Free Kindred by Tammar Stein Page B

interview a subject over the phone, or even by e-mail, the best reporting is done when you meet face to face. Plus, I want to see this farm for myself. I’m too wound up to do interviews for a story on the city council’s vote to move trash pickup from Mondays to Tuesdays. I glance through the list of upcoming topics. There’s a rumor that the superintendent is considering putting in metal detectors at the local high school. It sounds ridiculous to me in this quaint town, but maybe there’s a history of trouble I haven’t heard about. I start making notes to research school violence in Hamilton, but before I know it, I get distracted by stupid links and online articles on organic gardening, and then by daydreams of writing a feature on Trudy. I know she won’t answer my e-mail immediately, so when I smell a fresh pot of coffee brewing, I head to the break room.
    In his mid-twenties, Alex is the closest to my age among the
Gazette
’s staff. Of medium height and with a prematurely receding hairline, he’s tanned and lean from the long rambles he takes through the woods, searching for Civil War artifacts. It’s an open secret that he’s working on a novel about theCivil War battle that took place in Hamilton—the bloodiest three hours of the war, or whatever Frank had called it.
    As we wait for the fresh pot of coffee to finish brewing, I bring up the
H
flags, which leads us to an involved discussion about local history.
    “It’s so creepy,” I tell him.
    “What do you mean?”
    “I know you’re a big Civil War buff,” I say. “So I guess you’ve always felt this connection to the past, but for me it was surreal to walk through town and see all these flags marking basic carnage. It really made me see this place in a different light.”
    Alex beams approvingly at me, as if I’ve just signed on to join his church.
    “That’s exactly it,” he says. “Most people don’t get it. But everything is built on what came before. And for us here in Hamilton, what came before—and not that long ago—changed the entire course of American history.
    “People here take it for granted. They grew up with family stories of the war; it’s just a part of who they are. But as an outsider coming here, I can’t believe they don’t take better care of what they have.” Which is when he tells me about his secret: an unexcavated, almost totally unknown Civil War site.
    “Can you imagine an entire Civil War Union Army headquarters all grown over, unexcavated? It’s not even marked with a National Register of Historic Places sign, and heck, any house built before 1950 can get that. When you walkthere, you can practically hear the soldiers, smell the campfires.” His eyes blaze with the fierce joy I usually expect from religious converts and cult members.
    “How do you know about it?” I ask.
    “I’d heard people talk about it. It was built by the Confederates, then taken over by the Union Army. I knew it had to be near water and pretty close to town. So I started hiking in the general area by the river until I found it. It’s not like the locals don’t know it’s there. They do. They just don’t think it’s anything special.” He shakes his head in bafflement.
    Alex tends to monopolize conversations and nearly always talks about the Civil War, but I enjoy chatting with him in the break room. He might be an odd duck, as Frank would say, but he’s always friendly and treats me as a fully legitimate reporter. The other three employees are much older than me and, aside from a genial “Good morning,” don’t waste too much time chatting. Sometimes there’s a high school intern lurking about, but every couple of months it’s a new kid, and this month’s kid bailed after a week. A new intern starts soon, and I wonder if we’ll get along or if it’ll be weird to have someone basically my age around who’s an intern while I’m a full-time employee.
    “In all the time I’ve hiked there, I’ve never seen