God's Kingdom by Howard Frank Mosher

these parts. If they did, they never went back. Crawl in there, Jim. See if there’s anything worth looking at.”
    In the back of the cubbyhole beneath the stairs, under a throw rug, Jim discovered a trunk. “Geehaw it out,” Prof said. “Maybe that’s where Miss H kept her nest egg. If so, I’ll split it with you, fifty-fifty.”
    The trunk was wedged under the exposed underside of the staircase. By degrees Jim worked it over to the door. Together, he and Prof wrestled it through the opening into the hallway. Jim crawled out after the trunk and took a deep breath, glad to be out of the cubbyhole.
    â€œOr,” Prof said, “it could contain some old slavecatcher’s bones. Be my guest, Jim. Open it up.”
    â€œI’ll leave that honor to you, Prof.”
    The slanted rays of the lowering sun, dancing with motes, fell through the frosted glass transom above the front door onto the old chest. As Prof clicked open the hasp and lifted the lid, the sunlit hallway was suffused with the scent of lavender. Desiccated lavender blossoms, as blue as Prof’s eyes, lay inside on several large albums. Brushing aside the still-fragrant flowers, Prof lifted out one of the volumes and began to leaf through the brittle pages. It was a scrapbook containing clippings about Prof from the Monitor, some with photographs. Prof at about Jim’s age, in his baggy baseball uniform, wearing a catcher’s mitt. Prof in a graduation cap and gown, delivering his valedictory address. And a few years later, in puttees and a uniform blouse with lieutenant’s stripes, standing in front of a military tent with a young Teddy Roosevelt. Other scrapbooks in the lavender-scented trunk contained articles on championship Academy teams Prof had coached and trophy trout he’d landed, and Prof’s entire speech upon receiving the Vermont Headmaster of the Year award. And then, two baseballs, one scuffed and grass-stained, the other signed with the just-discernible names of the 1906 Detroit Tigers. Jim couldn’t help laughing, but Prof was visibly nonplussed.
    â€œMy goodness, Jimmy,” he said. “I don’t know whether this is a shrine or a mausoleum or both. Let’s keep this between ourselves, shall we?”
    Below the scrapbooks were some toilet articles. A hand mirror backed in mother-of-pearl. A compact case, a tortoiseshell comb and brush. And folded neatly and separated by tissue paper, layer after layer of dresses. Out of the trunk, one by one, Prof lifted a lime-green dinner dress, a short scarlet dress and a matching pair of open-toed high heels, and a black funeral dress and black veil. Finally, under one last layer of tissue paper, at the bottom of the trunk, a small hand purse containing some faded notes on the Bank of Lower Canada, a few hairpins, and a snapshot of a pretty, dark-complected young woman, smiling at the camera with an expression that was both demure and bold.
    Prof drew in his breath. He passed one hand in front of his eyes, stared at the smiling girl again, then, with his hand shaking slightly, put the snapshot in his shirt pocket.
    Still on his knees beside the trunk, holding the black dress and cloak across his arms as if he were holding the lifeless body of the beautiful young dressmaker herself, Prof looked up at Jim.
    Jim nodded and turned away. Prof returned the dresses, toilet articles, scrapbooks, baseballs, and purse to the trunk and closed the lid. He got to his feet and looked at his pupil. “Let’s get the hell away from here,” he said.

 
    5
    Rivals
    â€œBaseball Pliny” they called me in those days, and I was as proud of that as I was of the letters after my name. Oh, the rivalries! We fought John Reb to the death at Shiloh and Gettysburg, but we never hated him the way we did our opponents from the Landing. You could rely upon a battle royal erupting every time we played them. Why, half of the men and boys from both