The Rivening

Watcher & Findlay's Boxes

WATCHER

When Connie returned home from the ravine, a man sat watching her from the second-floor bay window in the boarded-up convenience store, his presence obscured by filmy curtains. As he did most days, Peter took in the comings and goings on his little street, drinking tea at his kitchen table. There had been a recent change with a young woman moving into one of the bungalows. In his 50-some years, it was the first time it had come up for sale.

Recently, the woman had begun leaving her house each morning and going down the path that led to the Taylor Creek ravine. This morning, when she returned home, he watched the tall, gangly, slightly hunched-over, young woman – as she slowly plodded along their street. She paused, elbows akimbo, at the end of her sidewalk before walking up to the front door, pondering.

Today, her long, wavy dark hair was down, just past her shoulders, with the side strands caught in a barrette in back. He'd noticed that she constantly rearranged it - up and down, one ponytail, two, bun on top, bun low. Usually with several loose strands. He hadn't yet discerned a pattern to her stylings, which seemed to reflect a sort of ambivalence.

Her body language conjured a mixture of uncertainty and pride, like someone you feel sorry for who would be horrified you thought that of her.

Peter mused. Probably not unlike me.

As she paused in front of her house, casting her head back and forth at her neighbours' houses, it made him think of an ant twitching to figure out the correct pheromone trail to follow. For a moment, she turned to stare up at his window and he pulled back, reflexively covering his face with his hand, hoping she hadn't seen him.

FINDLEY'S BOXES

Connie sat in her basement, staring at the boxes from Findley's house. No more excuses. She needed to deal with them and move on.

Three years ago, when her stepfather Findley's Alzheimer's worsened, Connie moved back in with him, a retired archaeology prof. After Connie's mother, Ida, died, he'd remarried. And his second wife, Eunice, abandoned him once the Alzheimer's became apparent.

Her cellphone vibrated. It was Grayson, Findley's main research collaborator the last years, recently appointed to a tenure track position.

"Ah, Connie." Grayson's bordering on patrician voice, purred into the phone. "I thought I'd check-in and see how you're making out. Last time we talked, you were knee deep in raccoon scatology."

"It's good. All done. Cleaned up even better than I thought it would. You'll have to come see it some day."

"Of course. Lo-o-ve to. I'm sure it looks great. You've always been a handy sort of person. Probably get that from that prospecting granddad of yours." He chortled.

Grayson enjoyed teasing her about what he liked to describe as her 'backwoods' upbringing with her grandparents up north. Her grandfather was a mining engineer. She went to live with them after her mother died, and Eunice and her children moved into Findley's.

He continued, "I must say, you seem pretty accepting of Eunice getting most of Findley's estate. The house and everything." Connie didn't respond. "Listen, one thing I wondered is if you've finished going through all those boxes from Findley's? I've gone through the papers from his study, and I didn't find some of his last notes before he started, um..."

"Unravelling"

"Yes. I guess we could call it that. Such a brilliant archaeological mind. I had a thought about pulling together some of his last notes and maybe publishing something posthumously. Sort of a tribute. But I didn't find much of anything in what I gathered up that he hadn't already published. I thought perhaps something had ended up in those boxes you took."