by JJ Partridge
Until il folgore, the thunderbolt.
It had been a routine faculty cocktail party—one of those where to keep sane you say “okay” and “right” either because you didn’t feel like contributing to tales of holidays abroad, private schools, cars, and campus gossip or because it is pointless to interject any fact, reasoned opinion, or nuance into the conversation without risking the “Carter dialectic.” Two martinis were helping me through the guests’ spurious laughter and discreet checks on the time, when Professor Nadie Winokur challenged an idle point being made about something political and not very important. I knew of her egalitarian views from snatches of prior conversations in similar venues but this time, I found myself really listening and watching as she went on, parrying objections with fervor. When I later engaged her in conversation, the way she responded made me feel better looking and wittier for the effort, even as she disagreed with most everything I said. Way back in my brain, there was a buzz of warning which I ignored: she’s too earnest, a naif in a nasty world, passionate about people and poverty and the avoidance of cruelty to any person or animal—in fact, all hurts that can be averted by money or planning. Besides, too young for me.
It made no difference. Within weeks, we were lovers—tentative lovers, then risk-taking lovers. She frankly admitted that she wanted a mature lover, one who would bind her to himself without choking restraints, who could love her enough to let her ease into a relationship and test its strength. I was all too willing, even as I remained cautious and pragmatic about commitment, especially when confronted by her initial refusal to ignore our markedly different backgrounds and economic circumstances. Over time and not without strain, Nadie—from Prospect Park, Brooklyn, the only child of school teachers who were precinct leaders for New York’s Liberal Party and grandchild of immigrants who brought their socialist ideals from the old country—and I have learned to cope. Her open love and relentless humanity help me accept her penchant for political, social, and psychological analysis for every occasion, and she stopped trying to convert me to her opinions after a mutual admiration developed between Nadie and my devotedly liberal mother. Yet, I feel vulnerable as a schoolboy in a first love because most of the time we live together only on weekends or vacations; in this terribly modern relationship, there is always the danger of a drift to nowhere.
That would be devastating!
* * *
She unclasped our hands and propped herself up to lean into me. Her ripe breasts pressed against me but she didn’t get her expected, and immediate, response. My mind had drifted elsewhere and she sensed it. “Now what?”
In fact, and terribly inappropriately, I was thinking about how you suffocate someone with a pillow, how do you get close enough, how do you keep it on the face when the victim struggles …, and it took a second or two to refocus.
“You’re thinking about your goddamn murder, aren’t you!”
How did she know?
She grabbed a pillow and whacked me squarely, and not particularly playfully, on my head.
“Hey, that hurt!” I fended off the next blow with my forearm. Was she kidding or not? Nadie’s emotions flip so very, very quickly. “And, it isn’t my goddamn murder!”
“You deserve it,” she said in a mock pout. “Any normal man would give up a lot to be between your sheets right now.” She sat up and brought her knees up to her chin, and wrapped her arms around them. I sat up, kissed the back of her neck and ears, and fondled her breasts. She turned to face me and her tongue touched mine. Slowly, she sank back on to the bed and lay still. Her eyes were half closed, her smell enveloped me.
“Still,” I murmured, “Faud and Tuttle ....”
Her eyes ignited and she bolted off the bed.
“I’m teasing,” I said.
Too late; the magic was gone. At the triple mirror, she ran her hands through her hair so it fell over her shoulders and let her nakedness taunt me: her hands went to her breasts and down her slim muscular body, the result of a daily regimen of running and exercise at the Sport Complex and a strict, mostly natural foods, diet. She clasped her hands behind her neck. “If you’re going to go on with this, even lovemaking can wear thin,” she said curtly and left for the bathroom.
What a stupid tease! When will I learn?
She returned to the loft to dress quickly. I stayed in bed, bringing a cotton duvet up to my chin, keeping the peace by being silent until, as she took her sweater off the back of a chair by the bed and put it over her arm, I remembered Reinman. “Geez,” I said, “I forgot to tell you. How’s this for a coincidence? A lawyer from my old law firm visited me. Said that Reinman named me executor of his estate! I can’t believe it!”
She took a step toward the bed, interest in her face. “Are you going to do it?” I explained the time predicament if I refused and she shook her head ruefully. “You do get in the middle of things ..., or is it the muddle of things?”
“Damned if I know,” and I smiled my most winning smile.
She came to stand over me. Her face had softened. “I think it’s time you drove me home.” When I didn’t immediately respond, she leaned over and pulled off my covering. “Well,” she said, “look at you. Pennants flying. Alas, too late. C’mon, laddie, get dressed, you’ve had your dalliance for today.”
“I’m starving. Aren’t you hungry?” I asked. “I—”
She hesitated before she allowed she was and I baked the sole with some Old Bay seasoning and little carrots, and we shared a nice bottle of Orvieto Secco. Not once did we discuss Anne Sullivan, The Stalker, or Reinman.
Not that Anne Sullivan was far from my mind.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Wednesday
Nadie stayed the night; we were up early so that she could get back to her apartment for clothes and prepare for class. There was no time for exercise or my regimen of pool drills. I made espresso and grilled cappicola and provolone on sliced focaccia, drove her to her apartment, came back, showered, and dressed. A glance through the Journal showed that coverage of the Sullivan murder had been relegated to the City section and contained nothing new; demonstrations at the women’s dorms and yesterday’s Faculty Senate meeting merited short items in the wrap-up of The Stalker coverage—again, nothing new. I packed two copies each of Tuttle’s Event Plan for Kingdom’s rally and the insurance coverage memo, and left for my appointment with Danby.
* * *
President’s House is a rambling, ruddy-bricked affair facing Gower Street, with a Victorian porch add-on which begins at its front door and swings around the house on its easterly side to a sculpture garden in the side yard. At eight-thirty, Gower Street was lined with cars parked for the day despite the “two hour max” signs hung on every utility pole. I rang the bell and Martine Danby opened the door, greeting me with an almost inaudible “Hi” as I stepped inside. Her slender figure was hidden by an oversized purple and gold Carter warmup jacket that fell well below her hips; her hair was held back by a white scrunchy, sharpening the soft features of a pleasant, oval face. She gathered a pile of books from the hall table and said “They are in the study” as she swept by me.
I watched her through a window in the doorframe as she crossed Gower Street and started down Carter Street toward the campus. There was often a kind of remoteness about her, something disguised by her politeness and a seriousness that you wouldn’t expect in a first semester junior. When her mother died unexpectedly of cancer only a few months after Danby’s selection as President, Martine had decided, against her father’s wishes, to move out of the dorms and live with him here, where she quickly assumed duties as unofficial hostess at many University functions. She was also, I suspected, her father’s extra eyes and ears on campus.
It was only as I dropped my Burberry on a hall chair that the “they” hit me. “They?” I entered a beige-papered, formal living room and crossed to the door of the study. The voices within stopped at my knock and I entered. The wall of glass windows overlooking the sculpture garden let in a brill
iant light which cast the man on the leather couch facing me in a stark shadow. It took a second for me to discern the face of Jesse Kingdom. In my surprise, I looked quickly around the room to find Charles Danby who was standing off to my right, pouring coffee into a cup from a carafe on a sideboard next to his desk.
“Thanks for coming over,” Danby said. “Coffee?” I declined. He was dressed in dark slacks, pinstriped shirt, and informal floral tie. His chestnut-colored eyes looked directly into mine, his full jaw set, his square face untroubled. He finished pouring and said, “I don’t think you’ve met Jesse Kingdom. Jesse, Alger Temple, my legal counsel.”
He was right, of course; I hadn’t met Kingdom—but I sure as hell had been giving him a lot of thought these past few days! As Danby well knew.
Kingdom stood. Behind him, the sunlight gleamed on the metal shapes of the sculpture garden, giving him a background of shimmers of brilliance. He was handsome and about forty-five, my height, athletically built, dressed in an almost black suit, starched white shirt, and plain blue tie. Above a neck that was at least a size seventeen was a face of large features that radiated self-assurance, at once stern and calm. Like Danby, the grayish curly hair at his temples enhanced his face’s authority; a close-cropped beard sprinkled with white added to a general seriousness. His eyes locked mine as he thrust his hand forward. As I shook it, I managed to say something like “glad to meet you” in a voice that caught my uncertainty.
Kingdom returned to his seat and I sat across from him in an armchair; Danby took his cup to an upholstered club chair that permitted him to face both of us. Maybe as a mediator, I thought. “Jesse doesn’t even drink coffee,” he said lightly. “No bad habits, probably.”
Kingdom laughed in a self-deprecating manner. “I could give you my standard ‘high on life’ sermon in response to that, Charlie, but it wouldn’t do much good here,” he said, his voice richer and softer than I’d imagined.
Danby, rubbing his hands together as though he was anxious to get started, addressed me in his measured cadence. “I know you didn’t expect Jesse to be here, but there are a few things that you should know, both as my friend and as University Counsel.” Danby often speaks in paragraphs and I had the feeling that there were going to be a number of them. “Jesse and I are both Philadelphia boys. Grew up on the same block, went to the same school, same church, and have been friends for years. I don’t mean that we talk on the telephone every week, although we always stayed in contact. I knew Jesse was preaching in Providence before I took the job here.” He nodded toward Kingdom and his voice softened. “Then, when Holly ... got sick, Jesse’s friendship was very important to me.”
I found myself compelled to glance at Kingdom; his eyes were half closed and his hands lay loosely in his lap.
Danby continued. “We haven’t seen that much of each other here since Jesse’s been so ... busy. Talked on the telephone a number of times. Jesse suggested we meet because of the rally on Friday. He’s concerned that he might be a source of embarrassment to me. I told him that I’m a big boy. That he didn’t have to look out for ‘Junior’ anymore.”
Kingdom reacted to Danby’s gibe by sliding a meaty hand across his mouth. Maybe, he was embarrassed.
“It would’ve been unfair to have this meeting without you, Algy. Security for the rally is important and I wanted you to be aware of our friendship. Other than Martine and Artemus, I don’t suppose anyone else here knows.” Danby’s face now opened up. “The Black Student Caucus had every right to invite Jesse to the campus, and I know he thought long and hard about accepting it, but he did, and that’s fine. That’s between Jesse and Martine, and her committee.” He nodded toward Kingdom. “As far as I am concerned, Jesse is an invited guest to the campus for legitimate debate.”
He sounded so ingenuous that I almost interrupted; when their relationship became known, Danby’s critics would harp on his poor judgment in taking sides in a volatile, politically divisive, Providence thing, the ultimate “no-no” in the traditional Carter view of town and gown affairs. And, then there was Sonny! Danby knew this and was apparently comfortable with his position.
So, I had better be too.
I waited for Kingdom to respond with a hint that he understood his friend’s predicament. He remained silent and the quiet became awkward so I suggested to Danby that we review the Event Plan, with the thought that laying it out might help gauge Kingdom’s reaction and Danby’s level of concern. I got the documents from my briefcase, kept one, and gave the other to Danby; Kingdom looked on as though it had nothing to do with him. Danby followed my summary of the plan carefully, occasionally indicating agreement, but asked no questions; Kingdom maintained an aloof silence which, for some reason, irritated me. “Tuttle still believes he might get some reluctant cooperation from the police.” I heard a chuckle from Kingdom and continued. “Our security force will be at full strength, with personnel stationed around The Green ... discreetly. We can expect a large crowd, the kids and anyone else that might arrive with Reverend Kingdom. The usual concerns about a building occupation are covered ....” Kingdom’s eyes betrayed bemusement at such details. “It’s just a contingency,” I added, feeling defensive. “We don’t expect anything of the sort. We always plan for the worst.”
When I finished, Danby handed his copy to me, leaving me to wonder if his easy acceptance was due to Kingdom’s presence. He said, “I know I could’ve told you all about Jesse and me in the office but I wanted you to meet Jesse. I want you to know that he and I disagree about a lot of things but we don’t disagree about his right to speak here. He—”
Kingdom hunched forward toward me. “Charlie’s about to make a speech and it probably will be long and complicated. Let me cut to the chase for you, Mr. Temple. You’ve got here a racist city, a racist police department, maybe a lot of racism here on your own campus, what with this Stalker terrorizing black women. The message is the same wherever I go—and if you haven’t heard it before, let me summarize it: It’s got to end. It’s got to end now!”
His voice had developed a richness and I knew that I was in the presence of an orator.
“These rapes and goings-on. It’s racism at its worst. I’m going to say that the same people who run the police and don’t take action to find this Stalker are the same people who let a rotten police force run amuck. They have got to be targeted and driven out.”
I almost complained, but didn’t, that his accusations had weakened Tramonti, a reform candidate with the political will to address such issues.
“I’m going to say that this University and every educated person in this state has got a stake in convicting cops who beat up people and get away with it. They’ve got to recognize that a grinding racism is immobilizing this city.” He took a deep breath. “Every day, it’s my duty to move people. Like tomorrow, our largest rally yet. From the federal court to the Public Safety Building. We are carrying the message to them.”
I had expected victimhood or some such stance after the way he had ripped into Tramonti but found nothing of that in his demand for justice. His indignation was genuine.
“I respect your right to bring your message, to be on our campus. As for Friday, though, I have a real concern.” I turned to Danby. “With your permission,” I added. He nodded, so I stared at Kingdom and gave it a go. “To protect our kids, the University needs cooperation from the police. So far, they haven’t been responsive or effective. But, we need them. We also want our kids to cooperate with the cops and our security people, and, more importantly, pay attention to their own security. The Stalker is out there and Carter women are in danger.” I edged forward in my chair for emphasis. “It wouldn’t negate your message to urge common sense and stress individual responsibility. You could get that message through to some of them in a different way—maybe better than anyone else.”
Kingdom’s eyes didn’t give any clues as to whether my argument was getting through.
“I didn’t mean to lecture,” he replied, his voice
resuming a conversational softness. “I hope you realize that. I just wanted you to understand where I’m coming from and why I do what I do. Your boss here is my friend. Our mothers diapered our behinds together, that’s how close we were when we were kids. Lots of things have changed and we’ve gone separate ways, yet underneath, we’ve got the same commitments. We’ve got loyalties. I’m not going to get in Charlie’s way; Charlie isn’t going to get less cooperation because I’m here.”
He said all of this with such a warmth of feeling that I was touched.
He stood up, and so did Danby and I. “Got to go. Have as many meetings as I have anything else. Just like you, Charlie.” He smiled a wide open smile. “Well, not actually a meeting this time. I have to tape an interview for one of those cable public affairs shows.” He shook his head. “I wonder if anyone watches those things? They usually show them opposite the games or when the churchgoers are in church or the revelers are sleeping.”
Danby chuckled and slapped his friend lightly on the back. Kingdom and I shook hands and Danby accompanied him out of the room. I sat down, with confused thoughts about Jesse Kingdom, the disruptions that his message could cause, and friendship and loyalty. When Danby returned to the study, he was still smiling. “He’s quite a guy. You should’ve seen him play streetball. There wasn’t anybody better. He could still knock a few heads if he had to.”
I slid the Event Plan back into my briefcase. Danby remained standing. “The Faculty Senate couldn’t decide yesterday whether to support me or a class suspension motion. Postponed a decision until Monday. I’m losing support. If anything happens this weekend, it will be gone. As for the kids, it wasn’t too bad at all. Only a hundred or so showed up last night and another group will meet me this afternoon. God knows what I’ll say differently.” He shook his head in doubt. “This thing has just got to end. We’re losing ground.”