knowledge and processes of Centsurety’s
world-altering discovery, and worst of all, Elena herself had been
lost to him in the explosion which destroyed the lab.
As he had a thousand times over the last
fifty years, Fflowers clamped his jaws tight to keep from
wailing.
By the time Jack and Prissi had their turn,
Joshua Fflowers had recovered enough of his equanimity that he
could do his Midas and Merlin imitations without a misstep.
From two steps away, the girl, whom Jack
introduced as Prissi Langue, even more closely resembled Elena—the
slight epicanthal folds that gave the eyes their almond shape, the
almond theme continued with the Shoshone skull, the slight creases,
eczema markers, under the Venus-bright eyes, the long neck, an
elegant stem for what Fflowers suspected would be a head
overflowing with intelligence and derring-do. The girl was so much
like Elena that he had a barely resistible urge to ask her to take
off her shoes to see if she had elongated toes with the little ones
turned nearly sideways.
Joshua Fflowers held his grandson’s hand as
Jack introduced Prissi.
“Mz. Langue, my pleasure. Have you a
chaperone to protect yourself from my Jack of all traits, bad
traits?”
When the old man winked at her, Prissi felt
an instant freedom. She shook her head, “No, sir. No chaperone.
Just my rapier tongue and Dutton’s shield of honor.”
The old man growled in pleasure like a dog
getting its ears scratched. He felt like he had been yanked back
eighty years to those halcyon days when Elena Howe and he first met
as post-doc students at Cold Spring Harbor.
Joshua Fflowers had rarely slept when he was
a young man. He had felt that he had no time to waste in sleep.
But, he had spent thousands upon thousands of hours in bed thinking
and, in a whisper, recording those thoughts into his mypod with the
serenely sleeping Elena alongside. In those hours, as he had
studied her face in the silver of moon-glow or the amber of street
light, he had done what he considered to be his best thinking—how
to give freedom to humankind and how to cripple those who stood in
his way. As he had thought the thoughts that changed the world, he
had studied Elena’s face pore by porcelain pore. Now, from a meter
away, Fflowers had no doubt that by some mystery, which he swore he
would unravel, the face before him, this wonderful, wily,
intrigued, intriguing, bright, never to be expected face, was,
somehow, protein of Elena’s protein.
“Langue? Are you French? Langue is French for
tongue and the root of the word language.”
“No, sir. I’m from Africa. No French there in
quite awhile.”
The old man tipped his head as he considered
that piece of information.
“And how did you end up at Dutton? Are you a
legacy student?”
“No, sir. My mother died and my father moved
us to New York. After we were here awhile, he decided that I could
get a better education if I went to boarding school.”
Jack interjected, “Well that’s true…if you’re
smart enough to go to the right boarding school.”
Joshua Fflowers held up a hand to stop Jack,
“And, are you getting a better education?’
Prissi nodded her head vigorously, “Dr.
Smarkzy is one of my teachers.”
“Then, you are. Then, you certainly are.”
As he continued to talk to Jack and the girl,
Joshua Fflowers could feel the force of the receiving line grow,
like water building behind a dam. On a powerful whim, he decided he
could get to the institute even later than he already was going to
be. Organ preservation had come a long way. He asked Jack and
Prissi to have dinner with him. When the girl declined, saying that
she had to get back to Dutton, the centenarian felt the rejection
as sharply as a high school boy.
A minute later the teenerz said their
goodbyes—Jack with a hug and the girl with a wide, but enigmatic
smile—and hurried off. Once they were gone, a distracted Joshua
Fflowers hurriedly fed the egos of the rest of the hungering
parade.
As
world-altering discovery, and worst of all, Elena herself had been
lost to him in the explosion which destroyed the lab.
As he had a thousand times over the last
fifty years, Fflowers clamped his jaws tight to keep from
wailing.
By the time Jack and Prissi had their turn,
Joshua Fflowers had recovered enough of his equanimity that he
could do his Midas and Merlin imitations without a misstep.
From two steps away, the girl, whom Jack
introduced as Prissi Langue, even more closely resembled Elena—the
slight epicanthal folds that gave the eyes their almond shape, the
almond theme continued with the Shoshone skull, the slight creases,
eczema markers, under the Venus-bright eyes, the long neck, an
elegant stem for what Fflowers suspected would be a head
overflowing with intelligence and derring-do. The girl was so much
like Elena that he had a barely resistible urge to ask her to take
off her shoes to see if she had elongated toes with the little ones
turned nearly sideways.
Joshua Fflowers held his grandson’s hand as
Jack introduced Prissi.
“Mz. Langue, my pleasure. Have you a
chaperone to protect yourself from my Jack of all traits, bad
traits?”
When the old man winked at her, Prissi felt
an instant freedom. She shook her head, “No, sir. No chaperone.
Just my rapier tongue and Dutton’s shield of honor.”
The old man growled in pleasure like a dog
getting its ears scratched. He felt like he had been yanked back
eighty years to those halcyon days when Elena Howe and he first met
as post-doc students at Cold Spring Harbor.
Joshua Fflowers had rarely slept when he was
a young man. He had felt that he had no time to waste in sleep.
But, he had spent thousands upon thousands of hours in bed thinking
and, in a whisper, recording those thoughts into his mypod with the
serenely sleeping Elena alongside. In those hours, as he had
studied her face in the silver of moon-glow or the amber of street
light, he had done what he considered to be his best thinking—how
to give freedom to humankind and how to cripple those who stood in
his way. As he had thought the thoughts that changed the world, he
had studied Elena’s face pore by porcelain pore. Now, from a meter
away, Fflowers had no doubt that by some mystery, which he swore he
would unravel, the face before him, this wonderful, wily,
intrigued, intriguing, bright, never to be expected face, was,
somehow, protein of Elena’s protein.
“Langue? Are you French? Langue is French for
tongue and the root of the word language.”
“No, sir. I’m from Africa. No French there in
quite awhile.”
The old man tipped his head as he considered
that piece of information.
“And how did you end up at Dutton? Are you a
legacy student?”
“No, sir. My mother died and my father moved
us to New York. After we were here awhile, he decided that I could
get a better education if I went to boarding school.”
Jack interjected, “Well that’s true…if you’re
smart enough to go to the right boarding school.”
Joshua Fflowers held up a hand to stop Jack,
“And, are you getting a better education?’
Prissi nodded her head vigorously, “Dr.
Smarkzy is one of my teachers.”
“Then, you are. Then, you certainly are.”
As he continued to talk to Jack and the girl,
Joshua Fflowers could feel the force of the receiving line grow,
like water building behind a dam. On a powerful whim, he decided he
could get to the institute even later than he already was going to
be. Organ preservation had come a long way. He asked Jack and
Prissi to have dinner with him. When the girl declined, saying that
she had to get back to Dutton, the centenarian felt the rejection
as sharply as a high school boy.
A minute later the teenerz said their
goodbyes—Jack with a hug and the girl with a wide, but enigmatic
smile—and hurried off. Once they were gone, a distracted Joshua
Fflowers hurriedly fed the egos of the rest of the hungering
parade.
As
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