surprising sweetness.
It seems I’ve underestimated this boy. It’s a rare gift to let go of anger so quickly.
God knows I’m no good at that myself.
We reach the intersection of River Road and Crescent Street, and I pull up to the stoplight and put on my turn signal. Pritchard and Carson are on River Road about a mile and a half from here. Bolton has only eighteen thousand people in it, but when Pritchard University is in session that number goes up to nearly twenty-seven thousand. (Carson Conservatory has as enrollment of less than seven hundred, so if you see a college student around town it’s a good bet he attends Pritchard rather than Carson.)
Alex points at the radio. “What’s this music?”
I cock my head and listen. The Brahms sonata finished a few moments ago, and has been replaced by an orchestral work I don’t immediately recognize. I sift through the possibilites and settle on what seems the most likely.
“Shostakovich, I should think. I don’t know this particular piece, but I’m certain it’s something of his.”
He gapes at me. “You’ve never heard it before, but you still know who wrote it?”
“The orchestration gives it away. Listen to those cellos, and to the percussion. It’s definitely Russian, and mid-twentieth century …” I turn up the radio for a few more bars. “Yes. It’s Shostakovich. The humor and pathos simply reek of him.”
He seems impressed. “How can you do that?”
His admiration is endearing. I smile at him. “Any classical musician worth her salt can do the same thing, child. Every well-known composer has a distinctive style, and I’ve been trained to recognize it, that’s all.”
He shakes his head as if he doesn’t believe me. “That’s really cool. I wish I could do that.”
Pritchard’s campus looms up on the right, between the road and the river.
“What’s your first class?” I ask, slowing.
He sighs. “Creative writing.”
“With Caitlin?”
“Yeah. It’s in Higdon Hall.” He becomes self-conscious. “Sorry. I guess you already know where she teaches.”
“Indeed. Higdon Hall has always been closely identified with Caitlin’s reign of terror. She used to put the heads of her foes on spikes outside the main doors, but the administration made her stop for fear of declining enrollment.”
He laughs. “That’s pretty funny.”
I pretend to be amused as well, but I don’t tell him that it’s been years since I’ve been anywhere near my daughter’s domain. Or that my heart is speeding up a great deal at the mere thought of accidentally running into her this morning.
As I pull into the parking lot by the English building, I can see the Mississippi in the distance. Most of the water is frozen on the surface, except for an uneven path down the middle, big enough for tugboats and barges to navigate between the thin black ice reaching out for fifty or sixty yards from each bank toward the center. (This stretch of the Mississippi south of St. Louis is relatively narrow, probably only two or three hundred yards across, and I’ve been told that towns like Bolton run frequent icebreakers between the locks, keeping the river open for local businesses to ferry items back and forth.) Late at night, from anywhere in Bolton, you can hear the foghorns on the barges as they pass by, wailing in the mist like male banshees, but right now nothing is out there but a small flock of geese or ducks, resting together on the ice by the opposite shore.
I step on the brake by the walkway between Higdon Hall and the cafeteria, and the car slides on the ice again and bangs into the curb before I can do anything about it.
Alex tenses in his seat, then turns to face me. He actually rolls his eyes at me and starts to say something.
I shake my finger at him. “Not a word. Not if you know what’s good for you.”
He grins at me as he opens his door. “Okay. Whatever.” He getsout, then leans his head back in before closing the door. “Thanks for