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Late that afternoon, hopes dashed (at least for the time being), I walked slowly up Up-Mile Hill,
pausing briefly at the intersection of Jackson and Witcham to look at the sewer drain where a little
boy named George Denbrough had lost his arm and his life (at least according to Fred Toomey). By
the time I got to the top of the hill, my heart was pounding and I was puffing. It wasn’t being out of
shape; it was the stench of the mills.
I was dispirited and a bit scared. It was true that I still had plenty of time to locate the right
Dunning family, and I was confident I would—if calling all the Dunnings in the phone book was what
it took, that was what I’d do, even at the risk of alerting Harry’s time bomb of a father—but I was
starting to sense what Al had sensed: something working against me.
I walked along Kansas Street, so deep in thought that at first I didn’t realize there were no more
houses on my right. The ground now dropped away steeply into that tangled green riot of swampy
ground that Toomey had called the Barrens. Only a rickety white fence separated the sidewalk from
the drop. I planted my hands on it, staring into the undisciplined growth below. I could see gleams of
murky standing water, patches of reeds so tall they looked prehistoric, and snarls of billowing
brambles. The trees would be stunted down there, fighting for sunlight. There would be poison ivy,
litters of garbage, and quite likely the occasional hobo camp. There would also be paths only some of
the local kids would know. The adventurous ones.
I stood and looked without seeing, aware but hardly registering the faint lilt of music—something
with horns in it. I was thinking about how little I had accomplished this morning. You can change the
past, Al had told me, but it’s not as easy as you might think.
What was that music? Something cheery, with a little jump to it. It made me think of Christy,
back in the early days, when I was besotted with her. When we were besotted with each other. Bahdah-dah
. . . bah-dah-da-dee-dum . . . Glenn Miller, maybe?
I had gone to the library hoping to get a look at the census records. The last national one would
have taken place eight years ago, in 1950, and would have shown three of the four Dunning kids: Troy,
Arthur, and Harold. Only Ellen, who would be seven at the time of the murders, hadn’t been around
to be counted in 1950. There would be an address. It was true the family might have moved in the
intervening eight years, but if so, one of the neighbors would be able to tell me where they’d gone. It
was a small city.
Only the census records weren’t there. The librarian, a pleasant woman named Mrs. Starrett, told
me that in her opinion those records certainly belonged in the library, but the town council had for
some reason decided they belonged in City Hall. They’d been moved there in 1954, she said.
“That doesn’t sound good,” I told her, smiling. “You know what they say—you can’t fight City
Hall.”
Mrs. Starrett didn’t return the smile. She was helpful, even charming, but she had the same
watchful reserve as everyone else I’d met in this queer place—Fred Toomey being the exception that
proved the rule. “Don’t be silly, Mr. Amberson. There’s nothing private about the United States
Census. You march right over there and tell the city clerk that Regina Starrett sent you. Her name is
Marcia Guay. She’ll help you out. Although they probably stored them in the basement, which is not
where they ought to be. It’s damp, and I shouldn’t be surprised if there are mice. If you have any
trouble—any trouble at all—you come back and see me.”
So I went to City Hall, where a poster in the foyer said PARENTS, REMIND YOUR CHILDREN
NOT TO TALK TO STRANGERS AND TO ALWAYS PLAY WITH FRIENDS. Several people were
lined up at the various windows. (Most of them smoking. Of course.) Marcia Guay greeted me with an
embarrassed smile. Mrs. Starrett had called ahead on my behalf, and had been suitably horrified when
Miss Guay told her what she now told me: the 1950 census records were gone, along with almost all of
the other documents that had been stored in the City Hall basement.