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Its stained, cloth covers unraveling, the notebook’s narrow spine hung by a thread.
Though the disintegrating book had no market value, I cherished its sentimental value. This belonged to Grandma and, before her, Marianna. I placed the journal in his hands as gently as if it were eggshell art.
He opened the front cover, smiled, and lightly traced a child’s penciled scrawl. “Marianna Rodriguez. My great-great-grandmother.”
Beneath the childish print, Mrs. Ramon Garcia was written in an ornate cursive font.
His eyes glistening in the firelight, he turned the lined, yellowed page. “November sixteenth, eighteen-ninety-nine, Castolon, Texas. Henrietta discovered cinnabar.”
“Seventeen.”
“What?”
“Page seventeen.” Pointing to the ink stamp on each page, I thumbed through the notebook. “The numbers are consecutive, but they start at seventeen. What happened to the first sixteen pages?”
“Maybe they were so worn, they fell out of the binding.” He rubbed the edge of the crumbling, dog-eared page between his fingers.
“The stitching’s loose, but I don’t think they fell out.” I fingered through the missing pages’ straight-edged stubs. “See the neatly sliced edges? Someone used a ruler to tear these off.”
“Wonder why?”
****
Marianna Garcia examined the blood-red crystal. As the mid-morning sun poured through the window, the mineral lit up like frozen fire.
“Where’d you find that stone?” Ramon hung his hat on the wall peg, gave his wife a peck on the cheek, and sat at the table.
“Henrietta flew the coop again this morning. I found her near the arroyo, sitting on this stone like she was hatching eggs.” Chuckling, Marianna handed him the crystal before ladling three-bean chili into terracotta bowls.
“She’s broody.” Studying the rock, he spoke over his shoulder.
“Loco, you mean.” She set lunch on the pine-plank table and sat across from her husband. “But she made a discovery.”
“What do you mean?” He handed back the stone.
“I think that’s cinnabar, though I’ve never seen it crystalized before.” Gesturing to it with a nod, she passed him the basket of warm corn tortillas. “Usually it’s a dull, brick-red, so I’m not sure.”
He helped himself to a tortilla, then spooning thick chili on it, rolled it into a taco. “What are you going to do with it?”
“Add it to my rock collection.” Shrugging, Marianna glanced across the table. “Why?”
****
Luke sipped his cabernet before resuming. “November twenty-third.” He chuckled. “Treatment of chicken lice. Paint the upper edges of roost perches with small amount of nicotine-sulfate.”
“Wait a minute.” Maeve’s fingertips grazed his wrist. “Did you skip several entries?”
“No.”
“Are the pages stuck together?”
“Nope.” Turning the tattered page, he shook his head and pointed to the ink stamp. “Page eighteen.”
“That’s it? Marianna skipped a week, then left a cure for chicken lice?”
“That’s all she wrote.” He held the journal closer to the dim firelight. “See?”
Maeve’s Irish-green eyes danced in the flames’ reflection as she read silently, then glanced up. “Marianna doesn’t say much the next day, either.”
