October 15

            Trey and Greta awoke to the sound of a rattling percolator; the smell of frying bacon. G stepped out of her room in pink PJ’s with tiny green flowers that were losing their color. She knocked on her brother’s door.

            “Hey,” she half-whispered. “You awake?” She opened the door and climbed into his bed. “Mom’s makin’ bacon,” she stated.

            “Smells good,” he answered, stretching.

            “You want to show me the fort after breakfast?” she asked.

            “You bet!” he smiled. “You’re gonna love it. I’m gonna put up a couple turrets on the sides, like a castle, and I’m gonna have a lookout post in one of the trees. It’ll be so neato!”

            “Bacon first,” she assured, jumping out of the bed. Trey followed her down the short hallway to the kitchen, all the while singing a song about bacon.

            “One or two?” Jan asked, draining the grease into a steel can.

            “Two!!” the twins urge.

            “Why do I even bother asking?” she sighs, smiling. “How’d you sleep?” Jan places plates of bacon and scrambled eggs on the bar where the kids at in tall stools.

            “Good,” they answer. Jan pours some OJ, passing the small glasses to the kids.

            “I’m gonna take G to the fort after breakfast,” Trey confirms.

            “Enjoy your freedom while you have it,” Jan warns, “because it’s back to school on Monday.”

            “Don’t remind me,” Megan says, entering. “Bacon?”

            “Morning, Sunshine,” Jan sasses. “It won’t be as bad as you might think.” She passes the platter to Megan, who grabs three slices and crams one of them into her mouth. Meg takes a seat at the end of the bar and pours a cup of coffee.

            “It’s only my senior year, and I have to start all over with a whole group of total strangers,” Meg pouts. “How bad can that be?”

            “Princess, don’t get all huffy about it, you haven’t even been there, yet,” her mother responds calmly. “Besides, there’s only about fifty kids in the whole school.”

            “Oh, that’s right,” Megan fires back, annoyed. “At T-High, I had maybe thirty classmates in each class. Now, I’ll have less than half of that in my whole graduating class.” She bit into another piece of bacon in defiance.

            “Well, that’s fewer names that you’ll have to learn,” Jan offered, swinging out to the dining room to grab some apples. On her way, she noticed the strange books Dale was talking about lying beside his chair. She wandered over to the chair and picked them up, balancing the apples on top as she brought the bundle into the kitchen.

            “Apples,” she stated, more of a demand than a suggestion. Each child obediently grabbed one and started munching. The books she sat down on the kitchen counter on the opposite side of the room beside the sink. The note from John Stull dropped out of one of the books and she gave it a read. Wow. No need to get the kids involved in this, she thought. The kids continued bantering at the table about school as Jan peeked into each book in curiosity. The one that started with those strange words “Novus Ordo Seclurum” looked like a series of Latin translations into English, the first titled Secretum: mostly, a dialogue between Petrarch and St. Augustine. There were a couple of other Latin-to-English translations in this volume, too, but at a first glance, she couldn’t tell where one ended and the others began. The English parts looked like something she might want to pass on to her Bible study circle in Topeka, she thought. Interesting.

            The second book looked like it was some kind of registry: one column of titles, another of codes, a third of strange symbols, and a fourth of numbers. Every now and then the columns would end in the middle of a page and start a new sequence on the next. It looked like some kind of historical record of some kind, she supposed, though to what, she could not even guess. The titles were all over the place, too. Some she recognized as authors, some artists, some were just items. She noticed that the language of the text would change from English to Italian to Latin and back again, seemingly at random; it was all over the place. Pretty meaningless, she thought, without a point of reference.

            The third book was written pretty much entirely in English, though the spelling was awful, and appeared to be the personal journal of someone who called himself Custos Arcanorum. The name sounded strange enough, but what surprised Jan even more was the date listed: 1180 November 10? No way, she thought. If these dates were right, then this thing was certainly strange, if not also very valuable.

            “‘No way,’ what, Mom?” Megan replied.

            Jan caught herself. Did she say that aloud? “Oh,” she shook her head, “it’s nothing.”

            “Is that what Dad was looking at last night?” her daughter asked, intrigued.

            “Yeah, it’s just old boring books,” her mother noted. “Nothing you’d be interested in.” She closed the journal and put the books to the side, sliding the note into a hanging apron.

            “Secrets don’t make friends,” Meg suggested, smiling. “Come on, lemme see.”

            Jan hesitated, then grabbed the journal and brought it over. “Okay,” she accepts. “Look, but don’t touch.” The children gather around the ancient pages. “This journal, here, says it was written in 1180.”

            Megan laughed derisively. “No way, let me see.” After checking, she started to put her fingers on the corners of the pages before her mother gingerly slapped them away.

            “Don’t,” her mother insisted, “touch!” The twins backed away nervously.

            Meg thought for a moment. Her eyes moved furtively around the page, noting a few things, before she decided her verdict. “It’s gotta be fake,” she declared.

            “What makes you say that?” her mother posed, a bit relieved.

            “Because it’s written in English,” explained her daughter. “English didn’t even really exist as a written language until the 1400’s.” She was pretty sure of herself. “It’s the spelling,” she pointed.

            “The spelling is O-F-A-L,” Jan remarked jovially.

            “But it’s still recognizable as English. There’s no way that the spelling of these words could be like this in 1180. You remember my history project on Gutenburg? First, he didn’t ‘invent’ the printing press at all, really, he invented movable type, and that wasn’t until 1450. Second, William Caxton didn’t bring movable type to England until 1476.”

            “So what does movable type have to with the spelling?” Jan asked.

            “That’s why I got an A,” beamed Meg. “Movable type standardized your spelling, your grammar, punctuation,” she went on. “Because the press was located in London and the south midlands dialect was used in London, the spelling of all documents, including the Bible, the world’s first dictionaries, newspapers, and things like that got all standardized using the south midlands dialect. Given this spelling, the formation of the letters, the grammar the punctuation, all of it, it’s impossible that this was written in 1180. I mean, the guy would have had to use a crystal ball or a time machine to look into the future in order to know how to spell these words this way.”

The twins had checked out. Trey saw the opportunity to seize the moment. “Can we go outside?” he sighed.

            “Sure, go on,” Jan agreed, impressed with Megan’s retention of information. “It’s cold out there, though, so heavy jeans, jackets, and scarves, please.” The twins hopped out of their stools and ran back to their rooms. “And a hat!” she called after them. By the time they came out bundled up, Megan had certainly covered the bases disproving the book’s authenticity, but Jan still had some questions. “But if this is hand-written, which it appears to be, then could it be possible that this was just written by a very eloquent hand?” she suggested.

            “Mom,” Megan spelled out, “what is more likely: that the dates and text are accurate, disproving countless records of the history of the English language, or that they were forged by someone trying to make something look cooler and older than it really is?” Megan rested her case, biting into the last piece of bacon. The twins hopped through the kitchen and jetted out the back door towards the woods.

            “I love you,” called out Jan.

            “Love you, Mom!” the twins chimed in time.

“Be careful out there,” she reminded them. The door slammed shut. She sighed. “I don’t know that it proves anything,” her mother stated. “It might point to one direction as far as likelihood, but I don’t know what it proves.” She opened the book again, examining the pages closely.

“What about those other ones?” Meg pressed. She crossed the room to give them a look.

“Please be careful,” urged Jan. “If they are as old as they say they are, they’re probably worth a lot of money.” Jan cleared away the plates from breakfast and wiped off the counter with a clean cloth. Megan brought the remaining volumes to the counter and set them side by side, looking at the covers.

“No titles on the spines,” she noted. She opened the first one and read the spooky poem aloud. “Now comes the final era of the Sybil’s Song. What’s the Sybil’s song?” she asked.

“Don’t know, Sweety. The fact is, I don’t know much about any of these.” Jan pointed at the third book. “I remember something about St. Augustine in this one,” she offered, “and that’s a name that I heard before in my Bible study circles.” She switched books to identify the passage. “This one looks like it’s a conversation between St. Augustine and this guy Petrarch.”

“What’s it about?”

“Here’s the first bit,” she read aloud:

Often have I wondered with much curiosity as to our coming into this world and what will follow our departure. When I was ruminating lately on this matter, not in any dream as one in sickness and slumber, but wide awake and with all my wits about me, I was greatly astonished to behold a very beautiful Lady, shining with an indescribable light about her.

Then it goes on with a conversation between the author and this lady,” she continues, flipping through a page or two. “Here, take a look.” She handed the book to her daughter.

            Megan thought carefully for a moment, then stood the book up on its spine to where it would fall open. It immediately flipped to a passage that appeared to have been read and studied, even dog-eared.

            “Please be careful,” she warned.

            “I’m just looking,” she said. Megan read aloud.

“St. Augustine. What have you to say, O man of little strength? Of what are you dreaming? For what are you looking? Remember you not you are mortal?

Petrarch. Yes, I remember it right well, and a shudder comes upon me every time that remembrance rises in my breast.

St. Augustine. May you, indeed, remember as you say, and take heed for yourself. You will spare me much trouble by so doing. For there can be no doubt that to recollect one's misery and to practice frequent meditation on death is the surest aid in scorning the Seductions of this world, and in ordering the soul amid its stoles and tempests, if only such meditation be not superficial, but sink into the bones and marrow of the heart.

Sounds old and boring to me,” Megan offered. “I wonder what Lancelot would say about it.”

Jan scoffed. “That kid has more knowledge than he knows what to do with.” Lance Flott had been one of Megan’s more educated bookworm-type friends in Topeka. He was a couple of years older and worked at the public library, which made Jan all the more nervous. In Jan’s eyes, Lance was the only reason Megan even got her hands on all that trashy romance fiction in the first place.

“Maybe I could ask him,” suggested Meg. “I mean,” she added, recognizing the cross look on her mother’s face, “I know you don’t particularly care for the guy, but I’m sure he would know more about this stuff than we do.”

“I don’t dislike Lance,” her mother wavered, “but he did kind of steer you down a different path.”

“I do my own steering, thank you very much,” she scoffed. “He didn’t do anything except answer my questions honestly.” Her mother looked back at her, mildly offended. “Tell me he didn’t cross your mind, reading all this.”

Jan couldn’t be mad at her. She was doing the same thing that she, herself, did to Dale. Megan knew she was right, and, unfortunately, so did Jan. 

Novus Ordo Seclorum

              Dale came home to a warm house full of those he loved most. He reminded himself that he couldn't ask for anything more than this. As long as they were safe, money was coming in, and everyone at home was happy, he would do what was necessary to fill John Stull's shoes to the best of his ability. That was why they moved here: so that his family would have a comfortable home with peace and quiet.

“Hey, Dad.” Megs eyes didn’t even raise from the thick tome (in which was nestled what she was really reading) as Dale entered.
            “Hey, Princess.” In one arm he carried the Principia Divinica through the kitchen where his wife busily spread mashed potatoes across the top of a cast iron skillet loaded with hearty beef stew. He leaned in and pressed his lips to hers.

            “Kids! Dad’s home,” Jan announced.

             “My dogs, my dogs,” he declared, taking his belt and shoes off, stepping down into a wide living room. “They are barking.” He dropped the parcel beside his favorite chair and flopped down.

             “Well don’t get too comfortable, dinner’s just about ready.” She poked her head out of the kitchen. “How bad is it?”

              “Bad,” he admitted. “I’ve got over twenty thousand pieces still cluttering up the office, Old Man River as an assistant, and jack squat from the main office.”

              “What on Earth is this town doing with that much mail?” Jan asked.

              “Exactly!” he nodded. “It’s crazy! These people write more letters to more people than anyone in Topeka ever did. It’s ridiculous.” He rubbed his feet a moment. “I did get all the local delivery done for today, so that’s good. Plus we sorted about eight thousand pieces between the two of us for out-of-town, today, meaning that we’re probably about a quarter of the way through it all.”

               “Wow,” fawned Jan. “Color me impressed.”

               “I’m pretty certain that everyone in this town is going to need to get their own bag for the backlog, though.” He sighed heavily. “The twins doing their Bible study?”

                “Of course,” Jan answered.

                “God bless ‘em.”

                “Oop--, they must have heard you talking about ‘em,” she warned. The twins raced around the corner toward their father, clamoring up on him, each one talking a mile a minute. He opened his arms and hugged them as they crawled all over his lap.

                “Daddy, I went to the library with Meg and we met Joe and Gam-Gam…”

                “Daddy, I built a fort in the back right along this wall and it’s real neato…”

                “Whoa, whoa, okay, okay!” he urged, laughing. “One at a time, one at a time!” The children fell quiet. “You kids are getting too big to be doing that to me, you’re gonna break me! First-- First, did you get all unpacked?”

                  “Uh-huh,” they answered.

                  “What do you think of your new rooms?”

                   “Me and Meg’s room is huge!” Greta exclaimed.

                   “I got all my stuff put away and I still got room,” Trey offered. “Plus I’m building a new fort!”

Dale looked up toward Jan. “A new fort, you say… Kid, you hear that?”

                   “He didn’t get too far this time,” she admitted. “It should be all right.”

                   “Well, you just gotta be careful when you go on your adventures, Trey,” his father suggested. “We don’t want you getting lost out there.” Trey frowned a little. “I tell you what, how about this: You can spend as much time as you want out there, if you promise to take your sister out there with you.” He thought a moment.

                   “Kay,” he said.

                   “And you,” he looked at Greta, “need to keep track of your big brother. Just because he’s two minutes older than you doesn’t mean that he’s any braver, either.” She smiled.

                  “Okay,” she agreed.

                  “So what did you do today?”

                  “Me and Meg went to the liberry and met Joe and Gam-Gam!”

                  “Gam-Gam?”

                  “That’s Joe’s Grandma. She works at the liberry and she smells funny.” She wrinkled her nose.

                   “Well, that’s not very nice of you to say that,” Dale offered. “The library, I didn’t think this town had a library.”

                   “It’s not really a liberry, but they did have a bunch of books. Meg got one.”

                   “Really,” Dale scoffed. “What’d she bring home this time?”

                    “I dunno,” Greta mumbled. “They didn’t have any children’s books, so it was kinda boring.”

                    “Sounds about right,” he answered. “Who’s Joe?”

                     “He’s a police man.” In the back of his head, Dale reminded himself that he absolutely had to make contact with Jimbo. That was one of the reasons he took this job, anyway, and he hadn’t even done it. He clicked his cheek in frustration.

                     “Officer Joe. I bet his last name is Shmo, too.”

                     “Nope, it’s Masters.”

                     “You sure? I’ll bet it’s Shmo,” he insisted, tickling their ribs. “Hey, come on. Let’s get washed up, dinner’s almost ready.” They hopped out of his lap and scrambled off to the bathroom.

His hands flopped down at his sides, one of them landing on the satchel of books. He had almost forgotten about it. He carefully unbuckled the leather strap and briefly examined each one. No names on the spines, none on the covers. Each one was bound in rather plain leather, but they appeared to be old and worn. He opened the first one as a small coin slid neatly out of the cover.
                    He picked it up, recognizing it as a Catholic talisman. It looked like a coin with an engraving of a saint on one side, and a strange Greek cross with letters all over on the other. A small metal loop was affixed to the side so the talisman could be put on a rosary or necklace, and the item appeared to be very well made.
                    Dale looked at the first page with writing on it. On one side, there was Latin text, and on the other, an English translation:

Ultima Cumaei venit carminis ætas;               Now comes the final era of the Sybil’s song;

Magnus ab integro sæclorum nascitur ordo.   The great order of the ages is born afresh.

Iam redit et Virgo, redeunt Saturnia regna,    And now justice returns, honored rules return,

Iam nova progenies cælo demittitur alto.       Now a new lineage is sent from high heaven.

                                                           

After the passage, the words “Novus Ordo Seclorum” were centered, as if this may be the title to the tome. Weird. These words seemed somehow familiar, though he wasn’t quite sure why. He put the books down, mystified.

            “Dinner’s ready,” Jan announced, entering the dining room with the crusty-topped stew. She placed the skillet on the table and looked over at her perplexed husband. “Something wrong?”

            “Do the words ‘Novus ordo seclorum’ mean anything to you?” he asked.

            “My Latin's not as good as it was in Sister Mary Agatha's class, Hon," she kissed his cheek. "I do know that it's on the back of a one dollar bill.” She paused in thought, retrieving the last of dinner from the kitchen. “New Order of Times, maybe? I thought it had something to do with prosperity. It’s on that seal thing on the one dollar bill. Why?”

            “There was a strange package waiting for me in the office at my desk, today.” He walked over to the dinner table. “A bunch of books that were wrapped up. Postage from all over the world, mostly Europe. There was a note with it that was downright spooky.” He showed her the coin. "And this," he posed, handing her the talisman.

            "What is it?" she asked.

            "Don't know," he shrugged. "Looks Catholic, I think," he offered.

            She examined the token closely, recognizing it about as much as her husband. “Just what we need, more creepiness.” She dropped the talisman into a dish by the sink listlessly. The kids all approached the table and sat. Dale stood behind his chair for a moment.

            “More creepiness, what do you mean more?” he asked.

            “Well, it’s probably nothing,” Jan went on, “but there’s this house out by where Trey was building his fort. Big stone wall around it.”

            “It’s the perfect spot for it, Mom,” Trey whined.

            “I know, and that’s fine,” she stated. “I’m not arguing, Hans. I will tell you right here, right now, though, that no one in this house is to set foot near that house.” She looked around the table at each child. “Not anywhere near it. It gives me the creeps, it looks abandoned, and I don’t want anyone getting into trouble or getting hurt.”

            “Okay, Kid,” Dale softened. “I’ll stay away from the place, gosh!” he winked at her as she frowned. Dale took his seat, they all joined hands, and said grace.

Downtown

After lunch, the girls made their way into town, the cruel October wind cutting through their skirts, painting their shins with cold. An annoying pale grey sky hung overhead with the unfinished idea of rain like the sky, itself, taunted these stupid brutal winds.

“Race you!” Megan dared, jogging off. As they entered the town, they slowed down and caught their breath. There were very few buildings, here: a general store, the post office. A small church set back from the street next to a nondescript brick structure displayed a small courtyard with a few trees. The brick building had the words Town Hall stenciled in concrete over the door.

Meg and G approached the Stull town hall to get out of the cold and decided to just go ahead and enter, if only to find out where they would need to go to find the nearest library. The tiny one-room building looked more like a storage shed than a town hall. They approached the counter where an ancient bespectacled hen sat practicing her needlepoint. Megan cleared her throat. Twice.

“Oh, hello, there,” the woman crooned. “Can I help you?”

“Um…” Megan stammered. “Is this the library?”

“Deary, it’s whatever you want it to be,” she answered, smiling.

“Okay,” spoke Meg, still hesitant. “We’d like to register for library cards, please.”

“Library card?” she laughed lightly. “We don’t do library cards here, Deary.” The girls looked at each other briefly. Different.

“Can you tell us where the library is?” Megan asked plainly.

“Deary, this is the closest thing we have to one.” She gestures a withered hand towards three tall shelves to the right loaded with pulp westerns and reference books. “Topeka Public sends a truck once a week and we keep a few on hand here for the townies. We don’t have much, but we can always file for a request, if you know what you want.” The woman examined them closer.

“So does that mean we can check books out with our Topeka Library cards?” Meg asked, encouraged.

“We don’t use library cards, here, Deary,” she snickered. “We only got about twelve families in town, but…” she paused. “Something tells me that we might now have thirteen.” She pieced it together in her mind for a moment, then snapped her fingers. “You must be that new postmaster’s girls. What’s his name?”

“Dale Gustavson,” G chimed in. “That’s my Daddy.”

“Gustavson, that’s right,” she sighed in satisfaction. “And what’s your name?”

“Greta,” G beamed, "but everyone calls me G."

“I’m Megan,” Meg added.

“Well, aren’t you two just precious?” the librarian gushed. She folded her hands daintily in admiration. “I bet you two are just a couple of heartbreakers, aren’t you?” Megan fought the urge to roll her eyes like Jan told her to and just smiled, thankfully. “My name is Maryanne Masters, and I’m the Town Clerk. Anything you or your father need, I will do my best to help you out.”

“You mind if we check out what books you have?”

“Not at all.” Mrs. Masters escorted them around the counter to the bookshelves. “We got all the greats: Owen Wister, Zane Grey, Clarence Mulford, A.B. Guthrie, Jack Schaefer, Louis L’Amour…”

“Any Jane Austen?”

“Well,” she scoffed. “We don’t carry any garbage in here, if that’s what you mean.” Meg balked. Mrs. Masters looked around on the shelf for a moment. “We got some Dickens, here, and some Shakespeare histories, I think…” She searched the shelf. “But those might be checked out.” The girls were more than disappointed.

“This isn’t a library,” G whispered to Meg.

“Do you have any children’s books?” Meg posed.

“Not really much demand for that kind of thing around here, Deary,” the clerk answered. “If you want, we could wire Topeka Public and see if they can get you something, though.” She stood there for another moment while the girls glanced through to the reference books, most of which were religious in origin and in German. “A good portion of our town has German ancestry; Pennsylvania Dutch; so we’ve got a collection of German Anabaptist books. Some are translated into English, actually. That might interest you?” she offered, trying her best to sound encouraging. The girls looked back, confused. “I’ll just be over here,” she conceded, bustling back to her desk. As she returned, a young man, well-built, maybe mid-twenties walked in. His black trousers and suspenders complemented his neatly trimmed blonde hair, and it was evident that he was used to getting attention from all sides.

“Hi, Gam-Gam,” he blurted, catching himself a bit too late to realize that there were visitors. He sallied up to the counter and leaned down to kiss her cheek before he noticed Meg and Greta standing beside the counter staring at him. “Oh, I’m sorry,” He stammered. “I didn’t know anyone else was here.” He blushed, embarrassed.

“It’s fine--,” Meg started.

“—Oh, these are just the two Gustavson girls,” Mrs. Masters offered, standing. 

"Say, ain't y'all related to Deuce Gustavson out of Topeka?" he inquired.

"Yeah, he's our grandpa," G explained.

"I listened to him since I's a kid," he confessed. "You might be celebrities in these parts." Gam-Gam noticed Megan's gaze and continued.

"They were just looking over our book selections. They’re the new postmaster’s kin.”

“Oh, well, how about that?” the young man smiled. “Be nice to have some younger faces in this town.”

“Well, we’re certainly happy to have them, aren’t we?”

“We sure are,” he agreed. He approached Megan and stood with his hands on his hips, feet planted directly beneath each broad shoulder; like a superhero, Meg thought, smiling back. “I’m Johannes Masters, town deputy. Folks around here call me Joe.” He brought his feet together, dropped his arms, and bowed slightly, offering a hand to Megan.

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Meg,” she stammered, offering him a hand in return. “This is my sister, Greta.” His gaze shifted to the younger girl.

“And how old are you?” he asked.

“Eight--,” said Greta, at the same time Megan answered, “--Seventeen.” Meg laughed nervously. In actuality, Megan wouldn’t turn seventeen for another month.

“I’m eight,” Greta announced, staring at Megan.

“Well, that is a shock,” replied Joe, glancing back at Meg briefly. “I would have sworn you were at least ten.” He smiled at Greta. “You look like such a lady in your nice clothes.”

“My daddy got me this coat just before we moved from Topeka,” G explained. “I wanted the green one, but he got the blue one ‘cause it was on sale from Monkey Wards.”

“Monkey Wards, how about that?” he chuckled.

“Leave it to a postman to get the best deals through the mail, right?” Meg added.

“Welcome to the town of Stull, population 112,” Joe offered. “We don’t have much, but what we do have is good folks with good hearts. Hope can find something worth reading, here, but if you can’t,” he gestured back to Gam-Gam. “This here is my Grandma, and she’s more than happy to help you out.”

“And what brings you by on this fine, fine day?” the clerk asked.

“Aw, just checking things out. Bored to tears down at the station.” He walked back to his Gam-Gam and leaned on the counter. “Henry Miller’s dog got out again gobbled up a chicken down at Snyder’s Farm,” he added.

“That dog is nothing but trouble,” she replied. “How many is that this year, five?”

“Seven.” Joe pressed his lips together and raised his eyebrows.

“Worse than a coyote, I’d say,” she continued. They went on chatting casually about the ongoing saga of the Miller’s miscreant German shepherd. The girls went back to looking through the weird collection of German religious books, Greta looking more and more bored as each second passed.

“Can we go?” she whispered to Megan, who was obviously trying to listen in on Joe’s enthralling conversation.

“Just give it a minute,” Meg responded. She pretended to be interested in a translation of the books of Genesis and Exodus from German to English, picked it up, and pretended to read. Joe was talking about dinner. He didn’t mention any girlfriend or anything, she noticed, but he did talk an awful lot about the townfolks’ dogs. He guessed that there just needed to be more fences, higher fences, something.

“This is boring,” G whispered, “I wanna go home.”

“Okay, fine.” Meg strode over to the counter and placed the book on the counter. “I think we’ll take this one,” she mentioned.

“A Bible book, good for you,” Mrs. Masters stated. Megan filled out the borrowing card. Joe spoke:

“It was nice to meet you ladies. I’ll see you around, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure you will, in a town this small,” Meg acknowledged.

“It was a real pleasure meeting you two,” Mrs. Masters agreed.

“You too, Gam-Gam,” Greta blurted, smiling. Meg glanced back forth for a moment, opened her mouth as if to speak, pressed her lips together and grabbed her sister’s hand, hustling her out the door.

No Bologna

Jan took the last large box off the horse trailer they borrowed for the move and brought it into the kitchen. She sighed heavily. Done.

“Megan? Greta? You guys finished up yet?” she called out.

“Not yet, Mom,” Megan replied, “Greta’s still sorting out her dolly clothes.”

“All right, well hurry up, I’m about to start lunch.” She pulled out some sliced cheese and bologna along with a loaf of bread.

“No bologna!” Greta called out. Jan sighed. Greta was a picky eater, a trait she had inherited from her own eating habits. Cheese and mayo it is, she told herself.

“Trey, honey?” No answer. “Trey?”

“He went out exploring,” Megan stated, entering the room. “He said he’d be back for lunch.”

“Is he unpacked already?” Jan responded.

“Nope.”

“Megan, I wanted to make sure we were all done before your father got home,” Jan pushed.

“He doesn’t have much stuff, Mom,” Megan answered. “Besides, you know how he is.”

“Still, that’s no excuse.”

“Do you want me to go find him?”

“No,” Jan affirmed. “I’ll go find him. You just pulled lunch duty.” She handed the butter knife to her daughter and walked through the living room to the back door. “No bologna on G’s sandwich, kay?”

“I know,” Megan sighed.

Jan stepped out into a brisk autumn wind and immediately regretted not grabbing her coat. Bundling her arms up, she crossed the back yard towards a thick wooded area directly behind their new home. Of course this is where he is, she thought. Jan made her way through the woods about twenty yards.

“Trey?” she called out, “Lunch!” She walked a good while longer and crossed a small trickle winding through the earth catching sight of him. Hans was lining a pile of sticks and branches up beside a long stone wall. “I told you not to come out here alone, Trey. We’re making lunch.”

“I found a perfect spot for a fort,” Trey replied, running up to her, sticks in hand.

“After lunch,” she declared, “and after you finish unpacking your room.”

“Aw, Mom,” he whined.

“Get inside! It’s too cold out here for you to be running around without a scarf and a jacket.”

“Mom!”
“Move!” He scampered off toward the house.  Jan glanced back at the stone wall and the formidable house beyond. A stately three-story home stood atop a small hill, no signs of life or upkeep. She shivered – partly from the cold, partly from the creepiness of this weird house – and headed home.

By the time Jan caught up with Trey, he was already munching on bologna and cheese. Megan and G sat at the table, each with a nose in a book. Megan was elbow deep in Animal Farm, while Greta contemplated which cutout patterns would look best on her paper dolls. “I wish you wouldn’t read that stuff, Meg.”

“What stuff?”

“That garbage,” Jan stated, gesturing to her book.

“It’s not garbage,” Meg insisted. “It’s a story about animals, how harmful can that be?” Ever since she got caught branching off from Jane Austen, her mother tried to keep track of what the girl read. As vigilant as she was, Jan was still not even aware that Meg secretly had torn ravenously through Agatha Christie, Arthur Conan Doyle, Poe, Beckett, Steinbeck, Bradbury, Verne, Wells, and even Lovecraft. She would have had kittens.

“You girls finish up yet?” she asked.

“I’m finished,” Megan offered. “G’s still got some clothes to go through.”

“That’s last thing I got to do,” Greta mumbled, mouth full of cheese and bread.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Honey,” Jan pleaded.

“G, you gotta see this place I found for a fort,” Trey blurted. “It’s neato.”

“Hans,” Jan ordered, “you are not allowed to show your sister anything until you finish unpacking your room, and that’s final.”

“But it’s really cool --”

“--I don’t want to hear another word about it until you are done unpacking, is that clear?”

“Okay,” Trey conceded.

Jan unloaded a dozen pots and pans from the box she brought in earlier, opening random cupboards to determine in which one they would go. “Is there enough room for both of you in that room?” Jan asked Megan.

“Should be,” she agreed, munching on some celery. “This place is bigger than Topeka.” Megan showed G a dress and stocking combination with a flowery hat.

“What do you think?”

“Not bad, maybe with the green hat?”

“Well, the house might be bigger, but this town is most definitely not,” Jan muttered.

“You think we could check out the library after lunch?” Megan asked.

“We meaning who?” Jan queried.

“Me and G.”

“G and I,” corrected Jan.

“Greta and I.”

“As long as your room’s all squared away, I don’t see anything wrong with taking a trip to the library,” she decided, adding, “if you can find one in this town.”

“That’s not fair!” Trey burst out.

“Hans Rupert!” Jan demanded. “You did your exploring, now let the girls do theirs.” Jan placed a beat-up tea kettle on the back burner of a brand new electric stove, feeling that a good portion of her used and abused cookware looked out of place in this clean slate of a home. Trey stood up in defiance.

“Then I’m gonna go unpack right now,” he declared.

“Finish your lunch,” instructed Jan. He crammed the rest of his sandwich in his mouth and busily chewed. “Hon, don’t do that, you’ll choke.” He rinsed down the last bit with the last few swallows of milk in his glass. He stood in defiance.

“Now can I go?”

“You know—,” she started, changing her mind mid-thought. “Fine. Go on. Let me know if you need any help.”

“I don’t need anyone’s help,” he pouted. “I can do it by myself.”

“Refrain from anger and forsake wrath, Trey,” Jan offered.

“Do not fret, it tends only to evil,” Greta added, finishing the verse.

“Very good, Greta,” Jan encouraged. “Do you remember what verse?”

“Psalms 37, verse 8.”

“That’s my girl.” Jan reached up in a top cupboard and grabbed an Oreo, giving it to Greta.