Necessary Evil Read Online Free PDF Page A

turned him down, a student oh his -
one of our riders- remembered that my uncle, while digging out a section of the
yard for a cement pad, discovered an old knife that dated back to 1820. Joe
went to see it on display at the library, then offered my uncle a deal: if he
allowed his team to conduct a dig, Joe would pay to install the cement pad
himself. Uncle Michael, excited by more by the idea of the dig than the cement
pad, was easily persuaded.
    It was the most exciting thing that had
ever happened to me. I was a rough and tumble kid who hadn’t much interest in
either history or boys. The dig changed that. For six weeks, our yard was
covered with college kids and the teacher with the Hollywood good looks who
insisted that I join in on the fun. With his flashing smile, intelligent humor,
and graceful yet rugged mannerisms, I was a goner before I even knew I had a
heart. That summer was momentous: I grew up, and Uncle Michael discovered his
passion for the past - a passion that would lead to his untimely accident.
    I looked at the wall over the filing
cabinet. In a dusty old frame was the group photo we’d taken at the Dig’s End
Party, the last night we’d all been together. Joe Tremonti was in the middle,
his confidence radiating even through the passage of time.
    It amused Aunt Susanna then that the team
was mostly comprised of girls. I remember mixed feelings of jealousy,
admiration, and kinship with those older, seemingly sophisticated young women.
In the group photo, I’d somehow managed to stand next to Joe. A messy-haired,
sun-browned kid, I was beaming like a lottery winner - standing next to my
crush, who’d condescended to put his arm around my shoulder. I’d felt like a
woman then.
    Now, looking at the photo, I saw me as I
was: a child who was about to experience her first heartbreak over a boy, a
girl who didn’t see the impossibility of a seventeen-year-old’s love for a
twenty-four-year-old.
    That was ten years ago and I’d aged
considerably. A lot had happened since then.
    But that night wasn’t the last time I’d seen
Joe. That had been at Uncle Michael’s funeral.
     
                                                              
***
     
    We buried Uncle Michael on a miserably hot
and humid day. The church had no air conditioning, so we sweltered during the
Mass and the lengthily eulogies. Then the priest, with a stately elegance no
humidity could touch, incensed the coffin, and we formed a line to follow him
to the cars.
    Aunt Susanna’s brother and his wife, both
from North Carolina, escorted her, staying close as she silently wept, leading
the long train of neighbors and friends outside, where it was only slightly
cooler. They were too absorbed in their own grief to notice when I slipped away
to the side, hiding in the shadow of the choir loft staircase. When the doors
closed and I was alone, I sat down and cried for the first time.
    I hadn’t time to cry before. There were
too many arrangements to make, too many decisions that Aunt Susanna was too
prostrate to handle, and I was afraid that my tears would only add to her grief.
    So I sat in the silent staircase, and
sobbed. When the door wrenched open unexpectedly, I barely contained a scream.
    Joe Tremonti was framed in the doorway.
“Maddie?”
    No one had expected the rising academic star
to show up at the funeral, least of all me. Aside from that summer, our family
had no connection with the man; but there he was, late, his impeccably tailored
suit adorably untucked, rushing only to find that the grieving party had
already left for the cemetery and me, a shivering, miserable wreck, crying on
the choir loft stairs.
    Seeing him was like discovering a
freshwater lake in the middle of the desert: tall, handsome, and kind, pulling
me into his arms and letting me sob on his shoulder. I wasn’t too upset to
notice that he still wore the same cologne that he’d used when we were at