A Rare Find

Holding the so-called Grantham Galen manuscript in her hands, Penelope could practically feel the power of the ancient scholar and philosopher through the gloves. Galen had been a prolific author, and in his day he was known to have hired more than twenty scribes to take down his potent words. But as she stared at the confident blocklike script, she was almost positive that this manuscript was in Galen’s own handwriting. It was too swiftly written, as if it had been produced in a mad dash of insight.

She read the Greek as swiftly as if it were her mother tongue, though in her case, more her father’s tongue. Stanfield Bigelow was a professor of Classics at Grantham University, and he had made it a personal crusade to homeschool his precocious older child. And it had been he, in fact, who had recovered this lost manuscript and donated it to his alma mater.

The combination of forces—the knowledge that she was holding what might be the original manuscript by the work of an ancient genius and the role that her own father had played in preserving this crucial bit of antiquity—was almost overwhelming. Excited, Penelope felt her mouth start to water.

Don’t be foolish, she chided herself.

“As anyone with even a moderate IQ knows, the overproduction of saliva is attributed to specific physiological or medical conditions. And since I am not a teething infant, nor do I have a fever…” Just to make sure, she felt her forehead with the back of her wrist. “As I thought, normal. Therefore, I can eliminate mononucleosis or tonsillitis as other possible causalities,” she explained to no one in particular.

This type of self-directed conversation was something she tended to do. Her brother, Justin, called it “Penelope’s pontificating mode.” Her father said it was yet another indication of her superior intellect and geniuslike ability to retain facts. Her mother never commented. She was too busy chasing butterflies or spying delicate wildflowers.

Penelope had her own diagnosis, which she kept to herself. Still, it didn’t keep her from lecturing herself.

She lifted her chin and considered her current state further. “The only other causes of sudden drooling that I am aware of are certain medications, poisoning or a reaction to venom transmitted in a snakebite.” She paused. “I wonder if a particularly virulent insect bite could also have a similar effect?”

A young man in a white lab coat on the other side of the exhibition space stopped pushing a cart. “Penelope, did you need me for something?” he asked.

She shook her head and turned to Press. “No, I was just contemplating whether a reaction to an insect bite could induce excess saliva.”

“We once had a chocolate Lab who was stung by a bee and started drooling in reaction,” Press answered as if it were a perfectly normal question.

“I was thinking of the reaction in humans, but I think you make a good point,” Penelope said with a pleased nod.

Conrad Prescott Lodge IV, known as Press, was a senior at Grantham University. He was majoring in biology, with a concentration in paleontology, and while his dream student job would have been to work in a natural history museum, Grantham, alas, lacked such a facility. Given his respect for the fragility, not to mention the importance, of old objects, Penelope had immediately chosen him out of all the applicants for the job of part-time assistant at the university’s Rare Book Library. She had recognized a soul mate when she had asked him about his interest in paleontology and he had launched into a passionate discourse. He eventually stopped when, embarrassed, he realized he’d gone on for almost twenty minutes.

“I’m so sorry,” he had apologized. “I guess I got carried away.”

“No need to be sorry. To be sorry is to express regret for doing something that has upset someone. On the contrary, I found your intense interest illuminating. You may set your mind at ease. The job is yours,” Penelope had announced, followed by the news that she intended to raise his hourly salary by two dollars.

“But I haven’t done anything yet,” Press had protested.

“Oh, but you will. Many things. And by paying you more I just want to ensure that very fact.”

The way he had responded to her query about insect bites just now reaffirmed her initial faith in him.

“I brought over some additional manuscripts for the show,” he said, pointing to the protective boxes lying flat on the shelves of the metal cart. “The illuminated manuscript from the Burgundy, Captain Cooke’s logbook from his voyages in the Pacific and Woodrow Wilson’s love letters to his wife.”

Penelope smiled. The show she was putting together for Grantham University’s main library was comprised of manuscripts held in the university’s Rare Book Library. The show was to run during Reunions and Commencement and, therefore, she had chosen only manuscripts that had been donated by Grantham alumni.

“Thank you, Press. Yes, they’re the ‘warhorses’ of the show, though I must admit…” She gazed at the manuscript in her hands.

Press walked over and stood next to her. Penelope also wore a white lab coat over her clothes, and her strawberry-blond loose curls were twisted to the back of her head. A No. 2 pencil held the unruly mass in place.

“The Grantham Galen?” he asked, on noting what she held. “Now I get why you were asking about bites and stuff.”

Penelope made a face. “Clearly we have been working together too long, and it’s time for you to graduate.”

“Amen,” Press agreed with a praying motion.

Penelope eyed him. “Are you teasing me?”

Press held up his hands. “Would I do that?” He shrugged. “Well, probably. Anyway, you know, you should really give a talk to the alumni about the show, especially the Grantham Galen, what with your book contract and everything,” Press suggested.

“That may be so, but I think it’s better that I don’t. Interaction with people has never been my strong suit.” Penelope was sure that Press knew all about her being terminated as an assistant professor at the University of Chicago when she didn’t get tenure. That career low point had eventually led to her current position as the curator of Grantham’s Rare Book Library.

Penelope laid the priceless manuscript in the display case, locking it and her memories away. Then she glanced at her watch. “Goodness, it’s practically six o’clock. You should get going, or you’ll miss dinner at your Club.”

Press shrugged. “Somehow, I think Lion Inn will go on without my presence for one night.” The Social Clubs at Grantham were the bulwark of the college students’ social life, providing dining facilities besides a continual round of parties and sports leagues. “There’s still a lot of work to be done, and I don’t want you to have to do it all.”

“Nonsense. I’m sure you want to spend your remaining time with your friends. Pretty soon you will graduate, and you will all be going your separate ways.”

Press shrugged. “I guess I’ll miss some people, and I’m sure I’ll enjoy the graduation activities. You remember them, right?”

Actually Penelope couldn’t recall any festivities when she graduated from Grantham, but that was because she hadn’t attended any.

Press carried on without waiting for an answer. “To tell you the truth, though, a part of me is so ready to get out of here. Four years is a long time to be in one place. On top of which, I grew up in Grantham anyway. So even though I’ve lived in the dorms the whole time, it’s really kind of like I never left home. All I want to do now is to get out of here—far, far away.”

At one point, that had been Penelope’s ambition. After all, she, too, had grown up in Grantham. But here she was, back again, doing a job that her family never would have thought was in her future. Not that she didn’t find fulfillment in her current position. But life, as she had found out, didn’t always proceed as planned.

She was about to impart this pearl of wisdom to Press when he blurted out, “I can’t wait to take off for Mongolia. It’ll be amazing, don’t you think? Especially going out into the countryside.”

Penelope smiled and answered, “I think it will be a fascinating venture, especially the sites of recent paleontology discoveries. You must contact the relevant academics in the field. Perhaps I can help? I know a bit of Mongolian, as it turns out.” She recognized what appeared to be astonishment on his face. “What?” she asked. She was never quite sure if she was gauging body language correctly.

“You know Mongolian?” Press asked.

“Just a smattering. I was interested in languages written in the Cyrillic alphabet at one point. Standard Khlakha Mongolian, the dialect spoken in Mongolia proper, as opposed to the autonomous Inner Mongolian region of China…” Penelope stopped, noticing a certain fog settle over Press’s expression.

She waved her hand dismissively. “There I go, off in my own little world. I told you I was no good with social interactions. Now, as for staying—there’s absolutely no need. I’ll be working on the installation for several days. Furthermore, I am very keen for you to go to Lion Inn tonight because, if memory serves me correctly, it is Beer Pong night. You must promise to give me a full rendition of the competition. I am very much interested in the sociological aspects of the game, with the idea of establishing an anthropological link to Roman drinking games.”

Actually she had almost no interest in Beer Pong. But perhaps in telling this little white lie she was exhibiting a certain sensitivity to social interactions. At least she was trying.

CHAPTER THREE

June

Grantham

NICK©RAISED©HIS©GLASS of red wine. “To old college ties,” he toasted. “With an emphasis on the old.” He took a large sip of the Australian shiraz.

“Speak for yourself,” his host, Justin Bigelow, replied. Justin and his wife, Lilah Evans, who was also a Grantham University classmate, lived in a modest one-bedroom apartment in the center of Grantham. They called it home when they were in the States, but spent much of their time in Africa on behalf of Lilah’s nonprofit organization. Back in her senior year at Grantham, Lilah had founded Sisters for Sisters to help women and children in the central African country of Congo. Now, eleven years later, it was going strong, providing health-and-educational services in rural settlements.

“Lilah and I are as youthful as ever,” Justin chided him.

“Speak for yourself,” Lilah piped up.

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with getting older. I earned my gray hairs,” Nick announced grandly.

“If you’re going to claim they’re a mark of hard-earned maturity and wisdom, don’t even try. No one with even a smattering of fully functioning brain cells would have submitted to that crazy massage.” Justin chuckled. “I loved that episode.”