Read Online Underneath Everything by Marcy Beller Paul - Free Book Online
Authors: Marcy Beller Paul
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paper and tacked to my walls. I’ve been collecting and creating them sincesecondgrade,whenwetookaclasstriptotheMiller-CoryHouse,whichisoneofthosemuseums where people dressed in colonial costumes show you how to churn butter. On our way out that day, a womaninacapeandabonnethandedmeapamphletthatmappedtheWestFieldsof1740,which,atthe time, wasn’t much more than a midpoint between New York and Philadelphia. I still have that one, actually.Thepaperusedtobesmoothandslick.Nowit’sasoftmemory,shinyfromfingeroil,feathered andpeelingatthewhitefolds,sittingatthebottomofmydrawer.
After washing last night’s smoke and dirt from my fingers, I gingerly lift the top layers of stained paperfromthestackandsetasidetheacid-freebuffersthatseparatethem.Thesemapsaren’toriginals,of course—thosearepreserved—butIstillhavetobecareful.Theywereprintedin1901,thesameyearas theoriginals,andonthesametypeofwood-pulppaper.It’sthepaperthatgivesthemthatsmell:amixof mustandleather,withahintofgrassandsomethingacidicwhenyouputyournosetoit.
Ifoundthemlastsummer,duringmydailyeBayestate-salesearch.AssoonasIsawthecrisplines, blockletters,pastelshading,andnumericlabels,IknewtheywereSanborns.Butinsteadofshowingthe wholetown,likethe1921maphangingabovemybed,thesesheetsdivideWestfieldintosections.
I lay them out in order: sheets one, two, three, four, five. I’m still looking for the sixth. I know it exists.I’veseenitonlineattheLibraryofCongresssiteandtheRutgersCartographyLibraries,wherethe SanbornMapCompany’sarchiveshavebeendigitized.
Themapsaresodamagedfromsittingintheseller’sdampattic,ItrynottotouchthemanymorethanI haveto.ButsometimesIcan’thelpit.Myfingerslinger,skimtheirthinpaper-skin.Truthis,Iactuallylike thestainsandfoldsandbleedsofinkfromthethingsthatwerepressedagainstthem.Notjustbecauseit’s theonlywayIcouldhaveaffordedthem,butbecauseyoucanseeandfeeltheyearsthey’velived.Their historyisvisible.UntilIrestackthemapsandbuffers,setthemgentlyontopoftherestofmycollection, androllthedrawerclosed.
Icastanotherglanceatmynightstand,butmycellhasn’tbuzzedorrungorplayedthewhistlingtheme songKristhumbedinwhenIgotitayearago.It’sjustsittingthere,stillanduseless.SoIdotheonlything that’sleft.Icleanmyroom.
Butafewhourslater,afterI’veclearedthefloor,foldedtheshirts,andshutthedrawers;afterI’ve cleanedmydeskandrotatedmyhangingmapsandmademybed;afterI’vereorganizedthebooksonmy shelf,notbytitleorauthororsubject,butinwhichorderIreadthem,Istilldon’tfeelbetter.Everythingis organized, but nothing feels neat. And that’s because no matter what I do to this room, it won’t change anything.Colorcodingmyshirtswon’tmakeKriscall.Changingthemapplacementonmywallswon’t makeHudsonpickupthephone.Ican’tputeverythingbackinorder.
Icheckmycellonemoretime,justtomakeabsolutelysureIdidn’tmissatext,thenslipitintothe pocketofmysweatshirtandheaddownstairs,wheretheairisthickwithgarlic,greenbeans,squashsoup, andstuffing.NoneedtotellmyparentsaboutKris.Noneedtotellthemanythingjustyet.
UNCORRECTEDE-PROOF—NOTFORSALE
HarperCollinsPublishers
..................................................................
CHAPTER8
TWO COURSES, THREE kinds of potatoes, four side dishes, and one twenty-pound turkey later, we’re all silentandstuffed.Imean,seriously,we’reonlythreepeople.Mybrothercalledrightbeforewesatdown totellusthathewasn’tgoingtomakeitfordinner,buthe’dtryfordessert.Hesaidheabsolutelyhadto staybecausethepartnerwantedhimthere,anditwasthekindofopportunityyoujustcouldn’tpassup.
My dad’s chin got so tight and narrow that it pushed up his bottom lip until he let out a loud sigh and shruggedhisshoulders,like Whatareyougonnado? Andmymom’sgrayeyeslookedstormyandsad, untilshesnappedoutofitandannounced,“AtleastJake’llbehereforthebestpartofthemeal!”Because shebelievedhim.Eventhoughhe’snotgoingtoshowup.Heneverdoes.
Imean,Igetit—whymyparentswantJakehome.Ican’ttellhilariousstoriesaboutpranksI’vepulled
After washing last night’s smoke and dirt from my fingers, I gingerly lift the top layers of stained paperfromthestackandsetasidetheacid-freebuffersthatseparatethem.Thesemapsaren’toriginals,of course—thosearepreserved—butIstillhavetobecareful.Theywereprintedin1901,thesameyearas theoriginals,andonthesametypeofwood-pulppaper.It’sthepaperthatgivesthemthatsmell:amixof mustandleather,withahintofgrassandsomethingacidicwhenyouputyournosetoit.
Ifoundthemlastsummer,duringmydailyeBayestate-salesearch.AssoonasIsawthecrisplines, blockletters,pastelshading,andnumericlabels,IknewtheywereSanborns.Butinsteadofshowingthe wholetown,likethe1921maphangingabovemybed,thesesheetsdivideWestfieldintosections.
I lay them out in order: sheets one, two, three, four, five. I’m still looking for the sixth. I know it exists.I’veseenitonlineattheLibraryofCongresssiteandtheRutgersCartographyLibraries,wherethe SanbornMapCompany’sarchiveshavebeendigitized.
Themapsaresodamagedfromsittingintheseller’sdampattic,ItrynottotouchthemanymorethanI haveto.ButsometimesIcan’thelpit.Myfingerslinger,skimtheirthinpaper-skin.Truthis,Iactuallylike thestainsandfoldsandbleedsofinkfromthethingsthatwerepressedagainstthem.Notjustbecauseit’s theonlywayIcouldhaveaffordedthem,butbecauseyoucanseeandfeeltheyearsthey’velived.Their historyisvisible.UntilIrestackthemapsandbuffers,setthemgentlyontopoftherestofmycollection, androllthedrawerclosed.
Icastanotherglanceatmynightstand,butmycellhasn’tbuzzedorrungorplayedthewhistlingtheme songKristhumbedinwhenIgotitayearago.It’sjustsittingthere,stillanduseless.SoIdotheonlything that’sleft.Icleanmyroom.
Butafewhourslater,afterI’veclearedthefloor,foldedtheshirts,andshutthedrawers;afterI’ve cleanedmydeskandrotatedmyhangingmapsandmademybed;afterI’vereorganizedthebooksonmy shelf,notbytitleorauthororsubject,butinwhichorderIreadthem,Istilldon’tfeelbetter.Everythingis organized, but nothing feels neat. And that’s because no matter what I do to this room, it won’t change anything.Colorcodingmyshirtswon’tmakeKriscall.Changingthemapplacementonmywallswon’t makeHudsonpickupthephone.Ican’tputeverythingbackinorder.
Icheckmycellonemoretime,justtomakeabsolutelysureIdidn’tmissatext,thenslipitintothe pocketofmysweatshirtandheaddownstairs,wheretheairisthickwithgarlic,greenbeans,squashsoup, andstuffing.NoneedtotellmyparentsaboutKris.Noneedtotellthemanythingjustyet.
UNCORRECTEDE-PROOF—NOTFORSALE
HarperCollinsPublishers
..................................................................
CHAPTER8
TWO COURSES, THREE kinds of potatoes, four side dishes, and one twenty-pound turkey later, we’re all silentandstuffed.Imean,seriously,we’reonlythreepeople.Mybrothercalledrightbeforewesatdown totellusthathewasn’tgoingtomakeitfordinner,buthe’dtryfordessert.Hesaidheabsolutelyhadto staybecausethepartnerwantedhimthere,anditwasthekindofopportunityyoujustcouldn’tpassup.
My dad’s chin got so tight and narrow that it pushed up his bottom lip until he let out a loud sigh and shruggedhisshoulders,like Whatareyougonnado? Andmymom’sgrayeyeslookedstormyandsad, untilshesnappedoutofitandannounced,“AtleastJake’llbehereforthebestpartofthemeal!”Because shebelievedhim.Eventhoughhe’snotgoingtoshowup.Heneverdoes.
Imean,Igetit—whymyparentswantJakehome.Ican’ttellhilariousstoriesaboutpranksI’vepulled
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