Something was definitely wrong because Nick was becoming seriously interested in Georgie’s idea. “I don’t know if you realize it, but Grantham holds its alumni Reunions right before Commencement. So it’s essentially a weeklong college-nostalgia party, where the soon-to-be graduates get to lock arms with their fellow Granthamites, thus building their sense of family and forging contacts for future employment.”
Nick was acutely aware that he was talking as if he was doing voice-over commentary—in addition to regaining feeling in his outer extremities. No wonder Larry’s bundled up like a polar bear, he suddenly realized. He shivered. A mistake, given his recent encounter with the lethal masseur.
“That’s better than perfect,” Georgie responded with enthusiasm. “A blend of past, present and future all rolled into one big happy, highly photogenic package.” He paused. “I presume these alums are your usual crazies—all rah-rah and wearing garish school colors?”
“Oh, wait till you see their school colors,” Nick said knowingly. The totally tasteless Reunions getups that the returning alums donned for the traditional parade and class functions were legendary. Then he eyed his producer. “So tell me. You think this august Ivy League institution is really going to allow my unique commentary on the wild and wacky world of small town, Ivy League customs?”
Clyde, the sound guy, snickered.
“Hey, just because you grew up in London and went to Cambridge, doesn’t mean you can look down on Grantham,” Nick shot back. “I’ve seen the apartment you share with three other guys in Queens. No one in your shoes can even think about looking down their nose.” Speaking of shoes, he was becoming increasingly aware of just how cold he was. He also figured that once he got back to their excuse of a hotel his maimed body would be incapable of removing his own frozen shoes.
“Clyde’s just being Clyde, and as to the permissions? Don’t worry,” Georgie interjected. “I’ll have them in hand before you can say ‘bourbon on the rocks.’” He seemed so gleeful that he began to skip down the frozen road.
In Nick’s critical view, the producer seemed more like some demented munchkin stumbling along some nightmare version of the Yellow Brick Road. Georgie was not exactly svelte, and he barely topped five feet three.
“I love it. I love it,” Georgie said to no one in particular as he continued to lead the little group down the road. Then he stopped and turned to face them. “Just think. You’ll be able to answer the question that burns in the hearts of all college students.” He put his hand to his chest, and if Nick didn’t know better, looked truly earnest.
“What? ‘Will I get laid tonight?’” Nick responded sardonically. Then he shuffled around to stare at Larry since he couldn’t turn his neck. “Don’t you have a bottle of schnapps back at the hotel?”
Georgie cupped his chin in his Gore-Tex-gloved hand. “I was thinking more along the lines of, ‘Is it true that these are the happiest days of my life?’”
Thinking about that question suddenly made Nick feel very depressed, even worse than his usual morose state. “No, the black humor isn’t covering up a mirthful soul,” he once told a cub reporter for some newspaper in Peoria or Saskatchewan—or was it Lubbock? Whatever. “It’s merely the surface of a very angry guy,” he’d concluded before the reporter had quickly shut his notebook and hightailed it out of the hotel room.
“There’s less than a third left in the bottle,” Larry, the cameraman, whined, the tip of his nose having already gone from red to a worrisome ice-white.
“If you’re looking for sympathy, you’re looking at the wrong guy,” Nick retorted. “In fact, if you’re not careful, there’ll be no Christmas bonus in your stocking this year.”
“Hey, I’ve got a bottle of duty-free tequila and a hot-water bottle,” the soundman Clyde bragged in his very plummy accent.
“You British—always ready to sacrifice yourselves for queen and country, or your boss, in this case. But, hey, I’ll take whatever I can get.”
Georgie exhaled through his mouth as he waited for the others to follow. His breath formed clouds in the frigid air and partially obscured his bearded face. “Just think. It’ll be like old home week.”
“Or something like that,” Nick replied sullenly. He looked down absentmindedly, thinking of someone he could maybe call from his Grantham University days. Was it worth contacting an old college friend after more than fifteen years? he wondered. Then the ground came into focus. And for the first time after what seemed like hours of misery, Nick felt a smile cross his face.
Georgie, he noticed, was standing square in the steaming pile left by the horse.
CHAPTER TWO
May
Grantham, New Jersey
PENELOPE BIGELOW HELD the rare second-century manuscript of Galen’s medicinal writings between her white-cotton-gloved hands before placing it in the glass case for display. The Vatican Library had a Latin translation from the Arabic version of the ancient medicinal treatise dating from the eleventh century, but this manuscript in the original ancient Greek had been lost to the West after the fall of Rome, finally resurfacing centuries later. Only someone with a thorough knowledge of ancient and medieval history including Byzantine history, a background in multiple ancient languages, and the trained eye of a paleographer would appreciate the difference between the two versions.
Penelope had all that and more—a Ph.D in Classics and she had studied at the Vatican on a fellowship in Rome ten years ago. While there, she’d also gone through the Apostolic Library’s rigorous two-year course in paleography, the study of ancient handwriting.
Holding the so-called Grantham Galen manuscript in her hands, Penelope could practically feel the power of the ancient scholar and philosopher through the gloves. Galen had been a prolific author, and in his day he was known to have hired more than twenty scribes to take down his potent words. But as she stared at the confident blocklike script, she was almost positive that this manuscript was in Galen’s own handwriting. It was too swiftly written, as if it had been produced in a mad dash of insight.
She read the Greek as swiftly as if it were her mother tongue, though in her case, more her father’s tongue. Stanfield Bigelow was a professor of Classics at Grantham University, and he had made it a personal crusade to homeschool his precocious older child. And it had been he, in fact, who had recovered this lost manuscript and donated it to his alma mater.
The combination of forces—the knowledge that she was holding what might be the original manuscript by the work of an ancient genius and the role that her own father had played in preserving this crucial bit of antiquity—was almost overwhelming. Excited, Penelope felt her mouth start to water.
Don’t be foolish, she chided herself.
“As anyone with even a moderate IQ knows, the overproduction of saliva is attributed to specific physiological or medical conditions. And since I am not a teething infant, nor do I have a fever…” Just to make sure, she felt her forehead with the back of her wrist. “As I thought, normal. Therefore, I can eliminate mononucleosis or tonsillitis as other possible causalities,” she explained to no one in particular.
This type of self-directed conversation was something she tended to do. Her brother, Justin, called it “Penelope’s pontificating mode.” Her father said it was yet another indication of her superior intellect and geniuslike ability to retain facts. Her mother never commented. She was too busy chasing butterflies or spying delicate wildflowers.
Penelope had her own diagnosis, which she kept to herself. Still, it didn’t keep her from lecturing herself.
She lifted her chin and considered her current state further. “The only other causes of sudden drooling that I am aware of are certain medications, poisoning or a reaction to venom transmitted in a snakebite.” She paused. “I wonder if a particularly virulent insect bite could also have a similar eff
ect?”
A young man in a white lab coat on the other side of the exhibition space stopped pushing a cart. “Penelope, did you need me for something?” he asked.
She shook her head and turned to Press. “No, I was just contemplating whether a reaction to an insect bite could induce excess saliva.”
“We once had a chocolate Lab who was stung by a bee and started drooling in reaction,” Press answered as if it were a perfectly normal question.
“I was thinking of the reaction in humans, but I think you make a good point,” Penelope said with a pleased nod.
Conrad Prescott Lodge IV, known as Press, was a senior at Grantham University. He was majoring in biology, with a concentration in paleontology, and while his dream student job would have been to work in a natural history museum, Grantham, alas, lacked such a facility. Given his respect for the fragility, not to mention the importance, of old objects, Penelope had immediately chosen him out of all the applicants for the job of part-time assistant at the university’s Rare Book Library. She had recognized a soul mate when she had asked him about his interest in paleontology and he had launched into a passionate discourse. He eventually stopped when, embarrassed, he realized he’d gone on for almost twenty minutes.
“I’m so sorry,” he had apologized. “I guess I got carried away.”
“No need to be sorry. To be sorry is to express regret for doing something that has upset someone. On the contrary, I found your intense interest illuminating. You may set your mind at ease. The job is yours,” Penelope had announced, followed by the news that she intended to raise his hourly salary by two dollars.
“But I haven’t done anything yet,” Press had protested.
“Oh, but you will. Many things. And by paying you more I just want to ensure that very fact.”
The way he had responded to her query about insect bites just now reaffirmed her initial faith in him.
“I brought over some additional manuscripts for the show,” he said, pointing to the protective boxes lying flat on the shelves of the metal cart. “The illuminated manuscript from the Burgundy, Captain Cooke’s logbook from his voyages in the Pacific and Woodrow Wilson’s love letters to his wife.”
Penelope smiled. The show she was putting together for Grantham University’s main library was comprised of manuscripts held in the university’s Rare Book Library. The show was to run during Reunions and Commencement and, therefore, she had chosen only manuscripts that had been donated by Grantham alumni.
“Thank you, Press. Yes, they’re the ‘warhorses’ of the show, though I must admit…” She gazed at the manuscript in her hands.
Press walked over and stood next to her. Penelope also wore a white lab coat over her clothes, and her strawberry-blond loose curls were twisted to the back of her head. A No. 2 pencil held the unruly mass in place.
“The Grantham Galen?” he asked, on noting what she held. “Now I get why you were asking about bites and stuff.”
Penelope made a face. “Clearly we have been working together too long, and it’s time for you to graduate.”
“Amen,” Press agreed with a praying motion.
Penelope eyed him. “Are you teasing me?”
Press held up his hands. “Would I do that?” He shrugged. “Well, probably. Anyway, you know, you should really give a talk to the alumni about the show, especially the Grantham Galen, what with your book contract and everything,” Press suggested.
“That may be so, but I think it’s better that I don’t. Interaction with people has never been my strong suit.” Penelope was sure that Press knew all about her being terminated as an assistant professor at the University of Chicago when she didn’t get tenure. That career low point had eventually led to her current position as the curator of Grantham’s Rare Book Library.
Penelope laid the priceless manuscript in the display case, locking it and her memories away. Then she glanced at her watch. “Goodness, it’s practically six o’clock. You should get going, or you’ll miss dinner at your Club.”
Press shrugged. “Somehow, I think Lion Inn will go on without my presence for one night.” The Social Clubs at Grantham were the bulwark of the college students’ social life, providing dining facilities besides a continual round of parties and sports leagues. “There’s still a lot of work to be done, and I don’t want you to have to do it all.”
“Nonsense. I’m sure you want to spend your remaining time with your friends. Pretty soon you will graduate, and you will all be going your separate ways.”
Press shrugged. “I guess I’ll miss some people, and I’m sure I’ll enjoy the graduation activities. You remember them, right?”
Actually Penelope couldn’t recall any festivities when she graduated from Grantham, but that was because she hadn’t attended any.
Press carried on without waiting for an answer. “To tell you the truth, though, a part of me is so ready to get out of here. Four years is a long time to be in one place. On top of which, I grew up in Grantham anyway. So even though I’ve lived in the dorms the whole time, it’s really kind of like I never left home. All I want to do now is to get out of here—far, far away.”
At one point, that had been Penelope’s ambition. After all, she, too, had grown up in Grantham. But here she was, back again, doing a job that her family never would have thought was in her future. Not that she didn’t find fulfillment in her current position. But life, as she had found out, didn’t always proceed as planned.
She was about to impart this pearl of wisdom to Press when he blurted out, “I can’t wait to take off for Mongolia. It’ll be amazing, don’t you think? Especially going out into the countryside.”
Penelope smiled and answered, “I think it will be a fascinating venture, especially the sites of recent paleontology discoveries. You must contact the relevant academics in the field. Perhaps I can help? I know a bit of Mongolian, as it turns out.” She recognized what appeared to be astonishment on his face. “What?” she asked. She was never quite sure if she was gauging body language correctly.
“You know Mongolian?” Press asked.
“Just a smattering. I was interested in languages written in the Cyrillic alphabet at one point. Standard Khlakha Mongolian, the dialect spoken in Mongolia proper, as opposed to the autonomous Inner Mongolian region of China…” Penelope stopped, noticing a certain fog settle over Press’s expression.
She waved her hand dismissively. “There I go, off in my own little world. I told you I was no good with social interactions. Now, as for staying—there’s absolutely no need. I’ll be working on the installation for several days. Furthermore, I am very keen for you to go to Lion Inn tonight because, if memory serves me correctly, it is Beer Pong night. You must promise to give me a full rendition of the competition. I am very much interested in the sociological aspects of the game, with the idea of establishing an anthropological link to Roman drinking games.”
Actually she had almost no interest in Beer Pong. But perhaps in telling this little white lie she was exhibiting a certain sensitivity to social interactions. At least she was trying.
CHAPTER THREE
June
Grantham
NICK RAISED HIS GLASS of red wine. “To old college ties,” he toasted. “With an emphasis on the old.” He took a large sip of the Australian shiraz.
“Speak for yourself,” his host, Justin Bigelow, replied. Justin and his wife, Lilah Evans, who was also a Grantham University classmate, lived in a modest one-bedroom apartment in the center of Grantham. They called it home when they were in the States, but spent much of their time in Africa on behalf of Lilah’s nonprofit organization. Back in her senior year at Grantham, Lilah had founded Sisters for Sisters to help women and children in the central African country of Congo. Now, eleven years later, it was going strong, providing health-and-ed
ucational services in rural settlements.
“Lilah and I are as youthful as ever,” Justin chided him.
“Speak for yourself,” Lilah piped up.
“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with getting older. I earned my gray hairs,” Nick announced grandly.
“If you’re going to claim they’re a mark of hard-earned maturity and wisdom, don’t even try. No one with even a smattering of fully functioning brain cells would have submitted to that crazy massage.” Justin chuckled. “I loved that episode.”
“Glad to oblige.” Nick took another sip. He had lived to regret that episode in more ways than one. Not only was his neck perpetually out of whack, but people who met him for the first time inevitably brought up the massage debacle. The price of being semifamous, he told himself.
“Even back in college when you were my Residential Advisor, you were not exactly a role model. Not that I didn’t enjoy myself, of course. I still remember you orchestrating all us freshmen advisees in stealing the clapper from Grantham Hall.”
It was a well-known tradition for students to try to steal the clapper from the bell tower atop the administration building in the center of campus. This centuries-old battle between the students and the administration had led to some epic adventures and even more epic tales.
“Excuse me. I did a good job. Did you guys get caught? Hell, no. Not on my watch,” Nick boasted, and took another gulp. He really should slow down, but then, hey, he wasn’t driving. He barely needed to roll down a gentle hill to get back to his hotel.
Then there was the irritating fact that despite the easy manner with which Justin had invited him to dinner on his first night back to Grantham, he wasn’t feeling all that relaxed. There was something about returning to the scene of his first big screwup—not finishing college—that had a disquieting effect. All those parental dreams that he had squashed without a second thought.
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