Documenting Light

CHAPTER ONE-2

It said “Windsor Historical Society” across the front, with a black-and-white, and now slightly smudgy, sketch of the building in front of him. Windsor was about twenty minutes from his home in Binghamton. He’d picked it because it was the only historical society in the area whose business hours didn’t conflict with his work schedule.

According to the brochure, the actual historical society was in the basement, but you could access it from a side door.

Wyatt stuffed the printout into his satchel and got out of the car. He picked his way across the gravel parking lot in the light of early morning, just hoping he hadn’t made the trip for no reason.

“Side door,” he learned after a quick walk around the building, meant “concrete staircase leading down to an old metal storm door propped open with a rock.”

Wyatt pulled the door farther open and peered down a long, narrow, dimly lit hallway with another door at the far end. He dug out the brochure again and double-checked it. He did appear to be the right place, as dubious as it looked. He told himself it wasn’t that bad, but his pace quickened.

Windsor Historical Society was stenciled on the door at the end of the hall. The door itself looked battered and old, but when Wyatt tried the handle it opened.

He stepped through into a surprisingly large, high-ceilinged room with a tiled floor, completely filled with things. A bookcase overflowed with books, old display cases showed off everything from yellowed clothes hanging on dusty dummies to silverware, teacups, and journals. Several long tables were set up in the center of the room, each piled high with books and shoeboxes, notecards and three-ring binders. Filing cabinets and card catalogs sectioned off one corner of the room, over which Wyatt could see a desk with a huge nineties-style computer that looked to be the newest thing in the room. It was as though a library and a museum had suffered a head-on collision.

“Can I help you?”

A man stood by another doorway at the far end of the room. Wyatt made the first logical guess. “Grayson Alexander?”

“Yes?”

Wyatt found himself hunching. At over six feet, he towered over everyone, but he tried not to be an asshole about it. “Wyatt Kelly. I have a photograph.” He stuck out his hand for Grayson to take.

Grayson was shorter than him, a compact, barrel-chested guy. His dark red hair curled into his face, softening his features. He wore a bowtie and waistcoat, clothes Wyatt generally didn’t see outside of steampunk cosplay. Yet Grayson seemed unironic, or maybe unapologetic, about it. Fearlessness in self-expression was rare, in Wyatt’s experience. He felt a warmth start inside him, both attraction and recognition of a sort.

Grayson’s hand was soft in Wyatt’s, his handshake firm.

“Do you have the photograph with you?” Grayson crossed his arms when Wyatt let go.

“Oh.” Wyatt had been so caught up in looking, he hadn’t taken the photograph out. He dug in his satchel again and came up with it in a plastic sandwich bag. “Here.” He handed it over. Grayson held it by the edges as he examined it.

“I found it in the attic of the house my mom just moved into.” Wyatt watched Grayson. Did he see what Wyatt had seen? The emotion and expectant stillness caught up within the image? “It’s a big old Victorian that’s been broken up for apartments. The landlord said we could use the attic for storage. I found it up there.”

“You don’t know who these men are?” Grayson turned the picture over and leaned in close, studying the back.

“No, I couldn’t figure out who they were. That’s why I thought of taking it to a historical society.” Wyatt hadn’t even known where to start, actually. He’d mentioned it to the landlord when he told him about the hole he’d made. The landlord had been completely uninterested in the photograph or what Wyatt did with it. “I thought it was interesting when I found it. It was stuck up in the ceiling behind the insulation. It seemed strange to find a photograph there, like it was hidden or something. I don’t know, it made me want to know more about who they were and why they were up there in the first place.” His face heated as he spoke. He was rambling.

Grayson looked up. His eyes were very green, and Wyatt couldn’t help but notice the smattering of freckles across his nose.

He gripped the photograph delicately. “Well, it’s in good condition, not a whole lot of fading, no scratching or tearing.” He turned it over again, examining the edges closely. “It doesn’t look like it’s been trimmed or mounted in a scrapbook.” He carried the photograph to his desk and held it under the lamp there.

Wyatt followed and half leaned over his shoulder, trying not to crowd too close. Grayson stared down at the two figures, and for a moment Wyatt thought that Grayson knew . It made his pulse speed up and his body tense, just a little bit.

“From their clothes, I would say it’s from around the nineteen-tens, maybe a little bit earlier. The photograph itself is on a little bit of stiffer stock like real photograph postcard, which would have been a cheaper, easier way to get a portrait done. The only thing is it doesn’t have a postcard back.” Grayson flipped it over, and they both bent to peer at the blank side of the photograph. “It could have still been done by a photographer who would have ordinarily done postcards though, so that’s a place to start.” He straightened and looked at Wyatt again. “You need to know, though, that it’s going to be difficult to find out who these two are. It can be tricky identifying people from photographs when we don’t know who took the picture, when it was taken, or where.” “Okay.” Wyatt tried to keep smiling, even as his heart sank with disappointment.

He didn’t know what he’d expected, but he’d hoped the two man would be identifiable—and then, once he’d gotten here, he’d hoped that Grayson would understand.

Grayson looked a little apologetic. “I’m sorry, I just don’t want you to get your hopes up about something I might not be able to do.”

“It’s all right.” As unhappy as Wyatt would be if Grayson didn’t unearth anything, he couldn’t demand Grayson produce what wasn’t there to find. “Whatever you can dig up will be good enough for me.”

“I will try.” The way he looked up at Wyatt was earnest. “It’s a lovely photograph. What’s the address of the house where you found it?”

Wyatt tried to gather his thoughts, shoving away the jumble of emotions to deal with later. “Sixty-two James Street in Binghamton.”

Grayson jotted it down. “May I take a picture of this?” He held up the photograph.

Wyatt blinked. “Sure.”

Grayson put the picture down on his desk and pulled out his cell phone. He snapped several pictures before handing the sandwich bag back to Wyatt.

“All right.” Grayson turned to rummage through the piles of papers and books on either side of the computer. He pulled out a slightly wrinkled business card that included something the historical society website had not listed: an email address.

Wyatt dug into his satchel and pulled out a business card of his own. “Here.”

Grayson took the card. “I’ll email you if I find anything. And you should feel free to email me if you have any other questions.”

“I’ll remember that.” Wyatt slipped the card into his pocket.

Grayson just nodded, turning back toward his computer. So Wyatt let himself out of the overcrowded basement room and headed for his car.

Work kept him later than he would have liked, and his phone began to buzz almost as soon as he stepped out of the county government office building and onto the street. When he saw his sister’s name, he answered. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Can you check on Mom?”

Wyatt tensed. “Is there something wrong?”

“No, I just think she’s lonely in that apartment by herself. I have a late shift tonight, so I was wondering if you could swing by instead.”

“Of course.” Wyatt dug out his car keys one-handed.

“And while you’re there, make sure she’s taking her meds.”

He heard cars in the background, and sirens. Jess was probably at the hospital where she worked.

“Just don’t ...” She sighed. He could imagine her rubbing her fingers across her forehead. “Don’t force it or make her feel bad. Just take a quick look at her organizer. I filled it up on Sunday. Make sure the right compartments are empty.”

“Yeah.” Wyatt quickened his pace into the parking garage.

There was the sound of someone talking on her end, too faint for Wyatt to really hear. “I’ve got to get back to work.” She sounded distracted now, a little harried. “Thanks for this.”

Wyatt stopped, hand on his car door. “It’s not a problem. You know I’m always going to be there for her, and you, too.”

“Aw.” Her voice went teasing. “Give me a call later tonight, would you? About the pills.”

“Yep.” He slid into the driver’s seat. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.” Wyatt could hear her smile.

The sun was setting by the time he pulled up to his mom’s apartment, the sky a light gray flecked through with blue.

His mom answered on his first knock. “Hey.” He hugged her. “You look good today.”

She did, too, dressed in a long skirt and peasant blouse reminiscent of his childhood, with large earrings and beads.

“Hello, yourself.” She waved him into the apartment. “I didn’t know you were coming over.”

“I thought I’d stop by.” Wyatt balanced on one foot in the hall, wrestling off his dress shoes and hanging up his coat. “And also Jess called.”

Her eyebrows furrowed, and Wyatt froze, cold seeping through him. Please let her remember Jess.

“What did Jess say?”

Just like that, he could breathe again. “She wanted me to check in with you.”

She tsked, turning back toward the kitchen. “She worries too much.”

Wyatt smiled at that. “I know, but I thought we could have dinner. It could be fun, right?”

“Of course. I was just going to heat something up, but if you’re staying, we could make something. It’s been a long time since we cooked together.” She gave him a smile that pulled at the center of him. It said home, safe, loved. On impulse, he leaned down and hugged her. “Hey.” She hugged him back.

“That sounds great. Let’s cook.” He tugged her into the kitchen and started rolling up his sleeves. “What have you got that we can use?”

“I don’t know.” Frowning, she started poking through the fridge, freezer, and cupboards.

Wyatt told himself it was okay, that he didn’t remember what exactly was in his fridge half the time either. Plus, Jess had been the one to take Mom shopping last time, so Wyatt didn’t have any idea what she should have around the kitchen.

She rummaged through the cupboards over the counter by the stove. Wyatt opened the refrigerator. There was a green pepper and a carton of mushrooms in the drawer, along with a package of ground beef on the top shelf. He piled the ingredients on the counter while his mother pulled a jar of pasta sauce and a box of spaghetti from the cupboard.

The obvious answer to dinner was spaghetti and meatballs. Wyatt knelt down to pull out pots and pans while his mother began to chop the vegetables. They moved around each other in the echo of an older rhythm. At one point, they’d cooked together almost every night, but not for a long time, and never in this kitchen. It was different from the house he’d grown up in. The stove didn’t pop and groan when you tried to light it, and the kitchen island his mother had made out of found wood hadn’t come with them. This kitchen was clean, new, and compact—the stove electric, the counters barely touched. Only the table was the same, old and heavy, the wood marked all over by time.

Her hands were as sure as they’d ever been as she sliced the onion. Wyatt stood next to her dutifully at the stove. He could imagine they were back home. She’d give him a glass of wine and ask about college or work as she moved around, cooking and tidying. Jess would be late, because she was always late. Wyatt would stir the pots on the stove while his mother chopped vegetables and checked the food in the oven.

To spend their time together wishing things were like they had been wasn’t fair to either of them, though. Wyatt shifted away from the stove to let her scrape the onions into one of the pans.

She put the chopping board back on the counter and looked over at him. “So how is work?”

“It’s fine.” Wyatt hated to be cryptic with his family about the job, but he worked for a judge. “Long and boring today. I did mostly research, then went to a hearing and took notes.”