Every Hidden Thing Read Online Free

the next issue of Transactions of the American Philosophical Society . He’d even paid (too much, I thought) for a set of lithographic plates illustrating the glory of his find.
    â€œIt’s already gone to the printer’s.” He plummeted into his cane-backed swivel chair—the only chair without a stack of paper on it—and slouched, his long legs shooting out.
    â€œYou’re sure Cartland was right?” I asked pointlessly.
    â€œI knew the instant he said it. I blame that numbskull dentist Hawthorn for leading me astray. He assured me the skull rested near those vertebrae . . . but that was my mistake: relying on others. If I’d been there, if I’d dug it out myself, there’d be no confusion.”
    â€œWhat’ll you do?”
    â€œBuy up all the copies of the journal as quickly as possible.”
    He didn’t need to say what a huge embarrassment this was. He had no degree. No professorship at an esteemed university. All he had was his work and what he published.
    â€œEveryone makes mistakes,” I said, hoping to cheer him. “Remember Agassiz, the Harvard man who fell for the Cardiff Giant?”
    My father smiled only briefly. “Yes. It was Cartland who exposed that as well, of course.”
    â€œWell, you still brought the elasmosaurus to life, just a little . . .”
    â€œBackward,” my father said, and we laughed together.
    Absently he touched his bruised face, winced. “That was a fair thrashing I gave him, eh?”
    â€œYou thrashed each other.”
    â€œI got in more blows, I think. The parasitic carbuncle. Did you know how he got his position at Yale?”
    â€œYes, you’ve—”
    â€œHe cajoled a wealthy relation into creating a department of paleontology, building it, endowing it. And now he is the chair of that very department!”
    A series of rasping pants came from the Gila monster’s vivarium.
    â€œHave you fed her?” my father asked.
    â€œJust an hour ago.”
    â€œThat’s her hungry sound.”
    â€œShe’s getting fat.”
    My father went to her, stooped, and scratched her head. “Old girl,” he said fondly.
    I felt sorry for her, pacing her small home with her splay-legged gait. Sometimes Father let her have the run of the workroom, but once she disappeared for several days, and Mrs. Saunders refused to come downstairs and cook until we’d found her and gotten her back into her vivarium. Father let her out less now, since neither of us enjoyed going hungry.
    Father’s distracted eyes turned to the crate I’d just opened. “Anything good?”
    â€œDid you know you were using this as a footrest?”
    He made no reaction. Not sure he even heard me. He already had one of the burlap bundles open in his hands and was staring. His face very still.
    Slowly he laid it out on the table. It was a seven-inch span of bone, some stone still clinging stubbornly to it. Tapered at one end, much thicker at the other, like hardwood polished to a high sheen. I was trying to place it. Tibia? Part of an ulna? But the shape wasn’t right. Both ends were jaggedly broken. I tore away the burlap from the second bundle as my father unwrapped the third. His piece was the thickest yet, with a broad oval base. He placed it near the thick end of the first piece. They clearly belonged to each other. And my piece . . .
    My piece tapered to a very sharp point. The surface was smooth to the touch, but the pad of my thumb felt telltale serrations along the edges. I placed it in front of the other two pieces.
    I felt a bit breathless. “This is the biggest tooth I have ever seen.”
    â€œWho sent this?” my father demanded.
    I foraged inside the crate. “There’s a letter!”
    â€œRead it!”
    So like him to command me to do something he could easily do on his own. So impatient he couldn’t bear the idea of doing only one thing at a time. He handled