The Book of Speculation: A Novel

A knot in her scarf fashioned it into a sack, easily carried on her shoulder. She blew out the candle and stepped from her wagon. She crossed the camp slowly, careful to not let the coins she carried jingle.

Benno watched as she passed his wagon. She did not understand him, laughing one minute, somber the next. But he watched over Amos as would a sibling. He was strong, like her brothers, but protective as they had not been. She nodded to him. The tumbler executed a small bow.

“You have sharp eyes, yes?” she asked.

“Always, Madame,” he answered.

“Good. You will use them. Watch her. Keep him safe.”

Confusion clouded Benno’s face, but Ryzhkova said nothing more and continued past him. Soon she heard the soft thumping of Benno’s palms against the ground as he practiced. Ryzhkova walked from the circle of the menagerie’s wagons and disappeared into the darkened streets of Burlington.





17

JULY 21ST


Frank is on the front step, waiting for me to let him in. He’s come to talk about the details of the money. Boat shoes, khaki shorts, a slightly frayed polo shirt, casual attire for what amounts to hours and blood. When I asked if we could postpone, he said, “We should deal with it quickly. It doesn’t look like there’s time to play around.”

I let him in, leaning against the door; the ankle is more grotesque than yesterday, just a sprain, but painful nonetheless.

Frank’s eyes go immediately to the hole. “Jesus, Simon. What happened?”

“The house attacked.” There’s a bump on my head where it hit the floor. If I touch it, pain spiders across my skull, and when I close my eyes there’s a pulsing checkerboard. Frank says something and it sounds like he’s two miles away.

“Looks like it,” he says, pacing around, eyeing the hole. He crouches down, rubs a callused hand around it. “Shit.” I can’t remember if I’ve heard Frank swear before, but it sounds strange. We should talk about the money, I know, but there’s something else.

“The curtains and the paintings you have in the barn, did my mother know about them? Did she ever touch them?” A trigger point for a curse may be hard to find, but if it’s there, then there’s a chance to break it. There is no stopping sadness. Sadness slips through the fingers.

Frank doesn’t answer. He raps his knuckles against the floor, tapping and knocking in different areas. He mutters something. “What happened to this place? The outside’s bad, we knew that, but the inside?” He stands with care, testing the boards. “Dry rot’s all the way through.”

“It’s just a floor. Was my mom in the barn when she gave you her cards?”

“Just a floor? This is bad. Bad.” His mouth snaps closed, bulldoggish. He walks the rest of the room, tracing the walls, tapping and listening. He stops at my desk, carefully avoiding the hole, and looks at the book, leafs through a few papers and casually slides them across the desk.

“I’d appreciate it if you don’t touch that, it’s very old,” I say. “Delicate.”

“Delicate.” The word is a slap. “The floor is gone. Gone, Simon. Haven’t you done anything? Why didn’t you ask for help?”

“I did.”

His hand starts pumping. “I need to get a few things. I’ll be back,” he grunts. “Don’t touch anything, and for chrissakes, don’t—just don’t.”