Part 19: Blevin

Previously in the Vines Inquiry— Harlow rescued Frank was his family’s wire trap. Free, the pair was able to see what Richard Vines had hidden in his desk draw: an old film reel titled “Big Rick ‘77.” With no other leads into what Frank’s parents are doing, he and Harlow headed out into the blizzard to investigate further.

Bramford University’s campus was a burning village in the blizzard. Thousands of twinkling electric bulbs popping through the snowfall. Every lamppost, bannister and rain gutter was dotted with the soft embers of Christmas safety.

Just outside the grounds, past the brick walls and paths that implanted Bramford, off-campus student housing boasted more decorations. Multicolored lights and glowing mangers scavenged from the basements of these houses—all converted colonial mansions and single-family homes—had become tradition; passed down from one class to the next.

Harlow pointed to a Santa Claus with schmutz on his cheeks, glowing in a lawn across the road. “I found that in my house’s basement junior year.”  

“And you didn’t burn it, bury it and salt the Earth?” said Frank. “What? It’s too tall. Santa’s that are too tall to be toys but not tall enough to be the real him are creepy.”

“The real him?” said Harlow. 

“It feels like they’re hiding something. Or no, that they’re dissatisfied. Stuck in this awful in-between limbo where they’ll never feel at home, never be able to fulfill their life’s calling.” 

She pat him on the back and walked into campus proper. “How about we don’t project onto holiday decorations? Just for fun?”

“I’m just saying, if my parents are really doing something weird—”

“They are. Wire trap me once, shame on you…” 

“—And the world ends. Or the new one starts or whatever, that Santa decoration is at least partly responsible.” 

Frank slipped on icy walkways as they shuffled towards the library, open but abandoned during the university’s winter break. Harlow told him the HOA had cornered the school, forcing them to make the university’s vast knowledge stores available to the locals at no charge through some old town charter.

“You think they’ll have a projector?” Frank was still trying to stand up (failing), but he’d made it to all fours.

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Before they left the Big House, he’d raided his childhood bedroom for more new, old clothes.

“You didn’t realize those were Dick’s pants when you put them on, though?” Harlow had said.  

“We were in a rush! I’d almost just died for the second time in as many hours.” Frank slipped to his feet, flapping his arms as the old pair of sneakers clawed for purchase.  

“I am doing this. In heels.” 

“Those have to hurt,” he said, still flailing. Harlow nodded, but then stared at her waterproof suede Cuban’s. 

“Sometimes it’s worth it,” she said, dreamily. 

“Harlow… please,” he whispered into the night. She laughed, with him, and held out a steadying arm. “Want to see if we can find anything to get you out of the Tucker Reagan stuff while we’re here? Real estate loop holes or something. Maybe there’s a clause about not being able to change landlords when the bay is frozen.”

They both looked towards the docks farther down-island, wary of the roaring monster that had been encased in ice. It had happened before, but never in their lifetime. Even ignoring global warming, something about it felt off. Too sudden and harsh.

Harlow shook her head, as if to throw her mind off its spiraling rails. “You’re gonna do the talking, right? I’d still like to maintain some distance from all this.” She waved splayed fingers in front of Frank’s general form. “C’mon. Hotel manager them up.” 

“It’s not like I have free rooms for the night to give away.” Horror struck him. “Oh, Jesus. We’re doomed. I’m the bad guy in the Nativity play.” 

Harlow shrugged. “I’m not sure you should be saying ‘Jesus’ anymore either. Just in case. And sure ya do! Big ole house. Get creative. How about ‘first person to get me a film projector will survive the coming Armageddon?’ Or maybe just some of that fabulous inherited wealth?” 

“Is it really that much money?” said Frank.

“We’re about to walk into a building with your name on it.”

The Sanderson Vines Library was near silent, but still echoed with the energy of a chattering place. It felt to Frank like a mall just before closing time: too open, too many corners for some threat to hide behind. The janitors had come out but the churn of their Zambonis couldn’t cover up leftover squeals in the food court gone-out-of-business.

The inside of the library leaned towards gothic, but with bright white and tan stones that reflected warm firelight. 

“That you?” said Harlow, pointing at the shoulder-up statue in the library’s vestibule.

Sanderson Vines (b. 1667, d. 1692) was a renowned miner…or so the commemorative plaque said. Frank frowned as he looked him over, proud he’d outlived the ancestor but none-too-pleased with how he’d look in bust-form should he ever reach acclaim.

“Ahh, Sanderson Vines,” said a man who quick-stepped towards them. He wore thick-rimmed black glasses and a vest over shirt and tie. It more screamed ‘community theater librarian outfit we repurposed from last year’s production of Hamilton (not-officially licensed and received mixed reviews)’ than actual Librarian. 

Not a teacher, thought Frank. But close.

“He was a renowned miner, you know?” said the man. 

“Yes, we too read the plaque,” said Harlow. 

“They say,” continued the man with a freshman orientation leader’s enthusiasm. “That he married into the Vines family because his own mining business had gone bust and needed quick capital to appease some very unfriendly figures. If you know what I mean.” The man elbowed Frank in the ribs. 

“Ow. Ow! I get it.”

“But, as we all know, the Vineses are some of the trickiest tricksters this side of the Roe River, and they didn’t have any money to their name at the time either!”

“Yikes,” murmured Frank. “My heart. Intergenerational shame, or my heart. One of those.” 

“What in the world is the Roe River?” said Harlow. 

“Desperation being the mother of exploited labor,” lectured(?) the man. “Sanderson and his new bride Antigone dug deep into our fair little island until they found that stone.” The man pointed at the bust, carved wholly from a stone unique to Carlisle called alkaline jade. “It turned everything around for the Vineses. People made it into jewelry, chain links, cutlery. I’ve seen a chess set. One strange man tried to start a new currency with it.” 

“What happen—,” started Harlow. 

“Harlow, don’t,” said Frank. “C’mon, you know it’s gonna be…”

“What happened to him? The currency guy!”

“Smelted his hands and penis off,” said library man. “I’ve been told the Carlisle Historical Society still has a moulded alkaline jade phallus of his in their archives.” 

“Of course,” said Harlow. “Of course. I’m sorry, your name is?”

“Blevin, the librarian.” He spoke like everything was good news. “It’s a last name.Welsh. The name, not me. I’m from here. Well, not the island. Mom’s welsh. Dad’s Irish. Sometimes people say ‘Da’ but we went full Dad. Maybe that’s why they chopped of the S on Blevins. Now just Blevin. And then we made it a first name. So I’d always be near the top of sign-in sheets. Get called first at that doctor’s office, that sort of thing.”

“Sup,” said Frank, in a voice three octaves lower than his own. 

“Jesus,” said Harlow. 

“Wait, don’t sign-in sheets usually go by last name?”

“And that’s not at all how a doctor’s office works…” she said. “Seems like an awful lot of work for a name that sounds like an egg dish fermented in lye.” 

“Thank you!” said Blevin, smiling. 

Harlow shook her head back and forth slowly. “Fascinating. And you work here? In a library?”  

“In this library. That’s why I know so much about this statue.”

“Well, that and the plaque. How did he die? Mr. Statue.”

“Harlow…” Frank whined.

“Babe, at this point, it’s almost less painful just to lean into it.”

“That’s because it’s not your family’s tragic ‘n spooky past.”

The library man could barely contain himself. Blevin tipped closer to the both of them, eyes the color of sunbaked clay and alight with intrigue. “No one knows!” 

“Here. We. Go!” said Harlow, clapping. 

“He and his wife dug and dug and dug—part of the reason the whole island is covered in miles and miles of tunnels…”

“Part of the reason?” said Frank. 

“And then, one day, they just never came back above ground. This was around the same time Emily Roebling started to understand Caisson’s disease so there’s a chance that had something to do with it. This pair—uncharacteristic for a Vines—didn’t keep painfully-detailed diaries.

“As a family, they were prolific in their journaling. Cristina Vines documented almost every single thing that happened in her life, down to the most minute detail; as if what order she ate her dinner in was somehow important. As if her and her family’s actions mattered.”      

“So many ows in this conversation,” said Frank.

Blevin dropped his small smile for the first time since they met and stared deep at Frank. “I’ve got bandages. Will that help? The ritual of it? They’re still Scooby-Doo themed cause not enough people have gotten injured since Halloween.”

Frank chuckled at Blevin’s joke, but instead of joining in, the librarian looked back at him, confused. 

“I’m good. Unless you’ve got one for my ego. I’m Frank Vines, as in…” He threw a thumb over his shoulder, towards the aged effigy. Frank extended his hand and Blevin shook it, clasping Frank’s palm between both of his larger mitts. 

“How are you living?” Blevin maintained eye contact, eager and…was it winking? Maybe just an eye twitch.

“He’s good,” said Harlow. “We’re good.” 

“I’m sorry. But I feel like we should hug. Do you feel that too?” Frank could do nothing but stammer as Harlow snort-laughed. Blevin vigorously shook her hand, bouncing her shoulder up and down. “Welcome! What can I do for you?” He stood there, smiling with eyes gazing somewhere far off into the distance. Harlow put on her best customer service face and spoke through her teeth. 

“Oh come on, Frank. I’m sure Blevin would be happy to help. You’re not an alumnus and I’ve never been in here. We’ll need someone to show us the way.” 

Frank copied Harlow, his face a more Northeastern twist of her ‘We’re basically south of the Mason Dixon, aren’t we, sugar?’

“You went to school here,” he said, lilting his voice ever-higher. “You have a whole degree. Why have you never been to the library?”

Harlow smiled wider. “I was a cheerleader, a theater major, and even hotter then than I am now. Literally, what would I have to do in a library?”