How, you might ask, do we see ourselves? How have we come to understand our predicament? Look around you: everywhere life forces wanting to get out, things unintentionally contained, baskets of energy. One of us believes we are like atoms with no centre; the one who likes clocks says we are lost time. Another believes we are poems, another thinks we are dreams meant to sort useless information, another thinks we are like sheets set out on the summer line, holding fists of air. We all believe we are Here. Here the same way a street lamp exists in the useless hours of daylight, here the way the codes scrolling across Lewis’s laboratory computers equal a bird’s DNA. Here like the blue-plumed kingfisher when Lewis touched the screen and announced the bird’s name.
Over the past eight years we have come to know each other the way Sam knows the other dogs who traverse the green — as members of some disparate, unarticulated society, a loosely affiliated fraternity that never stays exactly the same. But those days are waning. We have become obsessed with fixity: we now do daily counts, march out for rounds, try to ferret out who came when; who amongst us might have shared histories. But accountability is a dangerous game. It demands fidelity — to the possibility of less-than-illustrious histories; to whom, exactly, we might have been.
Jane plays the message from her father again and fights the urge to call him. She wants to tell him to come, but the nuances of what she is feeling about seeing William would be beyond his grasp, and in any case he’s too far away — as always — to make a difference tonight. Her eyes drift up to the black dress hanging on the back of the door, and then to the clock that’s counting down the hours to William’s lecture.
It was a month ago that the Board of Trustees announced William Eliot as this year’s recipient of the Chester-Wood Book Prize. Jane was sitting against the back wall of the meeting room on a rickety Queen Anne chair that had once belonged to Mrs. Charlotte Chester, wife of the museum’s founder. She was waiting to make a short presentation on the deaccession process, had been only half listening to Gareth going over the final budget.
“The prize money, of course, will be deducted—” he’d said, and one of the board members — a woman who’d come from the art history department of a small university — interjected to ask if they knew who the recipient was. Gareth didn’t even glance up, his ruddy face bent close to his papers. “William Eliot for that book on Victorian plant hunters.” He flipped a page of the report and the rest of the board members followed.
Jane felt as if the room’s temperature had dropped ten degrees. She leaned forward, thinking for a second that she might be sick. The art historian glanced over at her quizzically, but then turned her attention back to Gareth. Sometime between discussion of the gift shop’s sales figures and admission revenues Jane stood up and inched along the wall toward the door, squeezing behind the chair of one of the more portly members. Gareth blinked up at her, then went back to his report.
A few days after that, Jane began to see William’s name everywhere — in book reviews in the papers, in a short article in the Sunday magazine, on posters in the Chester gift shop, on books propped up in shop windows, the image on the back showing him greying at the temples and soft-jawed but otherwise almost the same. It took her a week to summon the courage to pick the book up in her hands, and another week to buy it, sliding it across the shop counter uncertainly, as if it were a gift for someone who was almost a stranger, someone whose tastes she didn’t know.
There is some debate amongst us as to how best to understand the trajectory of a life — ours, or that of another. We understand that most people fail to recognize patterns, get caught up in new details, in allowing familiar situations to assume new guises. We can be guilty of this too. Those of us who have been with Jane the longest feel a constant swell of hope and a recurring ebb of doubt about what she can do for us and why we’re here. Some of us believe that one day she’ll open a file, or read a document or a book, and some particular scrap of information will fall out and the door of the cage that we imagine we’re in will swing open. Most days we want this, but once in a while we hesitate, worry about what will happen when we know ourselves, whether we will Cease. Besides, we have come to know Jane, so much so that for some of us it is unclear where she begins and we end. William is part of that — because he is important to Jane he has come to matter to us too.
Jane leaves her office with her lunch bag and heads into the thrum and busyness of the natural history hall. Sometimes it’s like stepping onto a fairground — people moving in all directions, small crowds gathered around the various cases and cabinets oohing and aahing, expressions of pleasure or surprise on their faces. On good weather days Jane tends to take her lunch break across the street in the park. There’s a low wood bench that’s angled toward the grey facade of the Chester — its proper columns, plain pediment, notched cornices. Jane likes watching the visitors heading in and out of the main doors, strangers whose body language she can try to read. Sometimes it surprises her — who bands together and who moves off alone, like a planet slipping out of its expected orbit. Once she saw a boy of nine or ten standing on the steps and nervously glancing around, his hands twisting the straps of his backpack. When his mother came out and found him she went to hug him, but he pushed her away, wanting, Jane imagined, to have outgrown her concern, or ashamed of his own.
As Jane heads past the Vlasak cabinet and toward the front doors she’s thinking about that boy, and then she’s thinking — her hand on the brass plate that pushes the door out and into the world — that soon William will be on the other side of this very door, about to come through it toward her.
5
The doors of the Chester Museum first opened in the spring of 1868. The day was so stormy that the windows were lashed with rain and the street outside the museum was clogged with carriages whose horses had lost sight of the cobblestones beneath them. There was knock after knock on Edmund Chester’s door as the foyer of the house on Brompton Road slowly filled with members of the scientific community, men who arrived in sopping top hats, soaked overcoats and trousers with wet hems. Edmund’s first exhibit consisted of a selection of fossils, beetles, shell and bird specimens informally displayed in his home on that blustery Thursday. Stones and mineral shards and passerines covered his dining room table — the most striking of which was a mounted bowerbird that Edmund had positioned strategically next to a lamp, its bright-yellow cap and wings gleaming.