The Book of Lies

64

According to their Web site, even when it was founded back in 1867, the Western Reserve Historical Society has never been just an Ohio library. It’s a storehouse and research center dedicated to documenting and preserving over twenty million items—from the very first area phone books, to old wills, telegrams, birth certificates, even naturalization papers—that trace the earliest days of the state. They also have a hell of a map collection.

Not that it’s doing us any good.

“We’re missing something,” my dad insists. “We have to be missing something.”

“What’s to miss?” asks the librarian with the pointy goatee, motioning at the wide mahogany reference table that’s now lost under the sea of maps, atlases, and original city plats. “I even pulled the guides from when Ohio was still owned by Connecticut. Trust me on this: King Avenue, King Court, Kings Highway, even King’s Cross back during the late 1800s. But near as I can tell, we’ve never had a King Street.”

“And this map here,” I say, leaning both elbows on the table and scanning a small yellowed foldout entitled Official Vest Pocket Street Guide of Cleveland. “This is from 1932, right?”

“Thirty-one or thirty-two,” the librarian says, nodding as Serena reads over my shoulder. She knows what I’m looking for: This is exactly what Jerry Siegel’s hometown looked like when his father was shot. But according to the map, still no 184 King Street.

“Maybe it’s not an address,” Serena says.

“What else would it be?” my father asks.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s someone’s name. Martin Luther King. Larry King. A famous King.”

“King James,” the librarian blurts.

“Y’mean like the Bible?” I ask.

“Actually, I was talking about LeBron,” the librarian laughs. We all stare at him blankly. “Y’know, in basketball? The Cavs?” We still stare. “You’re not from Ohio, are you?” he asks.

“Wait . . . go back to the Bible,” my father says. “There’s a section called Kings, right? Maybe the numbers . . .”

“184 King Street,” Serena says, quickly hopping aboard. “Kings, chapter 18, verse 4.”

“Or chapter 1, verse 84,” my father says, his voice already quickening. He searches around, glancing at the rows of books. “You got a Bible handy?” he asks the librarian.

The librarian grins. “You kidding? We got three thousand of ’em.”

As Pointy Goatee goes to fish one from the reference desk, there’s a metal kuh-kuunk behind us. I jump at the sound. Through the turnstile, a young, petite woman with a round face unzips her long, dirty-white winter coat and reveals stylish pink reading glasses around her neck.

“Jacobs left the door open again?” she asks in a southern accent that’s well past annoyed.

“They’re with me,” Pointy Goatee calls out, approaching the woman and giving her a quick kiss. “My wife,” he explains, turning our way as she hands him one of the two coffees she’s carrying.

My dad and Serena force hello smiles. I don’t. It’s nearly nine a.m. If Naomi’s doing her job, our faces are minutes away from showing up on the local morning news. We’ve already been here too long.

“Take a breath,” Serena says, still standing behind me and scratching my shoulder. My father works hard pretending not to notice.

“Okay, so 1 Kings, chapter 18, verse 4,” the librarian announces as he puts his reading glasses to use. “Obadiah took a hundred prophets, and hid them fifty in a cave, and fed them with bread and water. That sound like anything familiar?”

I look at my father. He’s looking at Serena. The word Prophet, plus a cave, where Mitchell Siegel supposedly found the Book of Truth. There’s no ignoring the coincidence. But even with that, it still means nothing.

“I don’t think that’s it,” my father says, trying hard to keep it calm. But he’s right. Just another dead end.

“What y’all working on, anyway?” Pink Glasses asks as she approaches the table, warming her hands around her cup of coffee.

“184 King Street. Mean anything important to you?” her husband asks.

“I know King Avenue,” she says.

“Nope. King Street.”

She shakes her head. “It’s funny, though—almost sounds like the vault.”

We all turn toward her. “What vault?” I ask.

“Our vault—for our rare book collection,” she begins.

“Y’know, I never thought of those,” her husband interrupts. “That’s not a bad—”

“Just let her say it!” my father insists. I shoot him a look to cool down.

“It’s not— These days, we’re on the Library of Congress system,” she explains, “but in the early 1900s, back before Dewey decimal was widely accepted, we used to file rare book collections under the names of big donors.”

“This was way before everyone wanted their name on a brass plaque,” her husband points out.

“Exactly. So when the Silver family donated all their correspondence with President Garfield, they got a whole section in the rare book room with call numbers 1.0.0 Silv . . . 1.0.1 Silv . . . 1.0.2 Silv. Paula and Mark Cook got 1.0.0 Cook. And I think—I could be wrong—but I think the Kingston family, when they donated the glass windows at the front of the building, got a section starting with 1.0.0 King.”

“So there very well could be a 1.8.4 King as a call number in your collection,” my father says.

“Only way to find is to seek,” her husband replies, pushing back from the table, heading behind the reference desk, and flicking on a computer terminal marked “Internal Catalog.” On our right, the turnstile again kuh-kuunks as the first library visitor—a bald man with Buddy Holly glasses—arrives.

“Morning, June. Morning, Mike,” he calls out, headed to the magazine section. Serena shoots me a look. Time is, most definitely, not on our side.

“Is there any way we can speed this up?” I ask.

Behind the desk, the husband is clicking at the keyboard and humming the theme to Jeopardy!

“Junebug, how is it possible to always be right?” he announces as a wide smile takes his face. “There most definitely is a King collection. And when you put in 1.8.4 as the call number . . .” He studies the screen. “Oh, that’s curious. . . .”

“What?” I blurt as the turnstile delivers yet another visitor.

“Back then, they used to keep such meticulous records for the rare books. Anyway, it was filed with the Kingston family because they had a spectacular Russian book collection. But when you look at the actual path of ownership . . .” He turns to us, and his gold cross sways from his neck. “According to these records, 1.8.4 King was a book donated by someone named Jerry Siegel.”