by David Bell
And I am intercepted right inside the door.
But it’s one of my colleagues, Carrie Richter. She’s a few years older than I am and teaches American literature. We’ve never really socialized, and I know she’s divorced with a teenage son. Carrie and I have served on a few committees together, and I’ve always found her to take a reasonable approach to solving problems. She’s standing inside the door as though she’s waiting for me, although I’m not sure why. But when she sees me, she lifts her index finger as though testing the direction of the wind.
Does she know Madeline? Has Madeline talked to her?
Then I remember Bowman asking about the internship program. And whether I talked to Sophia about it. Bowman knows that Carrie did.
“I’m so glad to see you because I wanted to tell you something,” she says.
“What’s that?” I ask.
More questions about Sophia?
I’m trying my best not to sound out of breath from my walk up the hill. I always think my overall health is in the toilet if I can’t walk up the hill without getting winded. I don’t change my lifestyle any, but I do worry about it.
“I’m sorry I didn’t make it out to your event last night,” Carrie says. “I had some exams to grade. Besides, your book isn’t really my kind of thing.”
“Your kind of thing?”
“I know a lot of people like mysteries and thrillers and whatever. You know . . . books about women getting killed in awful ways. There’s enough of that in the world.”
I feel like I have to say something. And Bowman’s visit had been running over and over in my mind as I drove to campus. “You knew Sophia Greenfield, right?”
Carrie’s eyes widen. “I did. Well, to be honest, I only met her for coffee once. Mostly we e-mailed because she was trying to get us to send her interns.” She visibly shudders. “It was ghastly what happened to her. Murdered that way. Disgusting.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Did you know her?” Carrie asks.
“No, no. I didn’t.”
“She was really kind. That’s the impression I had of her. We talked about Anthony a little.”
“Your son.”
“Right. She offered to mentor him or something. He was having some tough times.”
“Did she do that?”
Carrie’s brow creases. “Why did you bring her up today?”
“Well . . . you mentioned a woman being murdered. And I knew about the internships. . . .”
My fumbling explanation seems to satisfy Carrie. “It’s so sad. That’s why I don’t read books about serial killers.”
“It’s not about a serial killer—”
“I mean, I get it, especially if you’re going to the beach. But . . . not for actual reading.”
“I understand,” I say, although I don’t. “Thanks for telling me your thoughts.”
I wait, wondering if she’ll say more. Maybe . . . congratulations or something like that. But she doesn’t.
“Well,” I say, “it was a good event.”
“I have to run. I’m off to talk about Edgar Allan Poe.”
I start down the hall in the opposite direction, but then Preston sticks his head out the double doors that lead into the English Department.
“There he is,” he says. “Our distinguished author. You’ve got time before class, right, champ?”
“I was just coming to see you,” I say. Again my mind goes back to Madeline. Has she already spoken to Preston?
“Come on.” He waves me in, so I follow. Preston wears skinny black jeans, and the sleeves on his checked shirt are rolled to the elbows with pinpoint perfection. He’s a few years younger than I am, a guy who went straight from getting his undergraduate degree to earning his PhD and was on his way to tenure before he turned thirty. He runs the English Department through a combination of cool efficiency and ironic detachment. Everyone assumes he’ll be dean or provost someday. If not at Commonwealth, then somewhere. Behind his back as well as to his face, his colleagues call him “Preston the Politician.”
He closes the door to his book-lined office once I’m in and settled into a chair. Preston breezes around to his side of the desk and sits. He checks his e-mail first, clicks a few things, then turns to me.
“You kind of look like shit,” he says. “You had too much champagne.”
“And that hill is too steep.”
“You need to get to the gym with me. Do some weights. Run a little. Now that so much is going right in your life, you need to rebuild the temple of your body.”
“The temple has a lot of cobwebs and loose bricks, especially after a night like the last one.”
Preston rests his folded hands on top of the desk, which is remarkably free from clutter. To his left sit three framed photos—one of him with his wife, Kelly, and then one photo of each of his daughters. They look perfect enough to have come with the frames. To his right, row after row of books. He teaches postcolonial literature and is known for his high standards, strict adherence to the rules of grammar, and dynamic lectures. Students love him or fear him. Or both.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” he says. “In a roundabout way.”
“Last night?”
“Your visitor,” he says, his face becoming more serious. “The one you said was the neighbor up the street?”
I swallow hard. Why the hell is he bringing this up? And what does he know?
He unfolds his hands and rubs at a little speck of dirt only he can see.
“I just want to make sure you aren’t getting into some kind of trouble you’re not going to be able to get out of,” he says.
And then I have to wonder—did he see Madeline leaving my house last night?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
For the second time that morning, I find myself on the wrong end of an interrogation.
This time it’s a friend, but that doesn’t make it feel much better.
“I don’t understand, Preston. And I do need to get some things done before class.”
“Look,” he says, “you and I are good friends. I probably know you better than anyone else in this department. And I mean it when I say I’m glad to see things turning in the right direction. You’ve been through hell. Really. I mean, there but for the grace of God, you know?” He cuts a glance at the photos of his family, then goes on. “But I do feel the need to speak up, to look out for you. And I couldn’t say it last night with Lance there. I didn’t want to embarrass you. And Lance . . . he’s a little loose-tongued. I’ve learned I have to be careful what I say around him, especially when there’s alcohol involved. He gets depressed as well. I don’t think he’s written a poem since he got tenure fifteen years ago.” Preston rubs his forehead. “Between you and me, I wouldn’t mind seeing him retire. But that’s about five years away. And you just can’t easily get a tenured professor to go. So we’re kind of stuck with him. He runs his mouth to feel important, especially with students, so unless I want the whole world to know . . . Plus, I didn’t want to ruin the good time you were having. It was a really big night for you. A book published. Most of us are lucky just to have enough articles published to get tenure.”
On a few occasions, Preston has talked about writing a novel. He’s even gone so far as to show me a few chapters from a work in progress. It seemed more theoretical than dramatic and completely plotless. I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to read it, but I gave him a few pointers, trying to help.
“You clearly had a woman there when we showed up,” he says. “I could tell by how you acted when we came in. A man acts different when a woman’s been in his house. It’s just something we can sense instinctively. You said it was your neighbor up the street, but why would a neighbor slip out the back door like a thief in the night? Why wouldn’t she want to stay and celebrate your big evening with you? With your frien
ds?”
“She didn’t—”
“Hey,” he says. “I get it. I was single once too.” He jerks his thumb toward the photos. “It’s been a while, but I remember. I’m not trying to pry into your business, even though we are friends. A new relationship or whatever, you may want to keep it quiet. That’s cool. And Emily was smart and beautiful, but it’s been five years. That’s a long time.” He leans forward. “But I was thinking about it last night and this morning. And I talked it over with Kelly.”
“You talked with Kelly?”
“Why would a woman run out like that? Why would you—or she—want to hide that way? I thought maybe the woman’s married.”
“No. God, no.”
“And then I thought maybe it was a student.”
“Preston—”
“You don’t have to say anything. We’re not talking in any kind of official capacity. We’re talking as friends, even though we’re in Goodlaw. And I hope they change the name because Hiram Goodlaw owned slaves. But that’s neither here nor there. No, what does matter is that the campus environment has really changed in the last year or so. They were slow off the mark. A lot of old, entrenched attitudes that needed to change out here in the hinterlands. Now the university is really taking it seriously when it comes to relationships between professors and students. And they should. All universities should. It’s about time we listened to women. This is a new era. It’s here to stay. And I know you agree with me.”
“Of course. But there was nothing like that—”
“After what you’ve been through, I wouldn’t judge you for anything you did. But . . . even though you got the tenure vote, it can eventually be taken away if anything improper is going on. Tenure won’t protect you, even with the book being published. I don’t want to see that happen to you. And I don’t want to see it happen to this department. It gives everybody a black eye. It really does. I don’t want people to think we condone that behavior. I want this department to be out front, doing the right kinds of things. I want this department to be a model.”
“I know you care about that.”
“We all should. Speaking of that, Kelly has a new friend, a woman who just moved to town to work in IT at General Motors. She could set you up.”
“Preston, you have to believe me. There’s nothing like that going on. It really was just a friend who came by the house last night. I’ve never . . . I mean, I would never with a student. I don’t believe in that any more than you do.”
“Okay, good.” He looks relieved, like a man who was just told he doesn’t have any cavities. “I’m sorry. Maybe I was out of line bringing that all up. I want to make sure you get all the good things you deserve. And coming out of this funk you’ve been in . . . there might be temptations. Let’s face it: These students worship you.”
“They’re kids. They don’t know anything about the world.”
“You’re a published author and a professor. They look up to that.”
“I guess so.” I check the clock behind Preston. It looks like something he bought from Pottery Barn instead of the run-of-the-mill schoolroom clocks most of us rely on. “I really have to run. But I promise you there’s nothing going on with any students. I wouldn’t do that.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything,” he says. “Maybe I’m an overprotective mother hen here in the English Department. But I worry about my people. Especially you.”
“It’s good to have friends.” I gather my things and stand up.
“Madeline,” Preston says.
When I hear the name, I spin around like he’s fired a gun.
Madeline? Why?
“What did you say?”
“Madeline. Madeline O’Brien. She really worshipped you.”
“She was very talented,” I say.
“Right,” Preston says. “She’s an example of a smart, talented kid who really looked up to you. I’m just trying to let you know you’ve got a lot going for you. Everyone sees that. Even if you don’t.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
REBECCA KNOX
PRESENT
It’s freezing cold. Butt-ass cold for January in Kentucky. It’s her senior year, her final one in college, and she doesn’t remember it ever being this cold in Gatewood.
Despite this, Rebecca circles Goodlaw Hall once and then again and starts around a third time.
She knows Nye is in there, in his office getting ready for his next class. She knows when he’s around because she was in his class early this morning, and she’s talked to him plenty of times. About writing. About applying to graduate school someday. About life.
Why is it so hard for her to go in this time?
Why couldn’t she just talk to him after class?
She wanted to but couldn’t bring herself to do it.
Rebecca makes her third trip around, the snow flurries pelting her face. Her heart flutters like a flag in a strong wind. Flapping here and there and back and forth. She has friends who smoke. They claim it calms them down, helps them deal with stress. Rebecca has never smoked a cigarette in her life, never wanted to, can’t imagine what her mom would say if she did, but if it brings peace and calm . . . She kind of wishes she did.
Just go in, she tells herself.
Do you know what you must look like out here? No doubt some student is bored in class and staring out the window while their professor drones on and on about Milton or Dante or dangling modifiers. And that kid is looking out the window and wondering why this girl is circling the building like a crazy person in the freezing cold. Anyone watching would think Rebecca was drunk or high or crazy.
“Screw it,” she says out loud, and heads to the nearest door.
It’s during class, so the halls are mostly empty. She hears a few voices lecturing, and her boots clack against the tile floors, echoing off the walls. She’s in here almost every day, but the smell always gets her. Floor polish and old books. She thinks of this building as her home away from home. The oddball professors, the eager random students who talk about writing and movies. The English Department draws them all. Hippies and frat boys, Goths and farm kids. She could completely change her look and wardrobe every day and always find someone to fit in with.
Dr. Nye’s office is at the end of the hall. She sees his door is open, the glow from a lamp spilling out. It’s a gloomy day. There’s not enough artificial light on campus to make up for that.
She steps into the doorway and knocks gently. “Dr. Nye?”
He’s staring at his laptop, and her knock seems to startle him. He lifts his head like he thought he was alone in the building.
“What?” he asks.
“I’m sorry. I can come back.”
“Oh. No, you don’t have to do that. Sorry.”
But he shuts the lid of his laptop like he’s hiding something.
“Are you sure?” Rebecca asks.
“Please. Come on in.”
Rebecca does, taking the seat across the desk from Nye, the one she’s sat in many times while he’s dispensed wisdom. But the way she seemed to interrupt him makes her even more nervous, and she wishes she’d just forgotten the whole thing. Instead of coming inside, she wishes she’d just kept walking around and around the building and then gone to her apartment and her idiot roommate.
But here she is. And Nye looks at her expectantly. Impatiently.
He seems tired, his eyes red. She’s heard some of her classmates discuss how attractive they think he is, but Rebecca never really sees it. She thinks of him more like the cool-dad type. Or maybe the cool uncle, since she has a dad who is kind of cool. She knows Nye’s wife and son died in some kind of weird accident five years ago. A bike? A sled? She thinks of them every time she comes in because he keeps a picture of them on the shelf behind him. A pretty woman, natural-looking with her hair in a ponytail, laughing on a beach. Th
e kid next to her smiling. A cute boy with dripping-wet hair. Probably taken a few years before they died. She stares at the photo a little too long.
“I haven’t finished reading your thesis yet,” Nye says. “I meant to tell you after class this morning that I hoped to be through it by now, but you left before I could speak to you. Things have grown a little hectic with the book and everything. But I’ll get it done by next week.”
“Oh. Sure. That’s not what I’m here about. I mean, thanks for telling me. There’s no rush. I don’t have to defend it until . . . When am I supposed to defend it?”
“End of April or the beginning of May should work. In time for your graduation.”
“Cool. Yeah, that’s fine.”
Rebecca recognizes her missed opportunity and curses herself again for being stupid. She could have pretended she’s here to discuss the thesis instead of what she’s really here for. She could have said thanks and left, but she missed her chance. And now she sits across from Nye with him expecting her to have something else halfway intelligent to talk about.
Nye studies her. One of his eyebrows goes up, which is the look he gets when he doesn’t understand something a student says in class and wants to express disapproval without being totally shitty or hurting someone’s feelings.
“How are things going otherwise?” he asks. “Classes good? Life good?”
“Things are good, yeah. It’s cold. Really cold.”
“It’s January. We’ll start to get a break soon. I grew up in Michigan. If we were up there, we’d have a whole lot of winter ahead of us.”
“Totally. Yeah.”
“Did you just want to talk about the weather?” he asks. He has this way of low-key ragging on students when he asks questions. He’s not being rude, but he’s kind of saying, Hey, do you really have anything important on your mind?
Rebecca swallows. Her throat is dry. Chalky. Like she’d been drinking the night before even though she hadn’t. And rarely did.