28/5/1975:

Fiery morning, today. I walked into Chemistry class just in time to see Brian and one of his nerd “friends” squaring off. Former was accusing the latter of taking “All the credit for their research”, and quite loudly at that. But fortunately Mrs. Bennet was having none of that, so she hushed them. The two spent most of the lesson glaring at each other.

In all fairness, it wasn’t that interesting of a lesson. It mostly boiled down to Mrs. Bennet rattling off the effects of drug abuse, with that absent and almost piqued look of hers when she’s reading a script. She immediately switched it off the moment we got to actual chemistry, going back to a dotty murmur as she explained to us the wonders of aminoacids.

And guess who I met at the park this early evening? That’s right. Mrs. Judith herself. She was jogging down one of the paths in that horrible outfit, ponytail whipping left and right. I could tell she’d spotted me and Tim from the way she slowed down. We were sitting on one of the slopes, Green And Mean pootling around as I picked dirt flecks out of Timmy’s lack-of-hair. He was grumbling as I knelt behind him, trying to not look at his spine too much. Forget tests, I needed him to take some food.

So Judith waved at me as she passed, a beaming vacuous smile. Lame. Didn’t even glance at the turtle, who was tracking her with its head lifted like a submarine’s periscope. Thankfully, that was that as far as unsavory types went. No sign of the CL&M construction workers around the pond.

But hey, on the bright side: Mom came home way early. She even looked almost-not tired! Something about visiting Aunt Francis or something else. We ended up talking about De Santis while I helped her pack some snacks. Ended up agreeing to wait before asking Timmy to do the test. We had a month to go before the next meeting, after all. Can wait until Tim has less on his mind.

What can’t wait is the research. Janet told me she figured out a good place to start looking up information about this HW fellow. Some place Downtown, an auction house of sorts.

29/5/1975

No wonder no one knows about this place. Bellamy’s Antiques & Curios is tucked away in the back of a block of anonymous buildings, in a place that looks perfect for a mugging. There’s no sign pointing at the alleyway leading into this bit of Clearview, no sign alluding to the shop. Which is weird: Place’s well kept, if clearly playing up the antique store bit. You’ve got windows all framed in iron, bits below and above out of some dark oak. Think it’s all stuff from the thirties, and so is the metal insignia. Painted a deep green, the letters done in gold embossing.

Mr. Bellamy himself looks to be the same sort of aged agelessness of Mrs. Dartmouth. Short, wiry, balding, with framed ivory glasses and a keen smile. He ushered us in without a comment, between ceiling-tall shelves that smelled of wax and cigar smoke. A lot of the items on display were knick-knacks, but Janet was right on the money: Several were wooden carvings.

We let her do the talking, all the while Hannah and I poked around. A good third of Mr. Bellamy’s stock were clearly holdovers from the sixties, from the Summer of Love. But not the sort of trash they sell you at roadside kiosks. Saw a dozen dreamcatchers, incense bowls and statues of Mother Nature. All hand-carved from materials as diverse as ebony- Fake I think- Bone, even scrap metal. From our own very caves, the accompanying price tags explained. All written in an elegant, flowing cursive that must have belonged to the old man himself.

Hannah picked up a statuette of the Virgin Mary as a black woman, dreadlocks poking out of her blue cowl. “Kind of looks like one my dad picked up from-” Face scrunched up in concentration. “Sicily? I think. “ The tag said something about it being from Jamaica. Could buy that. I mean, not literally. It was fifty bucks. Certainly a better use of money than a perm, but still not the kind of allowance I had.

Meanwhile, Janet and Bellamy were zeroing into whoever Wells was. “-Sure with the lodge? If he was, it’d narrow things down considerably.” That actually made me pause the rummaging: Why didn’t Janet go straight to said lodge?

Then I saw the knife.

It was sitting on a mahogany drawer, on a small display stand. The blade was one huge tooth the length of my hand, yellow as cheese. Someone’d taken the time to whittle it down into a serrated fashion, retaining the curve. Made me think of a kukri I once saw at a museum. It still had considerable thickness, though. It also had Siberian/Alaskan machairodontinae written all over it. Literally. Someone had carved some phrases in cyrillic all over the curve, thin and yet deep cuts.

Then I saw the price tag. A hundred and fifty bucks? If it’s fake, which is most likely, it’s still a steal. If it's the real deal, then Mr. Bellamy needs to get his sight checked. Either way, I was going to ask about it.

But Janet was already in the middle of securing some information, so to speak. She was smiling- A genuine thing, subtle as the earth’s curvature- And nodding as Mr. Bellamy continued some long-winded explanation about woodcarving traditions. He interrupted himself soon as he noticed Hannah and I walking up the aisle, waving us over with a curious glint in his eyes. “Ms. Natsworthy told me about your research.” He had this hint of a Texan drawl, just to add some more warmth to that jovial grandpa tone. Behind him Janet smiled cooly, almost coyly. What did you tell him, dearest?

Still he was nothing but courteous, despite our readily apparent lack of funds. He showed us this backroom stuffed to the brim with carved furniture. Same decor as De Santis’, same style. But, more, is how I’d put it? Drawers covered in floral motifs, an escritoire positively brimming with what I think was an orographic topology of Clearview and surroundings. All stuff that looked unused, or carefully maintained at worst. The air was thick with the scent of wax here as well, albeit tinged with this heavy accent of mothballs.

I felt a mini-Aunt Francis pop up in my mind and uncharacteristically whistle. What a treasure trove. Where’s the catch? Admittedly, yeah, that was a thought that haunted me since we stepped into this place. Where was the downside? How did this get spared from the waves of intern decor frenzy that washed over our parents every spring, every summer, boosted by performance bonuses?

Turns out, the answer was kind of obtusely simple. The Lodge had simply asked Mr. Bellamy to not sell any of these particular bits to privates. “I hold an auction every season. Organizations only”, he explained.

I refrained from mentioning De Santis, or from asking whether CL&M counted or not. He went on to say that the Lodge sold him “Their works” at a “Fair, and reasonable price.” Didn’t make a single name, but he let slip their address. Further Downtown, cooped up in the old distillery quarter. Certainly not omnious at all.

Going back home was the easy part. We passed by the park on our way there. Lo and behold, in the wake of Judith’s jog construction machinery had magically materialized out of thing air. Or rather, a Bobcat and some bored-looking fellows in exos did. They were slowly removing the stones that made up the edges of the pond, the sound of metal on dirt crashing through the streets. I could tell the muck below had gone wrong: It looked like compost of a sort. It smelled like mulch as well. Scent was racing up and down the street, and Hannah looked on the verge of puking.

It made eating dinner kind of hard. Worst of all, dad had cooked up a killer brisket. Couldn’t even feel the taste with that horrible stench clogging my nostrils. Timmy looked upset as well. Not to mention a bit pale. It didn’t take much prodding for him to fess up he’d gone to take a closer look. Dad mostly gave him a bit of a troubled sigh, but nothing else. I think he understood that being exposed to the stench was enough of a punishment.

30/5/1975

Another day, another reason for Tara to run her mouth off. She’d been telling some of the seniors this or that parish gossip when I strode into the main hallway, smelling like a ruptured sewer. I’d taken a great deal of care to avoid crossing the streets next to the park. Heck. In fact, I’d snuck out from the backyard, using the path that ran around the burb.

Then the wind changed.

I could do little but glare at her as I walked over to class, and she just raised a mocking, coquettish eyebrow. Fortunately, I wasn’t the only one who put on some eau du latrine. Brian however did take it considerably worse than I did. He looked pale as a ghost, and had to excuse himself a few times to apparently dry heave in the bathroom. This made the History lesson feel even more slow somehow.

The Pacifican Policing never sounded so...Unappealing. Especially coming from Mr. Hopkins. He looked drained, moustache drooping, deep bags under his eyes. I reckon having a premature baby will do that to you. And having to stand in for a colleague. Standing there behind the desk he rattled off a list of names, troop movements, battles, dispatches from Washington. By the middle of the hour, Janet was the only one taking notes. Even then it was this sort of automatic writing. Smart girl.

Eventually though the topic drifted to Along Came The Postman. Which turned my boredom to this sort of envy. Everyone had watched it. Everyone but me. Sure, I couldn’t blame Timmy for catching a cold. But I can blame mom for not hiring a babysitter. And I could blame whoever for the damn thing not being available on tape.

I had to pretty much sit out the discussion there, more or less. Mr. Hopkins managed to find some spark of life in himself, even if it was to criticize the” poor portrayal of Californian authorities, the poorer pacing, the downright abysmal writing”. Everyone kind of glanced at Brian every now and then, but he was still too queasy to try and bust out his Clint Eastwood impression. And as much as I liked this new, more silent and slightly feverish-looking Brian, I was also reminded that I could’ve been in his shoes, had I not instinctively covered my nose when the wind changed direction. Here’s hoping they’ll fix the pipes before tomorrow.

And speaking of which.

Tomorrow we ought to scout out the distillery quarter. Dad says it is better if we take Brad or Derek with us, which is kind of understandable. But still. Jeez, Dad. It’s not the fifties anymore. Things’ve changed.

Or so I hope.