A Death Most Cold

by Petryshyn, Jaroslav (Jerry)

  Well…that certainly confirms that, Myron thought, and to Charles’s credit, it was not an overly overt attempt to lobby him for support. “Those are definite assets,” he said.

  Kettle full, Charles made his way to the washroom door before pausing in contemplation. “By the way, I saw you talking to Corporal Osprey in the cafeteria the other day. Has she drawn any conclusions yet as to the nature of the President’s unfortunate death?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Myron said.

  “All sorts of rumours about the police being suspicious, and Corporal Osprey sure is inquisitive.”

  “That’s her job,” Myron responded.

  “Hmm… I suppose you’re right. Tragic the way it happened.” Charles waved his free hand in a vaguely dismissive fashion and shook his head. “Imagine getting into your car, strapping yourself in, and freezing to death. What a way to go!”

  After Charles made his exit, Myron stared at his own face in the mirror. “Did I detect a note of glee in Charles’s voice?” he asked the other Myron.

  ***

  Coming back from his first class, Myron spied Ralph Sorrey hanging around his office door. He hadn’t seen the student since that irritating Wednesday afternoon world history session.

  “Want to see me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Come on in.” Myron opened the door, dropped his lecture notes on his desk, and sat down heavily, indicating for Sorrey to do likewise.

  Sorrey appeared no less belligerent than the last time. “I’m dropping your course,” he bluntly declared, placing a standard drop/add form from the registrar’s office on the corner of Myron’s desk. “Guess I need your initials.”

  “Okay, no problem, but can I ask why?”

  Sorrey shrugged. “Don’t like it — it’s irrelevant.”

  “Irrelevant? I’m not sure I follow?”

  The youth brushed a stray strand of black curls from his eyes. “I’m just not getting anything out of it. To me it’s irrelevant to what’s happening today.”

  “History can be a lot of things — even boring to some — but never irrelevant—”

  “So what’s the relevance of Louis XIV or all that other stuff we’ve taken?” Sorrey challenged.

  Caught off guard, Myron had to think for a moment. Like most academics, he had made an a priori assumption that his discipline was both relevant and important, but he rarely had to actually justify it. Sorrey, obviously in the throes of some personal crisis and/or reassessment of his academic/career goals, had invited his instructor to do precisely that.

  A whole plethora of arguments popped into Myron’s mind. The usual ones about history repeating itself (did it really?), about studying the past to appreciate/anticipate the future, of coping with new circumstances by discovering and applying analogies from bygone eras, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. All these arguments (which admittedly were rather esoteric and nebulous) Myron suspected would bounce off Sorrey like an India rubber ball off a concrete wall. He tried a different angle. “How would you change this course to make it more relevant, meaningful to you?”

  “I dunno.” The kid shrugged again. “Make it more real — like how can I get a job out of this stuff?”

  “Well…you probably can’t immediately, but down the road there are related jobs to be had.”

  “Like what?”

  Myron refrained from being curt with Sorrey; instead, he gave him his best salesperson pitch. “A history degree is a good springboard into other professions such as law, archival and library work, the civil service, and External Affairs — not to mention teaching. But what you’re really asking about is the value of a liberal arts education in general. All I can say is that it’s valuable in and of itself.”

  Myron could tell from the blank expression on Sorrey’s face that he wasn’t getting through. “You know, Ralph, if you’re taking this course expecting to receive specific training for a job, you’re probably in for a big disappointment.”

  “So why go to class or to the college?”

  What else have you got to do with your imploding life? Myron thought. He said, “At its best, college — or at least the academic portion of it — prepares you for a lifetime of living, learning, and career challenges. If nothing else, the global history course ought to point out that the only constant in humanity activity is change.”

  “So?”

  “So…in practical terms there’s a brave new rapidly evolving employment world out there, which you can’t be trained for, because neither you nor I will know what to train for by the year 2000. Jobs existing today will vanish tomorrow, to be replaced by ones not yet conceived off. You’ve got to be prepared. The college may do it badly, but what else is there? A liberal arts education will hopefully make you more complete and adaptable, with the ability to think and to articulate your thoughts so that you will have a job in the next century.”

  Having exhausted his John Naisbett repertoire as a futurist, Myron concluded, “Of course, the choice is yours.”

  “Are those jobs you listed the only ones a history degree will get me?”

  “No,” Myron said evenly, trying to hide his exasperation. This kid needed a career counsellor, not a history instructor. “What do you want to do?”

  “I dunno — something exciting.”

  “Well…with a history degree you can always try to join the CIA.”

  “Huh?”

  Myron pointed to a yellowing advertisement cut out from the Miami Herald tacked to his bulletin board. The CIA, it announced, was recruiting recent graduates with history degrees from campuses across the United States. The ad (at least three years old) was sent to him by a colleague as a joke, and Myron for some reason thought it humorous enough to save and display. Now, it served as a facetious illustration of the variety of opportunities that could be had by those with historical knowledge and training. “Is that closer to what you had in mind?”

  Sorrey didn’t appear impressed. “Why’d you take history — to teach?”

  “No, because I like it!”

  Win some, lose some. Myron lost Sorrey. Evidently, the young man found nothing enjoyable, enlightening, or practical about Myron’s course or academics in general. Myron finally initialled the drop course section on the form, and Sorrey made his escape.

  ***

  Early afternoon rolled by, and Myron was still in his office, wrestling with student essays. Statements like “John A. caught a cold and died of death” or “the Ukrainians were expelled from Acadia” were easy enough to deal with. However, there were those students with syntax issues that proved a little trickier to diagnose and explain.

  Myron always knew when a sentence was not quite right, but ferreting out why in precise grammatical terms sometimes proved elusive. “Technically, what’s wrong with this sentence?” he muttered rhetorically to himself. He read it through again in his mind. On December 1, 1869 McDougall issued a proclamation to the empty land filled with Buffalo which was illegal because it had not been consummated. He, of course, knew what the author was attempting to convey, but the sentence just did not compute, especially since those that preceded and followed were equally convoluted and obtuse. Myron rubbed his eyes; he had been reading too many essays of questionable quality on Louis Riel and the northwest to the point of brain numbness. He had to stop for a while before he started to become indifferent to the prose or actually believe some of the material written. He slashed a double red line at the side of the margin and wrote “awkward wording — meaning obscured” and left it at that. It would take him longer to correct this one paragraph than it took the student to write the whole essay, he decided. He eyed with a growing apprehension the accumulated pile he still had left to mark.

  At that moment, he had a welcome diversion when Sheila appeared at his open door. “Got a minute?”

  “I sure do.” Shoving his essay pile aside, he gestured to the empty seat.

  Sheila was dressed in her no-nonsense business suit: dark-green jacket and matching
pants with a jabot down the front. Her body was tense and her face drawn. She got right to the point. “I understand Oliver unburdened his soul to you yesterday?’

  “I wouldn’t quite put it that way, but yes, he told me a few things.”

  Sheila nodded. “I hope you can appreciate our…situation.”

  “I think I can.”

  “And be discreet about it?”

  “Of course, I—”

  “It’s important to Oliver…and to me.” There was a sense of urgency in her voice, a controlled yet palatable hint of panic in her eyes.

  “I know this must be distressful…”

  “Yes…yes, it is.” She collected herself. “Look, Myron, I know Oliver appreciated you popping by — I just don’t want things to turn out badly…” She trailed off.

  “In what way? Surely your relationship—”

  “I’m talking about Dworking’s death and the police investigation.” She cut him off. “Oh, I wish that this business was all over with — these hanging clouds over our heads.”

  Myron was still puzzled by Sheila’s rather imprecise comments but set that aside and said, “You have the least to worry about.”

  “Do I?” She gave him a crooked smile and let it hang. “I just wanted you to know that Oliver wouldn’t — couldn’t hurt anyone. He’s quite distressed about Dworking’s death and the suspicions that have been cast on him.”

  “You’ve heard the rumours?”

  “Yes — nasty rumours.”

  Myron nodded. “I’m sure the police investigation will be concluded soon and everyone can move on.”

  “I–I hope so.”

  Myron could sense that there was something else bothering the dean. “Sheila, what is it that you’re trying to say to me?”

  She sighed. “You’re well meaning, I know—”

  “But the road to hell is often paved by well-intentioned people.”

  “No. That’s not what I meant. Oliver talked too much about us and our situation. I’d hoped to avoid all that.”

  “It would have all come out eventually.”

  “I suppose you’re right. I just ask you not to mention it to anyone.”

  By “it,” Myron presumed his conversation with Oliver, which seemed innocuous enough — at least to him! “Well, as you said, I’ll be discreet,” he assured her. It wasn’t exactly a promise, but that was the closest he was going to come. He hadn’t planned to relate his conversation with Oliver to anyone else except Freta.

  “Thank you.” She seemed relieved.

  Myron changed the subject. “Oliver told me you were going to apply for the presidency?”

  “I submitted my resume this morning. Got a call from the board secretary — I’m on tomorrow, 8:30 a.m. sharp. Blythe and Hoar are in a hurry. I think all the candidates will have their interviews tomorrow, probably one after the other.”

  “Undoubtedly, since they’re to make a recommendation to the board for approval Wednesday night.”

  Sheila sighed heavily. “I wouldn’t bet on my chances — especially after the last board meeting. Came on kind of strong. They really pissed me off!”

  Myron tried to be optimistic. “You never can tell. All you can do is give it your best shot.” Too bad that the third member of the Selection Committee is such a dud, thought Myron. The perennial Mackay would most assuredly go along with Blythe and Hoar in support of whomever they choose.

  “So will Charles.” Sheila broke into his thoughts.

  “You and Charles don’t get along?”

  “That’s putting it mildly. Long story — dirty water under the bridge now.” She didn’t elaborate.

  “Well, may the best woman win!” Myron declared with a wan smile, still processing the “dirty water under the bridge” comment.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Monday night

  It had been a long Monday, and after his last class, which ended at four, Myron decided to stick around the college and have dinner: a cheeseburger with lots of fries (the cafeteria was noted for not sparing the spuds) covered in gobs of ketchup. It was quite tasty, actually, and at the moment he wasn’t worried about calories.

  Through the day, he kept an eye out for Ted, but his office door remained closed, and he was nowhere to be found. The same was true of Freta; they agreed to let the hot-as-Sahara stir they created after their weekend liaison cool down a bit, but he did want to let her in on his meeting with Oliver and receive an update from her end. He’d phone her later when he got home.

  Myron took his “square meal deal” to the concourse, a large open area where students congregated and relaxed in industrial-strength sofas grouped in judiciously spaced units around industrial-strength coffee tables. The place was quite deserted now, with most students having gone home or to their favourite bars. The evening class rush wouldn’t start until about six. Chewing on his patty, Myron wearily gazed through the large, triple-glazed window into the rapidly darkening night. In the forefront, he saw his own reflection, a strangely detached figure staring back at him.

  “Ruminating, are you?”

  Appearing beside his reflection was the heavily bundled form of Harold Wisenburg, philosophy instructor and chairperson of the Humanities and Social Science Department. Wisenburg was in his midfifties, a thick barrel of a man, harbouring a long bushy beard with an abundance of wizened grey streaked throughout. He had protruding cheeks and deep-set eyes, black as coal. It was those eyes, Myron believed, that gave Harold the Rasputin look: soulful, irascible, with a tinge of animal wildness.

  Harold was an ideological misfit, a humane Marxist who renounced his American citizenship during the height of the Vietnam War and fled to the untainted nirvana of Northern Alberta. The college became his refuge, where as an experienced savant with a ready young audience, he could denounce Uncle Sam’s capitalistic corruption and imperialist nature.

  “No, just finishing my dinner. Can’t chew and think at the same time,” Myron responded, cranking his neck around.

  Harold sat down on the edge of the battered coffee table, facing the historian. “I’d hardly call that dinner,” he said, eyeing the ketchup-smeared paper plate with distaste.

  “Beats my cooking. What’s up? You’re hanging around rather late. Got a night class?”

  “No, not till Thursday,” Harold responded, setting his briefcase down beside him. “Just finished a hastily called meeting of departmental chairs and those in the president’s office, formed a committee to plan a farewell tribute for our late president.”

  “Was that initiated from the board?”

  “Probably. It was Charles, though, who wrote the memo to all of us suggesting a college-wide goodbye to Vanessa combined with an introduction and welcome to the new president. I guess the board will make that decision on Wednesday.”

  Myron nodded. “Big of Charles, also shrewd, since in all likelihood he will be our next acting CEO.”

  “Quite possibly,” Harold agreed. “Anyway, after considerable debate, I daresay it was finally decided to hold a posthumous tribute this Friday evening.”

  “You mean there was less than enthusiastic endorsement of the idea?” Myron couldn’t quite manage to keep the sardonic tone from his voice.

  “Not that exactly. Most chairpersons agreed that a suitable send-off was appropriate. But some worried about sufficient numbers showing up and/or having anything complimentary to say.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Actually, I am being a bit facetious. Still, a couple were serious — spent three quarters of an hour debating the point. Finally decided to go ahead with a few safe speakers — the chairperson of the board and, ah, Charles volunteered and maybe a community member from outside the college who knew Vanessa well — not sure about that yet. A couple names were mentioned. Also, we’ll encourage anyone attending who feels moved to say a kind word or two. As a backup, I and at least one other chairperson could fill the breach.” He paused. “Did you want to speak as past president of the Faculty Associati
on?”

  “I’d rather not,” Myron said firmly. For a myriad of subliminal reasons he’d have to think about, he didn’t want to speak. “It would be more appropriate to let Jeffery do the honours.” Jeffery Pierce was the current Faculty Association head, and Myron could always say, if pressed, that he didn’t want to step on Jeffery’s toes.

  “Fair enough. I’ll ask him.” Harold paused, giving Myron a pensive look. “You know, I didn’t mind Vanessa at all. She was a straight shooter with me. I…well. Never mind.” Harold checked himself. “She’s dead, and I’m sorry. By the way,” his voice took a brighter tone, “as an added incentive to attend, the committee decided to provide free food, the catering costs to be shared by the board and Faculty Association — and have a cash bar open. That way not only can we drown our sorrows for the passing of the old but also celebrate the selection of the new.”

  “I suspect I’ll just be drowning my sorrows.”

  “Your choice, but you don’t think that’s too gauche, is it? There was some argument over that point.”

  “What — the cash bar?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, Vanessa would have appreciated the gesture. She liked a drink or two at any function I’d seen her at. Certainly, most of our colleagues will. Good idea. Glad the committee went ahead and resolved to do it.”

  “Well, among academics I’m not sure anything gets resolved — just suitably reworded.” Harold laughed. It was an old joke but with a germ of truth. “I’m sure that—” He stopped abruptly, and Myron followed his eyes to the third person who had suddenly materialized, casting shadow over them.

  Nadia stood there, a sudden apparition, flitting eyes that didn’t quite make contact, her hair noticeably dishevelled and her face flushed. She had the wanton look of a woman who had hurriedly jumped out of someone’s bed, Myron reflected later. Certainly it was a different Nadia than the one who had confidently marched into the apartment a few days ago and stripped it of “her” possessions.

  Harold, catching the sudden charged atmosphere, got up and excused himself. “I’ll probably see you tomorrow,” he said.