Will took pains to close the door of the shop gently behind him. He wanted to tear it off its hinges and slam it to the pavement. He might have had the courage. He did not have the strength and couldn’t bear the failure just now of attempting one more thing that he couldn’t accomplish. So, he pushed the door gently with his fingertips listening for the click before he stepped away toward home. Out of the corner of his eye, Will saw DeChris step away from the doorway across the street. Will sighed. He heard DeChris’s footsteps behind and across the street, the slap of leather louder than his own crepe-soled footfalls. DeChris behind him, a block maybe more, walked loudly, deliberately. Cars passing Will on his left, intermittantly interrupted the sound, the slap, slap.
     Will had an urge to walk faster. He gritted his teeth, felt tears at the corners of his eyes, forced himself to slow down, wait for walk at Burnside. He managed to keep a steady, casual pace all the way back and all the way he heard DeChris. Sometimes it was the sound of his shoes, sometimes he was whistling. DeChris made his presence known. Slap, slap. Will got to his building, and the slap, slap, stopped. He heard DeChris settling on the window ledge of the bar on the other side of the street–the whispery scrape of cotton on concrete. Will did not turn. He concentrated on unlocking the street entrance.
     Inside the apartment, Will laid his keys on the dining table, took Emmy’s scarf from around his neck, folded it and placed it next to the keys. He went in the kitchen, opened his catchall drawer and selected several candles from an array of stubs; cellophane wrapped tapers, and votives beribboned with Christmas bows. He laid these on the coffee table. He took candlestick holders from a hall closet, saucers from the drain board next to the sink. He put votives on saucers, tapers in sticks and lit the candles.
     He pulled all the curtains closed. The room was almost dim enough to give the candlelight something to do.
     Emmy’s diary. He was going to read it, maybe all of it, right now. He hadn’t known that was what he was up to until he sat on the couch and stared down at the diary enshrined on the coffee table between the candles. He picked the diary up and placed it on his lap. Then he leaned back. His eyes were level with the photo of Zoe which he had chosen for his living room wall. In it, Zoe was standing on the footbridge in front of Multnomah Falls. She was eleven years old. Her red hair was a mist-induced frizzy halo. She was grinning, showing lots of teeth. The day before, or the week before, she had been wearing Babar the Elephant t-shirts. In this picture she was wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut out, edges of the sleeve holes were frayed. It was the height of the grunge period. On her, with freckles running down her cheeks, her stick figure, and the milky smooth skin of her arms, the effect was a far cry from grungy. The shirt needed an oil slick to put her even in the same universe with grunge. It was the beginning, though, the first signs. Will had more recent photos of Zoe, but they were of a young woman whose growing distance from him matched her march toward adulthood.
     Behind Zoe, toward the edge of the frame, her mother stood with her hands shoved in her jean pockets. Her eyes were fixed on something out of the lens of the camera. That trip to the falls had been one of the last outings for the three of them. Zoe was still giving her whole self to the camera and he had a series of shots–Zoe at Castle Rock, at Oneota, Latourelle, walking up the trail to the bridge and this one at the end of the roll, the best one. God, how he missed her. He tried to remember how the change had taken place. Remembered only that veils kept dropping down between them. Once he had come to the door of the living room on Saturday morning and found her watching Mr. Rogers. He had no idea she still watched that beneficent fellow’s show. He had tiptoed away actually terrified that she would stop watching Mr. Rogers, if she knew that he knew and he was not ready for that.
     Will knew that it was natural for children to leave their parents and to mark the boundaries, leaving clear signs so that the parents would know how far to come, where to stop–but wasn’t there supposed to be some common territory? He was sure that the divorce was what made Zoe so vigilant, wary of him, his capacity to hurt her mother, to hurt her.
     The book was a weight in his lap.
     Why, all his life, had his relationships with women, even his daughter, been so fraught with difficulty? Except Emmy…but given time, who knew? Was his attraction to Emmy some kind of compensatory leaning meant to fill, displace, replace, obliterate the cavern of loss that Zoe had left him?
     Will opened the diary.
     What difference did it make now, why he loved her? He did.
     December 23rd:
      I feel like Demeter, only I’m not searching for my daughter, but for my mother’s people. They have disappeared underground, too, but they don’t reappear like Persephone in the spring.
      Here comes Christmas. I don’t dread it the way I used to now that Lucy and Marta have made me an honorary member of their holidays. It’s good to have a place to go, people to buy things for who don’t say “you shouldn’t have.”
     Her script was smooth, uncramped, angular. He imagined her fingers around the pen, drawing the letters, the words. She wrote almost everyday.
     Got another come-on in the mail from the rescue mission, I see that same old man is still having dinner at the mission. Too bad people don’t think about what happens during the rest of the year. I wonder what they would think if they saw the people disappear? Colin volunteers at the mission and he says that sometimes you see someone day after day and then suddenly they aren’t there and someone tells you that the medical school just got another cadaver.
     December 26th:
     Christmas with Lucy and Marta was so peaceful. Except Tweak got a little jerked at Bug for something on the way over. One look from Lucy and they put it out. We ate so much, I don’t think there’s any danger of freezing this winter. We’re all fattened up.
     I’m concerned, Emmy wrote on the 3rd, about this thing Colin has done. I’m afraid of what could happen.
     Will saw Emmy bounce the end of the pen against her chin. What had Colin done? She bent her head back over the diary and wrote again. Venus is coughing blood. She spent last night outside. What if it’s tuberculosis? This new strain? What the hell are we doing to these kids? It could be me. If Mom hadn’t OD’d, I probably would have run to the streets just like Venus and Tweak and Bug and Jock. What kind of a life was she giving me? The same kind they all had. Dinner out of a tin can, a new “uncle” every six months, their mothers want them to call daddy. I hate sardines, I hate tuna fish, I hate lima beans, pork & beans, string beans—good thing juju beans don’t come in a can. All the police can do is tell the kids to move on, move on. You can’t sit there, you can’t stand here, you’re blocking the sidewalk, you’re driving away business. You’re trash, move along. Throw yourself away. What if it is TB? It’s so hard for the kids to stay on their feet. They all smoke.They all take drugs. Lots of them prostitute. I want to shake them and tell them they can’t keep doing all this to themselves, but what are they going to do, quit drugging? It’s their only medication and the only excuse for failing to make society’s grade that they dare to name. For some, it’s the only way out.
     January 28th: For a smart guy Colin can be real thickheaded. It’s not that he can’t take a hint, he can’t understand get lost. Sometimes I wish he would go to Seattle. Find another town to strut around in.
     January 29th: Been going through some of Grandma’s stuff that I’ve been avoiding. Wish I had done this sooner. There are some pictures of her mother, Great-Grandma, and several packets of letters. They are old and yellow. They crackle. I wish I knew her. It would be so cool to meet other family members. I feel so totally orphaned now that Grandma is dead. If only there was somebody. I’ve been thinking that I could do some tracing of the family. Genealogy seems to be a craze right now, I should be able to find out something, find somebody.
     February 2nd: Groundhog’s Day. Best holiday of the whole year. Not a single advertisement for Groundhog Day sales or sentimental greeting cards. I don’t understand about my mother. I keep trying to figure out why she destroyed her life.
     Maybe it was losing her father when she was just getting to teenage. She must have felt so confused and different from everyone else. I said that to Grandma once and she got upset. She said my mother always complained about being different, about her father’s Italian accent. Nobody had immigrant fathers in the ’50s and ’60s. Grandma said it hurt him, knowing that he embarrassed his daughter. He had other disappointments. No son. And his own family so far away in Italy. He died without a son, his daughter ashamed of him, in a country that probably didn’t accept him. I feel sorry for him. I still don’t know what to think of my mother except that she was really just a little girl and she must have had a load of guilt.”
     February 3rd: Will imagined Emmy sitting at her kitchen table, pushing a glass out of her way, with a dried ring of milk in the bottom, and writing about searching for her family in the boxes she had packed. Boxes filled with her grandmother’s letters and photos and odd personal miscellany that reminded her of the woman who had raised her. I’m in there somewhere among these people, some of these people. I fit in their continuum. But which ones? I haven’t been able to find out anything about the Sojourners. That was Grandma’s maiden name. It’s on the birth certificate, but there is no father’s name. I guess Grandma was born “out of wedlock”. Found a picture of Grandma as a baby with her mother. Their names were on the back: Catherine Elizabeth Bartlett, and Emmaline Sojourner. I can tell it’s not a studio photo. Of course, they couldn’t afford studio portraits on what Great-Grandmother made cleaning houses. Grandma used to tell me how food and clothing were just about the only things they had. I wonder how I can get a hold of Catherine Bartlett’s birth certificate?
     February 5th: Marta brought Madeline over yesterday. They were going out for pizza. Madeline is really sweet. Seems like something was wrong though. I don’t know why I think that. Just that Maddy was kind of edgy, jumpy. It looked like she hadn’t washed her hair in a while. It was all kind of oily looking. I’ve never seen her when she wasn’t pretty groomed.
     February 8th: I went with Colin last night. Marta convinced me. I think she was right. I’m still not sure it’s what we should be doing, but there are some times when you just have to do something because it feels right. You just have to trust your feelings. I’m not sorry. A little afraid, but not sorry.”
     February 9th: I’m glad we got ROOF going. Even if Colin is a twit. He does know how to get people motivated and we might have a real chance to do something about housing for these street kids. It’s taken a year, but the kids are really starting to be involved. I think they believe that something can happen. I hope we don’t disappoint them. There isn’t enough housing that people with jobs can afford. Much less illiterate street kids. Where are people supposed to live? We’re planning a demonstration in March. Someone has to listen. We have to start somewhere.
     February 19th: I’ve spent the last 3 mornings at the library and the courthouse. I’m starting to get a little discouraged. But I am making progress. I’m sure that I’ll be able to trace my family. But what are my chances of finding even a distant relative?
     March 8th: Found a letter from someone named Edwina Phillips written to Catherine, g-gma, in the back of one of Grandma’s books. She is writing about someone named Louise Bryant and it sounds like a name I should know. But, the most exciting thing is that all that microfiche-dusty-book record searching has finally paid off. I think, I’m positive that I’ve found an actual relative. His name is Douglas Anthony Bartlett, and the house that g-gma must have grown up in is still on the tax rolls. It hasn’t been torn down! I could go and see it. I’m afraid to. What if it isn’t really there?
     March 18th: I think we shook them up a little today. There were hundreds of us marching, singing, chanting. We have to keep it up. I saw prof. Adelhardt watching. I remember him from that class on colonization when I was a senior. Must have been on his way to PSU. Lucy told me that Louise Bryant and John Reed were journalists and communists, and seeing him this morning reminded me that he could probably tell me a lot about Louise Bryant. I’m glad I called him. I wonder if I’ll find any reference to g-gma Catherine in those books he’s going to lend me?
      March 20th: Went to Will Adelhardt’s lecture at the Historical Society. We walked up to see the old Bartlett house afterward. I feel like something is happening. What is it about Will Adelhardt that makes my heart jump?
      March 30th: Contact. I’ve made contact. I feel like that, too. Like some alien contact has been made. Cross class/cross-cultural aliens. He sounds kind of remote. I don’t think he was glad to hear from me. I’m not sure he even believed me–that we’re related. But he has agreed to meet. That’s a good sign, right?
     April 1st: Met Doug at Papa Haydn’s in Sellwood. I think it was slumming for him. He seems shy. I talked too much. Made an ass of myself, I think. I don’t know. Pretty sure that he believes me. Showed him my driver’s license, birth certificate and mom’s & grandma’s and great-grandma’s. He seemed sort of stunned when I laid it all out.
     It doesn’t seem right to be family and just walk away from each other and never make contact again. He didn’t say anything personal except that he’s all alone, too. I got the idea that he wants it what way–not that he likes it, but wants it.

     April 5th: Knock me over with a silver spoon–DB just called. He wants to meet. Said he had some photographs I might like to see. And he invited me to meet him at the Heathman. Guess he’s not afraid to be seen with me.
     Back. It’s 11:00, but I’m too jazzed to sleep. I guess he really decided it wouldn’t hurt to let me take a look and tell me a little about the family. He didn’t bring a lot of photos. There were some of great-grandma and her sisters, brothers, mother and father–my great-great aunts, uncles, and great-great-grandparents. He told me that the family made their money first in the Eastern U.S. They were Bostonians in the import/export trade. A son of the family, Bernard, was sent out West to scout out the fur trade. Bernard didn’t think much of what was left of the trade, between what the Hudson Bay Company and some freelance Americans were taking, the otter and beaver had pretty much been wiped out. Bernard was impressed with the trees. He saw houses, I guess, stretching from Oregon to Boston built out of Oregon territory timber with the Bartlett name all over them. I think he saw the heart of the Cascades, the Blues, the Wallowas, and the Siskiyous and just wanted to snatch the forests bare.
     Doug said that the whole family thought Bernard had gone around the bend. How did he propose to get the timber to market? Bernard must have persuaded the family to give him backing because that’s what the Bartlett’s became. Lumber barons. It gives me the willies, like finding out your family had slaves.
     April 8th: Got a letter from DB today. Can’t bring myself to open it. Maybe I can get Lucy or Marta or Will to open it.
     Will is coming over for dinner. Wonder what Grandma would think of him? She’d probably say he’s too old. Oh well.
     Couldn’t wait after all. Just got done reading the letter. It was a note, really. Kind of a thank you. And I think I’ve just been invited to have a regular family night out at the Heathman, every Wednesday.
     Will’s telephone interrupted her diary and Emmy disappeared like smoke.
     It was his Department Chair calling to tell him that it wasn’t his idea you understand, but the board had met and, well, surely Will could understand their position. And it wasn’t like they were firing him. Just a leave of absence until this thing was over. Sorry to have interrupted your Sunday evening, but just thought you’d like to…you might be working on class plans for summer session and really that was impossible. By fall it would all blow over, he said, you can come back then. We don’t want to lose you.
      Will set the phone down. His connection to Emmy must have been in the papers. He hadn’t paid any attention. He hadn’t even read a newspaper since the one he’d bought in Eugene on Wednesday night last week. Before. Had there been anything about him as a suspect? How far behind the state university would the community college board be in distancing themselves from him? He had no summer class at Larch Hill, the private college, and no contract for its board to be nervous about.
      He rummaged through his wallet for the receipt on which he had scrawled Lucy’s number. A journalist could be depended on to read the newspaper.
     “Hello, Lucy? Will here. I’m sorry to bother you with this, but I was wondering if you’ve been reading the papers. I’m afraid I haven’t and…was there anything about me in the articles on Emmy?” Will asked.
      He hadn’t given her a chance to say she was busy, that it wasn’t a good time, or to even say hello. But Lucy didn’t seem ruffled. She caught his rush of words and replied calmly, “Hello, Will. Yes, I’ve kept up on the news, and yes, your name appears linked to Emmy and to the murder as a ‘person of interest’. They include your positions at Portland State and PCC.”
      “A person of interest would be enough. That’s usually the guy who gets arrested, eventually.”
     Will felt despair rising up. As if life had not gotten miserable enough, it looked as if he was going to lose everything and it was strange how much he realized he still had left. When he started to tot up all the things he could lose there was a sizable pile and mixed among the dispensable items were a few gems. There was Zoe, for instance. And he wondered, again, what she knew about all this. What had her mother told her?
     Lucy interrupted his thoughts. “I have the papers still. They’re in the recycle bin. I can pull them out if you like.”
      “No. Yes. Would you mind just holding them? I don’t know that I want to read it, but that could change in five minutes.”
      “No problem, Will. Listen, would you like to have dinner with Marta and me on Thursday? We’d really like to have you,” Lucy said.
      “I don’t know. I have a pretty busy schedule, what with PSU giving me the summer off and all.”
      “Oh, Will, I’m sorry. So that’s what all this interest in the papers is about.”
      “About dinner, Lucy, could I let you know? I’m not sure…” Will trailed off. He sounded pathetic to his own ears and he really didn’t want Lucy’s pity. On the other hand, the dinner was likely a pity offer, anyway.
      Lucy’s reply sounded peeved. “It’s up to you. We’d like to have you.”
      “Thanks, Lucy. I’ll call.” I need all the friends I can get, Will thought. Alienating Lucy was counter-productive and self-destructive and normally he would be fine with that, but he was finding that there was a limit to his capacity for suffering, self-imposed or otherwise. He would call her, he decided, and he would do it before Thursday.
     Emmy’s diary was still in his hand, but he could read no further tonight. He laid it on the coffee table and headed for his bedroom. He had not slept there since he had gone to Eugene, a week ago. He took his shoes and pants off and lay down on top of the covers. It was good, he thought, that Emmy found family before she died. He would call Doug tomorrow morning.