When I arrived home, I scarfed down an early lunch—chocolate whey protein shake with almond milk, peanut butter, strawberries, and flaxseed. 'Don't knock it til you try it,' I remember the juice-maker telling me back at my home gym. Ever since that introduction, it'd become my new standard lunch on workout days. I unlocked my iPad, opened the FaceTime app, and called my daughter. As expected, she accepted the call, probably without her grandmother's help, and waved hello to me.
“Hello, my precious girl. Good morning to you.”
“Daddy! Where are you?” she replied. Although she knew how to hold the device properly, so the camera caught her face, she couldn't stop from bouncing up and down on the couch in excitement.
“Slow down, baby. I'm gonna get seasick.”
“Sorry, Daddy. But if you bounced, too, maybe we'd both look like we were super still.”
I found little fault with her logic about not getting seasick. Maybe she was onto something. “What did you eat for breakfast?” I asked noticing the blueberry stains on her lips. She loved to eat fruit and didn't seem to care for desserts. I often questioned if she was truly my daughter.
“Bear Berries. Um, Grandma said we could go to the zoo. They have a new baby giraffe.”
Emma was in her obsessed-with-animals phase and wanted to go to the zoo every weekend. I tried suggesting other sites, like the planetarium or the beach, but nothing had taken the zoo's place in months. At some point, you have to give in if you want to maintain your sanity as a parent.
I told Emma about her Nana D playing the clarinet years ago. She asked to come take lessons after the zoo. When her cartoons came on, she tossed the iPad to her grandmother. Cecilia waved hello and asked when I thought I'd be back. Not another person adding to my list of aggravations.
While Francesca's parents were fantastic grandparents, they were horrendous in-laws. Are they still in-laws if I'm not married to their daughter anymore? If I got married again, not that I'm even remotely ready to consider it anytime soon, I'm fairly certain they wouldn't be my in-laws. The point being… they were amazing to Emma when Francesca died. But a few months after the burial, once life somehow started to get normal again—as normal as it can be for a thirty-year-old widower with a four-year-old daughter—I started seeing unfortunate changes. Vincenzo and Cecilia Castigliano would show up uninvited at my house with a request to keep Emma overnight claiming they missed their daughter and wanted to feel close to her. One afternoon, Happy Tots Day Care called to say Emma's grandparents wanted to sign her out for the afternoon. I tried to keep an open mind about the Castigliano behavioral changes, but on the one-year anniversary of Francesca's death, Vincenzo snuck into my office to inform me that he and Cecilia had decided it would be better if Emma moved in with them. I'd always known Vincenzo had some sort of shady business deals going on, but I never knew the extent until that night when Francesca's sister broke down and revealed their father was part of a Los Angeles mob. I started asking around, and a colleague of mine pointed out the Castigliano family weren't just part of a Los Angeles mob. They were the main family who ran the Los Angeles mob.
Although I'm generally non-confrontational, I'd needed their help since I was a single parent and wasn't planning to move back to Pennsylvania. I had made it clear Emma was never to be placed in any dangerous situations given the family business. Vincenzo had shrugged his shoulders, grunted, and said, “I don't know what you talk about. We run a lovely import-export business. Very quiet and safe.” I think we'd come to an agreement, but if they ever step out of line, I won't be afraid to do something more drastic.
After I hung up the call with Emma and Cecilia, I dropped my head to the counter and closed my eyes. I was weary and needed a moment of silence. Too bad that wasn't going to happen.
“Good afternoon, Kellan. It's about time you woke up,” my father commented as he stood over me with a glass of water and an empty plate full of scattered whole wheat toast crumbs.
“I've been up since at least eight. Don't forget that's like five to me with the time difference. I haven't adjusted, yet.” I wish I knew whether he was serious or simply liked pushing my buttons.
“You're young enough it shouldn't matter. At your age, I already had…”
“What are you doing home anyway?” I couldn't do the comparisons of our lives anymore. He'd always win. “Has retirement already begun?”
“As your mother and Lorraine told you yesterday, I can't return to my office until the sheriff is finished searching the building. It's easier to get most of my work done at home in the mornings, then go on campus for a few meetings in the afternoon. I won't be using the temporary office anymore and asked the facilities department to put my furniture in storage until the renovations are completed.”
“Does Lorraine report everything she tells me back to you?” I inquired. I'd have to be careful how much I spoke my mind in front of her in the future. “Did she by any chance tell you she is concerned about what Sheriff Montague wants from you?”
“Nothing you need to worry about, Kellan. The sheriff and I are on good terms with this whole debacle. I'm confident they will do the right thing soon,” he replied. “While you're here, I need to speak with you about something.”
Oh, great. If he asked how long I'd be staying again, I'd pack my bags that afternoon and hop the next flight no matter what the cost or location even if Derek fired me at this point. Speaking of Derek, I probably owed him a status update. “What's on your mind? I have some questions for you, too, Dad.”
“Go ahead, you first.” My father sat on a stool at the kitchen island and glared at me.
“Where'd you go the night of the retirement party? Mom's worried about you. Something's very weird around here.” I didn't want to bring up the phone call I'd overheard, yet.
“Well, since you've put that so eloquently, Kellan, I was doing my job. Not all of us have the freedom to come and go or pick and choose what projects we work on. I had an impromptu conversation with the Board of Trustees about something urgent near the end of their meeting.”
“They meet on Saturday night?” I asked with judgment. “Who does that?”
“If you must know, they were discussing their final recommendations on the new president before the panel interviews. Their meeting was held after they all stopped by my party.” He turned his hands over, so both palms faced upwards, then pulled them back to his body and crossed them in his lap.
I had the sudden urge to mock him. I didn't as I know it wouldn't have done me any favors. “Anything new from the blogger? I couldn't remember the site name to check myself.”
“Yes, there was another post on Sunday talking about the opulence of my retirement party.” His color faded as he spoke making me debate if he was more human than I'd given him credit for. “Your mother and I paid for that party out of our pocket. The Board wanted to cover all costs, but we insisted they'd already bought me a wonderful going away present and didn't need to spend another dollar in gratitude for my years of service to Braxton.” He handed me his phone to read the post:
If you weren't in attendance at Saturday night's grand ceremony, you missed a soirée fit for royalty. Between the exotic scents and rare foods dripping in excess, I found everyone's admiration for Wesley Ayrwick to be so sickening, I couldn't force myself to stay very long. I'd hoped to share photos, but a security attendant who treated us like criminals stopped any camera or video recordings. Are we supposed to bow to our king? Maybe he should have spoken less about the baseball team's new uniforms and more about the questionable source of the anonymous donations frivolously spent in all the wrong places. Stop by Grey Sports Complex to find out what ridiculous new systems have been integrated into our curiously-enamored athletic facility. I managed to overhear quite a conversation about an upcoming special visitor to campus, and a well-known community citizen might be shaking in their boots once I reveal what's been going on behind our backs. Look for my next post to disclose all the details of these shady shenanigans.
When I asked my father what he knew about anything in the post, he tried to change the subject. He noted how students found the blogger to be a funny distraction but gave his or her messages little consideration. I recalled the conversation my father had with Myriam that night where she accused him of spending the college's money in ways he probably shouldn't have. He'd let her believe Braxton covered the costs of the party and didn't even attempt to defend himself. Maybe he was learning how to be a less combative man with other people, just not me. “Do you think Myriam Castle is leading this crusade against you?”
“Doubtful. Myriam and I may spar from time to time, and she doesn't particularly like me. She's generally not someone to hide behind her words. She comes right out and indicts me of things.”
He had a good point about why she'd blog under an anonymous name yet accuse him of similar things in a public setting where anyone could have overheard the conversation. “What about the new technology at Grey Sports Complex? How did that get funded?”
“I don't know all the details going on behind the scenes at Braxton. It was decided by the Board of Trustees. Maybe you should touch base with Councilman Stanton about them. He's on the Board,” he replied. “That all?”
Nana D would be a perfect person to grill the councilman. Since I couldn't find a way to bring up the mysterious phone call, I jumped to other topics I had to cover with my father. “Why didn't you tell me that Maggie and Connor were working at Braxton? I was just here in December, and you could have said something. Or picked up the phone at any point to tell me.”
“I didn't think it was important. You haven't mentioned either in a decade. I'd assumed you lost touch and didn't care much what had happened to them. You've never been one to re-hash the past.”
Ouch. The digs were back in full force. “That's a little unfair, Dad. I may have lost touch, but Mom's having weekly coffee walks with Maggie. Connor works as your director of security.”
“I thought if anything, you'd be happy I hired your friends. Some might call that nepotism.”
Why did he always know what to say to shut me up? And why did I always feel like I was five years old around him? Since throwing a temper tantrum wasn't an option, I reined in my frustrations and jumped into the big topic. “Who do you think murdered Abby Monroe?”
“That's a matter for Sheriff Montague. I can tell you it wasn't me nor was it Lorraine. I've made that clear. What the sheriff does next, I don't know, but hopefully, she listens to me on the topic.”
“Which means…” I mean seriously, does everyone have this much trouble with their parents?
“We had a complicated relationship. I liked Abby as a person, but she wasn't qualified to be in her position. The Board of Trustees was too worried about potential lawsuits if we tried to fire her. Instead, we kept her power in check,” he said while crossing his arms and scowling. “I have it on good authority she'd been job-hunting before Saturday's incident, so I worried less about how much longer she'd be at Braxton. The woman made enemies and was going through a nasty divorce. The sheriff plans to look into those angles and hopefully put an end to this whole affair. Can I now discuss what I wanted to talk to you about?”
Abby was clearly who my father had been talking about not being able to terminate on the call I'd overheard. I considered all his news and rationalized maybe he had a solid theory about the investigation. “Yes, go ahead, Dad. I'm listening.” I assumed it had something to do with Emma or my mother.
“Abby's death has left a hole in the communications department. There's only one other professor who has experience in media studies, but she's covering some of Abby's administrative responsibilities for Dean Mulligan. We don't have anyone who can teach her classes for a few weeks until we find a suitable replacement.” He paused and waited to see if I had any reactions. If I remembered correctly, Dean Mulligan, Abby's boss, oversaw all the academic departments.
I suspected where he was going with the conversation but wanted him to ask me directly before I put my foot in my mouth. “I imagine it's quite a predicament. You've solved bigger problems before.”
“True, I most certainly have. I'm also supposed to announce the new president next week, transition my responsibilities, help the sheriff and Connor minimize the impact of this tragedy on the rest of the campus, and accept all these changes in my life. I'm not getting any younger, Kellan, and although it may seem like I can do everything all at once, I cannot.”
Wow. I don't think I've ever heard my father admit a potential weakness. “I don't know, you're pretty strong and persistent.”
“While that may be true, it's time to let someone else step into that role for this family. As a starting point, I'd like you to takeover Abby's classes until Dean Mulligan can decide how to handle potential re-organization of the department and find her replacement.”
After a fifteen-second void occupied all notions of life inside my head, I found the courage to respond. “I can appreciate your faith in me, Dad, and I'm honestly touched you would…”
“I'm not done. Just let me get this out,” he replied retreating from the counter toward the back window. “You're tired of everyone asking how long you plan to stay or when you plan to move back. You've mentioned missing your friends. Your mother wants to spend more time with Emma. As do I. You've kept yourself distant from this family for a reason, and I've let this go on long enough.”
“Dad, please don't say any more. I don't want to have this conversation.” I knew where he was going. He'd tried this once before. We had a huge fight when I left Christmas night two years ago after accusing him of driving away all his children.
“Kellan, I'm not saying you're right or wrong. I'm saying you've done it your way ever since Francesca died. I know I wasn't there for you when it happened. I admitted I never cared much for her. But she was your wife, and Emma's mother, and I should have been a better father.” He put his hand on my shoulder. I hadn't even heard him walk toward me in those few confidence-shaking seconds. “All I'm asking from you is three weeks to a month.”
I told my father I needed the rest of the week to think about his proposal and would let him know my decision on the weekend. I abandoned him in the kitchen and raced out to the garage. I didn't know who to turn to at that moment, but his words hit way too close to my heart.
I spent the rest of the day driving around Braxton reminiscing about all the great times I had in the past with college friends and family, including when Francesca and Emma came home with me on a few trips. There was a lot of history in my hometown, and part of me did want to be back in the fold now that things had the chance to be different. But taking the temporary job also meant risking any opportunity I had of getting my own television show to escape Derek and achieve something I'd been dreaming about for years. I had a lot more thinking to do before I could make any definitive decisions.
No longer interested in worsening my mood by talking to the sheriff, I pushed that task off until the following day. I also needed to let Connor know Coach Oliver had lied to me about how well he knew Abby. Regardless of their relationship, he'd been going through her mail when I was standing in the driveway. If he was lying to me, perhaps he was lying to the sheriff, too. I first needed to get some sleep, but I'd deal with all of the concerns when I woke the next morning.
Chapter 10
When Wednesday came around, I felt stronger and more alive. Going to the fitness center the prior day helped motivate me to address my future. I decided to return in the hopes I could work off some frustration and anger. It was even quieter than it'd been the day before given only one other person was working on chest exercises as if the weight amounted to nothing more than a pillow.
I approached the lat machine to his right, adjusted my seat height, and chose the amount of weight I hoped I could handle. I was about to get started when the other guy called out to me.
“Hey, would you mind spotting me bench press for a few minutes? No one's been in here all morning.” He wore a ba
seball cap and a long-sleeve college jersey with the number three.
I wasn't sure I could lift the same amount of weight he could, but I'd give it a try. “No problem. Are you on the baseball team?” I assumed based on his outfit and the logo that he was. I took his grunt while lifting for a yes, then asked more questions in between sets.
His dark hair was clipped short, and he hadn't shaved in a few days. “Yep, name's Craig Magee, but everyone calls me Striker. I'm the team's pitcher,” he responded. “You a student here?”
The famous Striker. Did he know who was pitching in the game on Saturday? Coach Oliver said he wouldn't reveal the decision until Friday to the public. “Me? Former student, but thanks for the ego boost, man.” I enjoyed knowing I could sometimes still pass for my twenties. “I'm Kellan. I've heard a bit about you before. What's the three stand for?”
“Number of pitches it takes for me to knock all the batters down. Three strikes in a row and they're always out,” he said with a huge grin.
“Clever. All ready for Saturday's game?”
“That's why I'm here today. Final pre-season practice tomorrow and then the coach makes his decision about the starting lineup.” He didn't get winded no matter how much weight was added.
“I'm sure all the extra focus will be helpful,” I replied as Striker finished his third set increasing the weight by ten each time. I was going to reach my limit soon on how much I could spot, but I didn't want to stop his momentum. I could push myself to hold more if necessary.
“Yep. I think I've got this in the bag, but it's not just the upcoming practice. I'm waiting on a few grades to confirm I'll be allowed to play. Dean Mulligan put me on academic probation and threatened to take away my scholarship because my GPA dropped below a 3.0 at the end of last semester.”
“How do you plan to fix that?” I asked recalling the conversation Abby had with someone on her phone in front of Memorial Library. Was she talking about meeting Striker that night at eight thirty?
Academic Curveball Page 10