The Pseudo-Chronicles of Mark Huntley

So Three New Englanders Walk Into a Cafe... - 10/16/04

Saturday, October 16, 2004

Saturday night, and here I am writing to you, Reader. And itching for a drink. Rence's watchful eyes are a little too close by, though, I'm sad to say. Or, rather, that Miller-hungry demon inside me is sad to say… that demon who resents Rence with mighty force for inflicting his hatred of addiction onto me. 

This supernatural life is proving to be no fun at all. 

Rence and I met with Gwen this afternoon for a snack at the Cosi south of the Circle. Yes, we are certainly taking a grand tour of all the lunch spots in the area. But we wouldn’t want to be predictable, would we?

I'd offered for us to see a movie with her at the independent theatre next door as well—leaching dark information out of old pals didn't have to be all deadly serious all the time—but she rejected the idea. When we met her outside the cafe, I could see that her eyes were as grey and grave as ever. 

"Gwen," I said, giving her a little hug. She returned it, though unsmiling. "I'd like you to meet my friend Rence Robichaux, from back up in Manch." 

"Oh?" she said, shooting me a look that said: From... when? 

"We became friends after you moved away," I quickly added. 

"Nice to meet you," said Rence, extending his hand to her. He had a small smile on his face. I hadn’t expected that. In fact, in spite of my warnings to him beforehand not to fully trust her, he was practically radiating warmth to the girl, and he'd just met her.

Could that be...? I thought. No. My old friend wasn't that easy. Was he? 

"Another fish out of water," Gwen replied. She shook with him cordially enough. But her gaze at him was, I had to say, decidedly cool. The opposite of the way I'd envisioned this scene: she didn't trust him. But I should have known the Sphinx would make a comeback.

Rence grinned. "Actually, I consider myself amphibious— but thanks. A pleasure."

We went in and had a seat and ordered some hot chocolate. It was a bit cold today. Before Rence could start in with his own questions, she started chattering away—giving us one of the things on our wish list: more insight into INER. This was an auspicious beginning to the conversation, to be sure. 

"Mark," she said, "ever since you called me to ask about that institute that... treated you... INER.... it's been on my mind. I hadn't thought about the entire sequence of events for years— not just what you and ... Mrs. Samuelson, but the afterward. The institute visiting me after they'd sent you away, and... um. It's become all so fuzzy in my head. And it bothers me. So after we talked on the phone two weeks ago, I started my own little investigation into INER." 

"Did you?" I said, surprised. 

"It's not done yet— that's why I hadn't contacted you," she said. "But I'll tell you where I am so far. I'm no Nancy Drew. Sad to say, I'm not even the dumber Bobbsey Twin. I started with the basics. I called my mom up in New Hampshire and had her look up the Institute for Neurological/Encephalic Research in a Boston phone book. They were supposed to be based out of Boston. Of course, nothing in the phone book. No mentions on the internet, except for some weird Taiwanese website. So I went to the MLK library, down by Chinatown. Searched their databases for references to the Institute for so on and so forth. Or just 'INER.' I made a little more progress there. Two books listed, and one issue of the Health Journal of Greater Massachusetts."

We both nodded, not telling her that this was exactly what we had done at the Library of Congress.

"The books were both gone," said Gwendolyn. "Not checked out, just missing. And the journal was listed as checked out, though they don't normally check out periodicals at the MLK library. When I asked who had checked it out, they gave me the standard Sorry Ma'am. I had expected as much. So I went to the Friendship Heights branch of the library, in my neighborhood. There was supposed to be a copy of the HJGM there from that year. But no, it was just gone. I went looking at two other branches. Supposed to be there too, but no. Finally, in the Godforsaken Silver Spring branch of the D.C. metro library system, I found the fucker."