22
I GO TO the library to look for the newspaper I saw in Rolf’s house. Directly across the square from the ice cream shop, the library’s stone pillars and carved wooden doors make it the grandest building in town. The sign out front explains that they’re not open in the evenings, Saturday afternoons, or Sundays from June through August. I guess only the unemployed can check books out in the summer, I think to myself.
I pull open the door. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. I spot the librarian, scanning in returns behind the desk. She wears a turtleneck and a sweatshirt decorated with embroidered autumn leaves, despite the warm weather. “And how can I help you today?” she asks. She slips her glasses off and I worry she’s dropped them, but they halt at the end of a string of beads around her neck. From a distance, I’d assumed her to be older. With the glasses off, I see she’s probably about my age.
“Do you know how I might go about searching old issues of the local newspaper?”
She tilts her head. “I’m afraid we haven’t digitized any of that.” She picks up the next book from the stack of returns as if our business were through.
“That’s fine. Microfiche or microfilm—do you have it in one of those formats?”
“Yes, but I’d need to find someone who knows how to use the machine.” She doesn’t move.
“Great. Could you please do that?”
Her smile widens, a practiced way of scowling with no evidence. She disappears into the office behind the reference desk and procures an older, mustachioed gentleman. He eyes me up and down, and I remember we’re in a small town and remind myself to be surprised this doesn’t happen more often.
“I hear you want to look at old newspapers. Why’s that?”
I explain we’ve just moved here and I’m interested in researching some history in the town. He points to a thin volume with a poorly designed cover on the “Local Interest” display nearby. “That’ll tell you everything you need to know.”
I thank him and say I’ll check it out. “My interests are a bit more specific, though.” I smile more than I normally do to try to put him at ease. I wonder if all the teeth make me look like a maniac, the way Julie grinned at the high school student working at the hardware store.
He leads me down to the basement, to a dim corner of plastic machines yellowed with age. “I keep pushing to have these files updated and backed up. If there were a fire, we’d lose all of these records. Not to mention, you’re the first one in ages who’s been willing to learn how to use this equipment. Usually people say, ‘Forget it!’ But the machines are actually quite easy to use. Now, what year did you want to look at?”
I realize now that I don’t know. “The forties?”
The librarian chuckles and pats me on the back. “You’ll need to narrow it down a bit, son. Where would you like to start?”
I tell him I’ll start with 1940, and he goes to retrieve the reels. I find I can scan rather quickly with only fifty-two headlines per year. I browse 1941 and 1942 with no luck, but 1943 turns up what I’m looking for.
KINSLER FAMILY TRAGEDY
CASEVILLE, Wis.—An eight-year-old boy from Caseville died Tuesday after falling 50 feet from a tree. Kent County deputies said Alban Kinsler was playing with his six-year-old brother, Rolf, in the Harper Woods behind their home at 891 Stillwater Lane, 3:15 p.m., Tuesday. The brothers climbed a tree and Alban fell to the dirt ground below when a branch weakened by white rot gave way. Rolf was unharmed. The boys’ mother, Bette, happened to be watching from their kitchen window when it happened. Alban Kinsler was taken to Caseville County Hospital, where doctors were unable to revive the boy. He was pronounced dead at 4:10 p.m.
A wake was held at Christ Lutheran Church, where mourners stretched around the block, waiting to pay their respects to Mr. and Mrs. Kinsler and the little boy’s brother. The family has requested privacy.
I note the address as Rolf’s house, not our own, as I worried it might be. I think of the portrait above the mantel of his house that showed a son and a daughter and wonder if I’d misread the picture. Maybe it was two sons, and the baby was wearing a baptismal gown. I remember old photos of little boys with long hair and frocklike garments.
I ask the librarian if I can print the article, and he shows me how. When he sees the page I’m interested in copying, he asks what I’m researching.
“The house next door to ours.”
“I see. You’re in the house almost identical to the Kinsler house, then? Eight ninety-five? I didn’t realize anyone had moved in there.” He opens his mouth to continue. I see the words reroute themselves. “Welcome to town.” He leaves it at that.
He starts to unload the cartridge from the machine. I stop him. “I’d like to continue poking around a bit if it’s not too much trouble.”
“None at all. I’ll leave you to it.”
I scan through more slowly now, reading the headlines on the inner pages. I want to see if I can find anything more. No stories provide an update on the family in 1943. I ask the librarian if I can see the following year’s reel. He tells me I’ll have to come back another day. He’s heading out. No one else knows how to operate the machine. I’m irked that he won’t load one more file for me before he goes. I tell him I understand, though. I thank him for his help.