The Book of Speculation: A Novel

“She didn’t have to.”


He looks around, lights sputter and blink—whether from him or the storm, it’s difficult to say. “I don’t know, man. Bad things have a way of happening around you. Just keep it together at Rose’s, yeah? It’s a good job and I don’t want to have to find another.” In his voice lurks the vaguest hint of a threat. His face remains calm, one eye half-open, nearly asleep. It should have been Dad’s job to keep dangerous men away from her; now she’s surrounded herself with an electric fence.

“I’m just going to the lower level. I won’t be long.”

The floor is wet, a thin layer of water gives the dark green carpet an enticing gloss, and a sucking sound follows each hobble. A deep ache sits in my ankle. I move books, put them on tables, but it isn’t enough. It’s hard to breathe; the room is thick with the stench of wet paper. I move everything I can from the children’s books and lift them to higher ground—save the Thornton Burgess, the fairy tales, the Potter, empty the lower cabinets of any papers, everything I loved. I can’t stomach watching books drown. A light hisses and pops, darkening the bank of microfiche machines. The tables fill too quickly and it becomes impossible to choose.

I wind through the rows of file cabinets—newspapers and journals stored on microfilm, microfiche, and paper yet to be digitized—unaware of what I’m looking for until I find it. The Beacon, for the week of my birth, then for Enola’s. The Boater’s Companion section with the tide tables and weather reports. High tides brought us, swells without the storm. The blame was laid on full moons. After the water rushed the land, the tide pulled the Sound back, emptying it nearly to Connecticut both times. For Enola there is a picture of a man standing out in the middle of a sand field where the harbor had gone dry. Boats ran aground. Fish died. Hundreds of bluefish and fluke drowned in the air. High tides brought us, and brought death. Under flickering blue fluorescents I look for my mother and find her storm. The week she died passed in a blur, leaving only the memory of being fed eggs and watching her leave, but there had been an event—a squall that came in fast, a red tide, and a beach filled with horseshoe crabs.

I go to my desk, what was my desk down here until a few weeks ago, it’s still here, though it has changed. The book repair tools have been cleared away, the banker’s lamp replaced with a fluorescent, the traces of me erased. All that remains is the computer.

It turns on with an alarming flash, but survives logging into my email. While it can’t be safe to use electronics in a storm like this, time is of the essence. It’s the twenty-third, and the relief that came from the bonfire vanished with the storm.

Liz’s email is perfect, detailing an accident during the New Orleans flood of 1825, an entire showboat swallowed by the Mississippi River after days of rain. She found it in the Louisiana State Gazette. Most of the performers and animals perished with the boat’s sinking. Among the five named survivors are Katerina Ryzhkova and her daughter, Greta. The child’s father perished in the flood. The show’s owner, Zachary Peabody, was taken to a hospital to recover. He later embarked on a long and disreputable career as a dance hall proprietor. As I suspected. Liz finishes her email with a small token: “Sanders-Beecher Archive is trying to get in touch with you. Your phone’s out. Fix it. I think you might have a job.”

Raina’s email is next. Less eloquent than Liz’s, Raina’s message contains a list of names and abbreviations. Greta Mullins m. Jonathan Parsons. Three children: Jonathan Parsons, Jr.; Newton Parsons; Theresa Parsons. Jonathan Jr. died as a child, and Newton did not marry. Theresa Parsons, however, did. I read the line. Unsteady, I smash the print screen button. Seconds later an electrical pop comes from the printer. I stare at the screen. Theresa Mullins m. Lawrence Churchwarry. One child. Martin. I can supply the rest. Martin Churchwarry would spend an unremarkable life as a bookseller until one day stumbling across a fascinating book. Martin Churchwarry is a descendant of Madame Ryzhkova. Raina is brief, but her work is always thorough to the point of infallibility.

The computer blinks and the screen goes dark. My chest feels strange, hollow. Martin Churchwarry found the book and found me. He’s a Ryzhkov. Is that why I kept talking to him? Was there a pull in the blood that kept me from hanging up on him? No, I called him. I did it. He sent the book, but I kept calling, pulling him to me. Yanking at his guts.