by David Bell
“It’s true, Preston. I hate to be the guy to bring this news so late at night. In the middle of your family’s lives.” I look around the calm space, let my eyes drift down the hallway to where his kids peacefully sleep. I feel like a barbarian intruder, carrying the insanity of the outside world into this sanctuary.
I explain about the call from Diana.
“They might come and question me more at any point,” I say. “I couldn’t think clearly. I couldn’t stand the thought I’d be locked up and might never get out. I didn’t want Grendel to be abandoned in the house. What if they really start to think I’m guilty of her murder?”
“Okay, okay.” He wipes his eyes, once with each hand. “Holy shit, Connor. Damn.”
“I know.”
“Okay,” Preston says, ever the voice of reason. He uses this voice in meetings, calming passions and moderating arguments. He uses this voice and then moves everyone toward a consensus. Mostly we call him “Preston the Politician.” We also call him “Preston the Peacemaker.” And that’s what I desperately need right now. Peace. “This is all coming at me pretty fast, Connor. I was back there working on something a few minutes ago. Honestly, I was working on my novel because your success and advice motivated me to keep doing it, and now you’re telling me you’re more deeply entangled in this murder. Are you sure you really understand all this?”
“I do, Preston. I do.” I notice my voice rising, so I dial it down. I take a few deep breaths, trying to channel some of Preston’s calm. I try, but I can’t get there. Not with everything that’s going on. “It’s for real, Preston. And there’s even more that I can’t tell you about quickly. It stems from the book and from things that happened years ago.”
“Your book? You know I haven’t read it yet, Conner. I just—”
“Yes, my book. And Madeline. And this murder.”
“Whoa, whoa.” Preston takes a step toward me, his hands signaling for a time-out. Even Grendel looks up at me like I’m losing my grip. “Why don’t you sit down? And you can tell me exactly what you want me to do for you. Right now there’s a gushing waterfall of information cascading on my head.”
I don’t sit, but I start to talk. “I don’t know what you can do. I don’t. But I couldn’t just let myself be led away by the police. I knew you’d take care of Grendel, and then I thought you might have some advice and some ideas. You always do. And you could talk me off the ledge and tell me where to go to get away from all of this.”
“Okay, okay.” He points to the couch. “Why don’t you sit? Really. Sit.”
Like a small child being guided by an adult, I obey. I plop onto the couch.
“I’m going to go out and get us a drink. We both need it now. Okay?”
“Okay.”
He starts for the kitchen, but I reach up and place my hand on his arm.
“Thanks,” I say. “Really.”
“Sure.” He watches me for a moment. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just go in and talk to the cops? You have a lawyer. Let her protect you. If you didn’t hurt this woman, just tell them what you know and be done with it.”
His words make sense. They do. But I’m not ready to listen.
“Have you ever been in the police station that way?” I ask. “I was there yesterday being questioned. I felt trapped, like I’d never get out. And I’ve been there for other stuff, as you know. When Emily and Jake died. It’s just . . . I feel the walls closing in when I’m there. I don’t think they want to let me out, Preston.”
“But you could clear it up. Get out from under this.”
“Not yet, okay? Just . . . let me think.”
“Okay, bud.”
My hand is still on his arm, and he gives me a reassuring squeeze.
“Sit tight while I check on the kids and then get us a drink. Okay?”
“Sure. Okay.”
“Then we’ll figure out the next step.”
He pulls away and leaves the room.
I finally let out a breath I feel I’ve been holding forever.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CONNOR
FALL, THREE YEARS AGO
I dreaded that date.
More than anything in my life—I dreaded that date.
The year before, the first time I faced the terrible anniversary of Emily’s and Jacob’s deaths, I fell completely apart. I canceled my classes, and I sat in the house, head in my hands, drinking and crying all day. Friends called and texted, but I ignored them all and stewed in my own misery, eventually passing out on the couch around seven o’clock.
I decided not to do the same thing that second year.
I attended my classes as usual. I went in clean and sober, shaved and showered, looking like the picture of health and contentment. I still received calls and texts during the day from friends and family—not as many but some—and I responded to them all with a simple “Thanks!”
At the end of the day, I sat in my office alone. Most of Goodlaw was empty—students and faculty gone for the evening. I was afraid.
I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to face the empty house I knew waited for me. The house still held nearly every artifact of Emily’s and Jacob’s lives. Pictures. Clothes. Emily’s painting supplies in the basement. Jacob’s soccer equipment in his room. Going home meant entering that museum of grief, that monument to everything I’d lost.
I started thinking of ways I could sleep in my office. Move some of the furniture to the edges, use my messenger bag or coat as a pillow. Peaceful oblivion on the floor of Goodlaw Hall. I expected to find the sounds of the overnight cleaning people comforting. The sweeping of brooms and the rustle of trash bags proof I wasn’t spending the night alone.
But around five thirty, Preston came to the door.
He looked as fresh as he had when he’d entered the building in the morning. Every hair in place. His shirt unwrinkled.
“Good,” he said. “You’re still here.”
“I am. Just . . . catching up on some things.”
He stepped inside, closer to my desk. “I thought we could do something. Dinner. Drinks. Rebuild a car engine. You know, man stuff.”
“Oh. I just . . .”
“Connor, I know what day it is. You shouldn’t be alone. And Kelly gave me permission for a boys’ night out.”
It took me a moment to answer. I hated everyone knowing. I hated having everything on display, especially the most terrible, brutal thing that ever happened to me. But I recognized I was no longer in a position not to ask for help. The previous anniversary proved that to me—and I didn’t want a replay.
So I agreed to go.
Preston drove, and we went to several bars. At every stop, I drank and drank, while Preston bought the shots and the beers. He egged me on, never allowed me to have a moment when my mind drifted to the kinds of thoughts I’d been trying to avoid the entire day. Eventually, the rooms we were in started tilting. I remembered being on a Tilt-A-Whirl once when I was five, and the way the world spun for hours once I stepped off the ride. So much so, I ended up vomiting on my father’s shoes.
That’s what the night with Preston turned into.
Near one o’clock we pulled up behind my house, and Preston led me inside, one of my arms draped over his shoulders, most of my weight resting on him. He guided me to the bedroom and let me flop onto the bed, one hundred and seventy pounds of dead, drunk weight.
He tugged my shoes off, stood by while I fumbled with my belt. Then he came back with a glass of water and Tylenol.
“Take this,” he said. “Then go to sleep. For a long time. You don’t have any classes tomorrow.”
“That sounds terrible.”
“What does? Not going to campus with a hangover?”
“Not teaching,” I said. “That’s terrible.” I rolled over, fumbled on the nightstand for the Tyl
enol. I managed to pick one up but knocked the other onto the floor. Preston bent and picked it up for me.
“I’m not following you,” Preston said. “Maybe you’re just drunk.”
“No,” I said. “No. I mean, I am. But I’m trying to say something.” I tossed the Tylenol back and held on to the glass of water long enough to chase them down. When I’d swallowed, I thumped back against my pillow. “You know what I’m saying. My students . . . you all, my colleagues . . . I need to see you. You all distract me. I socialize with you. At school. Outside of school . . . like tonight.”
“You’re saying . . . I see.” Preston nods. “You need the social interaction that comes on campus. It helps you cope.”
“It does. I need you people. That’s why I go out drinking with my students. I never did that when Emily was alive. And Jake. But now . . . I mean . . . all our old friends have kids and wives. They don’t know what to say to me. You know? But the students don’t always know about my family, so it feels like a clean slate in a way.”
“I hear you,” Preston said.
I could tell he wanted to keep the pity off his face, but even in my drunken state, I saw it there. Loud and clear.
“Thanks, Preston,” I said. “You’re a good friend. And boss.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll let you sleep.”
But he didn’t go. He stood next to my bed, looking down at me as my eyelids fluttered. I managed to keep them open while he stayed there.
“What?” I asked.
“You need to be careful of that,” he said. “You don’t want to be like some people who take that kind of thing too far. You can be a mentor to your students. Maybe a kind of friend. But . . . you have to be careful.”
“Careful, boss?”
“Let’s talk another time.” He reached down and patted my leg. “Go to sleep.”
“Careful? Like . . . don’t get too involved.”
Preston nodded. “We’ve had some colleagues do that. People I respect. And like. Friends of ours. Don’t let your vulnerability lead to that. Being a professor can be a lonely life. The students are right there, young and beautiful.”
“Who?” I asked. “Who’s doing it?”
Preston shook his head. “No time for gossip. Remember, loyalty matters. A lot. That’s how I can protect you all. Go to sleep, okay?”
“Who?”
Preston turned his back to me, but at the bedroom door he looked back over his shoulder. “Our poetic friend might be doing that. And he needs to be careful.”
“Lance?”
“I know he has his low moments, but I can only do so much to protect him. Good night.”
“Is that who you mean? Come on, Preston the Politician, tell me.”
But Preston was gone.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CONNOR
PRESENT
Preston comes back into his living room, carrying two glasses and a bottle of Four Roses.
He puts the glasses on the coffee table in front of me and pours two healthy shots.
“Here you go,” he says. “This will steady you.”
“I’m trying to cut back, but I think you’re right.”
He puts the bottle down, and we both pick up our glasses. Preston remains standing as we drink. The bourbon feels good. Warmth and a sliver of calm do spread through me.
“Do you remember that time you and I went out on the second anniversary?” I ask. “The night you had to basically carry me in to my bed?”
“Sure. You were pretty blotto. With good reason, I might add.”
“You said something about Lance that night, and we’ve never really talked about it. But it came back to me now. Plus the other day you were warning me about the new atmosphere on campus.”
“Lance gets too close to the students,” Preston says. “He’s an excellent teacher. I should have been more discreet. Usually I am.”
“That’s true, but—”
“Besides, you have to think about this now. A lot. You were with Madeline that night she disappeared, and you don’t really remember what happened between the two of you. So you say. That’s going to come back at you if you’re a suspect in another death.” Preston drains his glass. He looks like a weight is pressing down on him, pushing his head and shoulders lower. “I can’t even believe this is going on.”
He wipes his eyes again. And that’s Preston. Cool and collected. But also likely to choke up when a student or a faculty member achieves a great success. Or when one of his daughters makes a drawing for him. Or on Kelly’s fortieth birthday, when he made a loving toast to her. When I told him about my book deal, he hugged me tight. I thought he’d never let go.
“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry I dragged it to your door.”
“Let’s deal with the problem at hand, which is landing on you pretty hard.”
“Okay, you’re right. My problems.” I haven’t finished my drink, but even the small amount I’ve swallowed loosens my tongue. And Preston’s a good friend. A rock in the storm. “If I told you something about the book, something I think I need to get out . . .”
“Of course you can,” he says. “Look, I’m sorry I haven’t read it yet. When you went up for tenure, you only had the contract. And it just came out . . . I mean, I bought one, but it’s tough to find the time.”
“I know my colleagues won’t read the novel. We know the dirty little secret of academia—we don’t read one another’s work. For a variety of reasons.”
“I will, though. Kelly wants to read it too. Just . . . Look, I didn’t eat enough for dinner, and this is hitting me. I’m going to get some cheese and crackers for us. I’ll be right back.”
I want to keep talking, but I stop as he leaves the room. I stare into my glass and then finish it. Grendel watches me, his eyes dark pools above his graying muzzle. My future looks like a narrowing tunnel, shrinking to a pinpoint of light.
“It’s just one,” I say.
The bottle tempts me, but I resist. So I sit and wait, deciding whether I should go ahead and tell Preston about who really wrote the book or not. He’d listen. He’d know what to do.
But he’d follow the rules. He’d report me to the administration and that would be that for my academic career, which is already on the ropes.
But should I really be worrying about myself so much?
I hear voices in the kitchen. Preston talking to someone.
I figure it’s Kelly, and maybe we woke her up. I haven’t seen her in weeks, so I put my glass down and get up to say hello. I’ll apologize if we woke her up. Maybe I can tell them both about the book, have more than Preston’s thoughts on everything I face.
The house is hushed except for the voices in the kitchen. When I get closer, I hear it’s only one voice. Through the entryway, I see Preston at the counter, hunched over, one finger plugged into his ear, the other holding his phone.
“He’s here now,” he says. “I can keep him here if you hurry over.”
“Who are you talking to?”
Preston spins toward me. His face flushes, and he ends the call with one poke of the red button. “Keep your voice down. The kids.”
“Was that the police?” I ask. And I know I’m not keeping my voice down. No way.
“Connor, I called them for your own good. You need to talk to them. You need to clear this up. It will be better for everyone to get this over with. I can call Diana too. Think about it—”
“I have thought about it. I can do my own thinking.”
“If you tell them everything, it’s going to be so much better. Isn’t that what Diana told you to do?”
He takes a step toward me, his hands out asking for calm. He looks like an animal trainer approaching a spooked tiger. One that might bite his head off.
“Connor, I’m only trying to help you. You know tha
t.”
“Goddamn it. Are they coming now?”
Preston nods. “They’re coming.”
“Shit.”
I look around. The kitchen feels small. And getting smaller. I feel a choking sensation in my throat, something cutting off my air. I start backing up.
“I’m going,” I say.
“Don’t, Connor. Stay. Talk to them. You’re in a world of trouble now.”
“No thanks to you.” I turn to go, heading for the front of the house. Grendel lifts his head when I come into the room. Preston follows me, ready to say more.
At the door I turn back. “Stay away from me.” I pull it open, feel the cold air. “And do me a favor. At least take care of Grendel for me. That’s the least you can do.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The cemetery is quiet.
And I figure no one will look for me here. I come here often when I need a place that’s quiet, when I need a place to stop and sit still.
Emily and I were married for just over seventeen years. We never once discussed funeral or burial plans for each other. And we certainly never contemplated the possibility of our son dying. We thought we had years and years together. Endless years. So when the time came and I faced that awful decision on my own, I made the best choices I could in the midst of my confused grief.
The city of Gatewood maintains an old cemetery outside of downtown. Some of the first settlers to the town were buried there, and for many years no new burials occurred because it was full. Not long before Emily and Jake died, a city surveyor went to work there and discovered a number of unused plots, which were then made available for the public to buy. Do I consider it good fortune that I was able to take advantage of that surveyor’s ingenuity and purchase three plots on a gently sloping hill overlooking the river?
I park on the narrow road near the gate to the cemetery, where the tree has grown against the fence, and get out of the car. In the weeks and months after Emily and Jake died, I’d wake during the night and come out here, sitting on their graves in the pitch dark, kept company only by the night birds and the skittering skunks and opossums.