The Ghostwriter of New Orleans by Laura Michaud

Author:Laura Michaud
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Arcadia Publishing Inc.
Published: 2022-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

James

I name the residual that runs around the track Nick because his running form reminds me of Nicholas Johnson on my track team. It’s hard to tell what year “Nick” attended St. Xavier, but Gabriella says that according to a picture and trophy in one of the glass cases in the office, he was coached by Coach Parker in the 1950s. He does have the neat, short, slicked-back hair that seems like it would have been popular during that time period. There are others that appear from time to time too, but I didn’t name them. A couple of football players. Another coach.

I name Nick because I’ve started to enjoy the short bursts of running with him in the morning. I don’t bother with the spikes and the uniform; it’s just a few minutes to myself every day before I go to the library to check the book. I love going through the routine of stretching as Coach Parker paces and barks at Nick without making a sound. Then I line up next to him on the track and focus.

And Nick is fast. A sprinter. 400 meters. I like to glance over at the murky image of him when we line up. His pale eyes have laser beam focus.

“Good luck,” I say, even though it’s always unacknowledged. And then we’re off. I’ve almost beaten him twice.

This rainy morning it is hard to see the faint figures of Nick and Coach Parker against the gray background of the sky. Nick’s focus when he lines up is unchanged. He takes his stance. Coach Parker wrings his hands as he always does and then lifts his arm into the air and lowers it quickly to signal the start.

We are off. I’m enjoying the sound of the wind when Nick falls, just collapses onto the track about twenty feet from the finish line.

I slow my pace and stare over my shoulder as the residual clutches at his leg and Coach Parker takes off in a jog towards him. When I stop to turn around and head back towards them, they are gone.

I freeze and stare at the place where they had been, trying to make sense of what I’ve just seen. I’ve never seen them do anything but the exact same thing day after day, and something about it doesn’t feel right. I can’t shake the look of agony on Nick’s face.

I put my hands on my hips and exhale, watch the rain add to the puddles. Then I force myself to continue running. I want to get to the library before the school opens.

When I get there the sun is blazing through the big picture window behind the circulation desk, brightening the place even though all the lights are still off. I grab the book off the shelf, sit down in the aisle, and open it.

“It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in your life.”

When I am done in the library, I decide I need to find Douglas Arsenault and watch him.

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