“A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects.” —Robert A. Heinlein, Time Enough For Love
Welcome to the Renaissance Humans Newsletter, where I focus on sense-making and story-telling in the turbulent twenties. The Renaissance (“rebirth,” in French) spanned from the 14th to the 17th century and marked a period of cultural, artistic, and intellectual renewal in Europe. A Renaissance Human fosters curiosity, critical thinking, and character in a journey of never-ending learning. They cultivate Mind, Body, and Spirit, in service of Community, and oriented to the Transcendentals.
NYC Midnight, second round of the flash fiction contest. This one placed twelfth out of thirty six. When combined with my earlier entry (“Sisters”), I finished sixth out of the thirty six writers in my group. Only the top five advanced.
Genre: Historical Fiction Location: A Tollhouse. Object: A Closed Sign.
*Per NYC Midnight guidelines, Historical Fiction is considered more than 25 years in the past, which brings to mind the song lyric, when did Motley Crue become classic rock?
The funny thing about old mysteries is, they don’t take kindly to solving. The mass of decades exerts a gravitational pull, keeping long-buried secrets from the probing light of the present. Those few times I have been successful, it’s never been what I expected. I pondered this as I drove down the weathered asphalt, blaring Seattle grunge.
As if to answer my thoughts, Little spoke. She doesn’t do that very often, which means she’d been thinking for a while.
“Why?” She pointed a meaty paw at the tollhouse, just coming into view in the twilight, north of the junction of US 40 with Dearth Road.
We’d called her Little as long as I’d known her, which is second grade. She got tall early, caused her a lot of harassment. No one laughed when she joined the Army after we graduated in ’90. Tougher than the football boys who made fun of her. She promptly shipped off for Operation Desert Storm. Got out in ‘93 to work at the Chevy plant over in Susquehanna Valley. We both came home at the same time – me from Bucknell to teach at our old high school, and her from the military. Thick as thieves, we picked up where we left off, drinking hard and talking about old times. We’d never dated—she was more like a sister.
I tried to keep my answer clipped, because she hated when I blathered on and on. Short story long, Little often responded. “Searights Tollhouse. One of only two surviving tollhouses built by the state of Pennsylvania to collect tolls along the newly constructed National Road in 1835.”
She shook her head in the dying light, a waver of less than an inch. I realized I hadn’t answered her question.
“Hornsby’s journal might be in there.”
Because I knew what to look for by now, I caught her left eyebrow lift. Just a whisker. Translation, Wow, big if it pans out. Definitively linking the tollhouse to the Underground Railroad would be big indeed. We could conclusively prove Fayette County was an active transit route for slaves fleeing the Confederacy.
After the next curve of the blacktop, details of the structure came into view. Two-story brick building, with two single-story wings extending north and west. Back in the day, the toll keeper had clear views of the road in both directions. On this Sunday night, the place was deserted. A faded “Closed” placard hung on the main entrance.
I idled my Ford Taurus SHO a few hundred yards past and pulled off the road.
After a year of working together, we can do a lot without talking. We’re a regular Mulder and Scully.
Night came on as we made our approach. It was pretty easy to crowbar the back door open. With flashlights, we crept up into the main room, and I recalled what I’d read in the Historical Society microfiche. An oblique poem written by a local notable in 1870, which provided a good idea where to look.
I was clawing chunks of mortar aside in the chimney when flashlight beams flickered at my feet. Then a voice spoke out. My stomach churned in recognition of the dulcet drawl.
“Where’s nerd boy?” Allison. My ex-high school sweetheart, ex-best friend, and current mortal enemy.
No response from Little. I made the most of five seconds before a square-jawed face poked under and glared at me, behind a blinding light. Her meathead brother, a wrestler at the local community college.
“Get outta there, Haskins, before I drag your chicken legs out.”
“I’m coming, Jeffrey.” He hated it when I called him that. At least he did five years ago, when I spent summers launching myself off the tree swing at their family summer cottage.
“My Nana calls me Jeffrey,” I heard him mutter as I brushed soot from my shoulders.
“Hey there, nerd boy,” Allie said, her smile slicing through my guts. Blond hair down to her elbows, but tonight in tight braids. She wore a Dave Mathews hoody and faded jeans that hugged her well-toned legs. I knew just how toned they were.
“Allie.” I slid a mask worthy of the finest poker table over my face.
“Give it to me,” she commanded, holding out a slender hand. “Or wait, how does Little do it?” She paused for dramatic effect. “Give,” Allie mocked, in a baritone voice.
“Not cool,” I retorted. “Don’t be a tool.” My face flushed at how lame I sounded. Hoped the dim light would hide it.
Allie exaggerated a pout. “Aww, you sound like Dr. Suess when you’re losing.”
I said nothing, silently cursing. Little stood like a Greek statue, but I knew she was capable of bursting into action with a quickness most underestimated. Then I saw the revolver Jeffrey casually held pointed in our direction.
“Is this the second, or the third thing I’ve stolen from you?”
“Depends on whether you count my heart.”
Jeff snickered. “Does he talk like this all the time?”
Allie nodded thoughtfully. “Unfortunately, he does. We’ll call it four.”
“How did you find us?”
“I saw your microfiche request at the Historical Society. You’re not the only one who can decipher a poem. Easy to follow your trail after that. Hand it over.”
Little would go to war for me —I knew she would. But I couldn’t chance her getting shot. I extended my arm, an ashy and crumbling journal in my hand.
“I look forward to the next time we meet.” Allie gave me an impish wink and sauntered off.
I waited until the flashlights receded. “Come on, let’s go.” I felt Little’s eyes on me as we walked out.
As we drove off, she spoke at last. “Follow?”
I shook my head. “No need. Gave Allie a replica from the historical society. I knew she’d follow.” I pulled the actual battered journal out of my jacket. “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times, hell no. Now I get to fool you.”
Little smiled.
Great story!