“Clemmi, just wait!” I call out as she pulls her coat on.
“Let her be,” Tot says. “Whatever she’s got going on, you’ve got enough disasters to deal with.”
“What’re you talking about?” I ask.
“I told you. Dustin Gyrich.”
“So he’s the last person to request the…” I look around, and I swear, in this wide mint green room, every person, from the old ladies to the young grad student, is looking directly at me.
“Yeah… to request the dictionary,” Tot says in my ear. “That’s the thing, though. At first I thought it was odd that he just happened to request the dictionary on the exact same day that President Wallace was here for his reading tour. But when I pulled the full record, well… Dustin Gyrich-whoever he is-has requested Entick’s Dictionary fourteen different times, which isn’t that unusual-”
“Get to the point, Tot.”
“The point is, when I matched Gyrich’s dates up with a calendar, guess who else happened to be visiting this very building on every one of those days? I’ll give you a hint. It rhymes with President.”
Across from me, Clementine buttons the top button on her coat and turns toward the main lobby to leave.
“Just wait,” I whisper to her. “I’ll only be a minute.”
“You’ll be way more than a minute,” Tot says through the phone. “Unless you’re no longer understanding the bad news I’m delivering.”
“Thirty seconds,” I promise Clementine.
She pauses a moment, like she really does want to wait. But as she did when the red curtain went up during the Battle of the Bands, Clementine stands there a moment, lifts her chin, and buries all her fears in whatever place she’s come to keep them. The difference is, she’s no longer facing testy tenth graders. She’s facing her father. The destroyer.
“I’ll be okay,” she insists, even though I didn’t ask her. Her eyes blink quicker than usual, just like when she flinched at those gunshots. Before I can argue, she’s headed down the hallway, past the security desk, and through the automatic doors that take her outside into the cold. I look down at the homemade photograph of our younger selves. It’s the second time in two days that I realize I’m seeing the soft side of her no one else knows. The part she shares with no one. Ever since Iris… I forgot how good a simple crush can feel.
But it’s not just the crush. There are some people in your life who bring back old memories. And there are others-your first kiss, your first love, your first sex-who, the moment you see them, bring a spark… and something far more potent. They bring back your old life and, with that, potential. And possibilities. And the feeling that if you were back in that time, life could be so very different from where you’re stuck right now. That’s the most tantalizing thing Clementine offers. I want my potential back.
“You hearing me, Beecher?” Tot shouts in my ear. “Over the past four months, every single time the President of the United States has come to this building, this guy Gyrich takes this copy of the dictionary-”
“Wait, wait, wait. I thought we weren’t sure if the copy we found in the”-I lower my voice-“in the SCIF was the same one from our collection.”
“And for the second time, are you hearing me? Where do you think I’ve been for the past half hour? I went down and pulled Gyrich’s cart. He’s got twelve items on hold here, but-what a coincidence-there’s only eleven on the cart. So guess which one’s missing? That’s right-one copy of Entick’s Dictionary.”
“I don’t know, does that really tell us that the Archives copy is the same as the beat-up one we have?” I ask, still watching through the glass of the automatic doors. Out by the curb, Clementine hails herself a cab. “The one we found doesn’t have identifying information, or a stamp, or even most of its own pages,” I say. “Would the Archives really keep something that beat up and let it get checked out over and over again?”
“That’s fine-and we can look into that,” Tot agrees. “But it doesn’t change the fact that fourteen weeks in a row, every time President Wallace comes here to visit-every single time-Gyrich requests the dictionary, puts it on hold, and makes sure it’s out of general circulation. When it happens two times, that’s dumb luck. Three times? That’s a very weird fluke. But fourteen times in fourteen weeks?” His voice goes quiet. “That’s a plan.”
He’s right. He’s always right. But as I watch Clementine duck into her cab, there’s a surprising new feeling tugging at my ribcage.
Since the moment I saw her yesterday, I’ve been looking at Clementine through the sparkly prism of exhilaration that comes with any old flame. But now, for the first time, I’m not just seeing what I want. I’m seeing what my friend needs.
The door to the taxi slams shut.
“Tot, I need to borrow your car.”
“My car is nice. You’re not taking it anywhere. And what’re you talking about anyway?”
“I need to run an errand.”
“No, you need to get up here so we can find this guy Gyrich and figure out what’s really going on.”
“And I will. Right after this errand.”
I hear nothing but silence through the phone. “This is the part where you’re being stupid again, Beecher. And inconsiderate, considering how much of my time you’re wasting while you chase some girl.”
“I’m not chasing a girl.”
“So you’re not going to St. Elizabeths?” he challenges.
I pause, thinking of the perfect lie. “Okay, fine. I’m going to St. Elizabeths. It’s not far from here.”
“Beecher…”
“You’re forgetting, Tot. You’re forgetting that there were three of us in that room. She was there with me-so if my life’s at risk, her life’s at risk too.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I absolutely know that-and the last time we let someone who was in that room out of our sight, Orlando showed up dead. Besides, aren’t you the one who said I should keep an eye on her… that it was too much of a coincidence that she showed up and all this went down? This is my chance to see what’s really going on. And more important than any of that, she’s about to step into what’s probably the single roughest moment of her life. How do I let her do that alone?”
Once again, the phone goes silent. It’s the last part that’s getting to him. When Tot’s wife died, he learned exactly what it feels like to face his worst moment by himself.
“That mean I can have the car?” I ask.
“Yes,” he sighs. “Let’s all be stupid.”
Twenty-four minutes and fourteen seconds later, I twist the steering wheel of the powder blue 1966 Mustang into a sharp right and pull up to the small guardhouse that sits just inside the black metal gates.
“Welcome to St. Elizabeths,” a guard with winter-grizzled lips says as he turns down the Elliot in the Morning show on his radio. Clearly, this guy’s a genius. “Visitor or delivery?”
“Actually, a pickup,” I tell him.
25
Every barber has one haircut he’ll never forget.
For many, it’s the first good one they give. Not the first haircut they give, but the first good one, where they realize just how much they can improve someone’s looks with a few flicks of a scissors.
For others, it’s at the end of their career, where they realize they don’t have the steady hand that had served them for so long.
For a few, it’s that moment when a particularly famous person sits down in their chair.
But for master barber Andre Laurent, a tall, hefty silver-haired black man with a just as silver mustache, the one that stayed with him was back in Ohio, back in the early eighties, when he was cutting the hair of that blond man with the odd cowlick, who always used to bring his eight-year-old son with him. In the midst of the cut, the door to the shop burst open and a young brunette with pointy breasts stormed in, nearly shattering the glass as the door slammed into the wall.