An Unfinished Season
“We were sitting in the living room of the Brules’ third-floor apartment, the failing sun casting long shadows in Lincoln Park. The crowns of the trees in the park seemed close enough to touch through the open windows. Dr. Brule was fussing at the cocktail table, breaking ice into a bucket, cutting lemons, and inspecting the bottles. He had poured a scotch for me and a Dubonnet for Aurora and now he was uncertain what to prepare for himself. He had greeted us in the foyer and after kissing his d...aughter had said, Hello, Wils, without any introduction from her, motioning for us to follow him into the living room. He was dressed casually in khakis and a faded green polo shirt. His feet were bare. I did not recognize him at first without his tuxedo. Aurora had excused herself and now we were alone, Dr. Brule at his drinks table and me on the long couch, the walls crowded with abstract paintings and a sculpture I recognized as one of Brancusi’s birds in flight. The room had the look of a professor’s parlor, academic journals on the coffee table, the couch well-worn, the far wall thick with books floor to ceiling with a sliding ladder to reach the high shelves.MoreLess
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