Page 22 of Finders Keepers
Well. He’s got me there.
“Come on, Neen,” he says as he reaches to take a cherry tomato from my plate. “We had fun that summer, didn’t we?”
I wonder if his mind also goes straight to that night in his backyard, staring up at the inky, star-scattered sky, my right arm and his left pressed together under the guise of the blanket being too small to allow for space between us. Then again, I’m not sure I would call that fun so much as…paradigm shifting.This could be something, I remember thinking.Maybe we can find a way to keep it.I just never expected the paradigm to shift in the direction it did. As if following my exact train of thought, he adds, “Up until the end, at least.”
I let out a small, humorless laugh.
Quentin lets out one of his own. “Don’t be too grumpy. It’s a treasure hunt! Fountain would want us to have fun with it. And we could both use a bit of fun right now, I think.”
He’s right. Having fun won’t counteract everything elsethat’s gone wrong lately, but moping around isn’t going to help me get out of here any faster. It’s time to stop feeling sorry for myself and take action. To be someone who is worth paying seven thousand dollars for her expertise. Preferably also someone who can handle eight weeks of close contact with an attractive but frustrating man without doing anything stupid like kissing him or pushing him into the river. “Okay. Fine,” I say, smacking away his hand as he attempts to reach for something else off my plate. “I’ll hunt for the treasure. I’ll even try to have fun. But it doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
FORM C
Text of Interview (Unedited)
STATE .............. Maryland
NAME OF WORKER. .. Albert Aaron
ADDRESS ............ Sprangbur Estate
DATE ................ June 9, 1937
SUBJECT ............ Life and business of Julius J. Fountain
NAME OF INFORMANT Julius James Fountain
I
Guess how old I am. Guess! Never mind. Don’t. You’ll either guess low on purpose in hopes of flattering me, or high to insult me. Not that you would take that opportunity, would you, Mr. Aaron? Don’t seem the type to seek out petty revenge, no matter how much a man insults your necktie. Ha ha!
Well, I’m eighty-two, not that it’s any of your business. Eighty-two and a half to be precise. And I like to be precise whenever given the opportunity. So much of life doesn’t allow for precision, you know.
I’ve spent sixty-one of those eighty-two years running the Fountain Seltzer Company. The idea of it, like so many great ones, came to me in a dream: I was napping upon the spout of a massive whale,and a prodigious stream of water shot out and lifted me into the sky! I ran my hands through the clouds, caressed the stars, tickled the moon. Then, slowly, I was lowered again to the whale’s back. “My, what heights you can reach!” I exclaimed.
“Seltzer, my dear boy!” the whale responded. “The bubbles lift you higher!” And that’s the origin of our famous whale logo and slogan—“Fountain’s bubbles lift you higher!”
Fordham Jones was my business partner and friend for many years. He sketched the first version of our logo. Brilliant man. Fordham fled North Carolina and settled in a freedmen’s camp outside DC during the war, made his way up to Baltimore sometime in the seventies, which is where we met. Had a real head for numbers, Ol’ Fordham did. Greatest fellow I ever met, and like a second father to me. When he died, I thought surely the company would follow.
Thank goodness for Lou [AA: Louisa Worman, informant’s longtime secretary]. Yes, thank goodness for Lou. Now, that’s my own personal slogan.
10
There are twoways to get up to Sprangbur on foot. Sometimes Quentin and I would take the same route we would have in a car, following Main Street all the way up to where it forks, turning right onto Carmichael Chapel Road, and then eventually right onto Riverview. It’s kind of the long way round, though, and the sidewalk stops for a long stretch on Carmichael Chapel, so we were forced to walk single file on the narrow shoulder with cars zooming past (there is, notoriously, no posted speed limit, which, according to local legend, means that the limit does not exist; the police occasionally beg to differ). Then there’s the more direct route through Riverside Park. It’s a mile-long stretch of trail that starts downtown and ends at the base of Sprangbur, copying the curve of the Monocacy River. Despite the prime real estate, it’s never been particularly scenic; the county often neglected maintenance on the bordering land, so the view was mostly overgrown grass and invasive trees growing between the path and the water.
Or, at least, that’s how it was the last time I was here.
When Quentin and I approach the unassuming trailhead, a few minutes’ walk from Best That You Can Brew, I look at him likeIs this right? Did we take a wrong turn somewhere?Because Riverside Park is nothing like I remember it. Instead of hard-packed dirt, the pathway is now paved with dark, fresh asphalt. More surprisingly, the area to the left is freshly mowed grass dotted with benches and a picnic pavilion, while to the right is a lovely unobstructed view of the water and the forested land on the opposite bank.
“Whoa, they made this nice,” I say.
“Yeah,” Quentin agrees. “The lady behind me in line at the post office was telling me about it the other day. She said they’re putting a bunch of big new houses where the old middle school was, and the builder wanted to advertise proximity to the park as an amenity. So the company gave the city a big donation to be used toward ongoing upkeep.”
“Oh. That’s good, I guess.”
“Not according to the post office lady. She wasn’t particularly happy about it, or any of the other changes happening around here. She was there to mail a letter to the county disputing her property tax increase.”
“I wonder if my parents’ has gone up,” I say, swallowing hard. Mom hasn’t mentioned anything about that, but I suppose property tax increases will likely affect them too, if they haven’t already. There’s a small lurch of fear, supported by the memory of overhearing my mother on the phone with the mortgage company after Dad’s accident left him unable to work, begging them to give her a few months to catch up on payments. The piles of bills marked with big red overdue stamps that sat on the diningroom table for most of my junior and senior years. But, no, things are different now. They have the settlement money. This won’t make or break them. Which is good, since I’m in no position to help them out.
