over, sniffed them like a scholar or a hound dog.
“So,” he said, “the ancient family destiny fulfilled.”
Yasmin nodded. “They’re yours now. I’m leaving the bag with them. I think that’s what he would have wanted.”
“Thanks,” Grissom said. “On behalf of the Revolutionary Park Service—and personally. I feel like I know the old man after reading the fax you sent. He was a particular old soul, wasn’t he? He expected his papers to be opened and read right here, last Fourth of July, exactly one-hundred years after the raid, to the day.” He regretted saying this as soon as he saw her face cloud over.
“He expected me to be a great-grand son , too, you might have noticed, if you read them.” It irritated Yasmin that this man, like her dead ancestor, like so many men in her life, didn’t realize that she had other things to do than participate in their ceremonies. “As I explained in my letter, I was delayed in Africa and couldn’t . . . ”
“Oh, I didn’t mean . . . I know you’ve been at Olduvai. After I got your letter I read the article in Scientific African about the dig. What did you call it? ‘Million-year-old dirty dishes.’”
Yasmin rewarded him with a thin smile. “A woman’s lot.”
“All I meant was, better late than never.” Again. One foot and he couldn’t keep it out of his mouth. “Anyway, I do hope you both can stay a few days. I’ve arranged a room at the Shenandoah if you’ll be the guest of the museum.”
“Oh, I’m afraid not,” Yasmin said. “I’m due in Staunton tomorrow, and Nova Africa Friday.”
“But Mother, you said we were going to stay a night,” Harriet protested from the doorway. “Please?”
What was this, forgiveness?
“This must be the old man’s great-great you were telling me about,” Grissom said. He saw a tall young woman with a broad moon face—like her father—in the doorway, keeping her back to the old Sharps and Hall’s rifles and the coats with bullet holes in them. Like most teenagers, she seemed to regard museums as assaults on the very principles of youth.
Grissom got up and took her hand. “And how did you like Africa?”
“I didn’t go. I’ve been in Virginia all summer with my grandmother.”
“We really don’t have the time to stay,” Yasmin said. “I’m due in Staunton tomorrow, and Nova Africa Friday.”
“You stay in hotels all the time,” Harriet complained. “I never get to stay in a hotel. With a six-track I’ll bet.”
“In every room,” Grissom said. “Oh, are those living shoes?”
“They’re new,” Yasmin said. She noticed they had changed a little. The left one was darker today and went farther up Harriet’s ankle. “I mean, just developed.”
“I know, I read about them. A new substance, grown only in zero-gravity tanks on Kilimanjaro. The first creation of a new life mode in space.”
“Really?” Harriet said, almost smiling. “They feel okay.”
“They get prettier, too,” Yasmin said. She decided she liked Grissom after all. But when she’d been told the shoes were from Kilimanjaro, she’d thought people meant the mountain, not the orbital station.
“Please stay at least a night or two,” Grissom said. “I was hoping to show you around the area. You’re part of our history here, you know, through your great-grandfather. Plus, I have someone I want you to meet. Remember the letters that I wrote you about in Africa?”
Letters? Yasmin tried to remember: something about a doctor.
“What letters?” Harriet asked.
“Old, old letters,” Grissom said. He fumbled through the junk on his desk and pulled out a pile of yellowed papers, handwritten, tied with pink ribbon. He handed them directly to Harriet. “A hundred years old. They’re from the abolitionist doctor who taught your great-great-grandfather medicine.”
July 7, 1859
Miss Emily Pern 11
Commerce St.
New York
Dear Miss Pern:
Everyone here in Philadelphia is talking of the Events at Harper’s
“So,” he said, “the ancient family destiny fulfilled.”
Yasmin nodded. “They’re yours now. I’m leaving the bag with them. I think that’s what he would have wanted.”
“Thanks,” Grissom said. “On behalf of the Revolutionary Park Service—and personally. I feel like I know the old man after reading the fax you sent. He was a particular old soul, wasn’t he? He expected his papers to be opened and read right here, last Fourth of July, exactly one-hundred years after the raid, to the day.” He regretted saying this as soon as he saw her face cloud over.
“He expected me to be a great-grand son , too, you might have noticed, if you read them.” It irritated Yasmin that this man, like her dead ancestor, like so many men in her life, didn’t realize that she had other things to do than participate in their ceremonies. “As I explained in my letter, I was delayed in Africa and couldn’t . . . ”
“Oh, I didn’t mean . . . I know you’ve been at Olduvai. After I got your letter I read the article in Scientific African about the dig. What did you call it? ‘Million-year-old dirty dishes.’”
Yasmin rewarded him with a thin smile. “A woman’s lot.”
“All I meant was, better late than never.” Again. One foot and he couldn’t keep it out of his mouth. “Anyway, I do hope you both can stay a few days. I’ve arranged a room at the Shenandoah if you’ll be the guest of the museum.”
“Oh, I’m afraid not,” Yasmin said. “I’m due in Staunton tomorrow, and Nova Africa Friday.”
“But Mother, you said we were going to stay a night,” Harriet protested from the doorway. “Please?”
What was this, forgiveness?
“This must be the old man’s great-great you were telling me about,” Grissom said. He saw a tall young woman with a broad moon face—like her father—in the doorway, keeping her back to the old Sharps and Hall’s rifles and the coats with bullet holes in them. Like most teenagers, she seemed to regard museums as assaults on the very principles of youth.
Grissom got up and took her hand. “And how did you like Africa?”
“I didn’t go. I’ve been in Virginia all summer with my grandmother.”
“We really don’t have the time to stay,” Yasmin said. “I’m due in Staunton tomorrow, and Nova Africa Friday.”
“You stay in hotels all the time,” Harriet complained. “I never get to stay in a hotel. With a six-track I’ll bet.”
“In every room,” Grissom said. “Oh, are those living shoes?”
“They’re new,” Yasmin said. She noticed they had changed a little. The left one was darker today and went farther up Harriet’s ankle. “I mean, just developed.”
“I know, I read about them. A new substance, grown only in zero-gravity tanks on Kilimanjaro. The first creation of a new life mode in space.”
“Really?” Harriet said, almost smiling. “They feel okay.”
“They get prettier, too,” Yasmin said. She decided she liked Grissom after all. But when she’d been told the shoes were from Kilimanjaro, she’d thought people meant the mountain, not the orbital station.
“Please stay at least a night or two,” Grissom said. “I was hoping to show you around the area. You’re part of our history here, you know, through your great-grandfather. Plus, I have someone I want you to meet. Remember the letters that I wrote you about in Africa?”
Letters? Yasmin tried to remember: something about a doctor.
“What letters?” Harriet asked.
“Old, old letters,” Grissom said. He fumbled through the junk on his desk and pulled out a pile of yellowed papers, handwritten, tied with pink ribbon. He handed them directly to Harriet. “A hundred years old. They’re from the abolitionist doctor who taught your great-great-grandfather medicine.”
July 7, 1859
Miss Emily Pern 11
Commerce St.
New York
Dear Miss Pern:
Everyone here in Philadelphia is talking of the Events at Harper’s
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