M.J. Rodgers - Father By Choice

“Are we likely to find a Corbin in here?” Brad asked.

“No. My grandparents relocated here after World War II, like so many other military families who flocked to California.”

“What got you interested in the Historical Society?” he asked.

“Dot recruited me into it last year. There’s so much history in the origins of the beautiful plants here at the Botanical Gardens. The origins of the people who planted and cultivated them began to draw me as well. Courage Bay is one of those few Southern California communities where you can still find four-, five-, even six-generation families. I’m still a novice when it comes to the history of the people, of course. But it’s nice to live in a place with such sturdy roots. What about the Winslow clan?”

“Don’t know much about it,” Brad said.

His voice had gone curiously flat. She tried to remember the part of his sperm-bank questionnaire where it asked about his parents, but the only thing that came to mind was that there had been no known illnesses on either side of his family tree.

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask, but too many questions could make him suspicious. Better to err on the side of prudence and let the matter drop.

As she turned her attention back to the photographs, she found some very interesting group shots of the townspeople, even one of a traveling salesman.

She went through each, reading off the descriptions on the backs so Brad could enter them into the computer. Then she placed each photograph within sheets of acid-free paper and laid it inside a chest in the corner of her office.

“Are the photographs getting special attention for some reason?” Brad asked, as he watched her close the lid of the chest.

“They’re in such great shape, I hate to expose them to the elements even for a short time.”

“Where will the originals of all these things eventually be placed?”

She retook her chair next to the capsule. “In the basement of this building. Light, heat, humidity and acid are the four enemies of archival treasurers. That dark dehumidified dungeon is climatically controlled to near perfection.”

“Oliver Smithson mentioned something about your research. Is it in this kind of preservation?”

“No, my research is the kind that grows in the Botanical Gardens’ greenhouse.”

“Let me guess. Your favorite TV shows are on The Learning Channel and the Home and Garden Network?”

“Pretty close,” she admitted. “I suppose you were hooked on the TV E.R. series?”

“Naw, too much blood. What’s next?”

Emily caught herself smiling again. Seemed he did have a really good sense of humor, after all.

She began to rethink her earlier comment about this job taking less time because he was here. It might actually take more if she didn’t get her mind back on business. She turned back to the time capsule.

A cylinder at the side of some packaged items caught her eye. As she pulled it out, she wondered for a moment what she held.

“Of course,” she said finally. “This is an old phonograph record. I doubt there’s even a machine around that can play it.”

“Probably the newest gadget of its day,” Brad said. “If we put the latest CD in a time capsule today, I doubt there’d be an antiquated computer around in the year 2104 that could retrieve the information on it, either.”

“By 2104 I imagine most machines will be obsolete. We’ll all have a computer chip in our brains to store information.”

“Well, at least it’s good to know I’ll still have a job,” he said.

“You sure?”

“Someone’s going to have to insert that computer chip.”

“Unless they have a robot doing it.”

“Oh, great. Just what I needed to hear. Four years of premed, four years of medical school, four years of residency and now I can look forward to being replaced by a robot.”

She chuckled.

After a click of keys he announced, “I’ve entered it as phonograph record of cylinder shape and indeterminate age. What’s next?”

“The newspapers.” She quickly counted them. “There are sixteen here, randomly selected it appears from the two years before the capsule’s burial.”

As she started to rearrange them in chronological order, she found one with the same date as the time capsule’s interment. The lead story was the fact that it was being buried that day. But what caught Emily’s attention was the headline immediately below that one. She grew quiet as she read the story.

“What’s wrong?” Brad asked after a moment.

She looked up, only realizing then that she’d been frowning.

“An article in this newspaper reports that a day before the time capsule’s burial, five members of a local family died when a houseguest went insane and set fire to their home.”

“The article actually uses the word insane?” Brad asked.

“Must not have been considered politically incorrect in those days. The family’s six-year-old boy awakened to the smell of smoke and saw the drapes in flames. The houseguest was throwing lit candles and crying hysterically about demons. He fled the house to get help, but returned too late. The houseguest as well as the rest of his family had perished.”

“That article has upset you.”

His voice had grown gentle. When her eyes rose to his, she saw the concern on his face.

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