by Cynthia Kuhn
“Sure,” he said. “But never so clearly or vehemently. You’ve got a strong force here.”
That couldn’t be a good sign.
* * *
The Friday department meeting was going along as it usually did—a slow crawl through tediously detailed matters dotted by political flare-ups. Spencer Bartholomew, our stalwart department chair who was in the unenviable position of shepherding us along the overcrowded agenda and refereeing the inevitable disputes, sat at the head of the table, about to wrap things up. I was idly admiring the tiny sailboats peppering his navy suspenders when the door to the department library burst open and an unfamiliar man in a black suit strode inside. He was tall and gaunt, with high cheekbones and long wispy gray hair clinging to his skull—his eyes seemed to burn. It was as if the Grim Reaper himself had come to call.
We all froze as he looked around the circle and finally located Tolliver, who shrank down in his seat in response to the man’s glare.
“I need to talk to you now,” the man commanded in a guttural voice, beckoning to the playwright. His teeth seemed unnaturally large, great yellowing blocks that his thin lips had to work hard to accommodate.
He looked familiar somehow, though I couldn’t place him.
From a nightmare, maybe.
Or the group of protestors?
Same thing.
“We’re in the middle of—” Spencer began.
“Now.” The man continued to stare at Tolliver until he gathered up the papers in front of him as if he were about to leave. He paused when Spencer waved his hand in his direction.
“We’re about to finish,” Spencer said to the intruder. “Please give me a moment, then you and Professor Ingersoll can speak here.” He looked at Tolliver. “Is that acceptable to you?”
Tolliver nodded and adjusted the pumpkin-colored scarf around his neck, probably just to have something to do with his hands. All eyes were on him.
The man briefly lowered his head in acknowledgment and took a step back, relinquishing the spotlight.
Nate elbowed me and whispered, “I have a committee meeting after this, but you’re not going anywhere, right?”
“Right,” I said, out of the corner of my mouth.
“You have to fill me in later.” He made a call-me sign out of thumb and pinkie finger and shook it.
“Very subtle,” I whispered.
He laughed and returned his attention to the meeting.
Spencer gave us a few additional reminders about upcoming deadlines, then pronounced the meeting adjourned. He stood, removed the charcoal suit coat draped over the back of his chair, and took his time putting it back on.
Faculty members exited quickly, darting curious glances in the man’s direction and talking quietly among themselves. Soon, only Spencer, Tolliver, and I were left with the intruder.
The man stomped over and dropped into one of the recently vacated spots across from Tolliver.
Spencer sank back into his chair, ran a hand through his gray hair, and gave him a serious look. “You can’t burst into a department meeting like that, Gavin.”
So this was Dr. Frinkle, the rogue psychology professor we’d been hearing about.
“What else am I supposed to do? This is an extremely pressing matter, and Ingersoll won’t return my calls.” He spat the words out and leaned forward, pinning my colleague into his seat with another fiery glare.
Tolliver didn’t say a word.
Gavin threw his hands up in exasperation. “See?”
Everyone waited for Tolliver to say something.
Silence.
Gavin clicked his tongue in disgust and looked wildly around the room. When he noticed me sitting there, he demanded to know who I was.
“Lila Maclean. Assistant professor of English and assistant director of Puzzled. Thought I’d stay in case you needed me.”
He weighed this and decided to let it stand, twisting back toward Tolliver and resuming his white-hot focus.
Spencer assessed the situation and spoke to Tolliver. “Could you please tell me what’s happening?”
The playwright narrowed his eyes at Gavin. “He’s left at least ten messages every day, berating me for not calling him back. If he’d just left one, I would have called him immediately.”
Gavin rolled his eyes at that.
“But I will not be bullied. So I choose silence.”
Refusing to reply is the higher education equivalent to sticking one’s tongue out at an enemy on the schoolyard.
Spencer turned back to Gavin, who crossed his arms over his chest. After a moment, he spoke angrily. “He wouldn’t call me back.”
“I believe we’ve established why,” Spencer said.
Tolliver added, “I’m working night and day on the play. I don’t have time to deal with this harassment.”
Gavin mumbled something.
“What was that?” Tolliver asked.
“Sorry.” It may not have been genuine, but it signaled effort, anyway.
“Okay,” Spencer said. “Now that we’re here, let’s try to sort things out. What’s going on?”
Gavin sighed. “Tolliver, I need to make sure that you won’t continue to give the spirit wranglers such a hard time. They have permission to be there.”
“It was the chancellor who didn’t want them to go forward, not me, though he’s changed his mind for some reason that I can’t fathom,” Tolliver shot back. “By the by, he wasn’t very happy about you giving them permission without the authority to do so, if you hadn’t heard that yet.”
Gavin smirked, an unpleasant sight involving skin stretching hard to slide over those disturbing teeth. “I know. But the main thing is that he has given his blessing and now you’re the one causing the problems.”
Tolliver’s mouth fell open. “I’m causing problems?”
“I’ve seen how you treat them during rehearsal.”
Tolliver and I stared at each other.
“You’ve been to rehearsal?” His tone signaled an approaching storm.
“I’ve been studying the Opera House for seven years,” Gavin said. “I’m there constantly.”
That was disconcerting news.
“I’ve never seen you there,” Tolliver said, lifting his chin.
“I should expect not. I know how to observe something without intruding upon it. I’m a scientist.” Gavin pointed across the table. “Just see that the spirit wranglers have access this week.”
Tolliver didn’t bother to hide his irritation. “We’ve been accommodating them the whole time. Yes, they’ve been underfoot but we managed to work around them, even though it’s been very inconvenient. Cords and cameras and people everywhere—”
“They’re doing crucial work.”
“Crucial work? Are you joking?” Tolliver’s face went slightly red. “They’re making a television show. We, on the other hand, are creating original art, Gavin. Art! It’s important!”
Gavin snorted. “You actually think your little play is important?”
Tolliver’s face turned bright red and one side of his scarf came unmoored, falling down his chest. He batted it out of the way and opened his mouth to retort, but Gavin spoke first, pointing at Tolliver. “Let me tell you something. We scientists study the workings of the universe. While your lot is up on that stage prancing about and warbling happy little songs, I’m trying to answer real questions about potential states of human existence.”
Tolliver’s chair shot backwards as he stood up and headed for the hallway. He paused at the door and said, “We’re done here.” Then he threw the end of his scarf over his shoulder and stalked away.
I awarded him big points for dramatic effect.
Spencer gave Gavin a quizzical look. “I still don’t understand why you’re here. If the chancellor has granted permission and Tolliver is
allowing them to complete their work, what do you need?”
“To make sure it happens.”
“They already showed us a rough cut,” I said.
“They want to add more content and have asked to interview me on location.” Gavin scratched his head, resulting in a dry little scritchy sound that made me want to run for the nearest tank of hand sanitizer. “Look, I need the episode to come out as soon as possible. It provides solid evidence that I must reference in my work. I’m going to prove that the Opera House is haunted, and, by extension, that Stonedale needs to have a parapsychology department, which I will chair.” He touched the table lightly with his palm. “And if this book isn’t completed soon, I won’t be promoted to full professor.”
Everything clicked into place.
A desperate tone entered his voice. “I received tenure fourteen years ago but they keep refusing my promotion, Spencer. My wife is about to leave me. This is my last chance.”
The department chair’s face softened. “I understand. And I hope this time you are promoted. But you have to respect the work that other professors are doing simultaneously. If you’d like Tolliver’s help, it would be better not to insult him.”
Gavin listened intently.
“Perhaps you could offer Tolliver a more robust apology. Would you be willing to do that?”
He didn’t move. “I’ll think about it.”
“That’s all I can ask. Thank you, Gavin.” Spencer patted the table briskly. “And with that, let’s adjourn.”
Later, I poked my head into Tolliver’s office. It was a madhouse of scripts, textbooks, and play props. His desk rose up in the middle like an island, miraculously clear of clutter. He was typing furiously on his laptop, seemingly unaware of anything other than the words on the screen.
I knocked softly on the door, happy to see that his color was back to normal. He’d had time to cool down and no longer appeared to be teetering on the verge of exploding.
“Lila! My darling, come in.”
I looked at the crowded floor and decided to stay put. “I just wanted to check on you. Is everything okay?”
He ripped off his glasses and tossed them on the desktop, then rubbed his eyes with both hands for a minute. Finally, he met my gaze. “Absolutely. Frinkle came by and apologized for denigrating my work. And for harassing me.”
“That’s good,” I said, smiling at him.
“I’m sorry I made a scene.” He winced. “But I couldn’t take another word. Especially when he began to say that science is more important than art. That I cannot tolerate.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “I understand.”
“Some people simply don’t comprehend the extraordinary value of exploring and expressing the human condition...and how can they dismiss the aesthetic and artistic experience? It’s utterly tragic.” His eyes appeared to be welling up slightly.
“He just sees the world differently, I guess.”
“You can say that again. What did you talk about after I left?”
I filled him in on Gavin’s situation.
“Oh, that is a tough one. No wonder he’s so close to the edge.” He looked back at his computer screen and tapped a key. “Still, no call for slamming another person’s discipline, is there, Petal?”
“I’ll let you get back to work.”
He thanked me for stopping by and returned to his laptop.
As I walked away, I heard him mutter, “Who puts all of his academic eggs in a basket full of ghosts, anyway?”
It sounded like one of the nonsensical lines from his play.
Chapter 17
The temperature had dropped noticeably by Saturday morning, but it didn’t put a damper on the company. The actors were gearing up for dress rehearsal, darting around like hummingbirds. Everyone was in character, reciting lines or singing scales. It was magical, the way they transformed when the costumes were applied.
I tried not to think about Gavin lurking about unseen as I descended below stage. I’d realized as soon as he told Tolliver he’d been working here that he may have been in the theater on the day Jean Claude died. Could he have been involved? And why had none of us ever seen Gavin around? The collegial thing to do would be to introduce oneself to others sharing the same space. What kind of work required him to stay in the shadows? Or did he stay out of sight because he felt guilty about something?
My train of thought was halted when Parker, aka Oliver, waved frantically to me from the doorway of the corner room he shared with the other main characters. Luke, already in costume as Sherlock Holmes, was looking in the mirror and adjusting his deerstalker cap; Rachel sat in the velvet chair, tying the laces of her Miss Marple shoes.
“I’m nervous.” Parker looked it too, extra pale beneath the pancake makeup. Beads of sweat dotted his brow. “What if I forget my lines? What if I fall? I don’t know if I can do this. This is only my second play.”
“You can do it. You’ll be terrific.”
“I don’t know.” He twisted his fingers. “I don’t want to let everyone down.”
“Listen, stage fright is a real thing. I understand that it’s powerful. But once you get on the stage and begin, it will lessen. The anticipation can be the hardest part.”
He swallowed hard and his eyes sought mine.
“Take some deep breaths,” I advised him.
While he did that, I turned to the other two actors. “How are you doing?”
Luke, giving his cap a pat, said he was fine.
Rachel looked up from her shoe and smiled. “I’m ready. Bring it on.”
“Good. Break a leg, everyone.” I turned back to Parker and lowered my voice. “My mother is an artist, and she always got nervous before her shows. But eventually she realized that she could only do what she could do. People would like it or not like it, and she couldn’t control that. What did matter was being in the moment. Doing the thing. In other words, it’s the thought of trying to please the world that creates the nervousness, at least for her. See if you can just focus on the now. Do the thing.”
Parker straightened his shoulders. “That helps.”
I patted his arm and nodded reassuringly. When he finally gave me a weak smile, I took that as a cue to leave.
Upstairs, I found Tolliver pacing backstage. Looked like Oliver wasn’t the only one feeling anxious.
“Hi Tolliver. Are you ready?”
“I don’t know. I—” he tilted a little and I reached out to steady him.
“Whoa. Do you want to sit down?”
He waved me off and continued pacing. “No. I need to get into the proper mindset. I keep thinking about the drama critic coming and it throws everything off.”
“Well, Banister won’t be here today,” I said. “So you don’t need to worry about the review right now.”
Zandra materialized from behind a curtain. “Tolly, come out front. They’re getting ready to begin.” She smiled at me. “Hi Lila. Isn’t this exciting?”
We went to our seats and took out pens to make notes. Tolliver was not going to stop the play for anything, so we’d be here for a good couple of hours.
It still seemed so strange not to have Jean Claude sitting next to me. He used to wave his hands wildly during rehearsal, physically expressing his responses before vocalizing them. I missed having to duck out of the way.
With a sigh, I silenced my cell phone and sat back to watch the show.
We made it past intermission with no major issues. There’d been some lighting cues missed and some minor blocking things to tweak, but overall, it was going smoothly. The actors knew their lines, the dancers were unified for the most part, and the costumes were gorgeous.
We were lucky to have a world-class costume designer overseeing the students’ work. Luciana was, like Jean Claude, visiting Stonedale on sabbatical this term. She’d won a Tony for cos
tume design earlier in her career, though she never mentioned it. She hadn’t interacted much with the rest of us, preferring to do her work in the studio at the school for the most part. The one time I’d bumped into her downstairs, she’d been deep in conversation with one of the crew members. He told me later she was scared of ghosts and unwilling to spend more than one minute here if she didn’t have to.
Onstage, Edgar Allan Poe was supposed to descend from the heavens to offer clarity on the argument.
Sherlock, Miss Marple, and Oliver were in place, waiting for Poe to swing down. He didn’t. Again.
There were some unidentifiable metallic sounds.
They all began peeking upward to see what was going on. I could see that they were trying not to break their poses, but they couldn’t help themselves.
Then the lights went out.
Tolliver shouted, “What’s going on? Wrong, wrong, wrong!”
A loud thump was followed by a scream.
“No, no, we’re not doing the party scene now,” Tolliver yelled. “What in the heck is happening?”
When the lights went back on, Edgar Allan Poe had fallen—on top of a very surprised Sherlock.
Students swarmed up to Andrew Lu, the actor playing Poe, who was unconscious. Tolliver, Zandra, and I did the same. Luke slid out from under him carefully. “I’m fine,” he said in response to a flurry of inquiries, dusting off his deerstalker cap. “Is Andrew okay? What happened?”
Tolliver patted Andrew, who soon began stirring and groaning. After a few minutes, Andrew was back to consciousness enough to tell us that he’d put on the harness and stepped off the exit point above as he was supposed to, but nothing supported him. He said something about being in the wrong harness or the wrong fly space. It didn’t make any sense. It was clear at a glance, however, that the rope attached to his harness hadn’t simply frayed apart. It had been cut.
Andrew’s arm was bent at an odd angle—he grabbed it with his other hand, then bent over in pain.
“Does anything else hurt besides your arm?” I asked.
He shook his head, tears in his eyes.