Without opening his eyes, Arthur did a check. He was not wearing pants or anything else for that matter. This realization caused a flash of understanding.
People had been in his home; not a lot but a smattering. He couldn’t give a count, but he was confident at least one of them, female, had been sans pants as well.
With only the slightest of head turns managed, he peeked out from under his eyelids to find the other half of the bed empty. His ears, which had started to ring a bit, listened for sounds from deep in the abode. Nothing.
It seemed safe to open his eyes further.
The light on the ceiling seemed to be lying to him. It was morning light. Arthur knew morning light because he had looked upon it with such scorn many times. It couldn’t be Sunday morning light, could it?
Maybe I’ve slept clean through to Monday?
The thought cheered him some. Not that he needed it. He was starting to come to the realization that he had been through some serious adult fun. No amount of hangover could take that from him. He took some deep breaths.
If one word were to be used, he might choose amazing. No, that was far too pedestrian. How about fantastic? It didn’t do the justice that was due. He could only describe her in one way: enthusiastic.
The next realization cleared away the fog. He COULD only describe her in one way. Another way, say...her name...that didn’t seem to be an option.
Fuck!
Arthur sat up, swung his feet out of bed, and, with trepidation, stood. His legs did an admirable job of taking him to the bathroom.
The shower was fantastic. A few more memories came back. It looked like the hangover was going to be more manageable than he first thought. By the time he reached the rinse cycle, his brain reminded him of his new writing project.
This made him happier than the fragmented bits of sex memory. Still, he was curious.
When he got out of the shower, he saw that the steamed mirror had a heart and read “XOXO ~”
Arthur put writing thoughts aside. He knew what an “X” meant and an “O,” but the tilde had him stumped. A quick run through of possible candidates who might have penned this steamy note left him with a list of three. He couldn’t narrow it further.
In the kitchen he grabbed after a tall glass of water. Arthur noticed the cat bowls had some food and water. His guest had fed Maltese. Two points for the mystery woman.
A garbage bag full of bottles and cans was next to the back door. She had collected the dead soldiers, too. Another point for her. He took in his abode in its entirety. It was clean...too clean.
There wasn’t any sign of debauchery to be had. Not a clue as to what had transpired anywhere. The crime scene had been scrubbed.
Arthur removed two points from the mystery woman’s score card and went to find Maltese. The cat was resting on the back of the couch. He looked to be considering a nap and couldn’t be bothered with a proper greeting. All Arthur got was a slight tail flick.
The Underwood sat ready. Arthur’s work-in-progress remained where he had left it. It was a new day, and he was going to write.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Tricia didn’t recognize the number but answered anyway. “Hello?”
“Good morning. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No, that’s okay.”
“I was just checking in to see how your article was coming.”
“Actually, I have an even better idea for an article. You won’t believe it. Dr. Arthur Byrne announced last night that he began a new novel. It was amazing. After over a decade with nothing, this is such huge news. I did some research last night after I got home, and he still has a sizable fan base that has been wondering if he would ever write again. It is the sort of story that could go national.”
There was a long silence. Mary said, “That is interesting, but his days of contributing to the literary world are past. I doubt he could piece together a decent ‘See Jane Run’ let alone anything noteworthy. I’m going to need you to stick with our original story idea. I’d like to see the copy this afternoon. Did you get the photos?”
“Well, yes, but I think...”
“Please send them over and I’ll take a look. Now, I’d better let you get back to writing.”
***
Kurt walked into the conference room and said, “Has anyone else read...”
Everyone had the paper in front of them.
Lawrence said, “This can’t be good.”
Kurt asked, “Has anyone talked with Dr. Byrne yet?”
A. said, “Wen and I have both called, but he hasn’t picked up. I think his phone is off.”
Kurt sat down next to Wen who gave him a half-smile. Everyone went back to their papers. Kurt gave Wen a little nudge en lieu of a “how you doing?” She just shrugged and looked down at her phone.
Ten minutes passed. Lawrence’s phone buzzed. He read it aloud. “It’s from Dr. Byrne. ‘I can’t make it today. Sorry. Lawrence, you’ll teach the lecture this week.’”
Wen said, “I’ve got to go,” and left.
There was silence for a few seconds. Kurt said, “I’m going, too. I’ll call you later, Lawrence.”
Kurt caught up with Wen outside of the library. She wasn’t moving very quickly. “Are you all right?”
“I know the girl in the picture or one of them at least.”
“Which one?”
“The one in the pink bra sitting on his lap and sucking his neck.”
“Who is she?”
“She’s my friend Cheryl. She, Fiona, and I went to the party together.”
“That’s Cheryl? You introduced us at Lawrence’s place, but I didn’t recognize her. Have you talked to her yet?”
“Yeah, she’s pretty upset, but at least you can’t really see her face.”
“Who’s the other woman?”
“No idea, but I think she used to be a TA for Dr. Byrne.”
“This looks pretty bad.”
Wen started to cry. “It’s my fault. All of it.”
“Girl, what are you talking about?”
“At the party, Fiona, Cheryl, and I got him hammered.”
“He doesn’t need any help. I saw him. He was pretty out of control.”
“I know, but if we hadn’t started doing the jello shots. I mean, that picture is bad, but...” Wen showed him some pictures on her phone as she wiped her eyes. They sat down at one of the secluded benches next to the founder’s statue.
Kurt started to flip through the pictures. He said, “Did I tell you how much I liked your outfit?”
“Thanks.”
“I love your top...Oh, wait, no top in this one...where is this at?”
“After the Pit, Fiona and two of her friends, who we ran into at the bar, and I all went back to Dr. Byrne’s place.”
“Oh, I missed the after hours.”
“It got a little out of hand.”
“More out of hand than, well, the rest of the evening?”
“I don’t drink that often. Sometimes my clothes fall off when I do.”
Kurt laughed and said, “I knew there was a saucy side to you.”
“You have no idea.”
“Keep going. What happened?”
“Fiona made margaritas and spilled something on her top, so she took it off. Her friend screamed something, and, before I knew it, everyone was mostly in their underwear.”
“What about Dr. Byrne?”
“He was shirtless and singing Jimmy Buffett.”
“Can he sing?”
“He can sing Jimmy Buffett that’s for sure.”
“So?”
“Eventually even Fiona passed out, and I’m not going to lie...I...”
“You didn’t?”
“More than once.”
“You little tramp.”
“I really am.”
“How was it?”
“I’m not going to give you all the sordid details, but it worked out just like I had hoped. That is why it is all my fault. I went to t
hat party to throw myself at Arthur. Now look at what’s happened.”
Kurt put his arm around her, “It’s okay. I’m sure it will all be over in a day or two.”
“Yes, but why won’t he answer his phone?”
“Let’s go see him. You can give me some more details on the way. I’m going to need you to dish everything, you little tramp.”
Wen smiled and looped her arm through Kurt’s.
***
The walk across campus wasn’t easy. It seemed everyone had the paper open to the same story. Two guys with skateboards were giving each other high-fives while another group of six were laughing and making jokes.
When they got to the house, all the shades were drawn. His car was out front, so they rang the bell. Kurt could hear Maltese scratching at the door but nothing else. He tried to look in the window but didn’t see anything.
Wen knocked and said, “Arthur, are you in there?”
Kurt said, “Try again.”
Knocking a little harder this time, she said, “I’m here with Kurt.”
Kurt said, “Maybe he’s not home. He does walk a lot.”
“Yeah, I suppose. I’m worried, though.”
“Me, too.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
It had been quiet for a while. Arthur had unplugged the phone then asked Google how to turn off his iPhone. He recognized the footfalls on the porch. At the sound of the knocking he said, “Come on in, Eric.”
“How you doing, buddy?”
“I’m lying in a proverbial bed of my own making.”
“How is it?”
“Lumpier than one might imagine.”
“I brought a bottle of those Napa grapes you like so much.”
Arthur started to get up.
Eric raised a hand and said, “I know where the corkscrew is. So, any reaction from Mary?”
“I have a meeting in her office tomorrow to discuss the ‘situation.’ I’m thinking it may be prudent to call my attorney.”
“Who’s the girl on your lap in the picture?”
“That’s Cheryl. She’s one of Lou’s friends.”
“What happened to her shirt?”
“I don’t even remember when that was taken.”
“Did you drag her home?”
“There we’re in sort of a gray area.”
“What do you mean?”
“Did I have an overnight guest? Yes, but it gets a little foggy at that point.”
“That is awesome,” Eric said, holding his glass up.
“It used to be. Somewhere along the way it became pathetic. I’ve been sitting here all day thinking. I can’t remember when I became the guy in the picture.”
“What do you mean?”
“The old geezer fondling women?”
“It looks mutual.”
“It was, but that doesn’t make it any better. I’ve become something ugly and pathetic. The thing is it has been my life for the last ten years. This semester, however, has been different. I’ve enjoyed teaching for the first time. It wasn’t just the end-of-the-road job that kept me in single malt.”
“You have seemed happy if you don’t mind me using that word.”
“In the past I might have, but you’re right: I’ve found happiness isn’t such a bad thing,” Arthur said and set the glass of wine, untouched, down.
“This isn’t the end of the world.”
“The world doesn’t even notice the foibles of a bitter, old man. This isn’t the end of anything, but, well, me.”
Eric looked concerned.
“It didn’t sound so ominous in my head. What I mean is that I had found the ‘me’ that hadn’t existed in a long time.”
“Emily asked me why you stopped writing. I told her I didn’t know. She got pissed. Why did you stop writing?”
“The funny thing is that I’ve been thinking about that most of the day. A lot of the details are gone. I remember her name, though.”
“I figured it was a woman.”
“What else is there?”
“So, what happened?”
“We met at a bookstore. That part is still as clear as if it had just happened. She had short, black, somewhat unkempt hair and was browsing through a book about I.M. Pei. It was fashion week in New York. She was not fashionable. Her raging indifference was intoxicating.
“I can’t remember the year. I’m not sure it matters. I was young...ish, and she was life. We left the bookstore and went to a coffee house. I played the author card early. She said she knew who I was but hadn’t enjoyed my last book, so she didn’t want to bring it up. I was hooked.
“She wasn’t, though, and it took me six months to finally wear her down. During that time, I was writing more and better than I had ever done before. I wrote the Vanity Fair piece in something like forty minutes.
“Eventually, she caved and agreed to date me. She said something to the effect, ‘Okay, we can date but know that it is entirely out of a sense of charity on my part.’ I agreed. It was heaven.
“Sure, it sounds like cliché, and, really, those years were an unapologetic cliché, but we did it well. There were dinner parties, evenings at the theatre, art gallery openings, and, of course, the book stuff.”
“What happened?”
“She dumped me.”
“Why?”
“She liked kids and thought making a few seemed like a reasonable thing to consider. I thought it was an idea worthy of contempt. I mean, seriously, what sort of sick psychopath intentionally ruins their lives with offspring?”
“Did you call her a psychopath?”
“No, I used more hurtful language.”
“You know, some people have children and like them.”
“Where did you hear that? The internet? You know people lie on the internet.”
“You don’t like the wine?”
“I’m sure it’s fine. I’m just not feeling it, I guess.”
“So she left, and you got writer’s block?”
“Something like that, but it was more a case of disinterest. I just didn’t want to write; that is, until Saturday.”
“You started writing again?”
“I did after the game. It isn’t bad, either.”
Eric asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was going to, but we started talking about you and Emily. How are you doing?”
“Eh, I’ll survive. Do you think Mary is going to try to use this to fire you?”
“I imagine that’s the plan.”
“We can fight this.”
“I’m not sure it is a good idea for you to get involved. I don’t think you should let the stench of this mess rub off on you.”
“I’m not afraid of Mary.”
“You’re still relatively young. Picking battles is something I never learned to do. If you don’t learn how, you’ll be me in a decade and a half.”
Maltese wandered out from behind the plant in the corner and hopped onto Eric’s lap. There didn’t seem to be much more to say. A comfortable silence ensued.
The stillness was broken by a knock at the door.
“Come in,” Arthur said.
Wen walked in and said, “You didn’t answer earlier. I was worried.”
“Yes, I was sulking. I’m better now. Glass of wine?”
“No, thanks.”
Eric chased Maltese off his lap and said, “I’ve got to get going. I just wanted to check on you. Hang in there, buddy.”
“Thanks for coming over. I’ll talk with you later.”
Arthur waited until Eric was well off the porch. “Don’t look so worried. I’ll be fine.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“For what?”
“Getting you drunk.”
Arthur was still unsure of who had spent the night. He hoped it was Wen. He said, “I don’t recall putting up much of a fight.”
“You were outnumbered. You didn’t stand a chance.”
“I’ll admit that had I wanted to put up
a fight I’m sure it wouldn’t have lasted very long. I’m powerless against a short skirt.”
Wen blushed a little and sat down next to him on the couch. “I wore that skirt because I was determined to have my way with you. I didn’t know it would lead to this.”
“So you regret what happened?”
“No, you were great. I just mean...what if you lose your job?”
Arthur had his answer. He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. He wanted to say something clever but nothing came to mind. The reassuring hug would have to do until he had a plan.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Arthur propped himself up in bed. Wen, wearing lacy boy shorts, flipped through his dress shirts. “What are you doing?”
She pulled a peach button-down off its hanger and put it on. “What do you think?”
“Sexy as hell.”
“What are you going to wear to the meeting?”
“I’m not up on current fashion. Can one wear white to an inquisition after May?”
“No. I think you should wear a suit.”
“I was thinking something less formal, maybe a kilt.”
“You will wear something respectful. Now, out of bed and into the shower.”
Arthur crawled out of bed and grabbed Wen around her waist. He kissed her on the neck. “I think a shower sounds like a great idea.”
***
Arthur, in his best suit, was mentally ready to take his medicine. It would be brutal, but, for the first time in years, he had something worth fighting for.
Mary opened her office door and said, “Please come in, Dr. Byrne.”
Arthur, without saying a word, took the seat in front of her desk.
“I have to begin by saying how disappointed I am in your behavior. You’ve shown very poor judgment and left the department and the entire school with a black eye. Cavorting with women half your age, drinking and getting drunk, and showing off for the cameras like you were some twenty-year-old fraternity boy - well, it’s disgraceful.”
Arthur kept his retort to himself.
“Why don’t you grow up? Parents send their children to our campus to sharpen their minds and prepare them for long productive lives. They do not send them here to be fondled by faculty! What have you got to say for yourself?”
Underwood, Scotch, and Wry Page 11