Thomas entered. The crib held something that resembled his father more than his son: a wizened, arthritic creature of perhaps eighty, with milky eyes, a bald spotted head, and a feeble, rasping cry. "He is deformed," the doctor whispered. "Some children are born old. It's a condition of the blood."
"Excuse me," he said. "Do I know you?"
As the hands spun counterclockwise, Gateau whispered, "I made it so the boys who died might live again. So they might come home, plow their fields, marry, have children." No one had the heart to fix it. And so time, in New Orleans at least, seemed to flow the wrong way.
Thomas entered. The crib held something that resembled his father more than his son: a wizened, arthritic creature of perhaps eighty, with milky eyes, a bald spotted head, and a feeble, rasping cry. "He is deformed," the doctor whispered. "Some children are born old. It's a condition of the blood."
"Excuse me," he said. "Do I know you?"
As the hands spun counterclockwise, Gateau whispered, "I made it so the boys who died might live again. So they might come home, plow their fields, marry, have children." No one had the heart to fix it. And so time, in New Orleans at least, seemed to flow the wrong way.