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Authors: Lurlene McDaniel
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Dennison said. “Besides, it’s where the boxes of my artifacts are stored.”
“I don’t mind,” Drake said, feeling his face heat up. Gina was so pretty; he wished she’d leave so that she wouldn’t have to see him follow with his limping, lurching gait.
He’d never forget the day in seventh grade when Sheila Morgan had sidled up to him in the cafeteria and said, “Hey, you’re cute. Are you new?”
Several schools had been funneled into the newly builtmiddle and high school at that time. Drake had looked up from his textbook and half-eaten sandwich into her dark brown eyes. He’d never met her, but everybody knew Sheila, the most popular girl in the school. Drake had stammered and Sheila had glanced around at her clique of friends and said, “I may let you walk me to my next class.” The bevy of girls snickered and poked each other.
And Drake momentarily forgot himself, stood up and stepped toward her. His chair teetered backward and he stumbled forward, catching himself on the table as his leg buckled. The look of disdain on Sheila’s face was one he’d never forgotten. She’d flipped her hair off her shoulder and said, “Maybe tomorrow,” and swished away, her friends buzzing around her like worker bees around the queen. Now, years later, he didn’t want to see that look cross Gina’s face.
“Come on,” Dennison said.
Gina stepped up next to Drake. He moved slowly, trying to control his rocking gait and conceal his handicap as much as possible.
“Daddy is a dear,” Gina whispered. “But he’s a slave driver.” She smiled and Drake’s heart melted. She hardly seemed to notice the way he walked.
The basement was down a flight of stone stairs that left Drake straining and his legs wobbly. He worried that the stairs might disqualify him from the job—and from Gina’s attention.
The basement was lit by lamps—Tiffany lamps, he was certain of that—and a bare overhead bulb. Two tall stacks of brown boxes lined a back wall. A fire crackled in a small woodstove in a corner, mingling the smell of smoke with damp and must. Gina wrinkled her nose. “Daddy—”
“This is fine, sir,” Drake said quickly. “All I need is direction.”
“Yes, well, there’s a lot to do before we return to Harvard after Labor Day.”
Gina leaned toward Drake. “I’ll bring fresh flowers for you every day.” She dropped the bundle she carried next to a cut-glass vase on an old table.
“That’s nice of you. But I’ll be all right down here.”
The professor walked to the stack of boxes and opened one, withdrawing an Indian arrowhead with a tag attached. “These are from an old archaeological dig in the Northeast. I need you to accurately record each artifact by date and tribe. These boxes represent the culture of tribes all the way to the Midwest, and the boxes are in a jumble, without order, so I need everything recorded legibly in chronological order. Most of the boxes have a date span marked on the outside, but every piece must be verified and matched to this master sheet.” He held up a sheaf of faded paper. “I’m writing a textbook, so accuracy matters.”
Tedious work, Drake thought, but not difficult. “Allright.” He glanced around the basement. “Where’s your computer?”
“Our what?” Gina asked.
“Everything must be recorded by hand in this book.” Dennison picked up a thick ledger with leather covers.
“You’re serious?” Drake said before he could stop himself. “I can bring a laptop from home—”
Dennison shook his head. “Sorry. There’s no way to get such things to work up here. This house isn’t wired for much more than basic electricity.”
“I just need to plug it in and turn it on. I’ll record everything, save it to a file.”
“No,” Dennison said firmly. “I want it done by hand.”
Without a computer, the job took on a new complexity. “When can I start?” Drake hoped he sounded eager and enthusiastic, not the way he really felt about
“I don’t mind,” Drake said, feeling his face heat up. Gina was so pretty; he wished she’d leave so that she wouldn’t have to see him follow with his limping, lurching gait.
He’d never forget the day in seventh grade when Sheila Morgan had sidled up to him in the cafeteria and said, “Hey, you’re cute. Are you new?”
Several schools had been funneled into the newly builtmiddle and high school at that time. Drake had looked up from his textbook and half-eaten sandwich into her dark brown eyes. He’d never met her, but everybody knew Sheila, the most popular girl in the school. Drake had stammered and Sheila had glanced around at her clique of friends and said, “I may let you walk me to my next class.” The bevy of girls snickered and poked each other.
And Drake momentarily forgot himself, stood up and stepped toward her. His chair teetered backward and he stumbled forward, catching himself on the table as his leg buckled. The look of disdain on Sheila’s face was one he’d never forgotten. She’d flipped her hair off her shoulder and said, “Maybe tomorrow,” and swished away, her friends buzzing around her like worker bees around the queen. Now, years later, he didn’t want to see that look cross Gina’s face.
“Come on,” Dennison said.
Gina stepped up next to Drake. He moved slowly, trying to control his rocking gait and conceal his handicap as much as possible.
“Daddy is a dear,” Gina whispered. “But he’s a slave driver.” She smiled and Drake’s heart melted. She hardly seemed to notice the way he walked.
The basement was down a flight of stone stairs that left Drake straining and his legs wobbly. He worried that the stairs might disqualify him from the job—and from Gina’s attention.
The basement was lit by lamps—Tiffany lamps, he was certain of that—and a bare overhead bulb. Two tall stacks of brown boxes lined a back wall. A fire crackled in a small woodstove in a corner, mingling the smell of smoke with damp and must. Gina wrinkled her nose. “Daddy—”
“This is fine, sir,” Drake said quickly. “All I need is direction.”
“Yes, well, there’s a lot to do before we return to Harvard after Labor Day.”
Gina leaned toward Drake. “I’ll bring fresh flowers for you every day.” She dropped the bundle she carried next to a cut-glass vase on an old table.
“That’s nice of you. But I’ll be all right down here.”
The professor walked to the stack of boxes and opened one, withdrawing an Indian arrowhead with a tag attached. “These are from an old archaeological dig in the Northeast. I need you to accurately record each artifact by date and tribe. These boxes represent the culture of tribes all the way to the Midwest, and the boxes are in a jumble, without order, so I need everything recorded legibly in chronological order. Most of the boxes have a date span marked on the outside, but every piece must be verified and matched to this master sheet.” He held up a sheaf of faded paper. “I’m writing a textbook, so accuracy matters.”
Tedious work, Drake thought, but not difficult. “Allright.” He glanced around the basement. “Where’s your computer?”
“Our what?” Gina asked.
“Everything must be recorded by hand in this book.” Dennison picked up a thick ledger with leather covers.
“You’re serious?” Drake said before he could stop himself. “I can bring a laptop from home—”
Dennison shook his head. “Sorry. There’s no way to get such things to work up here. This house isn’t wired for much more than basic electricity.”
“I just need to plug it in and turn it on. I’ll record everything, save it to a file.”
“No,” Dennison said firmly. “I want it done by hand.”
Without a computer, the job took on a new complexity. “When can I start?” Drake hoped he sounded eager and enthusiastic, not the way he really felt about
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