by Kelly Oliver
As she walked across the lawn, she noticed branches brown and dead just weeks ago, now bursting with blossoms, Azaleas bordered by Tiger Lilies. Brentano Hall was surrounded by a moat of burning orange. After months of constriction, the world was expanding again. The grass was wet, but luckily the thick red model paint she’d used on them had made them waterproof. She did a leprechaun kick, slipped on the grass, and landed on her butt. She laughed, picked herself up, brushed off her damp bottom, and continued on her way to meet the new art professor.
If Professor Charis agreed to be on her thesis committee, Jessica just might get her Ph.D. after all. She’d had to work hard enough to catch up to her stuck-up, prep-school peers. She went to Northwestern to study with Wolf Schmutzig, and then she’d put up with his inappropriate comments and oblique advances for months, only to find out he’d sabotaged her in the end anyway. She shook her head and sighed. She still didn’t know why, but she was going to find out.
Jessica shook off her umbrella as she buzzed into Rockwell Hall. She’d never been inside before. Like Brentano, it was a converted Victorian mansion, but unlike the dumpy and dusty old Philosophy Department, the Art Department was stylishly decorated in black, gray and white tones.
She gawked at the huge black and white photographs of Chicago street scenes on the walls. As she ran her fingers across a sleek glass table in the entryway, she saw her unruly reflection. Her braids were coming undone, hair escaping every which way, and Nick’s baggy jacket made her look like a bag lady. She used the sleeve to wipe water droplets off the table as they fell from her wet hair.
She took the stairs up to the third floor and walked down the hallway scanning the nameplates of the Art Department faculty offices until she found Professor Nicholas Charis. She took a deep breath, blew it out, and knocked on the door. When the office door opened, she fell back and her eyes widened. Nicholas Schilling III stood before her wearing a tailored cashmere jacket, starched white shirt, and faded blue jeans.
“Cinnamon Dolce, we meet again.” Nick flashed his heart-stopping smile.
Her cheeks did their ‘Scarlet Begonia’. What the hell? In the eventful twenty-four hours since she’d last seen him, she’d forgotten how handsome he was. But what was Nick doing in Professor Charis’s office? Mortified and excited at the same time, blood rushed to her head, making her tipsy. She froze at the threshold, pointing her dripping umbrella at him.
“What are you doing here?” she finally found her voice.
“Come in and have a seat,” he said taking her arm and gently guiding her into the office. He offered her a wooden chair, and instead of sitting behind his desk, he sat on its front edge, his knee almost touching Jessica’s.
“Nice jacket,” Nick said with a wink. “You look lovely, but I must say, I prefer your other black dress.”
Flustered, she took off the jacket and handed it back to him.
“No, you keep it,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to be responsible for your catching cold.”
“What are you doing here?” Readying her wet umbrella to strike, she repeated her question.
“This is my new office. I just started work here.” Nick was clearly amused. “I’ve been unpacking books.” She gazed at the boxes and half-filled bookshelves.
“But, Professor Charis…” she stammered.
“I am Professor Charis,” he said, reaching for her hand. Stunned, she let him take it. The warmth of his touch traveled through her fingers, up her arm, and, as if flowing through her pulsating arteries, coursed straight into her heart.
Still lightheaded, she retracted her hand. “Why? How is that possible?”
“At the university my father’s name is just as likely to close doors as open them. Anyway I want to succeed on my own merits,” Nick replied. “So, in my academic life I use my mother’s maiden name. It’s also a way of honoring her. She was one of the first women poet laureates, and she taught me to appreciate art. She’s been the most important person in my life… at least until now.”
“You tricked me,” she blurted out.
“How was I to know the adorable poker hostess was also a brilliant philosopher?” he asked, his glacial-blue eyes sparkling.
“Let’s start over.” He stood up and extended his hand. “I’m Professor Nicholas Charis. Good to meet you Miss James.”
Jessica took his hand and Nick raised it almost to his lips. Their eyes locked in a tight embrace and when he leaned forward, she thought he might kiss her. Instead he stood up, walked behind the desk, and sat down on a high backed leather swivel chair. Heart galloping, she was both relieved and disappointed.
“What can I help you with, Miss James?” he said in a professional tone. “Why are you coming to see me?”
“I was coming to see Professor Charis.” Tears were welling in her eyes, and she looked up at the ceiling and back to keep them from escaping down her cheeks. “I was coming to see you, to ask if you would be on my thesis committee,” she sputtered, staring down at the floor.
“Yes, I will,” he replied.
“But, I haven’t told you about my project.”
“Well, I’d love to hear about it. Why don’t you tell me now.”
“It’s on Nietzsche influence on Russian Expressionism, especially Kandinsky. My hypothesis is that The Blue Riders were reading Nietzsche and his writings shaped their philosophy of art.”
“Brilliant! I know Paul Klee mentions Nietzsche in his diary. I’ve done some research on Nietzsche’s relationship to Die Brücke, but I’d never thought of Der Blaue Reiter. Do your parents approve of you becoming a philosopher, Miss James?”
“That’s a laugh. They don’t even know what a philosopher is. Everyone at home thinks I’m studying psychology. While my mom went to church to pray for our souls, my dad went to nature to commune with God. But when my dad died and my mom became an alcoholic, I was left to find the meaning of life all on my own.”
“My father thinks I’m wasting my life in libraries and museums, with books and art. He wants me to go into business with him. But art is what gives my life meaning. Nietzsche is right, without art life would be tragic.” His smile was melancholy. “Why study philosophy? I bet not many girls from Montana become philosophers.”
“Well, I had a biology teacher in high school who’d tell me about night courses he was taking in philosophy where they asked how we know everything we experience isn’t just all projections from our own mind.” Jessica shifted in her chair and pulled at the butt of her damp dress. “Everything I’d been studying in high school was boring and insignificant compared to questions about the nature of reality. When I got to college and took my first philosophy class, I was hooked.” When she glanced back at Nick, his broad smile made her blush. She stared at her red boots and wondered why she’d said so much.
“Anyway, I’m just here to ask you to be on my committee,” she said. Biting her lip, she reached into her backpack, pulled out a form.
“Your thesis project sounds excellent and I’d love to serve on your committee. Sign me up.”
Her heart sank as she handed the form to him to sign. That sealed their fate. Now that he was officially on her committee, he was also officially off limits.
“Now our business is done, would you like to join me for dinner tonight?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Dinner, evening repast,” he said.
“Main meal, food consumed after sundown,” he said, less sure of himself now.
“I don’t think that would be appropriate.”
“Why not? You can tell me more about your fascinating research project,” he said, standing up and coming around to the front of the desk.
“I have to go to a funeral this evening,” she said after a long pause and stood up to go.
“Ah yes, the esteemed Baldrick Wolfgang Schmutzig. Very well. Another time then.” Softly pressing his hand against her back, he guided her to the door.
She remembered his jacket and started to take it off aga
in.
“No, you keep it, please, I insist,” he said.
“Keep it forever?”
“Forever,” Nick said with an exaggerated sigh.
White-knuckling her damp umbrella, she did an about face and marched out the door.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Jessica stood adrift outside Brentano Hall in the drizzling rain waiting for Jack, wondering how the afternoon had become so dreary. Unable to get her bearings, she bent over and leaned on her umbrella for support, but it slid out from under her and she almost did a face-plant on the sidewalk. Light spring rain was running down her cheeks like warm tears.
Was she in the same situation she’d been in with the Wolf only Nick was handsome as hell? Maybe she’d merely traded up from one ugly old pervert to a hotter younger one.
Rain dripped off of the pleated skirt of her stiff black dress into her cowboy boots. She teetered from one wet foot to the other wishing she’d never met Nick’s alter-ego, the sexy billionaire playboy, although the nerdy art history professor was definitely more her type.
By the time Jack pulled up in his crappy old Chevy, she was damp and dazed. The beat-up sedan smelled of stale smoke and was cluttered with books and CDs. Amber scooted closer to Jack and Jessica slouched into the front seat next to her. She turned the dial on the dash to crank up the heater and pointed the vent at her skirt to dry off.
“Doesn’t work,” said Jack. “Looks like you’re taking ole’ Wolfie’s death pretty hard my fair friend.” He handed her a joint. “Lest you forget, he intended to sabotage your career.” The stereo blasted “We are Young.”
As they drove across town, Amber sang along at the top of her lungs: “Tonight. We are young. So let’s set the world on fire. We can burn brighter. Than the sun…”
By the time Jack pulled up in front of a funky contemporary prairie house in the heart of the fashionable Aspen Park suburb, Jessica was beboping to the music and shimming along in the front seat. By contrast, the misty rain shrouded the upscale neighborhood, and the stream of black umbrellas leading to the front door contributed to the somber mood outside. Windows traveled the length of the house creating a layered effect, each thin layer topped a porkpie hat, both elegant and adorable. As mourners blew in, the house came to life, an enigmatic creature with playful bright orbs and a cavernous stone orifice swallowing up the umbrellas one by one.
Once inside, the solemn mist gave way to boisterous festivities. Upbeat jazz filled the airy spaces with good cheer. More Irish wake than Jewish Shiva.
Fingal O’Flannery greeted them at the door wearing skintight purple leather pants with a flouncy white shirt, an S&M Mr. Darcy. His thick bottle-brown hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, a silver halo circling his scalp. Handing Jack a cigarette, he pulled him into the living room where a butler was serving champagne on a silver tray. The girls trailed behind glancing around the room at flocks of men congregated in clumps throughout the house.
There were two species, easily distinguishable. The drab Worm-Eating Warblers, Gadwalls, and Turkey Vultures from the university and the colorful Vermillion Flycatchers, Flame Tanagers, and Lucifer Hummingbirds fluttering around Fingal and his lover, the flamboyant (and bipolar) poet Harry Orse.
Harry was always the life of the party, at least until he stripped off his clothes and ran through the streets yelling obscenities. The cops patrolling the upscale suburb knew him by name, and not for his prose poetry. Usually, they quietly returned Harry home, where Fingal would spoon-feed him Valium until he babbled like a baby.
Although in his sixties, Fingal O’Flannery was a swinger. Decadence was his middle name. He was famous for his parties--lots of food, drink, and drugs--and he took any excuse to throw one, even the death of a colleague. The only heir to a Philadelphia fortune, legend had it Fingal had been considered a boy wonder in his youth. His “genial” Ph.D. thesis had landed him the prestigious job at Northwestern University. That piece of youthful brilliance was still locked in a vault at Yale. Perhaps the world wasn’t ready for his radical thesis that geography determined personality. Beyond a couple of essays, well placed by friends, he hadn’t published anything for decades.
Never promoted beyond Associate Professor, everyone knew Fingal O’Flannery resented Wolfgang Schmutzig’s professional success. Whether to compensate for his guilty conscience, or in true celebration of Schmutzig’s demise, he was throwing an extravagant bash in his honor.
Jessica was wandering around holding a paper bag filled with chocolate chip cookies she and Amber had baked that morning. After seeing the catered jewels on display, platters of fancy appetizers and petit fours, she dropped the bag in the bedroom where guests were leaving their coats.
As she hid the bag under the pile of coats, she noticed Donnette at the corner of the bed fussing with her raincoat, and looking for place to put her dripping pink plastic umbrella. Donnette was talking to herself, her once perky bouffant had gone limp, and her fleshy cheeks were flushed. Even through thick concealer, the dark bags under her puffy eyes were a dead give away she’d been crying.
Poor Donnette. She must be taking Wolf’s death pretty hard. When Jessica tried to help her with her coat, she prickled and pulled away, clutching her handbag to her bosom. Under her coat, she was wearing a smart black sweater set with matching skirt, and a string of giant fake pearls. But when Jessica complimented her on her outfit, her painted eyes glazed over, and she only grunted. Something was wrong.
Jessica led her to an armchair and coaxed her to sit. Donnette’s hands were trembling as she white-knuckled the straps on her purse.
“Want a cookie?” Jessica asked, hoping to cheer her up.
“I took Wolf’s diary from his desk before the police came,” she said looking up mournfully. “Was that wrong?”
“The Wolf… Wolf, kept a diary? Have you read it?”
Donnette scowled. “It is going with him to his grave. I’m taking it to the burial this evening.” She spoke in a strange monotone, as if she’d been hypnotized.
“Can I see it?”
Donnette opened her handbag an inch and Jessica spied a black moleskin notebook just like the journal she kept in her book bag.
“Can I see it?” Jessica repeated.
“You saw it.”
“I mean, can I look inside?”
“Of course not! Wolf’s secrets are safe with me.” Donnette zipped her purse shut and stood up. “God bless his soul, they will be buried with him.”
“What secrets?”
“Never you mind, Missy,” Donnette said and then marched out of the bedroom.
Jessica had to find a way to get her hands on that diary. Maybe then she’d find out why Wolf wanted to sabotage her career. She was dying to know Schmutzig’s secrets. She couldn’t even imagine. Maybe Amber was right and he’d secretly been sending his pay check off to an orphanage in Tibet or maybe he’d invested in oil and was a tycoon running some middle eastern country from his desktop computer. More likely, he’d stolen pencils and legal pads from the main office or given As to his favorite boys just because they brought him bagels.
She scanned the crowd for Jack, but he’d been absorbed into the sea of men. She spotted Lolita’s elegant silhouette outlined against the kitchen windows. Elbowing through the crowd, she kept her sights on her friend, not wanting to lose her in the throng. Lolita was talking to a group of dweeby philosophy boys who were inhaling her every word. Jessica tapped on her shoulder and whispered in her ear, “Wolf kept a journal, and Donnette nabbed it before the police could. We have to get it out of her purse.”
Lolita extricated herself from the gaggle of geeks and followed her to a quiet corner. “What? He kept a journal? Grab Jack and Amber. We have to make a plan. If the professor had a diary, I need to read it. It might have a clue to why my father cares so much about him.”
Jessica finally found Jack snorting white powder off of the latest model iPhone with Fingal in the bedroom. Fingal’s face fell as she led Jack out into the hallw
ay.
For the next hour, they tailed Donnette around the party as she ate her way through the buffet, cried on shoulders, and drank a bit too much champagne. Just as she was headed towards the coatroom, and Jessica was about to make her move, she heard the sound of someone tapping a spoon against a crystal champagne flute. She was so close on Donnette’s heels, when she did an about face, she almost smacked right into her.
“May I have your attention?” said a man’s voice. It was Harry Orse. “Please everyone, can I have your attention? I would like to make a toast.”
Conversations stopped and faces turned towards Harry. “First, I would like to salute our dear departed friend, Wolfgang Schmutzig. He was taken from us in his prime. In his honor, I recite this poem.” He took out a slip of paper and began reading,
“Do not stand by my grave and weep,
For I am here,
In your memories I will keep.
I am scented wind upon your face that blows.
I am moonbeams dancing in dark night’s glow.
I am sunlight on ripened grain.
I am droplets in autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning hush.
I am gentle meadowlark’s uplifting rush of joyous flight.
I am sparkling stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am here,
For as long as you remember me,
I do not die.”
Donnette started clapping, but when no one else followed, she looked around, cleared her throat, and fished around in her purse and pulled out a tissue. Crying, black streaks of mascara were carving canyons through her thick pancake foundation. Lolita lit a cigarette. That was the signal. Jack and Jessica moved in behind Donnette, and Amber came at her head on, wrapped her arms around her mother, and held on tight. “Mommy, I love you,” she said, “Don’t cry.” Donnette was thrown off guard. She and Amber had always had a tense relationship.