Wither

by J. G. Passarella

  “Nowhere,” Wendy said, suddenly darkening. “It was probably a random blip. The blind squirrel finding an occasional acorn. Next class, he’ll probably sit on the other side of Pearson. Chat up some other coed. End of story.”

  Wendy and Frankie reached the Gremlin and battled traffic all the way to the campus radio station, WDAN. By the time they arrived, Frankie had prattled on for twenty minutes and Wendy didn’t mind seeing her leave. Frankie leaned in through the Gremlin’s open passenger window for a final piece of advice: “Ask him out. But don’t expect any sympathy from me when it all goes sour.”

  “Good-bye, Frankie.”

  Her friend turned to go. “And don’t forget to listen to my show!” she said, pointing to the call letters stenciled on the radio station’s door.

  Wendy turned on the Gremlin’s old dashboard stereo-A man’s voice announced, “Stay tuned for ”Sisters in Song,“ which will be on just as soon as your host, Frankie Lenard, decides to show up…”

  Art clicked off the studio mike and cued a PSA cart. Over the speakers, the public service announcement (Art’s own prerecorded voice) warned whoever was listening at ten in the morning that “Swimmer’s ear is more than a summertime nuisance…untreated, it can lead to painful swelling, infection, even hearing loss!”

  He pushed away from the console and tipped his head back, closing his eyes and for the moment, letting everything fall away except for a heightened awareness of his breathing. The breathing meditation was supposed to help Art center himself, empty out a cluttered head, but usually all he achieved was a heightened awareness of how shitty this job was anymore. His eyes snapped open suddenly: overhead he saw crumbling acoustic tiles, badly water damaged. With an annual budget in the low five figures, no advertising, and a staff of unreliable volunteers, WDAN was a leaking ship awaiting decommission. And Art was the only guy holding a bucket. He looked at his watch: ten-fifteen. No Frankie Lenard yet, no “Sisters in Song.” He cued a second PSA to stall. (“Do you have an eating disorder, or know someone who does?”) The student DJs who signed up for airtime did it for fun, or (in the unlikely event they were communications majors) for a half credit of Independent Study. Could he really blame them for being late? These kids were out busy discovering life, reading Walt Whitman, figuring out all the various interesting combinations for genitalia. Art envied them. Hed been envying them for the last fourteen years.

  Some of the student DJs Art had managed back then were now MDs, JDs, PhDs. Christ, some were on the faculty now. And Art? Fourteen years later, he was still behind the console, filling in for another tardy kid. Recording PSAs for Big Brothers/Big Sisters and the National Association of Podiatrists. And still chasing down that last little bit of research for his own dissertation.

  Actually, he was going to have to start thinking of the dissertation in the past tense. No longer a work in progress. He’d submitted it two weeks earlier, and its absence on his desk still haunted him like a phantom limb. Which opened up a whole other avenue of dread…

  What would happen when he was awarded his degree? It had been two weeks now since he submitted his long-awaited dissertation, which examined the social impacts of the textile industry’s rise and decline in Essex County (in general) and Windale (in particular). Suddenly he’d no longer be a PhD candidate, he’d be … well, an alumn. A doctor. What next, then—professorhood? That’s exactly what he’d been avoiding these past fourteen years, choosing to offset his tuition in the graduate program by managing the campus radio station, instead of becoming a TA, or pinch-hitting for profs on sabbatical. Those jobs required exponentially more contact with students and faculty than Art wanted. Just the concept of facing a lecture hall of students sent him scuttling back to his breathing meditation, on the brink of hyperventilating. Tenure, academic infighting, publish or perish…

  He realized he was tugging on his ponytail, a nervous habit. No getting around it. It was due time he figured out what was next in life, the way most grown-ups already had by the time they were forty The old cocktail party line he’d used for years (“I’m in public radio”) no longer came as quickly to his lips. (Of course, invitations to cocktail parties weren’t coming as quickly either, so that problem took care of itself.)

  The door of the studio opened and Frankie peeked inside. “Sorry sorry sorry…,” she said, ducking beneath Art’s disapproving gaze and taking the swivel chair he vacated for her.

  “I pulled some CDs to get you started,” Art said, handing her the tall stack of jewel cases. “I used your last playlist.”

  “You’re the greatest!” Frankie said, donning headphones and giving Art a wave that was both mea culpa and dismissal. He left, shooting her one more warning stare through the Plexiglas studio window, and went to fetch the mail.

  An FCC bulletin, last issue of Stereophile, a couple of photocopied take-out menus for the overnight DJs from local pizza joints and sandwich shops… Art shuffled through the mail on his way back through the dingy cinder block halls of WDAN. He found an official-looking white envelope at the bottom of the pile, addressed to him. From the history department’s graduate program. He felt his stomach drop.

  Art took a breath, closed his office door behind him, cleared a space on his desk, pushing aside the bonsai tree he was busy killing, the Magic 8-Ball, promotional copies of new albums. He tore open the letter. Started to read, just as Frankie’s “radio” voice piped through the little radio Art kept on the windowsilL She really enjoyed getting into her sultry voice for the airwaves. Compared to her normal squeaky Frankie voice, it almost seemed like a superhero’s secret identity. “Good morning, sisters in song! We’ve got new tunes today from Tori Amos…”

  The sound dropped away behind Art. The world dropped away. He looked at the letter in his trembling hand.

  His dissertation had been rejected. Not a qualified rejection, not a “we’d like to discuss certain aspects of your research” sort of rejection. Rejected absolutely and definitively. Everything but the rubber stamp.

  “It is the opinion of this Board that the subject of your dissertation does not meet current requirements necessary for the degree of Doctor of History,” Art read aloud with disbelief, then continued reading in stunned silence.

  Typically, doctoral candidates receive guidance from an assigned faculty advisor, so that situations such as this unfortunate one are avoided before candidates invest time and resources on research. As you know, dissertation topics must he preapproved by both the assigned faculty advisor, as well as this Board. Your situation is unique in that all of the members of the original Board who approved your dissertation topic have since retired from Danfield College, while the original faculty advisor assigned to you—Professor Emeritus Karl Lundt—has passed away. Typically, when the Board rejects a dissertation, it accepts a measure of responsibility for inadequate academic guidance throughout the development process. However, given the protracted amount of time you have taken to complete your research and dissertation, the Board feels it cannot accept such responsibility. What we can offer is our deep regrets, and warm wishes for your future academic pursuits.

  The letter was signed (respectfully) S. Leigh Himes, Chair, Board of Graduate Studies.

  Art picked up his Magic 8-Ball and hurled it across the room. It smashed against the opposite wall in a spray of blue-tinted water. He felt immediately remorseful, like he’d kicked a dog.

  He scooped up the telephone and punched in his brother’s cell number.

  Paul answered on the second ring. “Leeson Contracting.”

  “They fucking rejected my dissertation.”

  A beat while his brother processed. “They can do that? After fourteen years?”

  “Of course they can! They’re Nazis.” He was about to rant on some more when he heard something on his brother’s end of the line, like the buffeting of a strong headwind. “Where the hell are you?”

  “On the roof of a beautiful Queen Anne that’s seen better days. Out on Old Winthrop Road.”


  “Well climb the hell down and come take me out for a sympathy beer,” Art said.

  “I’m sorry, bud,” Paul said. “The homeowner wants an estimate this afternoon—the ceiling’s been leaking on his little girl. ” Art heard his brother shift the cell phone to his other hand. “You should see this roof. Looks like someone dropped a tree on it.”

  “I feel like someone dropped a load of shit on me today, too,” Art said glumly.

  “I bet,” Paul said, genuinely sympathetic. “Listen, I’m booked up today, but what do you say I buy you lunch tomorrow at that vegan place you like—the one where the waitresses don’t shave their legs?”

  “That’s okay. I know you’re busy.” He knew his brother usually wolfed down a sandwich driving between jobs. A two-hour pity lunch would be cutting into the man’s livelihood. “I gotta be here for an FCC inspection.”

  “Then come over for supper, sometime. How about this weekend?”

  “Sure,” Art said unenthusiastically. That introduced a whole other circle to Art’s hell, as he got to sit across from Paul and his girlfriend—whom Art had loved since high school. “That sounds … nice.”

  Paul must have heard the defeat in Art’s voice. “Take it easy on yourself, bud. You’ll figure this one out,” his brother said, concerned. “You’re the brains in the family.”

  They hung up. Art stood wearily and crossed the room, stooped down and began picking up plastic shards of ruined Magic 8-Ball from the carpet. He found the little twenty-sided oracle die tangled in the sopping shag. (It was an icosahedron. What a useful fucking thing to know.) He picked it up and gave a humorless laugh when he saw its forecast: outlook not so good.

  Anticipating another restless night of bad dreams, Wendy stopped by the health food store on her way home from work for the ingredients to a homeopathic hot toddy. While the herbs were steeping on the stove, she took a hot shower. When she came down a few minutes later to fetch her concoction, she found her father standing over the saucepan, a spoon in his hand.

  “What the hell is this?” he asked, making a sour face.

  “Shouldn’t you ask that before you taste? What if I told you it was a powerful herbal laxative?”

  “I’ve learned my lesson. What are all the floaties?”

  “Licorice. Lemongrass. Peppermint. Valerian root. Skullcap,” she said, counting them off on her fingers. Missing anything? “Oh! And good old chamomile tea.”

  “Think I’ll stick to bourbon,” he said, searching the cupboards for one of the everyday highball glasses (as opposed to the presidential Waterford.) He was enjoying a rare night alone—Carol Ward was at a seminar on new Essex County zoning policy—which meant he could indulge a little. He found a highball glass and opened the freezer for ice.

  “Trouble sleeping, kiddo?”

  “The usual. Bad dreams.”

  He closed the fridge, dropping ice into his glass with a satisfying clink. “Garden variety, or something we need to talk to psych services about?”

  Wendy considered a moment before answering. “Somewhere in between, I guess.” Something in her voice caught him, and he looked up at her with concern.

  “What kind of dreams?”

  “Just—weird. I don’t know, I can’t really describe them.” Or want to. “Very vivid. Like I’m being watched by someone I can’t see.”

  She could tell she was spooking him. “This doesn’t have any sort of connection to the real world, does it, honey?” he asked. “You’re not being stalked…?”

  “No, daddy. It’s okay.” She flashed a smile to signal he could drop back to DefCon One. “Really. I mean, being followed around by guys is definitely not a problem I’m having. I should be so lucky…”

  He was relieved and gave her a kiss on the temple that made her slosh her herbal tea all over her bare toes. “I thought you’ve looked a little tired lately,” he said. “Your mother and I noticed.”

  “I figured. Mom left me a tube of Revitalizing Eye Gel on my nightstand. That’s her idea of getting to the root of the problem.”

  He laughed, and she gave him a quick peck good night. Minutes later she lay burrowed under her down comforter, sipping the citrusy tea and reading Hawthorne. Already her eyelids were feeling heavy. She put the book aside and gave herself to sleepy thoughts. Free association…Frankie, and Professor Glazer, and the Gremlin, and … Alex. With the uncertain smile. Her thoughts kept circling back around to him like a recurring melody in a piece of jazz.<

  And on that smile, she fell asleep.

  Midnight. Throughout town a dry wind blew, quick and mischievous, animating bits of trash and overturning garbage cans with a clatter before retreating to the restless treetops. At the Grocery King on Main, the breeze set a shopping cart rolling across the empty parking lot; while out on Old Winthrop Road, at the all-night Stop-N-Go, it blew insistently enough to trigger the automatic doors, startling the night clerk with a gust of sudden litter.

  Across town, in the tiny business office of Holy Redeemer Church, lather Joe Murray heard something clatter en the roof slates overhead and looked up from his faded paperback. At first he mistook the sound as laughter, but before his ears could identify its source the sound was masked by the steeple bells chiming midnight. Father Murray scowled. He hated the digital chimes, which had replaced Holy Redeemer’s original bells two years ago. Just the latest sad concession to technology. Before that, the parish had been forced by the insurance companies to replace the ranks of votive candles with vulgar electronic ones to remove the risk of fire. It wouldn’t be long, Father Murray sometimes grumbled, before the parish would decide to replace him—heimagined by a laptop computer on the altar.

  Thump. This time the sound was so loud Father Murray left the business office and walked into the dark chapel. Had a tree branch fallen? The night was certainly windy enough, and he’d been meaning to call the O’Neill boy to have a look at the diseased elms that overhung the church.

  The digital chimes were just beginning the second verse of their tinny hymn when the church shuddered violently, and Father Murray heard a terrific crash. The digital chimes slurred, leaden, then were silent.

  Father Murray bolted through the dark chapel and out through the church doors. He turned and looked, craning his neck to see what had happened. He could just make out the steeple, still standing in profile against the night sky. Its side was gaping, the wood splintered. What the hell had done that? A wrecking ball?

  The breeze shifted, carrying a dark smell to him. He felt his hackles rise in response to the musky, fetid smell—the stink of spoiled meat, left to rot. He shivered, suddenly afraid. On the roof of Holy Redeemer he saw a fleeting motion, a shadow darting across the scrim of stars—

  CRASH! Another phenomenal concussion, and now the steeple was falling in slow motion toward him. The crucifix it had held aloft for three decades came tipping forward and broke in two on the roof shingles … the ruined steeple slid down the slanted roof and landed in a splintered heap on the lawn at Father Joe Murray’s feet.

  Wendy slept, if not exactly fitfully, then at least without interruption throughout the long night. There was a storm front moving through, and it tossed the branches of the old maple outside her bedroom hard enough that it clacked repeatedly against her window. But still Wendy slept, deep into the night, and dreamed. Behind closed lids her eyes scanned rapidly left to right, left to right, and her breathing was quick and troubled. But she did not wake—or couldn’t.

  Not even at the sound of the heavy thud overhead as something stronger than the agitating currents of the storm front landed on the roof above Wendy’s bed, waiting.

  CHAPTER TWO

  * * *

  Eight-year-old Abby MacNeil fell sick in late September and missed an entire week of third grade at the newly opened Thorburn Public Elementary School. Whether the illness was viral in origin or the result of sustained exhaustion was never diagnosed, because her father maintained a basic mistrust of doctors (a hostile orthopedist had once testi
fied against him in a workman’s comp claim) and an even baser discomfort with clinics. (The only people who went to clinics, he often said, were poor blacks looking for free birth control and Portuguese factory workers with gonorrhea.) And so Abby lay in bed that first Monday morning following another weekend of feverish nightmares, beneath the critical eye of her father, until he rendered his diagnosis: “You’re sick—you should stay home. But if you’re screwin” around with me, girl, you’re gonna get a beating.“

  With those words he left her alone for the morning while he went downtown to get his unemployment check. He returned at lunchtime with a bottle of NyQuil and a thermometer he’d purchased at the CVS. The little girl was running a temperature of 102 by then and had become dehydrated. After she’d choked down the viscous adult flu medicine and some tepid tap water, she dropped off into a feverish delirium. Sunlight climbed the faded wallpaper before reddening, dying, and succumbing to the time-lapse shadows. Around seven that evening, on his way out to the Tap Room, her father paused in her doorway, frowning at the sight of his daughter in the grip of sickness: fetal, sheets kicked off her flushed young body, her breathing quick and hot. Something bothered him about the sight of her, beyond the fever itself, and kept him on the threshold of the sickroom. Something wrong with the way the shadows seemed to cling to her sweat-sheened limbs. Something wrong about the limbs themselves. She looked … longer. Was it a trick of the dying light, or could he see the teenager she would become already showing herself lightly beneath this child’s skin? And yet she was sucking on the two long middle fingers of her right hand, an infantile reflex. He’d never seen her do that before, not even when she was an infant. He left hastily.

  By the next day the fever had broken, though Abby’s horrible body aches kept her home from school yet again. Out her bedroom window she could hear her school bus rumbling by, and she was sure she could even distinguish the individual voices of her friends. Her hearing was getting sharper. She could hear mice in the basement. She could hear voices in the current of the wall sockets.