The Book of Speculation: A Novel

Celine Duvel, aquatic performer with Cirque Marveau, found drowned Saturday in the waters off Ocean City, presumed to have taken her own life. Duvel is survived by a daughter, Verona Bonn. No service to be held.

It’s a tiny notice in the Daily Sentinel-Ledger, but the ramifications are shattering, because next to it is a microfiche printout of Verona Bonn’s obituary. The Diving Queen of Littles-Lightford Circus, my grandmother, drowned in a Maryland bay. July 24th, 1962. Survived by her daughter, Paulina. Two data points could be coincidence, but four?

Something is very wrong.

What began as a passing fascination with the book has turned into something darker, fueled by the startling discovery that the women in my family have a disturbing habit of not only dying young, but drowning on July 24th. The book’s original owner was more focused on profiteering and potential routes than detailing the lineage of drowning women, and there are many names: Amos, Hermelius Peabody, a girl called Evangeline, Benno Koenig, a fortune-teller listed as Mme. Ryzhkova, and more, but relationships are not remarked upon so often as wages. Dates are noted somewhat haphazardly, and nowhere is there mention of July 24th being of particular significance. Peabody only made note of things that struck his fancy, and clearly didn’t anticipate that more than two centuries later an unemployed librarian would be using this journal as a primary source.

Alice’s research has paved the way somewhat. She’s let me use her institutional ID from Stony Brook, which she was smart enough to not let lapse. It allows me access to records that I’d typically be barred from without a research request approval. It made sense to work backward, and so I started with my mother, the newspaper story with her picture at its top, sharp-faced with her unforgivingly black hair—an aloof beauty. Despite my memories and their flashes of warmth, the picture shows that my mother was not a happy woman. Not something on which I ever dwelled. It’s brutal to realize that someone might find a life with you in it unbearable. And so I’ve filled my days with digging through public records, searching folded newspapers and magazine scraps, until now I find myself staring at the Daily Sentinel-Ledger, and an alarming pattern.

It’s past ten. Alice should be in and already through the first layer of her to-do list. Now is when she usually pauses to reorganize her desk, puts the pens on the right side, taps her papers into a stack. I call.

“It’s me,” I say.

“Can’t talk long. Circulation glitch. Nobody can find anything and stuff on the shelves is showing up as checked out. Books are missing.”

I look at the two I stole. Were I a better person I might feel guilty. “Probably something with the bar code scanner.”

“Or the catalog. Anyway, what’s up?”

“Does it seem strange to you that I know almost nothing about my family?”

“Not really. Strange is relative with you guys. I mean, look at what your parents named your sister. Who does that to a kid?”

“I know.” Once I learned about the atomic bomb I was never able to think of my parents or my sister in quite the same light. I asked Dad about it once. His response was that Mom had ideas about reclaiming painful things; that if something terrible was made out of a beautiful thing there was an obligation to restore beauty, to reinstate meaning. The attempt with my sister failed; she exists like an explosion. I never had the guts to ask about my name. “I found something weird, though, even for us. You know the women I had you look up? They died on the same date as my mom. Women in my family have a way of dying on July 24th.”

There’s a pause. She shifts the phone to her other shoulder. Papers slide. I can imagine her neatening her letter tray.

“I don’t know,” she says. “Melancholy streak? That kind of thing runs in families. Add in a little seasonal affective disorder and it might make for a good coincidence or two.”

“Could be.” But seasonal affective disorder strikes in winter when the light is low.

“Are you going stir crazy?”

“Not yet. I’ve got applications out. I’m calling people.” The truth is that unemployment has a way of softening the mind and blending the hours together until the impetus to start at dawn fades into a listlessness that has me on the couch nearing noon. Having all the time in the world makes getting things done impossible. I’ve earned a rest; I’ve worked without breaks since I was sixteen—two weeks without work won’t kill me, and yet somehow it feels like it will. I’ve peppered every library on the east end with emails and calls to let them know I’m on the market, and to remind them of any small favors I’ve done across the years. An assist with grant language, a suggestion on tools for a specific repair. Nothing yet. Silence is its own kind of tension. There’s a directorship in Commack that could work—a little beyond me, yes, but there’s hope. I sent my résumé over last week, separate from the bulk. Follow-up call scheduled for tomorrow.

“The IT guy is here,” Alice says. “I need to go. Tonight at eight, right?”