Page 12

“I know you’re on your way out,” I tell Mrs. Gurtz. “If you want to leave me the key, I can lock up.”

She takes me up on my offer, perhaps remembering the heavy funk of forty pounds of rotting tuna. She presses the key into my hand and shows me the series of stones sitting along the sidewalk with the saying learning your family history is the key to knowing who you are, each word chiseled on its own stone. The key is unironically stored under the rock that says key.

The heater kicks on, and I take a minute to revel in the smell, breathing in deeply. The library had smelled like baby burp and body spray, but the historical society smells like old paper and musty bindings, crumbling glue and a warm copy machine. It’s going to be my little cave for the next couple of hours—and Bristal’s, if she ever shows up. I run my hands over the vertical files while I scan the dates on the carefully handwritten labels.

The label for the drawer covering the summer of 1994 is smudged, an old coffee stain neatly bisecting the writing that says Jan—June. The tornado hit on June 13, Randall Boggs was murdered the day before, and the flash flood that took out all the residents of the dog pound occurred on the fourteenth.

I pull the June 12 issue, even though it’s the same one I looked through last night in Dad’s study. I don’t want to put a ton of work in only to have to catch Bristal up once she shows. I glance at the obituaries, making note of the familiar last names—Ballinger, Crow, Lawson, and Hendrix. I scan them briefly, but the obits offer up little of interest. Lots of dying comfortably at home while surrounded by loved ones after an extended illness. The one thing that does catch my eye is that Margaret Ballinger was scheduled to be “laid to her eternal rest” the next day, at two in the afternoon. If I remember correctly, the tornado tore through town around four, so I doubt Margaret’s rest was all that eternal.

The issue for June 13 is unremarkable as well, having been issued that morning, before the tornado hit. The Hometown Henley Headlines still reads like a quiet bedroom community where nothing ever happens, and everyone is content for it to remain that way. In the upper right-hand corner of the front page, the day’s forecast innocuously calls for some thunderstorms in the afternoon.

There’s a note card inside the file cabinet stating that issues for June 14 through June 30 have been transferred to microfiche due to “high interest and heavy use.” An explanatory comment underneath simply reads The long stretch of bad days in Mrs. Gurtz’s heavy, slanted cursive. Despite the warmth in the office, a chill runs down my spine.

My phone vibrates with a text from Bristal.

What’s up, nerd?

Looking at old newspaper issues, I text back. Alone.

I know, she answers. There’s a tapping at the window, and I look up to see Bristal pointing at me, the word nerd all too easily read on her lips.

Creeper, I text back, to which she gives me an enthusiastic thumbs-up, both on the phone and in real life. I point to the front door to let her know I’m coming around to let her in. She nods and breezes in with a jet of cold air, watching as I lock the door behind her.

“So, what’s up? Other than me being late, because yes, I know. So let’s not start with that.” She flops onto a rolling chair in front of the microfiche machine, casually spinning in it. I take the chair next to her, where the boxes of fiche stand ready to load.

“I was thinking about the long stretch of bad days,” I say. “It could be a great direction to take the podcast in.”

Despite all their differences, Bristal’s reaction is very similar to Kenzie’s. Her eyes get big and she says, “Ooooohhhh.” But then she starts chanting, “Murder, murder, murder,” and banging on the counter. I kick her chair away from the counter, bringing the chant to an abrupt end.

“You’re not screwing around, are you, Chass?” Bristal asks, rolling back into position. “Henley takes a swipe at your future, and you go for the jugular of its shady past.”

“Exactly,” I say, somewhat surprised that she’s seen right through me. I’m not going to hang my guidance counselor out to dry for failing me; the real problem here is that no one wanted to point out that he could no longer perform his duties, for fear of hurting feelings and cracking the patina of politeness. My response will be to earn my history credit by outlining that pattern—in the form of an unsolved murder that no one wants to talk about and didn’t try terribly hard to solve. Was it because someone from Henley did the deed? Or because everyone quietly agreed that our corner of the world was a better place without Randall Boggs in it?

“Yes, we’ll highlight the murder,” I tell her. “But the tornado and the flash flood occurred in the same week. The coverage on them is intertwined, and it’s going to take real research to parse out the details. Are you up for it?”

“Sure.” She shrugs. “As long as you give me the murder episode. Also, I’ve been thinking that we should call the podcast something else.”

I was about to argue with her about doling out Randall Boggs, but taking creative license with my title is a much bigger problem. I cross my arms and glare at her.

“I’m thinking, Henley: Your Parents Had Sex and Now You’re Stuck Here.”

I look up at the ceiling and pinch the bridge of my nose. At least I know she’s not serious. “We’ve got a lot of material to get through here,” I tell her. “Can you stick with me?”

“Like a condom,” she promises, pulling her chair up close. “But a good one, not a cheapy slip-off one.”

The white boxes with the fiche reel have been handled so much they barely retain their shape, the corners are rounded, the closing flap hangs on by the barest of cardboard threads, and the yellowed label peels upward on both ends. I power up the microfiche machine, and Bristal wheels in closer to me as I pull up the June 14 issue of the Hometown Henley Headlines.

I take a deep breath, my pulse suddenly thready in my veins. The long stretch is more than just a run of bad luck. People died. Local businesses went under. Henley was literally destroyed. Do I really want to mine personal tragedy for clickbait?

“Is it broken?” Bristal asks, pointing at the fiche, which I haven’t spun yet.

“No,” I tell her, shaking off my malaise. The fiche isn’t broken; Henley is.

And having a conscience is overrated, anyway.

Six

Destruction is one thing, and I’ve seen it before. From house fires to car wrecks to instant replays of nose-breaking punches, the internet has treated my generation to pretty much anything we want (and sometimes don’t want) to see, all in hi-def.