a fee. What history-altering genealogical secrets hid among this discarded junk? The thrill of discovery would be his, all his!
Now in his office, it took him only a few seconds to realize that something had changed drastically. The place had become a functioning scene of business.
Where was the dark, dank, dusty hole he’d grown used to and fond of? Where were the piles of books and papers? He gawked at unfamiliar chairs, desks, tables, filing cabinets, rugs, plants (healthy plants, at that), all bathed in bright light. The air-conditioning seemed actually to be working as designed; it was crisply cool. The crazy girl had brought chaos to his beloved chaos, which meant order.
“Look what the cat dragged in!” Hawty said cheerily, rounding the corner from the larger room. “I hope you don’t mind. I did a little redecorating. And cleaning. Those nice men downstairs moved a few things in from some abandoned offices and storerooms. They said no one plans to use this stuff–you know, the building’s almost empty–so we might as well have it. Oh, and I bought a few plants; there was a big sale on campus.”
Nick hadn’t paid much attention to Hawty’s quiet activities the past few days; he’d been in and out of the office, as usual preoccupied by genealogical quandaries and his own life’s failures. He’d asked her to read several introductory genealogy texts. When he bothered to think about her, she seemed a diligent worker, quite willing to take advice, anxious to stay out of his way until she learned the ropes.
“What’s with all that construction downstairs?” he asked, hoping it was just chance that less than a week ago he’d hired a dynamic disabled woman, and today the place was becoming a model of progressive accessible architecture that somebody was going to have to pay for.
“Well, I, um, just made a few phone calls, offered a suggestion or two, cited a handful of my favorite ordinances…”
Better start packing, he thought, heading for his desk. They would surely be evicted by day’s end.
Hawty had converted Nick’s desk into a strange place occupied by someone with good work habits. The neatness was intimidating. He made a few halfhearted efforts to restore a comforting messiness.
“I worked up a report for you, there on your desk…boss.” She smiled broadly as she said the word. “I did find a few Balzars in Natchitoches. And three good places to look for original records: the parish library, Northcentral College, and a private collection at an old plantation.”
“What about the courthouse?”
“Well, I don’t have to mention that, do I? Oh, they’ve made the old courthouse a genealogical center and museum. But it’s mostly microfilms and secondary material you can find here in New Orleans. I have the name of a good bed and breakfast. Natchitoches is a four hour drive at least, you know.”
“Better find me the nearest cheap motel, instead.” What the hell, Nick thought. The old guy would foot the bill; he could afford it. Probably keeps a fortune hidden in his mattress. And then there was Coldbread’s treasure, and Nick’s share of it. Hah!
“Belay that last order,” he said. “Make it a quaint B&B.”
Feeling like a big-shot CEO, he looked over Hawty’s report. No extraneous information, just the facts, in outline form. Commendable.
“One of these current Balzar addresses is near the one in the 1880 census,” Nick said. “Next door, or part of the original house, maybe. Wonder if there’s anything left of old Ivanhoe’s stuff there.” He envisioned trunks of undiscovered material. This Balzar lead looked promising; he’d checked all other parishes, and this was the closest he could come to the surname Balazar.
Hawty was rolling around the office again, zealously attacking the organizational laxity that had resisted her previous efforts.
“No!” Nick shouted. She was about to trash some disintegrating pages. “Don’t throw anything away!”
“These aren’t even yours. They’re from someone who rented here in the forties, for Pete’s sake.”
“Here’s your first lesson in real-life genealogy. The impossible gap, the worst thing a genealogist can confront: that missing bridge to the past that no amount of research is going to repair. Someone, deliberately or inadvertently–or some force of nature, maybe–has destroyed that bridge. And now there’s no getting across. The impossible gap is worse than simply a temporary obstacle, Hawty. It’s more than not knowing where to search next: it’s the awful certainty that there is nowhere left to search.”
“Yeah, but–”
“Once you cut that vital and delicate string to the past, it’s gone. Gone forever. Then the