The map spread over the entire wall. It was rough, pressed by broad dark
pencil lead into the soft unfinished pine. I caught my lip walking along it
slowly, taking it in. It must have taken her years. I turned to Adonie and
my face hardened. "It's the genealogy of my family. It's a record of
drunks. Selfish, blind, limited. I hate them!"
"There's more than one way to see them, Alma." Adonie's voice was gentle.
She could see I was stripped and raw, painfully exposed; she was trying
to help me. That made it so much worse.
"One! Only one! They chose that waste, the lying. I won't excuse them!"
I could scarcely speak as anger gripped me.
She gave that slightest sketch of a nod by which she acknowledged my
words but which said nevertheless there were ways and needs and tolerances
and always an end to endurance.
Her fingers touched the wall, tracing pathways. "Oh. Here you are." She
continued her examination, going backwards, this time through alternate
branchings. "This
is fascinating. She's gone back to the 13th century. In England. And here,
in France. And these over here are tribal calendars. This is from the
Heron? The Iroquois? From.....possibly the 15th century." After more
exploration, "This is amazing. Truly astounding."
"Marian died up here." I looked at the four depressions in the floorboards
where her bed had been for decades. "I heard them talking when I was
little. She died here of DTs."
Adonie went on with her study. It held a fascination for her because she
had wanted so much to know the people who had lived in this house she
was restoring and I would tell her nothing. But for all her desire to know
she had not begun until she had called me to join her. She would not
have investigated the wall if I had resisted it. "Who was Osgood?" she
asked, peering, "And....Frieda? Do you know? They're set off in a little
box."