“No, I didn’t.”
“Of course, today we call ourselves the Faculty of Religious Studies. So, you are interested in the Nicolet family.” She crossed her ankles and settled back. I found the lack of color in her eyes unsettling.
“Yes. I’d particularly like to know where Elisabeth was born and what her parents were doing at the time. Sister Julienne has been unable to locate a birth certificate, but she’s certain the birth was in Montreal. She felt you might be able to lead me to some references.”
“Sister Julienne.” She laughed again, a sound like water running over rocks. Then her face sobered. “There’s been a great deal written about and by members of the Nicolet and Belanger families. Our own library has a rich archive of historic documents. I’m sure you will find many things there. You could also try the Archives of the Province of Quebec, the Canadian Historical Society, and the Public Archives of Canada.” The soft, Southern tones assumed an almost mechanical quality. I was a sophomore on a research project.
“You could check journals such as the
My face must have reflected my thoughts.
“Don’t look so daunted. It just takes time.”
I’d never find enough hours to wade through that volume of material. I decided to try another tack.
“Are you familiar with the circumstances surrounding Elisabeth’s birth?”
“Not really. As I said, that’s not a period for which I’ve done research. I do know who she is, of course, and of her work during the smallpox epidemic of 1885.” She paused a moment, choosing her words carefully. “My work has focused on messianic movements and new belief systems, not on the traditional ecclesiastical religions.”
“In Quebec?”
“Not exclusively.” She circled back to the Nicolets. “The family was well known in its day, so you might find it more interesting to go through old newspaper stories. There were four English language dailies back then, the
“Those would be in the library?”
“Yes. And, of course, there was the French press,
I hadn’t thought of press accounts. Somehow that seemed more manageable.
She explained where the newspapers were stored on microfilm, and promised to draw up a list of sources for me. For a while we spoke of other things. I sated her curiosity about my job. We compared experiences, two female professors in the male-dominated world of the university. Before long a student appeared in the doorway. Jeannotte tapped her watch and held up five fingers, and the young woman disappeared.
We both stood at the same time. I thanked her, slipped on my jacket, hat, and scarf. I was halfway through the door when she stopped me with a question.
“Do you have a religion, Dr. Brennan?”
“I was raised Roman Catholic, but currently I don’t belong to a church.”
The ghostly eyes looked into mine.
“Do you believe in God?”
“Dr. Jeannotte, there are some days I don’t believe in tomorrow morning.”
After I left, I swung by the library and spent an hour browsing the history books, skimming indexes for Nicolet or Belanger. I found several in which one or the other name was listed, and checked them out, thankful I still had faculty privileges.
It was growing dark when I emerged. Snow was falling, forcing pedestrians to walk in the street or follow narrow trails on the sidewalks, carefully placing one foot in front of the other to keep out of the deeper snow. I trudged behind a couple, girl in front, boy behind, his hands resting on her shoulders. Ties on their knapsacks swung back and forth as hips swiveled to keep feet inside the snow-free passage. Now and then the girl stopped to catch a snowflake on her tongue.
The temperature had dropped as daylight had faded, and when I got to the car, the windshield was coated with ice. I dug out a scraper and chipped away, cursing my migratory instincts. Anyone with any sense would be at the beach.
During the short drive home I replayed the scene in Jeannotte’s office, trying to figure out the curious behavior of the teaching assistant. Why had she been so nervous? She seemed in awe of Jeannotte, beyond even the customary deference of an undergraduate. She mentioned her trip to the copy machine three times, yet when I’d met her in the hall she had nothing in her hands. I realized I’d never learned her name.
I thought about Jeannotte. She’d been so gracious, so totally composed, as if used to being in control of any audience. I pictured the penetrating eyes, such a contrast to the tiny body and soft, gentle drawl. She’d made me feel like an undergraduate. Why? Then I remembered. During our conversation Daisy Jean’s gaze didn’t leave my face. Never once did she break eye contact. That and the eerie irises made a disconcerting combination.
I arrived home to find two messages. The first made me mildly anxious. Harry had enrolled in her course and was becoming a guru of modern mental health.
The second sent a chill deep into my soul. I listened, watching snow pile up against my garden wall. The new flakes lay white atop the underlying gray, like newborn innocence on last year’s sins.
“
