Brooklyn Graves by Triss Stein Read Free Book Online Page B

which after all is what a cemetery is all about. It was the sadness in this neglected building, once so elegant and now so deteriorated. Or perhaps I had brought the sadness with me. I pulled out the list of needed photos from Dr. Flint and completed the job as quickly as possible.
    I was happy to return to the brightness and warmth of the outside world. I shivered and sucked in a few deep breaths of fresh air before I struggled to pull the heavy door back in place. A brisk walk back to the cemetery entrance helped to clear my head. A helpful young staffer at the visitors center—I knew she wasn’t twelve but she looked it—did find a photo of the dimly seen window in an elegant and expensive book the museum would have to buy for me if they wanted me to have it.
    It was not the Biblical or mythological scene I was expecting but a spectacular river view, the Hudson with the cliffs of the Palisades on the western shore. I’d know it anywhere. A shimmering brilliant blue sky reflected in the blues of the water, there were multiple shades of green forest in the foreground and dark storm clouds off in the northern distance. It was a scene from a museum, from the great Hudson River paintings of Cole or Bierstadt, and just as breathtaking in glass, even in the small book illustration.
    There were no bridges or cities or even the small villages that hug the riverbanks. There were no Iroquois longhouses either. The sole sign of human life was a small three-masted ship under full sail and heading north, upstream. The tiny flags in the picture were too hard to see, but the text told me it was Henry Hudson’s ship, the Half Moon , claiming this land and this river for the Netherlands. As a historian I had to be charmed, though it seemed pretty odd for a memorial chapel. It resembled the brilliant but somewhat cloying religious window of the other day in nothing but its art.
    The missing window on the side depicted a harbor with tall ships and canoes, and a windmill in the background. I recognized it immediately as New Amsterdam.
    The caption in the book explained that “the chapel was built by Cornelius Konick IV. Konick Avenue and Konick Park are named for him. He was a descendent of one of the earliest Dutch families. They owned substantial property in Flatbush and had a country estate near where the Tappan Zee bridge now crosses the Hudson River.” Of course. That was Tarrytown, right in the middle of the old Dutch settlements. It was Rip van Winkle’s storybook home; Tappan Zee itself is a Dutch name.
    I wondered if the thunderclouds were a reminder of Rip van Winkle and the magic game of nine pins that caused the thunder. And then I wondered if I wasn’t getting carried away by my imagination.
    The book didn’t tell me anything else, but with a name and a picture, I could certainly find out more about who he was and what happened to the family. The Dutch theme in the chapel window suggested pride in their ancestry but it seemed that old Mr. Konick’s money had not insured that he and his ancestors would be remembered here. I could use the museum library for this. And then maybe Dr. Flint would forget about me for a few days.
    My job was important to me for a long list of reasons, but Dr. Flint was not my job, not really, and events in my life were looming much larger right now. I needed some breathing space.
    The shop was almost empty but the helpful young girl at the register was being monopolized by a young man who seemed to be annoying her. I dropped off the book she had given me and left, anxious now to get away.

Chapter Four
    I pointed myself home. I could scan the photos to Flint from the local copy store and then the plan was crawl into my burrow and catch up on my own work. Chris had after-school plans; I had a good long afternoon. And I did it. I glued my backside to my desk chair and my fingers to the keyboard, and by the time my eyes finally started to blur, I had a good piece