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The Silver Lode

By Suzanne J Bratcher

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Wednesday, March 13
Paul Russell leaned back in his office chair and studied the serious young man standing in front of his desk. “A seventy-year-old cold case dependent solely on your grandfather’s memory. You think that’s a focus for a serious oral history project? If so, you’ve learned less in this course than I thought.”
Alex Reyes’s black eyes didn’t drop, an adult holding his ground in the face of power. “It’s the focus you assigned us, Dr. Russell.”
Alex was a straight A student. Paul didn’t believe the young man had misunderstood. “You saw the Do Not Disturb sign on my door. Five minutes. Convince me.”
“The assignment was to interview a family member who lived through an important historical event and document his or her experiences. The murder of my great-uncle in 1950 was such an event. It’s changed the course of the lives of my family for four generations. If I unravel the mystery, I can save my niece’s life.” Alex exuded enthusiasm, a teenager convinced he could conquer the world.
Amused by the young man’s unconscious shift, Paul had a hard time staying out of parent mode. How much older than Scott was Alex anyway? Probably no more than four years. But he was Alex’s teacher, not his dad. “The spirit of the assignment was to document a family member’s experience of an important news event. You didn’t provide any evidence this so-called murder happened, much less that it was an important news event.”
Alex reached for the red pocket folder marked with his name. “The letter! I bet you didn’t read it.” He pulled out the single sheet of yellowing paper and handed it to Paul.
“I read it, but it isn’t supported by anything. No newspaper story on Manuel Reyes’s death, no obituary, not so much as a death certificate.”
“In 1950 the copper mines were closing down. Jerome was shrinking every day. The closest newspaper was in Phoenix. No one cared about a Mexican American miner in a town that was about to become defunct.”
Paul made a dismissive gesture. “I’m sure the coroner was still issuing death certificates.”
“My great-uncle disappeared, Dr. Russell. Did you listen to the interviews with my grandfather on the audio file?”
“I did. No disrespect intended, but your grandfather is eighty-six and living in an institution.”
“My grandfather’s mind is as clear as yours or mine. And it’s not an institution. He has his own room in a private home that provides residents with the help they need to stay out of an institution!”
Paul checked his watch. “Your five minutes is about up. Even if I decide to accept the evidence you turned in, you haven’t convinced me your great-uncle’s death was historically important.”
Pulling a cell phone out of his pocket, Alex bent his dark head, frowning in concentration. Finding what he wanted, the boy thrust the phone at Paul. A thin-faced little girl, black curls framing a serious heart-shaped face, pale despite the warm brown tones of her smooth skin, smiled at him.
“Look at that photo, Dr. Russell, and tell me Manuel’s death wasn’t historically important. Aurora is four years old, and she’s going to die if she doesn’t get a heart transplant. Do you know how much that surgery costs? A million and a half dollars! My family doesn’t have that kind of money. If Manuel wasn’t murdered and he mined the silver lode he discovered, our family could pay for everything Aurora needs with some left over.”
In spite of his determination to stay in teacher mode, Paul felt a pang of sympathy, such a small child. He didn’t have a daughter. If Linda had lived… But she hadn’t. How did Marty feel about children? Paul forced his attention back to Alex and the problem of the oral history project.
As if he sensed Paul’s weakening, the young man said, “At least talk to my grandpa. He’ll convince you it’s real. I know he will. I didn’t believe him at first. I kept trying to get him to talk about his experiences in Korea, but he wouldn’t. He said Manuel’s murder was more important than anything he saw in Korea. Lots of men saw fighting in Korea. He’s the only one alive who knows about his brother’s murder, at least the only one except the children of the killer.”
“What makes your grandfather think a murderer would tell his children what he did to make his money?”
“Nothing. My grandpa says the killer would probably tell his children he found the silver lode himself. So, if we find the fortune from the silver lode and look back a generation, we find the killer.”
“How does your grandfather plan to convince a son or grandson his father was a murderer?”
“With the letter!”
“I don’t know, Alex. A good-hearted person might be willing to help with Aurora’s medical expenses, but no one’s going to accept the idea his father was a cold-blooded killer.”
“We have to try!”
Paul checked his watch again, 4:45. If he was going to get any writing done this afternoon, he had to extricate himself from this conversation. “All right, Alex. I’ll promise you this. Before I write that zero in the grade book, I’ll talk to your grandfather. Email me his name and contact information.”
“So you’ll go see him?”
“I didn’t say that. I said I’d talk to him on the phone. After I have a conversation with your grandfather, I’ll decide whether to go see him.”
Alex frowned.
The kid was skating on thin ice. Paul shook his head. “Next week is spring break. You’re supposed to be on vacation. I’m supposed to be finishing a book. That’s the best you’re going to get today. Take it or leave it.”
Alex reached for his backpack. “I’ll take it,” he said between clenched teeth. “But think about this, Dr. Russell. Without a new heart, Aurora won’t be around next spring break. I don’t have time for a vacation. And which is more important, your book or a little girl’s life?”
The shot went home, and Paul’s chest tightened. He wasn’t in charge of who lived or died. To emphasize that the interview was over, he swiveled to face the computer and moved the mouse to wake up the screen.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Russell.”
Alex sounded truly contrite. Paul let out his breath and turned to look at the young man.
“I feel so helpless,” Alex said. “We all love Aurora. This is the only chance we’ve got to get the money we need. If you’ll help me…”
Paul raised his eyebrows.
“I have to pass your course,” the boy hurried on. “I can’t do it with a zero on the mid-term project. More important than my grade, I need help to find my great-uncle’s killer. I did all the research I know how to do. You’re an expert in oral history. I hope you’ll tell me what to do next.”
“I’m a teacher, Alex, not an investigator.”
“I know, but if you’ll just talk to my grandfather, you and he might think of what to do next. If you give me an incomplete instead of a zero, I’ll get whatever evidence you want me to. I’ll prove this is a worthy project.”
“I’ve already promised to talk to him. After that, we’ll see.”
“Thank you, sir.” Alex extended his hand.
Just managing not to roll his eyes at the sudden formality, Paul shook his student’s hand. What Alex thought they were shaking on, he wasn’t sure. He decided not to ask.
As soon as the door closed behind Alex, Paul took a deep breath. That was one thing about teaching, he never knew what hook pass a student might toss his way. But Alex and his family drama had to wait. Five pages. That was how much he needed to get written before he went home.
Closing his eyes, Paul counted backwards from twenty. He had to clear his mind, escape the present, and return to Thomas Jefferson’s office at his Monticello home. By the time Paul got to five, he could see the past president in his mind. Jefferson, his white hair sparse, lined up the same New Testament passage in Greek and Latin on one side of the blank paper and matched it with English and French on the other.
The “Beatitudes” from the fifth chapter of Matthew were there, but none of the references to healing in the eighth and ninth chapters. Jefferson included the moral teachings of Jesus in his version of the Bible but none of the miracles.
Paul started to type. “Thomas Jefferson held the teachings of Jesus in the highest regard, but he deliberately excluded any account of miracles in all four gospels.” Aurora Reyes looked at Paul from his computer screen, younger than the synagogue leader’s daughter in the ninth chapter of Matthew. But if it had been Sr. Reyes in that story, Paul knew Jesus would have gone with him to heal the little girl.
Paul stood up and stretched. He couldn’t afford to think about sick children. He had to keep his mind on his work. His continued employment at the university depended on finishing the manuscript by the first of June. He’d worked too hard, accumulated too many degrees, to let this job go. All his work experience was in education, and he needed this position.
He sat back down, closed his eyes, and started counting backwards from twenty again. At zero he opened his eyes. The little girl with the large black eyes still looked at him, but he ignored her and typed doggedly on “…that Jefferson considered the corruption of the gospel writers’ rendition…”
What if Alex had stumbled onto a seventy-year-old murder and a wealthy family thrived because a grandfather or a great-grandfather murdered a lucky Mexican American miner for a fortune he found in the side of Cleopatra Hill?
Paul gritted his teeth and hit the keys. “…of the life of Jesus Christ.” He paused, took a deep breath. What came next? He toggled to the page labeled Outline and ran his eye down the subtopics for the chapter he was supposed to finish before going home. It was no use. Instead of the next subtopic, he saw a picture from his childhood Bible, a picture of Jesus with little children on his lap. One of the girls had a heart-shaped face, Aurora Reyes.
Paul got up and went to the single window in his office. Turning the old-fashioned crank, he let in the cool March air. The sun, three-quarters of the way down the western sky, deepened the blue of the San Francisco Peaks to almost black. He knew he wasn’t going to get any writing done. He might as well go home.
Turning back to his desk, he opened the red folder marked Alex Reyes and pulled out Exhibit One, a letter on faded letterhead. It was in Spanish, but Alex had attached an English translation with a red paper clip.
Paul ran his eyes down the translation for the third time. The first time he read the letter, he was astonished, and disappointed, that a serious student like Alex Reyes would turn in something so unbelievable. But here it was, the letter that began “My dear brother Enrique” and ended “Love to you and our family, Manuel.” In between lay a preposterous story of the discovery of a large deposit of silver ore in a rarely used tunnel.
A fascinating tale, but surely that’s all it was. How could he find out if the story was worth the paper it was written on?
He paused, struck by an idea. The paper could be a clue. Maybe he could discover if it was genuine. He looked at the letterhead, faded and incomplete. The only letter in the name he could be sure of was an r. The address was hopelessly smudged, a number that included a 2 and a street that began with a D.
Who would know about old stationery? An answer he liked came in a breath. Marty Greenlaw. She’d been in Clarkdale for six weeks.
Their relationship, instead of progressing toward an engagement as he’d expected, was cooling, and he had no idea why. She’d turned down his last three invitations, claiming she was too busy or too tired to go to dinner. He picked up his cell phone from his desk and scrolled through the pictures until he came to the last selfie he’d taken with her.
They were standing in front of the 1920s house she’d bought to use as showroom, workshop, and apartment. Marty, arm around his waist, leaned her head against his shoulder. Her auburn curls shone like burnished copper against the blue of his shirt, her green eyes danced, and her generous mouth laughed with delight. His own face mirrored her elation. They looked like what he’d thought they were—a couple in love.
So what happened?
Maybe he could find an answer to that question if he could convince her to work with him on a quasi-professional basis to look into Alex’s research. But he wasn’t going to call to ask. He would show up at her house. If she refused this invitation, it would be to his face.

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