The Greywater Gazette
The Box Has Reached Ten
On the morning of Wednesday, November the fifth, this editor opened the lost-and-found box at seven twenty-two and counted ten items. The new arrival is a third grey envelope, addressed — as yesterday's was — to a name that does not appear in any record this editor keeps: T. Aldercott. This editor set the envelope on the desk and looked at it for some time before opening it. The name is her own surname. The initial is not hers. The card inside reads: 'The window seat faces east. That is the correct side.' It is signed H. This editor has placed it in the box with the others, noted it in both notebooks, and is printing this paragraph because the alternative is not printing it, and she decided some weeks ago that not printing a thing does not make it less true.
The census count for Greywater Falls is nine. The box now holds ten items. This editor drew a line under that sentence in the second notebook and then sat with the line for a while. Russ Dunmore arrived at eight forty-three — later than usual, his hair uncombed in a way that suggests he has been awake since before he needed to be — and asked, without preamble, whether anything new had come. This editor showed him the third grey envelope. He read the card. He did not say anything for a moment. Then he said: 'It knows your name.' This editor said: 'It knows half my name.' Russ said: 'That's enough to write a letter to.' He stood by the box and counted the items, touching each one lightly with one finger the way a man counts things he already knows the number of and is hoping to get a different answer. He got ten. He said he was going to go look at the dock. He put his hat on and left. He did not say what he was looking for at the dock.
Gerald Pith came to the Gazette first — the pattern is now simply the pattern — and read from the blue notebook: sixteen and three-quarter inches, south shore, measured at six fifty. He said 'sixteen and three-quarter' and then added, unprompted: 'That's a rate. Not just a number. A rate of change.' This is new. Gerald Pith has been a man of measurements for two weeks, and now he is a man of calculus, and this editor recorded the word 'rate' in the first notebook and then sat with it the way you sit with a word that has been true for a while and has only now been said aloud. He went to the Kettle. Marigold Vance had the coffee ready at eight thirteen, which is four minutes earlier than yesterday, which means she is not adjusting to the new schedule but anticipating ahead of it — moving faster than the town is moving, the way a cook always must.
This editor has been asked, twice this week, whether the lost-and-found column constitutes an official postal address. She has said, both times, that it does not. She is less certain of this than she was on Monday. The Greywater Gazette, 4 Mill Road, is printed at the top of every page of this paper, and has been for nineteen years, and it is possible that some addresses become real simply by being repeated long enough and meant sincerely enough by the right correspondent. Nine. Ten. The dock is still open water at the far end. November the fourteenth is nine days away, and T. Aldercott does not live here, and H knows where the window seat faces.
From Around the Falls
Gerald Pith Names a Rate; Adds Calculus to His Repertoire
Gerald Pith measured sixteen and three-quarter inches on the south shore this morning and arrived at the Gazette to say so before going to the Kettle. He described the measurement not as a number but as a rate of change. 'If it keeps on at this gradient,' he said, looking at the window as he has begun to do, 'the outer dock is under ice by the twelfth.' He tapped the notebook. He went to the Kettle. Marigold Vance had the coffee ready. He said the morning was right. She agreed. Neither of them specified what it was right for.
Constable Dunmore Walks to the Dock; Counts the Boards; Returns Saying Little
Russ Dunmore was observed walking the length of the dock at approximately nine fifteen this morning. He had a notepad. He was counting — boards, pilings, or something else; this editor did not ask. He stood at the open-water end for several minutes with his hands in his pockets. He returned up Mill Road at nine thirty-four and stopped briefly at the Gazette door to say: 'Dock's sound. All the way to the end.' He did not say why soundness was in question. He did not say who asked. He went back to his office. The scarf was on.
Halloway's Bakery: Ten Standing Orders; The Tray Is Full; Doreen Does Not Count Aloud
Doreen Halloway baked ten Standings this morning. This editor confirmed this figure by way of a brief stop at the bakery at eight thirty. Doreen was behind the counter and did not mention the number. She mentioned the weather (cold), the cloud cover (settled in nicely), and the fact that the coffee urn was freshly cleaned. The Standing on the cream plate with the blue border is still there, still fresh. When this editor asked about the increase from nine to ten, Doreen said: 'Now, I bake what the morning calls for.' She turned to the oven. The subject was closed.
Letters to the Editor
“The water under ice is still water. It does not stop moving. It only moves where you cannot see it. This is not a warning. This is just what water does.”
“So at twenty-four feet I can see it's the Ames rowboat pretty clearly now. It's upright. That's the part I keep thinking about. Rowboats don't stay upright on a lakebed. They tip. This one hasn't. I didn't put that in the Watch because I'm not sure what category it goes in. Wanted to say it somewhere official though, so here it is. —T. Fern, Lake Watch Correspondent”