CHAPTER 8
BIRD WATCHING
When Joey heard the story of his encounter with the man in black, he whistled, “Whoa, that is tough.”
The two boys sat beneath a tree on the town hall green watching the Sunday afternoon strollers pass by.
“That’s not all, I think I was followed,” Roger said, pointing. Sitting on a trolley stop bench, half hidden by a newspaper was a young man. He was dressed in a cheap thriftstore imitation of the man in black, right down to the cheesy shades.
“Who is he kidding? Watch this!” And before Roger could respond Joey was in his chair and halfway to the stranger. Those wheelchair Olympics really paid off. The cheap suit looked panicked and hid behind his newspaper. Joey rolled right up to him and pulled the paper down, “What are you staring at? Never seen a guy in a wheelchair before? Take those stupid glasses off when I’m talking to you! I can’t see your eyes.”
Roger nearly laughed out loud when the would be secret agent pulled the glasses off, “I’m sorry,” He stammered, “Some guy said he’d pay me twenty bucks to put on the suit and follow that kid -he pointed at Roger- And tell him where he went.”
Joey had to bite his lip to keep from laughing, “Guy in a big black limo?” the spy nodded, “next time, make him pay you double. And ask him for a new suit. It’s embarrassing being followed around town by a Goodwill reject. Now get out of here, and don’t let me catch you again!”
The boys laughed until their sides hurt watching their stalker streaking down main-street like a scared rabbit.
Roger checked his watch. It was nearing two o’clock when the library would open for the weekly meeting of the local Audubon society. Joey had suggested they walk in with the other bird watchers and wait for a chance to sneak upstairs to begin their search.
Roger’s father had looked at them funny when they asked to borrow his ‘field guide to North American songbirds’ but it wasn’t hard to convince him. He was pretty shook up over last night, not to mention this morning. So, Roger, guidebook in hand, and Joey with his father’s field glasses slung around his neck made their way into the library with their fellow ornithology enthusiasts.
The addition of two new bird watchers created a bigger stir than either boy had counted on and they wondered if they would have an opportunity to make their escape. As exciting as fresh blood was, it could not compete with a guest lecture by the author of ‘Afield with the Finches of Finland’ and, the boys managed to sneak out the back door of the meeting hall.
They made their way to the freight elevator and traveled to the upper floor. As Roger pulled back the grate for Joey to roll out he heard his friend whisper, “seek”.
There above a row of shelves labeled, ‘Law’ was this inscription, “Seek justice, encourage the oppressed, Defend the cause of the fatherless, plead the case of the widow.”
Roger took this as a good sign. Having learned their lesson the day before he made sure to turn the elevator key to the off position. For added security he pulled it out and dropped it into his pocket. The boys headed for the central room, the Hall of Records. In contrast to the darkness of the basement the hall of records turned out to be a cozy, well-lit room with large windows at either end and large oak tables running down the center. The walls on either side were lined with shelves from floor to ceiling. These were full to overflowing with hundreds of the same paper cartons they had found in the basement.
Roger and Joey looked at each other, where should they start? Joey pointed out that each box had a label card in a metal frame on its end. The labels were hand lettered with legends like, ‘park fund donations’, ‘town council minutes’, and other misc. business.
After a few minutes of random searching they were able to determine that the boxes were in order by date. The earliest cartons dated to the late eighteen hundreds and the most recent seemed to be the nineteen fifties. Roger assumed the more recent records must be on microfilm or computer.
“Now what?” Roger sat at one of the tables.
“I guess we need to know more about what we’re looking for,” Joey answered.
Roger had an idea. He walked back to the room with the law books in it and reread the inscription, “Seek justice, encourage the oppressed…maybe a court record of some kind?”
Joey was still in the hall of records, “Does it say anything about orphans?” he hollered.
Roger came back into the room, “Yeah, something about the ‘Fatherless’, why?”
Joey pointed to a shelf about halfway up where more than a dozen boxes marked, “Celia Pine Home for
Orphans” rested. Roger found a ladder and climbed up, taking down the first box.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Joey asked.
“ If you mean it’s quite a coincidence my name is Pine, yeah. But that’s nothing compared to the fact that my grandmother’s name was Celia.” He pulled the first folder out of the box and handed it to Joey, taking the second one for his self.
Joey spread the documents out on the table and examined each one carefully, “This might be something. It’s the original permit granting the right to construct, ‘ An home for the maintenance and rearing of the orphan children of Wishful and surrounding areas.”
Roger riffled through his folder pausing to examine documents that caught his eye, “These are mostly adoption records. Wow! They date back almost to world war one. There sure were a lot of baby Pines back then. We must have been a big family.”
“When do you suppose the fountain was closed?” Joey asked.
“I don’t think anybody knows.” Roger replaced the folders in the box and returned them to the shelf. He reached for the second box.
“Wait, what if we’re looking for something about someone we know?” Joey thought aloud, “Maybe you should check the newer stuff?”
Roger climbed down off the ladder and moved it to the end of the stack. From the trails in the dust Roger could see that the last box in the row had been moved recently. He took it down and carried it to the table. He grabbed the first folder and pulled it out of the box. Something pink fell out of it and fluttered to the table. It was a post it. Roger turned the sticky note over and read the scribbled message aloud, “Thought you might find this interesting, Matthias.” Roger opened the folder. The first page was a yellowed document with an official seal in the lower right corner. The top read, “Certificate of Record, Live Birth”. The second line stopped Roger cold, “Baby boy, James Madison Wish, born to Eli and Carrol Wish”.
“My father’s middle name is Madison,” Roger gulped and turned to the second page. He scanned to the second line, “Baby boy, Benedict Arnold Wish.”
“Dude! Isn’t your uncle’s name Benedict?” Joey's eyes bulged as he searched the page for further clues.
Before Roger could answer they heard footsteps on the stairs. The two boys flew to the elevator. Roger turned the key and pushed the button for the ground floor.
The Audubon society was just leaving and Joey and Roger stepped into the greeting line to thank the author for her speech. The assistant librarian came rushing up out of breath. She looked like she wanted to say something but instead she glared coldly at the boys and walked on by.
Narrow escapes were becoming a habit. A habit they agreed would not last forever. If they were not more careful they were going to get caught.
Roger’s mother met him at the back door, “I’m glad your home. Your father is still not feeling well. Would you empty the trunk of his car for me please? I need to deliver some things to the Salvation Army in the morning. It’s all sitting on the workbench, would you put it in the trunk, please?”
Roger took the keys and opened the trunk. He pulled the cooler out and emptied the trash. He slid the now empty cooler under the workbench where his father always kept it. He grabbed the two folding camp chairs and the blanket and closed the trunk. He tossed the blanket on top of the washing machine and set the chairs beside the workbench. He didn’t have the energy to get the stepladder and climb up to the shelf.
Then he saw the box. Roger shook like a leaf as he stood looking at the cardboard carton he had seen the day before. He grabbed the cardboard carton and pulled it to the front of the bench. What should he do? His mother was giving it away anyhow, surely she wouldn’t mind?
Roger ran into the house and grabbed the phone, dialing Joey's number before the dial tone even sounded. With everything else that had happened he didn't dare to open the box alone, “Joey? Come now, meet me in my garage.” Roger let his friend in and they sat staring at the unopened carton.
“Well, it’s not likely to be a bomb, is it? So, we just have to open it,” Joey said bravely.
Roger was sweating, “What do you think is in it?” There was no indication as to contents on the outside.
“Whatever it is my mother is prepared to donate it to the Salvation Army,” Roger rubbed his palms together nervously.
Joey quickly grabbed the carton, set it in his lap and pulled off the lid. Roger leaned over his shoulder for a better look. There, nestled in newspaper lay a small mahogany box. Roger gently lifted it out and examined it. It was about the size of a cigarbox with a yellow rosette inlay on its lid. In the center of the rosette a decorative “W” was surrounded by flowering vines. Roger tried the lid. The box was securely fastened by a silver lock with a skeleton keyhole.
“Wheeew” Joey whistled, “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”
Roger looked around nervously, even though they were alone in the garage both boys felt exposed. “We better open this where no one can see.”
Roger quickly placed the remaining charity donations in the trunk, filled the carton with some old magazines they found beside the work bench, added it to the stash in the trunk, and left the garage for the sanctuary of Roger’s room. Roger laid the box on his desk and opened the drawer. He took out the small silver key and held it for a second. It slid into the lock with a click and turned smoothly. Roger felt like the bomb guy in a movie, red wire or blue? He opened the lid carefully. There was no explosion, no puff of smoke. Joey looked positively disappointed. Roger opened the lid all the way and pulled back the tissue that wrapped whatever was in the box.
Inside the tissue lay a small leather journal with gold embossed lettering. It spelled out a man’s name. The founder of Wishful, Jeremish Wish!
With trembling hands Roger gently picked up the book. Underneath it, the bottom of the box was lined in black velvet, and there in a neat little depression lay a golden key! In his excitement Roger almost dropped the book, then laid it carefully on the desk. He picked up the key which hung on a crimson silk ribbon. The tip of the key was a square box about a half an inch across.
“For the fountain?” Joey whispered. Roger could do nothing but nod.
Joey shook with excitement, “What’re we going to do with it?”
“I think this town has gone wishless long enough, don’t
you?” Roger asked.
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Forgot the commentary yesterday, so double duty today. The Festival of wishes is made up of various memories of small town celebrations I attended as a child, particularly the 4th of July, which has always been a favorite holiday of mine. The scary uncle was partially inspired by my Mother's brother Jerry, who is no way a scary man. Although he does look a little like Charles Darwin as he ages, no, it was a single incident the spurred the connection. When I was young, maybe five or six, we visited my uncle and he had in his basement a large, dark wood trunk, which he insisted had belonged to a pirate and was filled with horrible creatures that would eat little boys who entered the basement unaccompanied. Weak connection I know, but there it is.
I actually had a bird book when I was younger, an Audubon field guide to be precise and I would hike a mile or so from home with a sack lunch and sit in a wooded area and try to find as many different species as I could. My kids have the book now, with check marks near the one's I found.
Journals have always had a fascination for me. My dad was a big fan of history, still is I guess, and would read us journals of old mountain men and explorer's. One in particular was the journal of a pioneer namer Isaac P Rose called "Four Years in the Rockies" in it he tells of fighting bears and tracking Indians and all manner of other adventures, mostly true, although I am sure somewhat embellished for posterity. It was undoubtedly the inspiration for Jeremish Wish's journal. Jeremish, by the way was originall a typo of Jeremiah, but I liked it, so it stuck. Hope you are enjoying the story so far, come back soon for more!
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