mind apparently on something else. “Oh, yes, most definitely. The future.”
CHAPTER 8
T wo bicycles whirred by Nick. He watched them speeding away around the next curve, the riders’ butts and legs pumping, encased in latex of shimmering hummingbird hues.
He was back at the St. Charles Avenue entrance of the park. How many times he’d run around the track he didn’t know. It was dusk now, and at Audubon Zoo almost a mile away toward the wide river, peacocks screeched with instinctive alarm at the approaching darkness, even though the “albino” alligators were safely confined.
Thanks to Nelson Plumlaw and his encyclopedic knowledge of shipping and settlement practices, Nick was certain Bluemantle’s seemingly offhand mention of Bristol had been deliberate and significant.
Nick suddenly noticed, across St. Charles Avenue, Preston Nowell making his way down the steps of Gibbon Hall, the central and largest building of the august granite-faced trio marking the southern boundary of Freret University campus. Yes, even at this distance, in this light, Nick was sure it was Preston Nowell.
Nick had learned some years before from Nelson that the buildings—one of which housed Architecture—were examples of theturn-of-the-century style known as Richardsonian Romanesque. But Gibbon Hall had been given a more descriptive nickname: “the Fortress.”
There was someone else beside Nowell, talking his ear off, it seemed to Nick—a student, a girl. A pretty young woman. Nick remembered: young minds, in the flush of discovery, innocent of the defeats, the cynicism, the backstabbing that awaited them. Not all of the streetlights were on; Nowell and the woman soon sank below the level of obscuring old azaleas.
Nick stopped jogging and walked across the grass to the gates of the park, where he took up an unobtrusive watch.
He knew the Fortress well. The Arts & Sciences dean occupied a spacious set of rooms on the main floor; the rest of the hulking edifice was devoted to history and English classrooms, and A & S senior professors’ offices. Nick recalled with fondness the dank, low-ceilinged basement classrooms where he’d taught various courses. Obviously the indefatigable Nowell had cobbled together a course definition that incorporated genealogy, and had sold his idea to a dean or department head, probably as part of Freret’s public education division, Opportunity College. Not a bad premise, really, genealogy as unifying concept in the study of history, literature, and language.
Nick saw Nowell and the woman clear the azaleas and walk along the sidewalk out of the deeper shadows of the brawny oak trees.
It was Jillian.
Nowell listened to her politely, a strained look of forbearance on his face. A few more yards and they reached Nowell’s Range Rover. A streetcar roared by, bound for downtown, and they were lost to Nick’s view.
When he could see them again, Nowell had his door open, one leg in the rover, trying to extricate himself from the conversation. Finally he nodded his head, and Jillian excitedly brought her hands together to her face, doing a little leap of happiness. Nowell had to grab her arm to keep her from straying into the steady stream of cars and SUVs.
Another streetcar, this one heading toward Carrollton, stopped to load riders. It blocked Nick’s view again. When it rolled slowly away, Nick saw Nowell craning his long neck to check on traffic, and then pull out onto St. Charles. On the door of the rover was the Society emblem.
Jillian must have boarded the streetcar, Nick realized. Yes, there she was, making her way to the back of the car, grabbing bench handles, straps, and poles for balance. She finally reached the rear driver’s area, used when the streetcar reverses course at the end of the line. She stood there, as if driving the rocking green relic forward by gazing behind, navigating in a mirror.
Nick had never noticed that streetcars at night look like illuminated coffins on
CHAPTER 8
T wo bicycles whirred by Nick. He watched them speeding away around the next curve, the riders’ butts and legs pumping, encased in latex of shimmering hummingbird hues.
He was back at the St. Charles Avenue entrance of the park. How many times he’d run around the track he didn’t know. It was dusk now, and at Audubon Zoo almost a mile away toward the wide river, peacocks screeched with instinctive alarm at the approaching darkness, even though the “albino” alligators were safely confined.
Thanks to Nelson Plumlaw and his encyclopedic knowledge of shipping and settlement practices, Nick was certain Bluemantle’s seemingly offhand mention of Bristol had been deliberate and significant.
Nick suddenly noticed, across St. Charles Avenue, Preston Nowell making his way down the steps of Gibbon Hall, the central and largest building of the august granite-faced trio marking the southern boundary of Freret University campus. Yes, even at this distance, in this light, Nick was sure it was Preston Nowell.
Nick had learned some years before from Nelson that the buildings—one of which housed Architecture—were examples of theturn-of-the-century style known as Richardsonian Romanesque. But Gibbon Hall had been given a more descriptive nickname: “the Fortress.”
There was someone else beside Nowell, talking his ear off, it seemed to Nick—a student, a girl. A pretty young woman. Nick remembered: young minds, in the flush of discovery, innocent of the defeats, the cynicism, the backstabbing that awaited them. Not all of the streetlights were on; Nowell and the woman soon sank below the level of obscuring old azaleas.
Nick stopped jogging and walked across the grass to the gates of the park, where he took up an unobtrusive watch.
He knew the Fortress well. The Arts & Sciences dean occupied a spacious set of rooms on the main floor; the rest of the hulking edifice was devoted to history and English classrooms, and A & S senior professors’ offices. Nick recalled with fondness the dank, low-ceilinged basement classrooms where he’d taught various courses. Obviously the indefatigable Nowell had cobbled together a course definition that incorporated genealogy, and had sold his idea to a dean or department head, probably as part of Freret’s public education division, Opportunity College. Not a bad premise, really, genealogy as unifying concept in the study of history, literature, and language.
Nick saw Nowell and the woman clear the azaleas and walk along the sidewalk out of the deeper shadows of the brawny oak trees.
It was Jillian.
Nowell listened to her politely, a strained look of forbearance on his face. A few more yards and they reached Nowell’s Range Rover. A streetcar roared by, bound for downtown, and they were lost to Nick’s view.
When he could see them again, Nowell had his door open, one leg in the rover, trying to extricate himself from the conversation. Finally he nodded his head, and Jillian excitedly brought her hands together to her face, doing a little leap of happiness. Nowell had to grab her arm to keep her from straying into the steady stream of cars and SUVs.
Another streetcar, this one heading toward Carrollton, stopped to load riders. It blocked Nick’s view again. When it rolled slowly away, Nick saw Nowell craning his long neck to check on traffic, and then pull out onto St. Charles. On the door of the rover was the Society emblem.
Jillian must have boarded the streetcar, Nick realized. Yes, there she was, making her way to the back of the car, grabbing bench handles, straps, and poles for balance. She finally reached the rear driver’s area, used when the streetcar reverses course at the end of the line. She stood there, as if driving the rocking green relic forward by gazing behind, navigating in a mirror.
Nick had never noticed that streetcars at night look like illuminated coffins on
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