But a year later and about thirty pounds lighter, I could fit into the reproduction dresses and was giving tours twice a day. I wore my favorite, the 1870s deep blue polonaise gown with an open front that revealed an underskirt of the same color. It was trimmed with chenille-ball fringe in a deeper, almost navy blue.

I moved the tour of about eleven people into the dining room, my stiff and itchy crinolette swishing as I went. "For those of you who aren't from the eastern Missouri area, New Kassel was founded by a group of German immigrants in the 1830s. The Mississippi River was an excellent way of importing and exporting, and the town was located not too far from the Missouri River junction. The Missouri River is important because before the great railroads were built west of the Mississippi, the Missouri was the main route west. Unless you went by wagon."

On this particular tour, I had a young couple with twin girls, an elderly couple, a threesome of mid-forties women, an ancient-looking man who could have passed for a midwestern version of Rasputin, and a solitary female about thirty.

"I want to remind everybody as we enter this lovely room filled with delicate china and silver that all of the items in the Gaheimer House are antiques, so we ask that you refrain from touching them," I said, more for the couple with the twin girls than for anybody else. I'm the mother of three kids; I know how things accidentally get broken. Kids are great. I had been thoroughly amazed at how much I could love a little creature when Rachel was first born, but that didn't change the fact that kids live to touch things expensive, old, or irreplaceable. And if the twins on this tour were anything like my middle child, Mary, something would get broken.

"The wainscoting that you see here is made of sycamore. Mr. Gaheimer went to Connecticut on business in the late 1880s and brought back this dining table, which seats twelve. If you'll notice, the chandelier matches the gilt convex mirror...."

I could say this stuff in my sleep. I've been doing this for almost ten years. I'm also the archivist for the town, compiling things like marriage and land records for Granite County. Sometimes I even write biographies, and I'm usually the one in charge of any displays we put up, as well. I know this town inside and out, and I know the job inside and out. Every now and then, though, if something distracts me, I forget my monologue and end up staring out at the tourists, stammering and stuttering. Just like today.

The solitary female, whom I mentioned before, was staring back at me. Not staring at me like you'd expect someone might when listening to a tour guide, but really staring at me. She was about my height, maybe an inch taller, and had brown hair and hazel eyes. Something about those hazel eyes disturbed me, beyond the fact that they were boring through me as if she were trying to read my soul. There was a ... familiarity, but I couldn't place it. Dark lashes and eyebrows stood out against her rather pale face. She hung on my every word, my every gesture. And soon it became very difficult for me to speak.

"And uh ... um, this punch bowl at the end of the room was a gift from ... from ..." Who was it a gift from? I couldn't remember.

"Torie," somebody said.

"No, not Torie. Susan B. Anthony, that's it!"

"Torie," the voice said, more persistent now. I snapped out of my stupor and realized that my name was Torie and somebody was calling me.

"What?" I looked over to the entrance, where I saw my boss, Sylvia Pershing, standing there. Sylvia must be close to a hundred by now. Of course, I've been saying that for the last twenty years. I just knew that she was old when I was a kid, and now she seems immortal. She's thin, frail, bony, and full of piss and vinegar. She has never cut her silver hair in her life, and she braids it into twin braids every morning and wraps them around her head. She is the president of the Historical Society, where I am employed, and she owns half of the town, including the Gaheimer House. Her sister Wilma died last year, and Sylvia has not been quite the same since. She can still do more than half of the people in the town, and she can still cut you with her razor-sharp tongue, but it's as if she doesn't enjoy it anymore.

"Yes, Sylvia ... what is it?"

"I hate to interrupt the tour, but when you're finished, you need to call the school," she said with a slight tremor caused by age.

"Oh, all right," I said. I resumed the tour, wondering just what Mary had done that would require me to go and bail her out. The rest of the tour went much like the first part had, with me stumbling over words and finding myself stealing glances at the woman staring at me. I found myself doing things like wiping at my nose to make sure there were no errant boogers, and cleaning my teeth with my tongue. I mean, was there something gross about me? What was her problem?

Finally, the tour was over. I headed down to my office as fast as I could. I put sixty cents in the soda machine, got a Dr Pepper, and went to my office. I shut the door and took a long, fizzy sip of my soda. Then I dialed the school, whose number I've had memorized since Mary started kindergarten.

Of course, New Kassel is a tiny town. There's one school for kindergarten and all twelve grades, and the graduating classes have about forty students each. And so when Francine answered the phone and I said, "Hi, it's Torie," she knew exactly who was calling.

"Yeah, Torie," Francine said. "We got a problem with Rachel."

"Rachel?" I asked. My oldest. This, I hadn't expected. "Are you sure?"

She laughed a little. "Of course I'm sure."

Rachel. Hmmm. "W-what's the problem?" I asked. I would have sat down, but you can't sit down in a dress like the one I was wearing. Potty breaks are an event that take as much organization as the invasion of Normandy. And nearly as much time.

"She got into a fight," Francine said.

"A fight?" I asked. "Francine, this is Torie O'Shea. Are you sure you got the right kid? Rachel O'Shea. You're sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. She gave Davie Roberts a bloody nose because he flicked her bra strap."

"Oh jeez," I said. Yes, it had been one of the great emotional moments of my life when my prepubescent daughter became pubescent and had to go out and buy her first training bra. She was still a kid, for crying out loud, but boobs are boobs. She was humiliated beyond belief, no matter how many of her friends I could name who were wearing training bras already. It also didn't matter when I pointed out that usually she couldn't wait to wear what everybody else wore, so why was this one item of clothing any different? But it was, and she didn't see my logic at all.

"It's pretty bad," Francine said.

"What do you mean, 'pretty bad'?" I asked.

"I mean, I think she broke his nose. His eyes turned purple within twenty minutes."

My first reaction was to say, "Well, then Davie should keep his hands to himself," but that didn't make what Rachel did right. I don't know how many times I've told my kids, "I don't care who throws the first punch, it's the kid who throws the last one-the one who retaliates-whom I will punish." Yes, Davie should have kept his little twelve-year-old perverted hands to himself, but Rachel should not have broken his nose. "I'll be right there," I said to her.

"Okay," Francine said.

"But, hey ... are you guys going to do anything to Mr. Frisky Hands?"

"Yes, he's getting detention. That is, as soon as he returns to school."

"Oh jeez," I said again, wondering just what Davie's mother was going to say to me at the next PTA meeting. There was a knock at my office door just as I said good-bye and hung up the phone.

"Come in," I said.

The door opened and in walked the woman from the tour. The one who had kept staring at me. I was a little surprised, but yet ... was I really? "Can I help you?" I asked. I sounded a little defensive, maybe even hateful. The woman flinched.

"Um, I was wondering if I could ... I can come back at another time," she said.

"No," I said. "I'm sorry. It's just that I have to go to the school to get my daughter. There's been a ... disagreement with one of her classmates."

"Oh."

"Could you ... I'll listen to you, if you'll help me out of this stupid dress," I said, turning my back to her and exposing the but tons.

"Oh, sure," she said, and began undoing the buttons. There was an underslip, chemise, and crinolette, so I knew she wouldn't actually see any flesh. Women in the nineteenth century were packaged in layer after layer, so the only person who could ever glimpse their bare skin was the person who was supposed to. A satin and lace prison, if you will.

"What can I do for you?" I asked as I unbuttoned the sleeves.

"I understand that you trace family trees? You are Torie O'Shea, correct?"

"Yes," I said. "I wouldn't wear these tombs if I weren't."

"Well, I was wondering if I could hire your services?" she asked.

It was January. No major holidays or projects coming up. No marriages or births. There was no reason I couldn't take on this job. I just wasn't sure I wanted to, though. I always react this way. I am a historian. A genealogist. And yet when somebody actually asks me to do my job, I always balk.

"It might take me awhile. And even then, I can't say that I'll have every branch fleshed out as far back as it will go. What I'll do is establish a certain number of generations and try to fill that in. If I get more in the time allotted, then that's a bonus for you."

I turned around and began looking for my car keys.

"How many generations do you go back to?" she asked.

"When were you born?"

She looked around the room, self-conscious suddenly. It was as if she wasn't sure if she should answer. How could I trace her family tree if she wasn't even willing to give me her birth date? "Nineteen seventy."

"Then I'll try and finish eight. That's about two hundred years. Is that okay with you?"

"Sure," she said, and shrugged.

"All right," I said. "What's your name?"

Again, that semifrightened bunny-rabbit look. Her eyes darted from the Rose of Sharon quilt hanging on my wall, to the window, to the poster advertising all of New Kassel's charms, to the floor. Finally, she spoke. "Stephanie."

"Stephanie ..." If I hadn't been so rattled over Rachel, I would have asked her more questions, like why she had been staring at me so intently during the tour and why she was acting so weird over simple things like her name and age. But my anxiety about Rachel mounted with each moment that passed.

"Connelly."

"Nice to meet you, Stephanie Connelly," I said, my dress hanging on my shoulders. "I'll leave you a form to fill out as best you can. And my rates are on there as well, so you can see how much this is going to cost you. But right now, I need to get down to the rest room and change my clothes so that I can go and pick up my daughter."

"Okay," she said, putting her hands in her jean pockets.

I pulled a form out of the top desk drawer, set it on my desk, and put a pencil next to it. "Just fill it in, leave me your phone number and e-mail address, if you've got one, and I'll get back to you. I'm sorry. I have to go."

"Sure, that's fine."

Realizing that my keys were in my jean pockets-where they always were-I picked up my jeans and shirt and tennis shoes from the chair next to the door. "Thank you so much for undoing these buttons. You have no idea how difficult it is to get in and out of this dress."

"Oh, you're welcome," she said, and smiled brightly.

Immediately to the right was the kitchen. I walked through it to the rest room that Sylvia had built for staff use. Nobody could see me walking through the kitchen with the dress unbuttoned to the small of my back, unless Sylvia happened to be there. But since Sylvia was usually the person to help me out of the blasted things, I didn't really care if she saw my slip-covered back or not. As soon as my clothes were changed, I was out the door and on my way to the school. But I couldn't help feeling a little weird as I left. I remembered an occasion a few years ago when a tourist had approached me after a tour and had hired me as a genealogist. She had ended up dead.