It was no longer possible for Red to slump any further in his chair.
“So, as I said, it’s your call. You can sit there as long as you like. I have a meeting.”
Foster Jennison stood up and left the room.
Where the Skies Are So Blue
AFTER THE RIOT, Eph spent two days at Havenport General with a severe concussion. As soon as he was released, he packed up his Kia Sportage and drove west, planning on seeing some of America. He hadn’t yet officially heard from the Title IX Tribunal, but needed to get away regardless. His musical heroes always sang about the restorative nature of the American road. A last-chance power drive, like Bruce said.
Eph would find out.
Anyway, it sounded better than teaching another summer session at Devon, even if he’d been allowed. D’Arcy understood he needed some time.
At a diner in Snow Shoe, Pennsylvania, he read the email about his suspension. They’d got their man, one way or another. He was banished, if temporarily, from Valhalla. He wasn’t sure how that made him feel. The blueberry pie in front of him seemed more important right now.
He deliberately took off roads through rolling farmlands and small towns. Here, in America’s gaps, the radio played country. The open landscape was punctuated with grain silos and grazing cows. The towns had VFW posts, a church, and maybe a deli. Eph always thought, though, that every town had a story if you bothered to ask. Many of his literary heroes had done exactly that and then written it all down.
He stopped in Clyde, Ohio, inspiration for Sherwood Anderson’s short-story collection about a sad town called Winesburg. Eph planned next to stop at some birthplaces: Oak Park, Illinois (Hemingway), and Hannibal, Missouri (Twain, of course), but halfway across Indiana he took a left, heading south toward Kentucky and the Appalachian Plateau. Without allowing the thought to fully form, he had known all along this was going to be the way. On a whim, he pulled over in the tiny town of Winchester, Tennessee, for a couple of days just to read. At a motel on a pretty lake he made himself at home in an Adirondack chair.
* * *
Eph stood for a while on the porch of the small house Big Mike and Ellie had moved to when they sold the farm, It was closer to town and had a modest yard with a swing hanging from its only tree. That must have been left there by the previous owner, Eph thought. He reached out and rang the bell. When Ellie opened the door, she ran out and threw her arms around Eph and wouldn’t let go.
“Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?”
“I didn’t know myself until a few hundred miles ago.”
Releasing Eph from her bear hug, she looked past him at the Kia in the driveway. It was loaded with stuff, and Eph’s bike was mounted on a rack. “Are you staying for a while? Tell me you are!”
“Maybe. I don’t know exactly. Is there a spare bed?”
“You know there is, little brother.”
Big Mike appeared at the door. There was an uncomfortable silence and Big Mike examined Eph without expression.
“Hi, Dad” was all Eph could manage.
“I see you finally got some meat on you,” said Big Mike.
* * *
Over the summer, a summer that stretched out languidly like those of Eph’s youth, father and son repaired their relationship. There wasn’t much conversation, but then Big Mike had always been a laconic man. The shadow of loss still hung over him, but Eph grew to think he’d been a little harsh in his judgments as a teenager. Maybe even an idiot. One night over beers on the porch, they reminisced about Jack. Big Mike laughed when Eph told the story about Jack coming to his rescue that day in the school bathroom. Ellie said Bobby Fincher was doing three-to-five at Holman for robbing the Circle K.
Big Mike was officially diagnosed with mid-stage Parkinson’s. He had trouble with his balance but could mostly get around without help. There was still time—years—and Eph was grateful for it, even if Big Mike occasionally called him a “Yankee pussy.”
Eph got to know his nephews, Ellie’s kids. Little Mike and Brian. They were good kids, both busy with the business of being boys. Little Mike was in high school already.
D’Arcy came down for the month of August. Eph was concerned about what kind of reception she’d get—or more to the point, what kind of reception they’d get—but those concerns soon passed. People were warm and welcoming. Maybe the South had grown up some while he was away. After Labor Day, she went back to Devon, and things between them were left up in the air. Eph wanted to be with her, but wasn’t sure what to do about it. Did he want to stay in Alabama all year? It wouldn’t be fair to ask her to quit her job—now with Acting President Choudhary—just to come South for a year, and he wasn’t going to loiter around Devon with his tail between his legs.
One day Eph drove up to Samford, his alma mater. He didn’t have any particular reason for going, he just thought he would. It was still summer vacation, so campus was quiet, but he ran into Emmet Weaver, one of his old teachers, who was now faculty dean. They went for coffee at Lucy’s, a small diner next to campus. Eph told his story, warts and all, and Emmet offered him an adjunct position on the spot. They didn’t get many Devon professors coming around this way, he said. Eph was surprised and happily agreed. It solved what to do for the year.
“You know, if you ever wanted more…” Emmet said it half laughing, knowing he was unlikely to lure a Devon prof—even a “tarnished” one—full-time.
* * *
Toward the end of September, Eph got a call from Titus Cooley, who struck a surprisingly upbeat tone over the phone.
“Ephraim, my boy, how’ve you been?”
“No complaints. Catching up with family.”
“That’s good, that’s good. Family is important. Listen, I never got a chance to say how sorry I was about everything this past spring. You got a raw deal and the university should be ashamed of itself. I dare say Milton got what he deserved, though, in the end.”
“Thank you, Titus.”
“Tell me, what plans have you made?”
“Samford University, my alma mater, offered me an adjunct position for the year, so I’ve started teaching a class there.”
“I see. Good, good. Anyway, to the point … I call with news. I’m going to retire after this year.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Eph truly was, but he wasn’t sure why Titus would call to tell him.
“Oh, let’s face it, I’m a dinosaur. The world belongs to the Blue Feathers now.”
“I hope not, Titus.”
“Well, I do, too, and that’s actually why I’m calling. As you know, Professor Smallwood was granted the tenure position. However, my retirement will open up another slot. I’ve spoken to Acting President Choudhary, and we think that spot should go to you. We hope you will come back and teach next semester, and tenure would be made official as soon as I leave. Choudhary will even put it in writing.”
Eph was flabbergasted, his mouth agape.
“Ephraim, are you still there?”
“Yeah—yes. Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack, my boy, as a heart attack. Between you and me, I think Choudhary is afraid you will sue the school back into the last century, but to hell with him. You’re a damn fine teacher, all that nonsense is behind us, and this is something you deserve.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Eph had to sit down because the room was suddenly spinning.
“Say yes, you foolish man! This is what you worked for. Tenure at Devon University! You’ve ascended the mount, my boy.”
“Wow. I can’t believe this.”
“So what do you say?
“I say yes.”
“Good man! Call back tomorrow and we’ll start the paperwork.”
* * *
That night the whole Russell family had dinner: Eph, Big Mike, Ellie, the boys, and even a few cousins who lived nearby. Ellie made roast chicken with mashed potatoes and fried okra, served along with beer, plus lemonade for the boys. They set up a big table out on the po
rch and enjoyed the cool evening air. A light wind carried with it the smell of fertilizer, something no one minded at all. Little Mike said the Ashley football team looked strong this year. One of the cousins said a Walmart might be coming to Dillon, the next town over. There was talk of a record harvest season.
For dessert, Ellie brought out pecan tarts, made with their mother, Millie’s, famous recipe. The boys ate theirs in about three big bites and asked to be excused to throw a football in the front yard. Little Mike looked to have a cannon for an arm.
“I have some news.” Eph wiped some crumbs from his mouth. “I got a call today, from the head of my department at Devon. It seems some different people are running the show up there now and I’ve been offered tenure.”
Everyone, save Big Mike, cheered and clapped.
“My brother, the genius!” proclaimed Ellie.
“I don’t know about that. I guess they were desperate.”
“That pay much?” asked Big Mike, from the head of the table.
“It would be a nice raise, yes.”
Big Mike grunted in what could have been approval, but it was hard to tell. He’d been silent for most of the dinner. He looked at his untouched tart, almost solemnly. One hand was shaking, as it increasingly did of late. “I’d like to say something,” he said. He paused for a few moments as if collecting his thoughts. The words came out slowly. “We are blessed here, those of us at this table. We are blessed by this food and by God and country and family. Ellie, thank you for this fine meal. You have honored your mother with it, and she would be proud to know the mother you yourself have become to those fine boys out there.”
Ellie visibly teared up. “Thank you, Daddy.”
“Eph?”
“Yes, Dad?”
Big Mike looked as if he was struggling for what to say. “It’s nice you’re here, Son.”
It grew dark and the night sky lit up with a million stars. The outer band of the Milky Way was a brilliant white sash. Eph had forgotten what a deep-country sky could look like. The others left or went inside, but Eph and Big Mike remained there, sipping beer, quietly taking in God’s universe.
* * *
The following day, Eph was back at Samford.
“Good morning, Professor!” called a passing student with a wide smile. Eph returned the greeting. He was running one or two minutes late, so his class was already full. He had maybe twenty students in all. They sat around a large Harkness table.
“So, let’s begin with a question. Why do you suppose Hemingway said all American literature descends from Huckleberry Finn? What made it so great?”
Hands shot up and Eph chose a girl on the far side of the table.
“It was the first novel to portray common people as central characters.”
“Yes, very good. Novels before this almost exclusively featured the rich and well educated. Twain wrote about a different America. Anything else?” A boy to his left raised his hand.
“It used language as people really spoke it.”
“Correct. Twain’s characters did not have access to the Oxford English Dictionary. They used the language of nineteenth-century rural America, some of it quite colorful, and some of it even offensive, at least to the modern ear. At the time, this was the equivalent of a literary earthquake, and we can follow the technique’s lineage through the Realists right to Hemingway and all the way to modern writers like Tom Wolfe. It all started with Twain.
“You know, in real life, Twain didn’t have much time for the smart set. He wrote them off as posturing ‘city folk.’”
Eph stole a glimpse through the window. It wasn’t leaded glass, and the campus wasn’t one of Gothic elegance, but Samford had its charms. The students were earnest. Maybe not possessed of that knife-edge intellect he was used to at Devon, but likable. There was less entitlement, and no one was confused about what pronouns or which bathrooms to use. Either way, it felt good to be back on the professorial stage.
After class he went outside and sat on a bench and watched students walk by. He meant to start reviewing the next assignment, but it was a beautiful day, so he let his eyes close while he soaked up the sun. A calmness settled on him and he realized the personal and professional anxiety that had followed him around for much of the last year was gone.
Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he dialed Titus Cooley’s number.
“Titus, it’s Eph.”
“Ephraim, good. I need to give you over to HR to get the paperwork going. There’s so much of it these days!”
“Titus, that’s the thing. I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but I think I’m all set.”
“All set. All set with what?”
“All set here. I think I’m going to stay. In Alabama. I think maybe I like it here.”
“I am hearing this correctly? You’re turning down a tenured position at Devon University?”
“I guess I am.”
Howls of laughter came through the phone, not the reaction Eph was expecting.
“Titus?”
“Bully for you, Ephraim, bully for you.”
Eph didn’t know anyone else who could get away with saying “bully for you” without sounding ridiculous. “I’m confused.”
“Ephraim, I wish I had your balls. Do they have a full-time spot for you down there?”
“They have suggested it, yes.”
“Well, good. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone in our little world who could turn something like this down. But the university mistreated you badly, and frankly, we don’t deserve you. And if you want to know what I really think, I think this place is going to hell anyway. Devon is like a big pot of stew with lots of ingredients, only they’d never been mixed. Last spring an immense spoon came and mixed the stew and we discovered it was inedible all along.”
“I’m not the spoon in this, am I?”
“You’re not the spoon. You’re certainly a spoon.”
“And if it’s a stew, wouldn’t the ingredients be mixed to begin with?”
“Hmm. Perhaps salad would have made a better metaphor…”
“I never meant to be a spoon.”
“The best spoons never do.”
“I thought you’d say I was crazy turning this down. A big part of me thinks I am.”
“Not crazy, not crazy at all. And let me just say again how lucky the good folks at Samford University are to have you.”
They wished each other well, and Eph slipped his phone back in his pocket. He should go see Emmet about a more permanent arrangement, but right now he had a more immediate need: some peach crumble at Lucy’s. He’d heard good things.
He wondered how D’Arcy would react. She’d be upset she wasn’t consulted, or at least act the part. He’d barely consulted himself, but it felt right, as right as anything he’d ever done. Would D’Arcy move down here with him? She, too, had grown disenchanted with the madness at Devon. He decided he’d fly back North next weekend and get down on bended knee. If she still loved him, his odds were good.
Eph arrived at the entrance to Lucy’s at almost the same moment as a young woman. He grasped the door handle first, pulled it back, and stood to one side. “After you.”
“Why, thank you, sir.”
He followed her inside.
TWO YEARS LATER
Epilogue
“IS SHE HERE “YET?” asked the producer.
A nervous-looking production assistant, one hand holding a clipboard and the other the side of her head, strained to hear through her earpiece. “Her limo is three minutes out. There’s a lot of Midtown traffic.”
“Good. Get her past that rabble outside and straight to prep. We’re running close.”
* * *
Across town, the Mound, now more commonly known to his coworkers at Goldman Sachs by his real name, Dennis Flugelbaum, emerged from the shower. As was the dressing habit of any Wall Streeter, he turned on CNBC to watch Morning Squawk, but then his phone buzzed with a text. Dennis often received tex
ts this early; it was probably an update from the Hong Kong trading desk.
Glancing down, he saw it was from his buddy Digger. It simply read, “Turn on GMA.”
Dennis grabbed the remote and changed to ABC.
* * *
“Welcome back this hour to Good Morning America. I’m your cohost George Stephanopoulos. Our next guest is the daughter of Hollywood film star Camille Thornton, an emerging star in her own right, and rumored to be the new face of Revlon, all at the tender age of twenty-one. If you’re one of the few that doesn’t know her already, you will soon. I’m speaking of Lulu Harris.” The camera lens drew back to reveal Lulu emerging from side stage to the audience’s enthusiastic applause. She wore an Alexander McQueen leather jacket and a tight red-and-white tartan skirt. She sat on the high stool next to Stephanopoulos, allowing the producers to keep Lulu’s long legs in the shot.
“Lulu, welcome to Good Morning America. So great to have you here.”
“Thank you, George, although I don’t know how you get up this early every day!”
Stephanopoulos and the audience dutifully laughed.
“So, I happen to have an advance copy of something here that you may not have seen yet.” He reached down and produced a large glossy magazine, which he held up. The cover revealed a head shot of Lulu. “This is On the Avenue and it reads, ‘Lulu Harris, a New Kind of It Girl.’ Congratulations to you.”
“Thank you.” Lulu smiled. It was okay to smile once you were on the summit looking down, she’d decided. Besides, it was time for Lulu 3.0.
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