second trowel dive the large cauldron began to produce. Sticks. Beads. Necklaces. Feathers. Iron objects, including railroad spikes, horseshoes, and the head of a hoe. Pennies, the legible dates ranging from the sixties to the eighties.
I checked the clock. Five fifty-five. Choice. Drive home to shower and blow-dry? Sift on, toilette here, and meet Katy wet-headed?
I resumed digging and screening.
Six ten. My trowel struck something hard. As with the brain matter, I shifted to quarrying with my fingers.
A brown button appeared. I burrowed around it. The button became a mushroom, cap on top, thick-stemmed below. The cap was dimpled by one smal pit.
Uh-oh.
I folowed the stem.
Larabee opened the door, spoke. I answered, not realy listening. He moved in beside me.
The stem angled from a tubular base shooting horizontaly across the cauldron. I dug, estimating length and, as contour emerged, diameter.
Within minutes, I could see that the tube ended in two round prominences, condyles for articulation in a bipedal knee.
“That’s a femur,” Larabee said.
“Yes.” I felt a neural hum of excitement.
“Human?”
“Yes.” I was flipping dirt like a ratter scratching at a burrow.
A second button appeared.
“There’s another underneath.” Larabee continued his play-by-play. “Also lying sideways, head up, but oriented in the opposite direction.”
I glanced at the clock.
Six forty-two.
“Crap.”
“What?”
“I have to meet my daughter in twenty minutes.”
Grabbing my cel, I dialed Katy.
No answer. I tried her mobile. Got voice mail.
“Let this go until morning,” Larabee said. “I’l secure everything.”
“You’re sure?”
“Scram.”
I raced to the locker room.
Fortunately, I didn’t have far to go.
Since high school, Volare has been Katy’s favorite eatery. In those days the restaurant was housed in a Providence Road strip mal, in space that alowed but a dozen tables.
Several years back, the owners relocated to a larger, freestanding building in Elizabeth, the Queen City’s only neighborhood named for a woman. Irony there?
Here’s the scoop. In 1897 Charles B. King picked Charlotte as the site for a smal Lutheran colege, and named the school in honor of his mother-in-law, Anne Elizabeth Watts. Smooth move, Charlie.
In 1915, Elizabeth Colege moved to Virginia. In 1917, a fledgling hospital purchased the property. Almost a century later, the original building is gone, but the Presbyterian Hospital complex occupying the site is massive.
Bottom line. The colege split, but the name stuck. Today, in addition to Presby, Independence Park, and Central Piedmont Community Colege, Elizabeth is home to a hodgepodge of medical offices, cafés, galeries, resale shops, and, of course, churches and tree-shaded old homes.
At 7:10, I puled to the curb on Elizabeth Avenue. Yep. The old gal also scored a street name.
Hurrying to the door, I felt a twinge of regret. Sure, it’s now easier to reserve a table at Volare, but the intimacy of the smaler venue is gone. Nevertheless, the food stil rocks.
Katy was at a back table, sipping red wine and talking to a waiter. The guy looked captivated. Nothing new. My daughter has that effect on those who pee standing.
I thought of Pete as I often did when I saw her. With wheat blond hair and jade green eyes, Katy is a genetic ricochet of her father. I am reminded of the resemblance when I see either one.
Katy waved. The waiter yammered on.
“Sorry I’m late.” Sliding into a chair. “No excuse.”
Katy arched one carefuly groomed brow. “Nice ’do.”
I was hearing that a lot lately.
“Who knew the wet look was coming back?”
The waiter asked if I’d like a beverage.
“Perrier with lime. Lots of ice.”
He looked at Katy.
“She’s an alkie.” My daughter has many endearing qualities. Tact is not among them. “But I’l have another Pinot.”
The waiter set off, charged with a papal command.
Katy and I ignored the menus. We
I checked the clock. Five fifty-five. Choice. Drive home to shower and blow-dry? Sift on, toilette here, and meet Katy wet-headed?
I resumed digging and screening.
Six ten. My trowel struck something hard. As with the brain matter, I shifted to quarrying with my fingers.
A brown button appeared. I burrowed around it. The button became a mushroom, cap on top, thick-stemmed below. The cap was dimpled by one smal pit.
Uh-oh.
I folowed the stem.
Larabee opened the door, spoke. I answered, not realy listening. He moved in beside me.
The stem angled from a tubular base shooting horizontaly across the cauldron. I dug, estimating length and, as contour emerged, diameter.
Within minutes, I could see that the tube ended in two round prominences, condyles for articulation in a bipedal knee.
“That’s a femur,” Larabee said.
“Yes.” I felt a neural hum of excitement.
“Human?”
“Yes.” I was flipping dirt like a ratter scratching at a burrow.
A second button appeared.
“There’s another underneath.” Larabee continued his play-by-play. “Also lying sideways, head up, but oriented in the opposite direction.”
I glanced at the clock.
Six forty-two.
“Crap.”
“What?”
“I have to meet my daughter in twenty minutes.”
Grabbing my cel, I dialed Katy.
No answer. I tried her mobile. Got voice mail.
“Let this go until morning,” Larabee said. “I’l secure everything.”
“You’re sure?”
“Scram.”
I raced to the locker room.
Fortunately, I didn’t have far to go.
Since high school, Volare has been Katy’s favorite eatery. In those days the restaurant was housed in a Providence Road strip mal, in space that alowed but a dozen tables.
Several years back, the owners relocated to a larger, freestanding building in Elizabeth, the Queen City’s only neighborhood named for a woman. Irony there?
Here’s the scoop. In 1897 Charles B. King picked Charlotte as the site for a smal Lutheran colege, and named the school in honor of his mother-in-law, Anne Elizabeth Watts. Smooth move, Charlie.
In 1915, Elizabeth Colege moved to Virginia. In 1917, a fledgling hospital purchased the property. Almost a century later, the original building is gone, but the Presbyterian Hospital complex occupying the site is massive.
Bottom line. The colege split, but the name stuck. Today, in addition to Presby, Independence Park, and Central Piedmont Community Colege, Elizabeth is home to a hodgepodge of medical offices, cafés, galeries, resale shops, and, of course, churches and tree-shaded old homes.
At 7:10, I puled to the curb on Elizabeth Avenue. Yep. The old gal also scored a street name.
Hurrying to the door, I felt a twinge of regret. Sure, it’s now easier to reserve a table at Volare, but the intimacy of the smaler venue is gone. Nevertheless, the food stil rocks.
Katy was at a back table, sipping red wine and talking to a waiter. The guy looked captivated. Nothing new. My daughter has that effect on those who pee standing.
I thought of Pete as I often did when I saw her. With wheat blond hair and jade green eyes, Katy is a genetic ricochet of her father. I am reminded of the resemblance when I see either one.
Katy waved. The waiter yammered on.
“Sorry I’m late.” Sliding into a chair. “No excuse.”
Katy arched one carefuly groomed brow. “Nice ’do.”
I was hearing that a lot lately.
“Who knew the wet look was coming back?”
The waiter asked if I’d like a beverage.
“Perrier with lime. Lots of ice.”
He looked at Katy.
“She’s an alkie.” My daughter has many endearing qualities. Tact is not among them. “But I’l have another Pinot.”
The waiter set off, charged with a papal command.
Katy and I ignored the menus. We
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