Mirabel makes a motion with her hand that means Like what?
“Like what if we found his dissertation?”
A dissertation is less than a book but more than homework, so it is not something you can buy online and have shipped to your house, and it is not something that will be on the shelf in any library you visit, not even any library you visit except one that is just leftovers in someone’s home. But Mirabel says it is something that might be on the shelf in one library, and that is the library of the college where it was written, like how not everyone’s picture frames hold a photograph of you but your mother’s picture frames probably do.
“We cannot visit Nathan’s college library because it is too far away,” I object.
Mirabel types. “Interlibrary loan.”
“We don’t have a library on this end,” Mab says.
“Lie!” I shout.
And that is how I find myself on the telephone dialing the library at Nathan’s college.
“Library,” says the person who answers, which I like because it is simple and direct. No one ever calls me, but if they did, that is how I would like to answer.
“Good evening,” I say politely. “I am calling to ask one librarian to another if you will send me a copy of Nathan Templeton’s dissertation via interlibrary loan.”
“I’m sorry,” says the other librarian, but she does not sound sorry. She sounds confused. “Who is this?”
“This is Monday Mitchell,” I say. “A librarian.”
“You sound very young, Monday.”
“I am sixteen.”
“I see,” the other librarian says. “And what’s the name of your library?”
“My library does not have a name.”
“Why doesn’t your library have a name?”
“It is in my house.”
“Ah,” says the librarian. “I think I see your problem. A library is not a house.”
“That is not my problem,” I correct.
“Who is Nathan Templeton?” she asks.
“He was a student of yours, and he did homework we know about but cannot discuss without reading.”
“I see.” The other librarian laughs, but I do not know why because I have not made a joke, but I do hear typing. “Well Monday Mitchell, Librarian, I’m not finding any record of a dissertation or any other publication by a Nathan Templeton, and I’m afraid we don’t keep student homework, nor are we able to send materials via interlibrary loan to someone’s house.”
“Even if their house is a library?” I ask.
“Even if. However, I like your style.”
I look down. I am wearing a yellow cardigan over a yellow T-shirt over mustard-colored pants and socks. “You cannot see my style.”
“I like your spirit, I mean,” she says. “Being a sixteen-year-old librarian is impressive.”
“Thank you,” I say, both because it is polite and because her words make me feel grateful.
“Keep reading, Monday, and keep librarying.”
“‘Librarying’ is not a word,” I say.
“Doesn’t mean you can’t do it, though, does it?” the other librarian asks, and it is surprising but that is an accurate thing to say.
After we hang up, Mab says, “Google?”
And I say, “It is an exaggeration to say we have googled Duke Templeton and Nathan Templeton and GL606 and Belsum Chemical a million times, but it is only a slight exaggeration.”
Mirabel types. “Gala 606,” her Voice says because we have never known the full name of GL606 before or even that GL606 was an abbreviation. I do not like abbreviations.
But when we google Gala 606, the only thing we find is pictures of people at fancy parties and pictures of apples.
“Is it not strange”—I am scrolling through all the pictures on the screen—“that Apple’s name is Apple, and when we search for Gala 606, we find pictures of apples? That is a good coincidence.”
“No,” says Mirabel’s Voice.
Mab rolls her eyes, which is usually at me but which right now is at Mirabel who is answering in one word only instead of explaining what she actually means.
So Mirabel adds, “It’s a pun.”
“What is a pun, Three?”
Longer typing. “He named the chemical after her and the night he kissed her.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Love,” her Voice says, which does not answer the question.
Mab agrees because she says, “What kind of loser thinks the way to a girl’s heart is puns?”
“Her name,” says Mirabel’s Voice.
“Huh?” Mab’s face shows irritated again.
“Her maiden name,” Mirabel types. “Apple Grove,” Mirabel types. “Apple said in therapy”—many of Mirabel’s sentences to us start that way recently so she has that part saved, but then we have to wait while she types the rest—“her grandmother liked puns.”
“Weird,” Mab says. But then she sits up. “Oh. Like Uncle Hickory.”
“Who is Uncle Hickory?” I ask.
“River’s great-uncle. Remember? That giant painting at their house? It’s in his father’s office so I thought he was his dad’s uncle. But he must be Apple’s uncle. Uncle Hickory. Hickory Grove. I get it.”
“Ha ha,” I say rather than actually laughing because I get it too but it is not funny. “Probably the painting is in Nathan’s office, even though he is Apple’s uncle, because that is where it fit best based on its size or color scheme, but on the—”
That is when I stop talking right in the middle of a sentence.
Because that is when I remember a folder in the box called Flora.
* * *
Mirabel was right. It was in the house all along. I found it and did not know I found it, not because I did not know what I was looking for, which is what I have been thinking, but because I did not know what it was. I had it right in my hands the day I found the Santa photograph, a folder labeled Elm/Hickory Grove, filed in the Flora box because whoever put it there thought what I thought, which is that a folder titled Elm/Hickory Grove must hold papers pertaining to trees. But Elm/Hickory Grove are not trees. Or, to be more accurate, they are not only trees. They are also brothers. They are Apple’s uncle, Hickory Grove, and Apple’s father, Elmer Grove.
At first I think the most important lesson I learn is do not name your children puns because it confuses everyone in the world for all of time to come who is not your direct descendant. But when I re-find the file, I realize that there are other more important lessons than that.
In the file are four letters. They are handwritten, so harder to read than typing, but with neat handwriting, so we can still read what they say, and on paper that is yellow (good) because it is old (less good). So I am very careful when I hold the pages and read them out loud.
Dear Hickory,
Ran into Duke Templeton at a party at the Gladstones’ last night. He’s an insufferable ass, worse with a few drinks in him, but now that the kids are together, he seems to consider us family and has zero compunction about cornering me at a social occasion to make unreasonable business propositions and demands. Nathan seems like a nice enough kid, but I fear Apple will outgrow him. In fact, I’m certain she’ll outgrow him. It’s just that I imagine she’ll marry him first. Every time the phone rings, I’m expecting it to be Nathan Templeton requesting my daughter’s hand in marriage. I long for the days when asking the father’s permission was something other than an old-fashioned gesture you cannot possibly say no to.