulting a gasp of a laugh that only makes her laugh harder. She bends forward, holding her side and shooting me another new look I’ve never seen before. It barely lasts a second-an appreciative grin that reveals a single dimple in her left cheek-
Poomp.
Half bent over, I look down and see that the dictionary that was hidden beneath my lab coat has slipped out, slapping against the stacks’ 1950s linoleum floor.
Clementine stares down at the old book. Her laughter’s gone.
Mine too. Reality’s back. And so is her fear.
“Clemmi, listen to me-whatever we found in that room-whatever they’re doing with this book-” She looks my way, her eyes wide. I take a deep breath. “I can fix this.”
She nods, swaying just slightly. “You mean that, don’t you?”
“I’m not sure. I think I do.” I scan the empty stacks and again study the record group numbers, determined to get us back on track. “Yeah. I do.”
She studies me carefully, silence settling around us. Behind me, one of the motion sensor lights blinks off from inaction. I wait for the look she gave me before-the appreciative nod with the single dimple. It doesn’t come. Instead, she stands up straight, turning her head, like she’s studying me from a brand-new angle. She’s no longer swaying. No longer moving. She’s staring straight at me. I have no idea what she’s seeing.
But I’ll take it.
“My father’s dead, isn’t he?” she asks.
“What? No…”
“Beecher, you know who my dad is, don’t you?”
“Let’s just-”
“If you know…” Her eyes well with tears and, like that half-second when she thought I wasn’t looking before, the girl who’s always prepared… she’s not prepared for this. “… how could you not tell me?”
She’s right. Completely right. But to just blurt it here…
“Beecher…”
She doesn’t say anything else. Just my name. But in those two stupid syllables, I hear everything in between. For twenty-nine years, Clementine Kaye has lived with empty spaces. And from what I know, she’s lived with them better than me. In seventh grade, I remember being paralyzed when Mrs. Krupitsky had the class make Father’s Day cards, thinking that’s the day we always go to his grave. Next to me, young Clementine was already happily writing away, turning it into a Mother’s Day card without even a second thought. But today, in those two syllables of my name, those empty spaces are back again, and I hear them loud and clear.
“Nico Hadrian,” I blurt.
Her eyes jump back and forth, fighting to process. I wait for her to lean on the end of the metal shelves for support, but her body stays stiff. She’s trying to will herself back to calm. It’s not working. “N-Nico? Y’mean, like the guy who-”
“Him. Mm-hmm. Nico Hadrian.” I nod, hoping to soften the blow. But there’s no other way to say it. “The man who tried to shoot President-”
“But he’s alive, right?”
“Yeah, sure-I mean, I think he’s in a mental hospital…”
“But he’s alive. My dad’s alive.” She reaches for the metal shelf on her left, but never grabs it. “It’s-it’s not what I expected, but I think-I think-I think-this is better than being dead, isn’t it? — it’s better,” she insists, blinking over and over, brushing away the tears. “I was so scared he’d be dead.” Her eyes stare straight ahead, like she can’t even see I’m there. “I didn’t think he’d be this, but-There are worse things in life, right?”
“Clementine, are you-?”
“There are worse things in life. He could’ve been dead; he could’ve been-” She cuts herself off, and slowly-right in front of me-it’s like she’s finally hearing her own words. Her jawbone shifts in her cheek. Her knees buckle. Before, she was unprepared. Now she’s unraveling.
I grab her arm, tugging hard. Time to get her out of here. At the end of one of the stacks-the real end this time-I push a metal door open and the dusty old stacks on the ninth floor dump us into the polished office hallway on the third floor of the main building.
The sirens from the motorcade still scream through the hall. No doubt, the President is inside the Archives by now, probably already in the SCIF with Dallas and Rina. The sirens should be fading soon. But as we head down the final steps to the lobby, as I tuck the coat-covered book tight under my arm and tug Clementine along, the sirens keep wailing. By the time I wave my badge and hear the click that opens the heavy door, there are a half dozen armed Secret Service agents standing in the lobby. The sirens are louder than ever.