63. The Project

It seems like there have been more guests at the Crag’s Inn as the weather has gotten warmer. I asked Iris about it once, but she said the inn is full year-round. I would’ve thought she was making that up, but I’d already realized that Iris was one of the last people in the world who would ever lie.

Today, as I show up driving my mom’s car (and no, I don’t have a license yet, and yes, I probably shouldn’t be driving), I see a group of men standing at the side of the lodge. There are four of them, and they seem to be talking about something serious. They glance at me, then resume their conversation. I get out of my car and wave at them. I receive a couple of nods. One of the guys with longer hair and a goatee is smoking a pipe.

Inside, I find Iris ready as always for whatever my task will be today. It’s been an unusual job, to say the least. Sometimes it’s work outside, cleaning or cutting or trimming or hauling. Then other days it’s something inside, like painting a room or boxing up belongings and bringing them out to the side of the driveway or organizing photos by the date on the back.

That last one was quite the job. It was fascinating to see all those pictures, mostly black-and-white and some of the earliest taken in the ’20s. The photos were all of people, most of them taken around what appeared to be the Crag’s Inn or the mountains. I might have gone through a thousand photos that day, making piles of 1920s and 1930s and so on, sorting them out by the year.

There were pictures of men and women in the woods and around campfires and walking along a dirt road and by the creek. They obviously were taken around here. But I couldn’t find any pictures of the town itself.

I ended up asking Iris about it.

“I guess you’re right,” she said.

She didn’t seem either surprised or curious.

“Who are all these people?”

“Guests.”

They all looked different, from their ages to the color of their skin. It seemed like everybody came to the Crag’s Inn for some reason.

“How do all these people know about this place? I mean—do you do a lot of advertising?”

Iris only smiled.

A little later I asked her why I was organizing these pictures. I could understand showing a montage of guests who had stayed with you, but none of these pictures had labels. They were all nameless strangers—some smiling, some creepy looking, some looking stoic and others looking busy.

“When you have a place as special as this one, it’s important to document it for future generations.”

I didn’t want to insult her with the next question going through my mind. But Iris seemed to pick up on my expression and answered it anyway.

“There are many places in this world that are unique, Chris. That have a truly unusual history. Do you believe that?”

“Sure.”

I just didn’t believe that this particular place was that unique or unusual.

“Sometimes it’s not what’s on the outside. It doesn’t have to be spectacular or impressive or ostentatious in order to be remarkable. Sometimes, the smallest of things can be absolutely exceptional. Just this morning I was visited by a swarm of hummingbirds. They surrounded me on the deck outside. It could not have been a more glorious way to wake up and see God’s morning glory.”

I could understand that, but I still couldn’t understand these pictures.

But I still did my job and did it as well as I could.

“Do you want any coffee?” Iris asks me today.

She’s never offered me coffee before, so I say sure, why not. I don’t really like coffee, but I’m learning to try new things. Even if I don’t necessarily want to.

“I needed to make some extra for our guests. Did you see them?”

“Yeah, outside. Talking at the side of the inn.”

“Good,” Iris says, disappearing and then bringing me a cup. “Would you like anything in it?”

“No. I’m not much of a coffee drinker. I’m flexible.”

“You’re making good progress,” she tells me.

Drinking coffee is good progress?

“So are you ready for something different today?”

“Yeah.”

She smiles and sits and urges me to do the same.

There is a formality around Iris that’s grown to be not only interesting but kinda admirable. Most people in this world are rude and loud and obnoxious. Okay, not most people, but a lot of people. People you see on reality shows and in the news. People who seem angry and irritated at life when they wake up. Iris is reserved and well-spoken and always seems so … so dignified.

Maybe she’s royalty from England hiding out in our creepy neck of the woods.

“How good is your composition?”

I stare at Iris and shake my head. “My what?”

“Your writing. Are you a good writer?”

“Not really. Average probably.”

“Then average will do. Go on, sip your coffee; you’ll need the extra caffeine.”

She hands me an old book that I realize is a journal.

“I’d like you to begin a project that might take some time. But you’ve earned my trust, and you’ve shown that you’re ready. I’ve had you do most of the labor that I need done at the moment. But this is the most important thing I could ever ask you to do.”

I open the journal and see cursive handwriting in faded black ink. I try to read a little of it, but can’t.

“Every innkeeper has had a journal and passes it down to the next person. The history of this inn is inside these pages.”

“It’s hard to read.”

“Yes.”

She leaves for a moment. I sip my coffee and wait. She comes back with a laptop.

“This is probably a little more to your liking.”

It’s a MacBook, and by the looks of it, a brand-new MacBook.

“I’m giving this to you, Chris. You will need this as you work on this project.”

I hold the computer in my hand and probably have my mouth halfway open in shock.

Couple hundred bucks a day is one thing, but a MacBook …

“For now, it will stay here while you work on this project,” Iris says. “But you will be able to keep it when you finish.”

“As payment for—”

“No,” she interrupts. “In addition to your wages.”

“This is, uh, quite a lot.”

“There’re no strings attached. It will be yours. But not for some time. Because this is a rather large project. And it’s ultimately why I wanted you to come here and work.”

The way she says you makes it seem like she invited me to come here in the first place. Mom was the one who pushed for me to be here. And that seemed random.

“They say that you can do things like load photos on a computer like that. Is that true?”

I nod, then think of the gazillion photos I’ve helped archive. I must have turned white, because Iris laughs.

“No, that’s not what I’m thinking. Not those photos.”

“Okay.” I try to suppress a huge sigh of relief.

“The main thing I want you to do is to write a report. You can do that, right?”

“Yeah, I think.”

“I’d like for you to write a history of this place, a kind that is easy to read and would be informative for newcomers. For people like yourself who don’t know about this place and its history and can’t scan messy journals to discover the truth.”

“Where will I get the information?”

“There’s far too much information. And that’s not counting the journals. I will show you. You will work in a room that I have ready for you.”

I nod again.

“I promise there will be other things to do—ways to get exercise and get away from the research and writing. But I believe that you’ll find it interesting. I hope you do, at least.”

“Okay.”

“Are you sure?” she asks.

“Sure about what?”

“Sure about this endeavor?”

I nod.

I’m not sure about anything, not since having moved to Solitary. But it’s work and I can earn a MacBook, so why not? It can’t be that hard or boring, right?

As I say good night to Iris, my headache getting worse as I move, she asks how the project went today.

“I didn’t get anything written. Not yet.”

“That’s okay. There’s a lot to make sense of.”

“Only about a hundred folders with scraps and pieces of stuff.”

I want to say it’s worse than the photo project she gave me.

“There is no deadline, Chris. Take your time.”

“Sure.”

“And one other thing.”

I stand at the doorway as she stares intently at me.

“Take care of yourself. Please.”

She says this as if she knows.

As if she’s aware. Of everything.