2019-10-25 - Hitting the Books

The historical society doesn't have a large, swanky office like some of the other departments in this old building. No, they're up on one of the higher floors if not the highest floor in a back office that's mostly floor to ceiling bookshelves, a couple of glass covered cases with old, faded labels for some old timey photographs and objects, and a table with some leather chairs for meetings. A large painting of some frowning old person hangs over a fireplace that no longer works and the old man in it seems annoyed at Clarissa, who is sifting through a number of old ledgers it looks like from a box she's pulled out from some closet somewhere.

It's grey, cool, and drizzly. Almost the essential components of a Gray Harbor day, which is why Alexander has arrived early enough to give himself a chance to duck into a restroom and paper towel his wet hair a bit as well as dry out in general. It doesn't really help him, appearance-wise, but he does drip less on things. His heavy army surplus jacket swallows most of his body, and his jeans are old and ragged. He pokes his head inside the door, and knocks on the frame. "Mrs. Robbins?" A brief smile is offered. "Hitting the books?"

"If I were hitting them maybe they'd tell me a little more about what I need and I'd find less wiggly surprises in them," Clarissa replies sourly without looking up until she's finished flipping through the small diary in hand, placing it to the side. "Mister Clayton, what happened to your suit?" Last time she saw him he was all dressed up! She doesn't look thrilled at the change, taking in those old jeans.

"You'd get more wiggly surprises. The hitting scares them, and they all come out," Alexander says, tonelessly. He slinks into the room like expecting to be thrown out; which, to be fair, in most of the fancier offices in City Hall would not be an unreasonable expectation, considering. His smile is warm and a bit bashful. "I only have the one, and it was a gift from a friend. Sorry." He approaches where she is. "Is there something in particular you're looking for? I'm not bad at," a gesture at the books, "research."

Clarissa shakes her head and reaches for the cover of the box, fitting the cheap cardboard together and then finally really paying attention to him, "Not really, it seems like every time someone in this town passes on the family decides we're the right place to send all their things. While I appreciate the sentiment, I do wish they'd go through them every once and awhile. I really don't need an exhaustive history of Mister..." She glances at the name on the front of the box, "Tyler's grocery habits."

Alexander chuckles, quietly. "But it may be indispensible to historians a hundred years from now. When I was in my program at college, the professors would often mention how they would kill for collections of minutia from the lives of ordinary people. The discovery of cuneiform shipping rosters or new Roman graffiti was always very exciting." A shrug. "But probably not from the point of view of an archivist with limited space. How are you, otherwise?" He glances over her, thoughtfully.

"Too busy to make small talk when you're obviously here for a reason," Is Clarissa's pointed reply, leaning both arms on the box to look at Alexander, an eyebrow raised, "Or are you just lost? Dog licenses are given out on the first floor. But assuming you don't have a dog, how can I help you, Mister Clayton?"

Alexander sort of flinches back at the pointed reply, his shoulders hunching a little and his head dropping. Suddenly, his shoes are fascinating. "Ah. Sorry. I'm sorry. I'm not lost. I don't think I'm lost, at least. Sometimes it takes a while to tell, and it's been a strange couple of days." He stops rambling, clears his throat. "Um. I was hoping to get access to the Blackwood special collection. I've been hired by the family to look into something, and I'd like to check the old family records. If I could."

Clarissa gives Alexander a funny look because he's a strange little man, but then shrugs, "That sounds more interesting than Mister Tyler's receipts." She picks up the box like it weighs a million pounds, but that might just be because she has little rich lady arms, and sets it off to the side, "The Blackwoods? I vaguely recall seeing something about that in one of the closets." It looks like there are several closets in here, some cleverly hidden to look like part of the woodwork except for their old locks. Clarissa moves over to a desk and pulls out a couple of drawers before finding the keyring she's looking for, "How far back are you going to look? You know most of what we get are just old ledgers tracking payments, right?"

Alexander says, "Pre 1950," Alexander says. He moves forward when she moves to pick up that heavy box, but she's got it, so he doesn't take it from her. He seems accustomed to strange looks. "And that's fine. I'm pretty good at sorting through for useful information. Although if diaries, journals, or the like are included, that would be better." He peers nosily into the drawers as she opens them. "Right now, I'm casting a fairly wide net. Once something stands out, I'll be able to narrow it down. Thanks. For letting me access it.""

There's nothing too interesting in the drawers. Some papers, lots of pens that have been thrown in there over time, random keys, that kind of thing. If Clarissa has noticed him being nosy she doesn't comment, clicking her tongue and heading over to one of the smaller doors where part of it is at an angle, "Blackwoods. Blackwoods. I believe they were the family that was invested rather heavily in the California gold rush. Even before they ended up here in Gray Harbor. We sent out a number of inquiries at the beginning of the year to notable families and they were one of the ones that responded." She unlocks the door and pulls it open, ignoring how it creaks and groans. "You might have to duck a little," she warns Alexander, because it looks like this closet isn't so much of a closet as it is some sort of angled space that probably wasn't supposed to be used for storage that runs along the length of the building on this side. It is absolutely packed with boxes, some in better condition than others, and a few old chests here and there nearly buried under more boxes. Luckily they don't have to go very far to see the three marked 'Blackwood 2019.' "I know they sent us a bunch of things, mostly the equivalent of what I was looking at before, but also some journals...somewhere. They made a fortune and the family fought over it or something like that. I started reading some of them last January, but then we shifted focus from cataloguing to fundraising and it never really got done."

Alexander's eyes light up at the funny-shaped space, and he bobs his head in acknowledgement of her warning. Luckily, he's not an overly tall man, so he's able to keep his head from smashing into anything with minimal stooping. His gaze roams over the boxes, and he makes just this small sound. Like, it's clear that you could lock him up in here with food, water, and something for hygiene and he'd barely even notice until one or all of those things ran out. "If you ever need some help with cataloging...I'm not an expert or anything, but I read fast, and I'm a decent researcher."

"Here, grab that box and drag it out to the main room," Clarissa advises, trying to lift another one then settling on taking the smaller of the two, "We can spread things out on the table. And really? We wouldn't pay you, but we could always use the help. I don't think they ever catalogued much of anything before I got here. Relied on memory and all that, but now there's so much and memory is only useful if you're always here and, well, we all have places to be. I know there are some journals in here, just not which box."

Alexander grabs the box. A universal truth: boxes filled with papers and books are a pain in the back. But there's a fair amount of muscle under those baggy clothes, and he doesn't seem to have any problem with lifting the largest of the three and taking it where Clarissa directs. "Memory is a terrible archiving system. Especially in Gray Harbor. People die, they disappear, they forget how to read, they get eaten by houses...just a lot of things can happen." A pause. "And yeah, I don't mind. Paying work comes first, but I could put in some hours here and there. I just get bored without things to work on, anyway."

That earns him another strange look, but Clarissa is too busy hauling the box back to that table to push the issue of houses that eat people. "Let me or Miss Addington know when you want to stop by. Your, ah, girlfriend is a new member of the society as well, so she can always let us know," she pulls the top off the box and starts piling papers on the table, "There are a lot of certificates in here--birth, wedding, death, things like that. The heavier one you grabbed might have the journals or at least books. I think there was a bible in there with family names."

"I'll do so," Alexander says, with a subdued sort of glee. A kid who's been given access to the candy store, even if only on a part-time basis. He sets the box on the table, and starts looking at it. "Hmm. Very interesting." He frowns at both boxes, and goes to the one Clarissa is working on first, helping her lay things out. However scruffy he might look in appearance, his demeanor changes to something quite precise as they start unearthing things. He brings out a small notebook and pen, making notes as he organizes and mutters to himself. At one point, he flashes her a small smile. "This is very exciting, don't you think, Mrs. Robbins? The stories of the past. No wonder Isabella became a member."

"I like to think of it as remembering people that history has already forgotten," Clarissa says, taking the papers and little books that are laid out and moving them around in some sort of order. It's pretty clear just from the yellowing of the papers that she's doing it by year from oldest to newest, "There probably aren't a lot of people outside of the family that remember great-great-great-grandmother Blackwood, maybe not even inside of the family, but now we know a little bit about her. If you believe in the sort of thing where a memory of a person keeps them around, it can be very touching. And if you don't, it's still rather interesting to see how people did things back then. And how much things cost."

Alexander raises his head to look at Clarissa, and there's a sudden and brilliant grin that lights up his whole face, taking off about ten years of age and twenty years of various traumas all at once. It's brief, disappearing as quickly as it appears, but his pleasure is obvious as he says, "Exactly, Mrs. Robbins. Remembering people that history has forgotten. I do like that." He turns his attention back to the sorting. "Do you believe that sort of thing? That the memory of a person can keep them around?"

Clarissa purses her lips and sets another stack of papers down, "No. I don't know that it would be a good thing if it were true. I suppose it is the time of year when people entertain things like ghosts and ghouls and things like that, but I'm a bit more practical about things. The dead are just dead. They're gone. And the only thing that haunts us are ourselves."

"Is that confined to one time of the year? I hadn't noticed," Alexander murmurs, with a dry sort of amusement. He sorts through the papers efficiently, reading each at a glance and putting it in its own category. "Let me know if you see anything regarding pre 1940s deaths involving a young girl, by the way." But he returns to the other subject of the conversation. "Assuming that's true, though, that the only thing that haunts us is ourselves, well - it's hard to say that's not a palpable presence in and of itself. And even if it's not the person, or the whole person, that haunts us...how do you tell the difference, really?"

"Mostly by knowing that ghosts don't exist," Clarissa replies, sounding a bit distracted as she goes through the papers and tries to keep them in order, "How young is young? Are we talking death in childbirth? I don't see that bible in here, it must be in that other box. That might have names and dates, assuming every generation kept up with it. Maybe that wasn't a Blackwood bible and I'm just confusing it with another group that came in."

Alexander's eyebrows go up. He blinks at Clarissa. "You don't think ghosts exist? How long have you lived here?" A chuff of laughter, then. "And I'm not exactly sure. I'm guessing somewhere around ten years old, but memories are imprecise things." At the mention of the third box, he stops organizing for a moment, and schlups back to the closet to grab that last box and bring it out, sliding it on a not-yet-filled section of table.

Clarissa looks mildly offended as Alexander roundaboutly points out that she's not from around here, "I've lived here for over a year," she says defensively, like someone surviving Gray Harbor for that long should get a medal, "Do you know about when the death took place? That would help with knowing if it was caused by some kind of outbreak or fire. Something noteworthy enough to maybe make the papers."

Alexander smiles a bit wider at her look of offense. He likely doesn't make it better by saying, just a bit smugly, "Give it time, Mrs. Robbins. Give it time." But then she's asking questions, and he grimaces. "I don't even know that there is a death, if I'm honest. Just keep an eye out for anything that seems noteworthy," he murmurs, scanning the papers in his own hands as he goes through them. "This is very preliminary research. Like I said, I'm casting a wide net."

What might seem noteworthy to Alexander is not exactly what might seem noteworthy to Clarissa, but she dutifully sorts and stacks and organizes before picking up a piece of paper, "This doesn't mention a death exactly, but a will and it's from the same time period. Well, the 1950s," she clarifies, holding it out to Alexander, "I'm curious who is talking about a death back in the 1940's these days? Someone's grandmother with a guilty conscience?"

"A will?" Alexander perks up visibly. "Wills are always exciting." He reaches out for the paper, and reads it quickly. "In light of the circumstances...hmm. Let's take a look at this, shall we? See if we can find information about Charles and Edward Blackwood, and any conflicts about a will."

He starts going back through the papers quickly, just to check to see if there's any of the sorted that might shed more context on the letter. As he does, he answers, absently, "Something like that. Someone recalls an event that they didn't have the proper context for at the age they experienced it, and now wants answers." It's incredibly vague.

"That's incredibly vague," Clarissa doesn't seem too bothered by it, starting to re-examine the papers they've already laid out for those names, "If there's litigation involved, you should probably not mention where you got your information. The last thing I need is to have people coming by trying to look up their ancestor's last will and testament or being called to testify against someone that's long dead."

"As far as I'm aware, there's no litigation involved, Mrs. Robbins." Alexander smiles. "As far as I'm aware. That's outside of the scope of my work, anyway. But I do promise that I will not direct them here, if so." He doesn't appear to consider her; all his attention seems to be focused on the papers. But after a moment, he murmurs, "Do you enjoy this? I mean, learning the stories of the people that history forgot. I suppose I'd assumed that you'd gone into the Historical Society simply because it was convenient and desperately needed fundraising expertise."

Clarissa considers for a moment--either her answer or the paper in front of her, it's not entirely clear, "I do enjoy it. I like seeing the difference in the language that is used over time, how one person might be poetic, another just practical. Seeing if the image I have in my head from reading a diary entry matches up with an actual picture. It's like a big puzzle, the things we get here, one that doesn't have any edges or guides, and I enjoy piecing it all together. I also happen to be amazing at getting people to give me their money." She moves on to the next stack of papers without seeming to realize that last thing she said could be looked upon very badly considering her rich husband.

"That's an often underrated skill," Alexander says. "I'm terrible at getting people to give me their money." It's blandly stated, like he can't imagine any reason why someone might hesitate to hire or pay someone who looks like he does, and who is, well, a fairly strange guy at the best of times. He sets aside interesting documents as they find them, and makes notes. "Hmm. This Anne may have been accidentally killed in an incident involving Edward and intoxication, but then," he purses his lips, "why on earth be angry at an unrelated person?" He takes pictures of all the Interesting documents, then says, "Well, it gives us something to go on, anyway. Thank you for your help, Mrs. Robbins. Would you like me to follow up with you, personally, if I need anything further? It could be fairly interesting." His dark eyes rest on her, almost challenging for a moment.

"I'm not seeing an actual copy of a will anywhere," Clarissa shuffles some papers back into the smaller box and frowns a bit, "But that lawyer sounds familiar. Williams and Martin. None of those are terribly uncommon names but there's something--oh!" She snaps her fingers, pointing at Alexander, "Willams, Baxter and Martin! I bet it's the same one that's still around, just they added a partner. And yes, definitely keep me informed if you--" and then her phone starts ringing and she rolls her eyes, "Excuse me, I need to take this. Feel free to keep looking, just if you leave before I'm back shut the door behind you. And don't take anything! Hello, Michael?" She starts talking before she turns to step out, "Don't even tell me if this is about the glitter balloons. I wanted the glitter inside the balloons, not balloons actually covered in glitter obviously!"