(eng) Neve Maslakovic - Incident Series 02 by The Runestone Incident

Author:The Runestone Incident [Incident, The Runestone]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

15

A one-hour drive in Nate’s Jeep, Wanda in the back seat, brought us to a craftsman-style house with a wide front porch. It was painted a warm blue, and it sat sandwiched between two houses bordering on MacMansionism on a bluff overlooking the Mississippi River just south of St. Paul. We parked on the street out front. Wanda raced up the steps as if she was a frequent visitor to the house and gave a short bark. The door opened before Nate and I had a chance to reach the front stoop.

I had expected Nate’s grandmother, Mary Kirkland, to be a lot like him, that is to say, tall, lean, and a bit reserved in speech. She was none of those things. She was short and stocky in a denim dress, and, as I was about to find out, quite free with her opinions.

She rubbed Wanda’s ears, gave Nate a bear hug, which he returned somewhat awkwardly, and then turned to me. “And this is…?”

“This is Julia. Remember, Kunshi, I explained on the phone—”

“Nothing wrong with my memory. You two are here to ask me about the runestone. C’mon in.”

Wanda ran in ahead of us and we followed Mary down a hallway lined with photos of a life lived to the fullest. A husband who had passed away—Nate’s grandfather, Duncan, who appeared to be the source of Nate’s strong jaw and cheekbones. I counted seven children, three girls and four boys, some with their own progeny. There was a cute picture of what had to be Nate with a plastic spatula in one hand and a toddler-size chef’s hat on his head, helping Mary attend to a pair of roasting turkeys at a family picnic. I wondered if the picnic where Mary and Duncan had first met had started an annual tradition in the family—there were many picnic photos. In the middle of them, there was one showing Mary Kirkland handling a library book during her career as a cataloger at the Minnesota Historical Society, her long black hair streaming down her back.

Suddenly my own accomplishments, few as they were, took on an even more meager hue. I had one failed marriage (almost) behind me; a bungalow that I had inherited from my parents when they moved to Florida; and I was probably on the hook for loans defaulted on by Quinn. On the plus side, I did like my job, which, I’d come to realize, was a rare thing—it brought me joy to see young faces come to St. Sunniva University eager and idealistic about doing science and then leave four-to-six years later with a PhD in their pocket, a little wiser and more seasoned. Still, I couldn’t help wishing for something more; the STEWie bug had bitten me. I had caught the desire to feel the dust of other places and times under my fingernails and toes.

My eyes stopped at another photo on the wall. “Hey,” I said.

“Julia?”

“That’s my Mom! How funny. I don’t know who’s with her, though.

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