Before grabbing the knocker, Munroe pulled on his gloves so he wouldn’t pick up accidental prints. The morning job was a mundane one, and the clients wouldn’t notice his dedication to the rules, but Munroe had principles. He recalled the comment his boss left on this job appointment next to the time and address:
A cut-and-dry inheritance squabble. Should be easy warm-up work.
Munroe’s fine, leather watch, well-polished and shiny, read 10:35. All his personal effects were well cared-for, in fact. In his line of work, that tidiness was both professional expectation and mentally healthy. ‘Prints of abuse made Munroe retch. Munroe was scheduled for 40, but he lifted the knocker and banged it twice anyway. The hinge squealed in rusty protest; Munroe didn’t need ‘prints to determine Mr. Montjoy didn’t receive many visitors.
After a minute, a bulky man in his forties opened the door. He was well-dressed but had ink stains on the cuffs of his suit jacket.
“You’d be the appraiser?” It wasn’t really a question the way the man said it.
“Wilhelm Munroe of Lingering Touch Imprint Services, sir. Would you be one of Mr. Montjoy’s sons?”
“The eldest, Horace Montjoy. A pleasure to see you, Mr. Munroe.” Munroe noticed Horace’s watch while they shook hands: the glass face was cracked; Munroe kept his smile business-pleasant.
“Shall we get to work?”
Munroe followed Horace into the cozy abode of Mr. Montjoy making small talk—“Nice neighborhood”—while he catalogued everything he saw. Framed pictures covered every inch of the walls, so Munroe could only make out glimpses of the wallpaper beneath. He wiped his shoes diligently on the doormat before following Horace into the living room. Two plush, brown couches and a carved rocking chair with a faded cushion sat on a soft, tan carpet around an empty fireplace. Under the chair’s rockers the carpet was permanently grooved. Across the room, Munroe could see the green-marble island of the adjoining kitchen.
The second son was Samson Jr., a younger Horace in features and dress. He was writing on a legal pad at the island when Munroe entered. Introduction. Handshake. Munroe caught an inventory on the pad.
Munroe noted the shelves of tchotchkes and knick-knacks on one side and a stove and refrigerator on the other. “I’m sorry to hear about the loss in the family.”
“We’ve come to terms with it,” Samson Jr answered. “He led a full life. We all knew it was time.”
Munroe nodded understandingly. “Where are we stuck then, boys, and how can I grease the wheels? Any loose keys that you don’t know what they open?”
Junior opened his mouth to speak, but Horace answered first, “He didn’t divide anything up in his will. Also, Dad was a bit of a collector. He has all kinds of stuff around and we can’t tell what’s worth what.”
“We want to keep it even,” Junior clarified with a peeved expression, “so neither of us get short-changed. That’s what you’re for. To tell us what the valuable stuff is. The stuff he cared the most about—whatever’s worth the most. With your…appraisal.”
The word got caught on a hook as it left his mouth, discomfort dangling in plain view. Junior was clearly one of those who found Munroe’s talents off-putting. It wasn’t uncommon for psychometrists to be accused of violating others’ privacy. The talented ones worked in forensics. Munroe worked on-call.
“We’re mostly sorted,” Horace picked up, trying to cover his brother’s obvious faux-pas. He gestured to the legal pad, where next to each listed item was either an S, H, or Toss. The older brother continued, “The trouble is four items: antiques, I figure. We’ve been careful not to touch them too much—I’ve heard it messes with your readings?”
“Usually, yes. The Imprints can get a bit muddled.”
“Well, we’ll show you up the stairs, then. They’re in his bedroom, on the second floor.”
The brothers led Munroe through the house. The stairs up were steep and harsh. Mr. Montjoy’s bedroom had motes of dust in the air glimmering in the sunlight. The brothers directed Munroe to a vase, three-feet tall with swirling patterns and an hourglass shape. Munroe removed his gloves. Horace cocked a curious eyebrow and Junior muttered something unintelligible. Munroe tuned the two out, closed his eyes, and brushed the back of his knuckles across the glazed clay. Any touch would do for reading Imprints, but Munroe hadn’t graduated with an art history degree to put his oily fingers directly on pieces of art—a courtesy most psychometrists did not provide.
He could feel the hands that shaped the vase, molding it on a spinning wheel. He felt the maker’s dedication and practice, her sweat as it splashed into the clay, leaving salt on Munroe’s tongue. The glazing was like a cool bath before the sweet heat of the furnace. Munroe felt the vase’s life and creation, its strongest Imprints, but little after. There was a pair of hands, wrinkled, picking it up, moving it, placing it on a table in a hallway; Imprints of a presence—a person—walking past it. Once, it stopped and watched the vase, and the vase watched back. Then the vase sat.
Munroe moved through the rest of the brothers’ chosen items—a filigreed chest, an old flintlock musket, a collection of porcelain—and then anything else they thought of on the second and third floors, since Munroe was paid by the hour and they had money to spend. After the third reading—the musket, which left him feeling slightly nauseous and tasting blood—Munroe knew a truth he wouldn’t be able to share.
Back in the kitchen, Horace asked, “Which was it? What was the most valuable item Dad had?”
“And the second-most of course,” Junior said, before hurriedly adding, “so we both can have something to remember him by.”
Munroe feigned contemplation for a moment, pacing so he could trail his hand across the items of the kitchen and then the living room. An elderly man was Imprinted in them: a smile, wrinkled hands, a vacuum keeping the carpet clean. The carpet remembered two boys playing on it, tussling and tumbling with laughter as a man watched on. The desk remembered many a glass of scotch on cold nights as Mr. Montjoy enjoyed the fire.
The rocking chair remembered the most. The grooves in the carpet were one of the first things Munroe noticed about the room. They were literal Imprints of the chair’s life. Mr. Montjoy was Imprinted there, moving back and forth like the tides ebbing and flowing. He’d slept in that chair for years; the stairs were too harsh for his hips. He ate his breakfast on it, the plate sitting in his lap, and read hundreds of newspapers in it. A decade of life was Imprinted in those wooden bones. On the inventory, Toss was written next to it.
Munroe knew the most valuable item in this house—the most loved, the most cared-for, the most Mr. Montjoy his sons could ever keep with them as a memory. But he had a job, and his clients didn’t know the question they should have been asking him.
So, “The vase.”
Writer | Mike Rosenthal ’27 | jrosenthal27@amherst.edu
Editor | Leland Culver ’24 | gculver24@amherst.edu