Julie hasn’t been to the library in ages, not since she was a little girl and her mother brought her here for story time. The building looks the same as she remembers, a brown-brick cube surrounded by pecan trees, although there’s a new sign hanging next to the drive: Indianola Public Library, painted over a scene of the beach.
“Wow, it’s pretty small,” Claire says as Julie parks.
“Yeah, it probably isn’t much compared to the one in Houston.”
They get out of the car. Claire leads the way up to the doors as if she’s been here before. When they go in Julie is swamped with a rush of decade-old memories: her mother holding her hand and leading her to the little room in the back, a scratchy record player warbling out children’s songs, the librarian with her straight skirt and her teased-up hair holding a picture book face out, reciting it instead of reading.
Julie shakes her head. Memory is a weird thing. Ten years and the library’s been lurking in the back of her mind, waiting. She didn’t even know it was there.
“So now what?” she asks Claire.
“We need to see if they have old newspapers.” Claire definitely seems to know what she’s doing. She walks over to a desk in the center of the lobby. A sign reading Reference is propped up in one corner.
“Excuse me,” Claire says. “We’re interested in looking at old issues of the Indianola newspaper.”
The librarian at the desk is different from the one who did story time. She’s older, her long black hair streaked with gray, an ugly enamel parrot pin on her big-shouldered jacket. “Well, you’re in luck,” she says, smiling. “We have all issues of the Indianola Advocate dating back to its founding in the 1860s. Do you know what date you need?”
Claire glances over at Julie, her eyes aglow with excitement. It’s all a little nerdy by Julie’s standards, but she’s just glad Claire’s distracted from that weird discovery about Mrs. Sudek’s pills.
“July 18, 1893,” Claire says. The date of Abigail’s last letter: My darling, the final preparations are ready. “And then maybe, say, a month after that.”
“Wonderful. Now, it’s all on microfilm. I can show you how to use the machines.”
“Oh, I already know!” Claire says brightly. “I’ve had to use them for school projects before.”
The librarian beams. Claire’s manner with her is easy, like she’s used to dealing with adults. It’s a side of her that Julie hasn’t seen before.
“It’s all in the reading room.” The librarian stands up, pushing her chair away. “I’ll need to pull the microfilm for you. If you go on in, I can meet you there.”
The librarian bustles away from her desk. Claire looks over at Julie. “I hope there’s something in the paper about Abigail and Javier. Don’t you? I don’t know what we’ll do if there isn’t.” She smiles, wistfully. “What happened to them would just be an unsolved mystery, I guess.”
“I do love that show,” Julie says.
Claire laughs and an old man reading magazines at a nearby table glares at them. Claire’s cheeks turn pink and Julie glares back, wanting to defend Claire’s honor.
“Come on,” Julie says. Claire nods, and they take off, weaving through the stacks until they reach the reading room in the back. When they go in, Julie realizes it’s the same place she went for story time, but it looks different now. There are no bright puppets on the shelves or posters on the walls. The colorful carpets are gone. Everything’s been replaced with boxy beige machines that sort of look like TV sets.
She feels weirdly empty, seeing this.
Claire sits down at one of the machines just as the librarian joins them. She has a cardboard box pressed up against her chest.
“Here you go,” she says. “A month of the Indianola Advocate starting July 18, 1893.” Claire takes the box and thanks the librarian, who smiles and leaves them alone. Four rolls of film are lined up side by side in the box.
“Let’s see what we can find,” Julie says. “I’ll let you do the honors.”
Claire smiles and feeds the film into the machine. Julie holds her breath, wondering what they’re going to see.
Down on the Farm, says the first headline. The story is about the recent good fortune of someone named Howard Dunaway and his flock of one hundred hens.
“I guess that was important enough news back then,” Julie says wryly.
“It was their livelihood, wasn’t it?”
“Well, okay. Good point. And it’s not like the newspaper nowadays is much better.” Julie laughs, and Claire smiles along with her.
“Anyway, we didn’t expect anything for July eighteenth,” Claire says. “It would be something after—something to keep them from meeting.”
Julie nods, and Claire starts zipping through her microfilm. Her profile lights up with the caramel light of the microfilm’s projection and her hair turns golden, like a halo.
Warmth flushes through Julie’s bloodstream.
She watches as tiny, hundred-year-old headlines flash on the screen and then vanish. None of them explain why Abigail and Javier weren’t able to run away together. Julie wonders if they’ll even find anything.
But then Claire makes a confused noise in her throat, moves the film backward.
“Look at this,” she says. “The dates skip.”
“What? What do you mean?”
Claire gestures at the screen. The date on the newspaper reads July 20. But when she rolls over to the next screen, it’s a date marker, July 24, 1893 scrawled in black ink.
“Maybe it’s a mistake,” Julie says.
Claire clicks past the date marker to the newspaper itself. Unlike the past issues, there is one huge word stretching across the front page: HURRICANE. Then, below it, in small letters: Deaths est. at 10.
“Whoa,” Julie says. “A hurricane? We get them, but…this sounds huge.”
“You didn’t know about it?” Claire’s eyes flick across the screen.
Julie reads over her shoulder, squinting at the bright screen. The fuzzy letters of the newspaper swim and blur.
Recovery in Indianola has been swift after the sudden appearance of a cyclone three days ago. Despite being felled by trees, the telegram towers have been repaired by an unknown benefactor, and the road appears to be clear.
The Indianola Advocate mourns the dead who were lost amid the storm’s wind and waves.
Beyond these basics, though, the article isn’t clear on what happened. It’s mostly about damages.
“Weird,” Julie says. “It’s like the reporter didn’t know what was going on. He’s so vague. Wasn’t he there?”
Claire slides over to the next page. Julie grabs her chair and pulls it right beside her. Their knees touch.
“This would explain what happened to Javier and Abigail, though,” Claire says, still reading the newspaper. “Maybe they were supposed to meet and then the hurricane hit.”
“Maybe.” Julie feels a flush of disappointment. She was hoping for something more dramatic than a storm, like a midnight duel between Garner and Javier.
Claire is transfixed, though, leaning close to the screen, reading, Julie can only assume, every word of the paper’s front page. Julie skims instead. Everything is about the hurricane—the landscape was ripped to shreds, but nearly all of the town’s houses were still standing afterward, which strikes her as just kind of…odd. A farmer on the outskirts of town was upset that his cotton crops had been flooded, but most people seemed grateful that the town had survived. Even the reporter snuck in some editorializing: Praise be to God that we emerged through the storm unharmed. Truly a miracle happened here.
There are drawings of the damage, fallen trees and a flooded beach. Someone wrote an article about the experience of hearing the storm roll in from the confines of his dining room, that slow dawning dread.
And then the name Javier jumps out at Julie.
“Wait.” Julie puts her hand on Claire’s arm. “I just saw—oh my God, I did! Look, there!”
She points at a column headed Goings-on. Halfway down the column is a paragraph about a Mr. Javier Alvarez and a Mrs. G. Garner. Julie stars to read it out loud:
“Friends of Mrs. G. Garner will be delighted to know she is recovering nicely from her ordeal during last week’s storm. When we spoke to her, she credited Mr. Javier Alvarez”—Julie nudges Claire, grinning—“a Mexican national, with saving her from what would certainly have been a gruesome death. Instead, it was her kidnapper—” Julie’s eyes go wide. “Kidnapper!” she cries.
“Look!” Claire jabs at the screen. “Look who it was.” She picks up reading, her words breathless. “—Mr. Henry Emmert, who met his end in a watery grave, drowned in the very same cabin in which he had shackled Mrs. Garner in the hours before the arrival of the storm.”
Claire twists to look at Julie, her eyes wide. For a moment, the only sound is the humming of the light from the machines.
“That’s him, wasn’t it?” she said. “The guy who was staring at her in the letters?”
“Yes!” Julie shakes her head. “I guess Abigail was right not to trust that loser.” She laughs. “Also, they put that under ‘Goings-on’? Look, the next item is about Methodist ladies knitting socks for the hurricane survivors.”
“Yeah. Who knows.” Claire squints at the screen. “But this still doesn’t make sense to me. Why wasn’t Charlotte there? The newspaper doesn’t say anything about her.”
“I don’t know. Maybe Abigail decided not to take her?”
“Maybe.” Claire frowns. “But even if she did, why didn’t Javier save Abigail from Emmert and then run away with her? If they couldn’t get out then because of the storm, why not do it later?”
Julie reads through the article again, trying to piece together the clues. “Maybe she changed her mind?” she says. “I mean, she didn’t have her kid with her.”
“She was willing to do it before!”
Claire’s right—something doesn’t quite add up. And Julie thinks it’s because of Mr. Emmert.
“The story says Emmert kidnapped her,” Julie says slowly. “In the letters, though, they had hired him to help them rendezvous. I mean, that’s what I got out of it.” She looks over at Claire, and Claire nods in agreement. “So I think Emmert backstabbed them. He said he was going to help and then he just kidnapped Abigail instead—to ransom her, I guess. Probably he did it before she was supposed to leave, so he didn’t take Charlotte. I don’t know. But that might be why they couldn’t leave together, like they planned.”
Claire considers this, her gaze unwavering as she stares at the glowing screen. “Maybe,” she says. “I mean, this story makes Javier look like the hero, so I don’t think anyone knew about the affair. And Emmert’s dead, so he can’t tell on them.” She pauses, tilting her head. “Maybe they just decided not to push their luck. That’s kind of sad, really.”
“Yeah.” Julie thinks about the picture of her great-great-grandparents hanging in the lobby of the Alvarez Motel. It was taken when they were in their forties, and both Javier and Constancia look dark and serious. In that picture, he doesn’t look like a man who would run off with a married woman. And maybe that’s why. Because he tried, and it was almost a total disaster.
Almost.
Julie looks over at Claire. “Maybe I’ll save your life sometime.”
“Maybe I’ll save yours,” Claire says. “Return the balance.”
Julie laughs.
Claire turns back to the screen. “I don’t know,” she says. “I still feel like something’s missing. I just don’t know what, though.”
“I’m not sure how we could find out. I don’t think my parents even know this story.”
Claire hits the print button on the side. “There,” she says. “Now we have a copy, just in case.”
“What? Where?”
“Up at the front. They’ll hold it for us until we’re done.”
“Oh, cool, I didn’t know you could do that.” Julie smiles. “You’re good at this.”
Claire’s cheeks pinken. “Only thing I’m good at.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Julie feels breathless; the story about her great-great-grandfather risking his life to save the woman he loved has her wanting to take her own risks. “I mean, you’re pretty good at making my summer interesting.”
Claire smiles a little. Then she says, “Let’s see if there’s anything else,” and moves to the next section of the newspaper. It has more information about the storm, but nothing terribly interesting, and nothing more about Abigail Garner’s rescue from a kidnapper. The next day’s paper continues on with information about the hurricane too. A family was uncovered, scared but unharmed, from a collapsed boat, bringing the estimated deaths down to twenty. The mayor was interviewed, saying that the repairs needed for the town were nowhere near as extensive as feared.
The next day is more of the same, as is the fourth. Hurricane Repairs Continue.
“No more gaps,” Julie says. “Did you notice that?”
“They probably had to stop printing because of the storm.”
“Yeah.” Julie feels strangely unconvinced, though. Like the gap in reporting means more than is obvious.
And that’s when she sees it. A flash of a word. Creature.
“Stop stop stop!” Julie says.
“I have!”
The huddle close together. It’s a little item, another paragraph under Goings-on.
Miss Hattie Luce was visited this morning (Tuesday) by an unusual creature, similar in shape to an alligator but covered in fine silver fur. It bit several of her father’s prized hogs before Mr. M. Horn attacked the creature with his pistol, shooting it dead. We are uncertain of the creature’s origins, but we advise all residents of Indianola to watch their livestock and children as the matter is investigated further.
“This has to be referring to the monsters,” Claire says. “But they’re acting like they’ve never seen them before!”
“Oh my God. I guess they arrived around the turn of the century.” Julie says, thinking for a moment. “But it’s never been clear where they came from…or how they got here. I wonder if they have something to do with the hurricane?”
“Maybe.” Claire looks over at the screen, at the little warning in the bottom corner. “It would make sense, don’t you think? There’s a really big, weird hurricane, and then right after it, we see mention of the monsters?”
A little shock of frisson ripples down Julie’s spine. “I’m sure they’re related.”
Claire hits the print button and spins forward through the film.
“What are you looking for?” Julie leans forward.
“Anything else about the monsters.” Claire’s eyes are shining. “This is so interesting, to see them talked about in the paper like this.” She looks at Julie. “Does the paper mention them now?”
“Are you kidding?” Julie laughs. “And leave a record? Hell, no!”
“That’s what I thought.” Claire pauses, gaze skimming across the screen. “Oh, my God, Julie! Look at this.”
Julie leans forward. Claire points at a column near the top of the page. NOTICE, reads the deceptively simple headline. But then:
Mr. Javier Alvarez has bravely led the charge in organizing arrangements with our town’s unwanted residents. He, along with the Rev. George Bray, invites all interested parties to bear witness at the signing ceremony this Monday, July 27, at the First Baptist Church on Avenue C. The treaties developed by Mr. Alvarez and Rev. Bray will serve as protection against the strange and troublesome creatures.
Julie falls back against her chair. “Holy crap!” she says. “So it’s true.” She shakes her head, thinking about all the times she teased her father for insisting that it had been her great-whatever-grandfather who first set up the treaties with the monsters.
“You knew about this?” Claire glances at Julie.
“I’d heard stories,” Julie says. “But I don’t know, I wasn’t sure I totally believed them. I mean, my parents also said the house had always been in our family, and that turned out to not be true.”
“I feel like we’re stumbling onto something,” Claire says, and Julie nods. She just doesn’t know what yet.