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Authors: Pamela Binnings Ewen
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couldn't stand to even think of it.
Resolved to put memories of Phillip behind her, Amalise planted her hands on the wheel and headed for the Quarter. As she turned onto Chartres, the narrow, well-lit street stretched ahead of her like a brightly colored ribbon running toward Jackson Square. A lone violinist played on the corner, and she rolled her window down, listening to the music and the sounds of the Quarter. She smiled, and on a whim she drove on past the hotel down to Esplanade at the downriver edge of the Vieux Carré and entered the Faubourg Marigny. She turned north on Frenchmen and drove slowly past the cafés, bars, restaurants, some of the best jazz bistros in the world.
Music permeated the entire area. On this balmy evening, locals lounged around sidewalk tables, many with their dogs. Amalise drove past homes where friends and families hunkered on stoops. They glanced up with friendly looks as she passed.
As she cruised through the old neighborhood, it slowly sunk in that all of this was marked for destruction by Murdoch's project and that she was a part of that destruction. Her hands tightened on the wheel. She told herself that it was just her job, that the world would continue to turn as it always does. She told herself that change was inevitable, that Black Diamond would provide jobs and badly needed tourist dollars.
Many streets beginning in the French Quarter crossed into the Marigny—Royal, Burgundy, Dauphine. She crossed Royal and found herself at Washington Square Park, a pretty, grassy area with spreading trees, enclosed by black iron fencing. The park occupied a small city block bordering Elysian Fields. Green iron plants and ginger clumped along the fence, forming dense, shadowy places where children like to play and hide. Secret places. The park was empty in the twilight, and shadows deepened beyond the amber glow thrown by the old street lamps.
Was this park included in Murdoch's project area? She didn't recall.
On Kerlerec Street, half a block from Frenchmen, she slowed in front of a large two-storied house where children played in the fenced front yard. The home was pleasant looking, even though the porch and window sills sagged a bit and the paint had washed out over the years to a mere impression of green.
Watching the children, she let the engine idle, smiling, feeling again that freedom a child senses at dusk when light no longer marks time and dew forms on the grass. A pretty little girl sitting on a rope swinging from a live oak tree in the yard looked up, caught her eye, and waved. Amalise waved back. The tree was an old-growth treasure, its girth wide enough to mark several hundred years. She wondered if Murdoch would let it live.
Closer to the fence, two small boys played around the tree's bulky roots, engrossed in a grid of sticks and miniature cars. There was a fourth child on the porch, a small boy standing alone at the top of the steps. Leaning against a wooden column, he stood and watched the other children play.
Murdoch's nameless agents would purchase this house, along with all the others on this street. Bulldozers would tear down the swing and level the place where the children played in the dirt under the tree. She ducked her head, suddenly stricken by the personal impact of Project Black Diamond. She shouldn't have come here, she realized.
Seven o'clock bells chimed from St. Francis Seelos, St. Mary's, and the Cathedral of St. Louis at Jackson Square. Suddenly light flooded the yard. A woman appeared on the porch, calling for the children to come inside.
Amalise drove on. Eyes straight ahead, she told herself that Bingham Murdoch's hotel was good for the firm, good for the city, and good for her own career. The plight of that family was not her problem to solve. If she'd learned one thing from her marriage to Phillip, it was that attempts to fix other people's problems generally prove futile. Besides, the project had already taken on a life of its own. The opinions
Resolved to put memories of Phillip behind her, Amalise planted her hands on the wheel and headed for the Quarter. As she turned onto Chartres, the narrow, well-lit street stretched ahead of her like a brightly colored ribbon running toward Jackson Square. A lone violinist played on the corner, and she rolled her window down, listening to the music and the sounds of the Quarter. She smiled, and on a whim she drove on past the hotel down to Esplanade at the downriver edge of the Vieux Carré and entered the Faubourg Marigny. She turned north on Frenchmen and drove slowly past the cafés, bars, restaurants, some of the best jazz bistros in the world.
Music permeated the entire area. On this balmy evening, locals lounged around sidewalk tables, many with their dogs. Amalise drove past homes where friends and families hunkered on stoops. They glanced up with friendly looks as she passed.
As she cruised through the old neighborhood, it slowly sunk in that all of this was marked for destruction by Murdoch's project and that she was a part of that destruction. Her hands tightened on the wheel. She told herself that it was just her job, that the world would continue to turn as it always does. She told herself that change was inevitable, that Black Diamond would provide jobs and badly needed tourist dollars.
Many streets beginning in the French Quarter crossed into the Marigny—Royal, Burgundy, Dauphine. She crossed Royal and found herself at Washington Square Park, a pretty, grassy area with spreading trees, enclosed by black iron fencing. The park occupied a small city block bordering Elysian Fields. Green iron plants and ginger clumped along the fence, forming dense, shadowy places where children like to play and hide. Secret places. The park was empty in the twilight, and shadows deepened beyond the amber glow thrown by the old street lamps.
Was this park included in Murdoch's project area? She didn't recall.
On Kerlerec Street, half a block from Frenchmen, she slowed in front of a large two-storied house where children played in the fenced front yard. The home was pleasant looking, even though the porch and window sills sagged a bit and the paint had washed out over the years to a mere impression of green.
Watching the children, she let the engine idle, smiling, feeling again that freedom a child senses at dusk when light no longer marks time and dew forms on the grass. A pretty little girl sitting on a rope swinging from a live oak tree in the yard looked up, caught her eye, and waved. Amalise waved back. The tree was an old-growth treasure, its girth wide enough to mark several hundred years. She wondered if Murdoch would let it live.
Closer to the fence, two small boys played around the tree's bulky roots, engrossed in a grid of sticks and miniature cars. There was a fourth child on the porch, a small boy standing alone at the top of the steps. Leaning against a wooden column, he stood and watched the other children play.
Murdoch's nameless agents would purchase this house, along with all the others on this street. Bulldozers would tear down the swing and level the place where the children played in the dirt under the tree. She ducked her head, suddenly stricken by the personal impact of Project Black Diamond. She shouldn't have come here, she realized.
Seven o'clock bells chimed from St. Francis Seelos, St. Mary's, and the Cathedral of St. Louis at Jackson Square. Suddenly light flooded the yard. A woman appeared on the porch, calling for the children to come inside.
Amalise drove on. Eyes straight ahead, she told herself that Bingham Murdoch's hotel was good for the firm, good for the city, and good for her own career. The plight of that family was not her problem to solve. If she'd learned one thing from her marriage to Phillip, it was that attempts to fix other people's problems generally prove futile. Besides, the project had already taken on a life of its own. The opinions
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