The Egyptologist's Dream

The Egyptologist’s Dream

-P. C. Bland-

Ernest listened to the sleet plinking against the glass of the upper half of the library’s front door. He was trying to decide whether to catch the bus or take the chance the storm would diminish by the time the library closed and then walk home as usual. From the hollow sound of the wind and its direction, it seemed as though the storm wasn’t likely to let up anytime soon. He had his hand on the door when someone walked up behind him.

“Are you waiting for a ride, Mr. Alwin?” The voice was that of Constance Peabody, the second assistant librarian.

“Nope,” he said, turning to her. She was so much shorter than him. Ernest often found himself dipping his head to speak with her, as he did now. “I was just psyching myself up to go out in this weather.”

“It is pretty bad. Mrs. Fleischer asked me to check the halls because she’s closing early.”

“In that case I think I made the right call to take the bus. Thanks again for tracking down those bibliographies for me.” He turned up his collar and pushed open the heavy oak door.

* * *

“Don’t you have a hat?” Constance asked as he stepped outside, but her voice was carried back to her by the wind. He opened his telescopic guide cane with a deft flip of the wrist and hiked down the sidewalk, sweeping the cane before him. He visited the library nearly every other week, taking the bus from Monaca Community College where he taught American history. The first several times she’d assisted him she’d simply retrieved some reference books in braille. But today he’d been searching for a novel.

“By title or author?” she’d asked.

“Neither.”

“That makes it a little trickier. Subject?”

“Egypt, I guess. It’s a new mystery. The chairman of the history department recommended it.”

“It’s probably The Egyptologist’s Dream. That author is noted for her historical accuracy. We don’t have it on audio yet, but we get most of them within six months of their release. I’ll let you know as soon as it’s available.”

“Even if takes six months, Ms. Peabody?”

“Yes. I’m very conscientious, Mr. Alwin, and ancient history is a special interest of mine.”

“Is it now?” he’d said. Then he’d smiled at her. No, he’d grinned at her, which had kind of thrown her, and she’d fumbled a sheaf of papers to the floor. As she’d knelt to gather them Mr. Alwin had knelt right along with her, retrieving one of the papers from beneath the counter.

* * *

Ernest waited at the bus stop, tented beneath his jacket which he’d pulled up over his head, his backpack resting upon his feet and against his shins. He poked his head from beneath his jacket and listened for the bus. Nothing. His wristwatch beeped four o’clock. The bus was late. Very late. Ernest surrendered his head to the cold, zipped up his jacket, shouldered his backpack and started home. If he heard the bus coming, he’d flag it down. The temperature was dropping, and the streets and sidewalks were starting to glaze. He wondered if the library had closed yet. If not, Constance Peabody and her colleagues would be skating home by the time they left.

When he had asked for her today at the reference desk, she’d been on break. Seizing opportunity, Ernest trekked downstairs to the cafeteria and asked for the manager. Always a willing conspirator when it came to women, Rob gave him the lowdown on Constance Peabody. “About five-foot-five. Shiny brown, shoulder-length hair. She’s a little younger than you; late twenties, I’d say. Slender, but kind of curvy. A little pinched looking, but that’s because of her conservative suits,” he opined. “Not what I’d call typically pretty, but definitely attractive. She’s sitting alone reading, no food, no beverage.”

Ernest ordered two lattes. Rob put them on a cardboard cup carrier and rang him up. “Go straight ahead until you get to the trash bin on your right, then take a left. She’s two tables in on the right.” Ernest guided himself through the cafeteria and past the first table. Constance Peabody welcomed him at the second table, a smile evident in her voice.

* * *

Approaching him where he’d stood by the main entrance earlier this afternoon, Constance had known from some distance that it was Mr. Alwin, even though his back had been turned toward her; his shoulders were wide. When she’d helped him on one of the last summer-like days of fall, he’d been wearing dark blue Levis and a steel-grey polo shirt. As he reached forward to pick up the braille volumes he’d requested, his biceps flexed against his shirt’s short sleeves. Constance had suddenly realized that his body was possibly as well constructed as those she saw on packages of men’s underwear, though heaven knew she didn’t ogle.

Before switching off her computer for the night, she logged onto the Internet to get the weather report. The local news reported innumerable accidents, and downtown was gridlocked. She accessed the library’s customer information app and jotted down Mr. Alwin’s address.

* * *

Ernest had nestled his students’ term papers for his class on the American Revolution in the middle of his backpack. He was interested in finding out what they contained. He’d titled his class “How the British Fomented Revolution by Blowing Off the Colonists.” It was structured as a mix of history, political science, and sociology. His class was replete with guest speakers, field trips, and a lab featuring role-playing. Dressed in period-authentic costumes (courtesy of the theater department) his students fell readily into character. In just three years it had become one of the most popular classes on campus. It was fun, yet the underpinning was serious. His intent was to demonstrate that ideological disparity was seldom, if ever, the sole source of disaffection. Sure, he told his poly-sci students, the organization and administration of government are important. But it’s the state of the populace, which stems from the government honoring the rights and welfare of everyone, that fuels the collective will. Abuse that, and you’ve got repression; do it long enough, and you’ve got a revolution.

Was Constance Peabody repressed? This odd thought popped into Ernest’s head as he trudged along the gritty strip of gravel between the slick sidewalk and the spiked iron fence bordering Spring Hill Park. Not politically of course, but she seemed moored to the technical dock at which she worked. Yet he was pretty sure she liked him. She was friendly, laughed readily, and wasn’t physically standoffish. After they’d established some rapport, he’d started accompanying her to the non-public stacks where the braille volumes were shelved. The aisles were so cramped there he couldn’t use his guide cane. She stayed pleasantly close to him, smelling faintly of jasmine, her shoulder bumping the top of his arm. When they needed to change direction, she matter-of-factly told him and took his elbow. But her poise didn’t seem to extend to personal confidence, and Ernest couldn’t help but wonder if — his musing ended as a car pulled alongside him, tooted its horn and stopped.

Constance leaned across her car to the passenger side and opened the door. “It’s Constance Peabody, Mr. Alwin.”

“Ms. Peabody?”

Several blocks behind her, his bus was lumbering down the street. Soon it would be upon them. Driving the extra distance to Mr. Alwin’s apartment in such risky weather was unnecessary. She could, indeed she should, shelter him until the bus arrived, then drive herself straight home. “Would you like a ride?” she blurted.

“You bet!” He scoped out the car’s front passenger side with his cane, tossed his backpack onto the floor, retracted the cane and hopped in. Constance drove carefully down the road, leaving the bus in her wake. She glanced at Mr. Alwin. His shoulders were dark and wet. She invoked a series of controls on the dash and flooded the car with warmth.

“My apartment building is on the northeast corner of Elmside and Meadowbrook. I really appreciate this,” he added, checking on the contents of his backpack. “I’ve got a bunch of term papers in here. If anything happened to them before I got them through my OrCam reader, my students would string me up.” He zipped his backpack and then ran his hands through his wet hair. It stood up straight, up in little spikes. Constance smiled.

After a moment she asked, “I notice you’ve been requesting a lot of material on France recently. Is French history also an interest of yours?”

“Not exactly. I’m working on an article about the Franco-American alliance during the American Revolution, and I’d like to include some anecdotal quotes from the French perspective. I bought a translation program for my computer, but it’s leaving a lot of holes because of the differences between modern and 18th-century French. There’s no way my high school French is going to cut through it.”

Constance summoned her courage. “I have a double major in comparative literature and French. I work three afternoons a week in special services, but I spend most of my time managing the library’s foreign language acquisitions. I might be able to help if you’re interested.”

“Are you kidding? It’s like a dream come true. I’ve got a little grant money so I can pay you for your time, but I’d better warn you, it’s not much. You may end up regretting the offer. You’re into ancient history, right?”

“Yes.” Constance downshifted over a troublesome patch of ice. “I’m surprised you remember.”

“Well, I don’t know many people who are. How’d you get interested?”

“A tenth-grade science fair project of all things. I built a model of a pyramid, which led me to realize how sophisticated the ancient Egyptians were. One thing led to another and pretty soon I started wearing this huge scarab necklace and darkening my eyes with kohl. The other kids took to calling me Queen Nefertiti.”

“Do you resemble Nefertiti?”

Constance glanced at him sharply, but Mr. Alwin wasn’t laughing, nor even smiling.

“No, not in the least. Nefertiti was a great beauty. My classmates bestowed the nickname in a decidedly unfriendly way, I’m afraid. I wanted to stop dressing like that before the end of the school year, but I didn’t know how to do it without appearing to give in. You know how kids can be.”

“I sure do.”

Constance turned onto Elmside and pulled into the apartment’s parking lot. His building was vintage nineteen-twenties, built of substantial dark red brick with stone facing around the recessed entrance.

* * *

Ernest unbuckled his seat belt. “Thanks for the ride.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Alwin. Keep me posted on France.”

“I’ll do that.” He patted the inside of the door, found the handle and before getting out said, “I’d like it very much if you’d call me Ernest.”

“I don’t see why not. And please, call me Constance. The only thing I ask is that you not shorten it to Connie. I’m not a snob I just don’t care for the sound of it.”

“I don’t care much for Ernie, either.” He turned to her. “Constance suits you well. Constancy. Consistency. The constant in an equation.”

She laughed. “I don’t know about that!”

“You are for me. Always present. Always knowledgeable. Always generous with your time.” Ernest slipped off his dark glasses. He sensed her gentle probing of his withered eyes, felt his hand tremble slightly when she took it between both of her own and placed his palm against her cheek. He traced the fine edge of her jawline with his fingertips, grazed her mouth with his thumb, heard a slight quickening in her breathing.

“Constance, I want very much to invite you in, but this isn’t the night,” he said, referencing the sleet with a sideways nod of his head. “Would you join me Saturday for dinner instead? I promise I’m a competent cook.”

“That would be nice.”

“Seven?”

“Seven.”

Ernest got out of the car and retrieved his backpack. “Thanks again for the ride.”

As he reached his building, she called for him to wait. “You forgot your dark glasses,” she said, and came up to him. Ernest thanked her and listened to her footsteps fade as she started back to her car.

“Constance — ” Even as he spoke her name, Ernest knew he had nothing more to say. He stood stupidly in the recessed entryway. After a short pause he heard her retracing her steps to him. She placed a single hand on his chest and raised herself up on her toes. Ernest dipped his head reflexively.

She brushed a kiss across his ear. “Saturday at seven,” she whispered.

END