“You’re right; I used poor judgment.”
Mary looked as though that wasn’t an answer she had prepared for but continued with her lecture. It went on for over five minutes. Arthur tuned her out. Eventually, she got to the part he had been expecting.
“Until the hearing two weeks from today you will be on paid leave.”
Arthur said, “I understand. Two weeks paid vacation until you decide what to do with me. Got it. Thanks for your time.”
Mary sneered.
Arthur couldn’t enjoy his little jab because some sort of commotion was going on outside and was getting louder. He went to the window and saw that a small group of women with signs had formed outside. It took him a moment, but he realized they were there protesting him. Words like “misogynist” and “creep” were being bandied about.
Mary looked out and said, “It seems not every one of the ladies on campus has been fooled by your charm.”
Arthur left.
***
The building had more than one exit, and Arthur was able to avoid the picketers. He took the long way home to avoid being seen. Arthur, not known for humility, was embarrassed. He was sure Mary had put them up to it, but even so, organized group hatred wasn’t something he had ever known.
Arthur got to his front porch just as the local news van pulled up. He walked in and found Wen, still wearing his shirt. He said, “I think things have taken a turn for the worse.”
“What happened?”
“There was an angry mob of women protesting me, and it seems the local news has gotten whiff of the story. You best get dressed and maybe head out the back. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Don’t you have a class to get to?”
“Oh, well, actually, yes.”
“I’m just saying, you might as well get out before it gets too crazy.”
Wen peered through the blinds. “A second van just arrived.”
“You don’t have much time. If you want to be the crazy professor’s mistress and get splashed all over the airwaves, there will be plenty of time for that later. For now, I’d appreciate it if I didn’t have to worry about you.”
Wen smiled and said, “That’s sort of sweet of you.”
Arthur grabbed her and said, “You look sexy as hell in my shirt, and I could spend the next two weeks curled up here with you, but I need you to go. If you head through the back yard, there is a hole in the fence. You can get away without being seen.”
Wen pulled on her jeans and said, “Okay, I’ll go.” She put on her shoes then gave him a kiss before she left.
Arthur watched until she was gone.
It took five minutes to fill his bag with clothes. He took the bag out the back, set it in the alley, and went back inside. Arthur filled Maltese’s bowls and called Eric. “I need you to do me a favor.”
“Sure, anything.”
“Can you feed Maltese for me?”
“Why?”
“I’ve been suspended, and there’s something I need to do.”
“When will you be back?”
“A couple of weeks. Will you look after Maltese?”
“No problem.”
“Thanks.”
Arthur hung up. He changed out of his suit and put on jeans and a golf shirt. He gave Maltese a pat on the head and said, “Eric is going to look after you for a little while. You’re a good cat.”
A third van had arrived while he packed. Arthur walked down the steps, but only one of the reporters was ready with questions. He smiled, got in his car, and drove away before anyone could get any video of his escape. He zipped around the block, picked up his bag from the alley, and left town. If the world was going to come crashing down around him so be it, but he wasn’t going to be held captive in his house as it happened.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
The small group of media hounds were bored. Rebecca, a rookie journalist, hadn’t been in the game long enough to become jaded. Her phone rang. She said, “Hey, boss, nothing yet.”
“You think we’ll have anything for tomorrow’s paper?”
Rebecca walked down the street for a little privacy. “I got a hold of the woman in the picture. She’s meeting me at three.”
“The one in the pink bra?”
“No, the other one. The one sitting on his lap is Cheryl, but she isn’t talking.”
“This whole thing seems like a dog that won’t hunt but go ahead.”
Rebecca hung up. She looked back at the huddled mass of people waiting for Arthur to return. They were mostly local television except there were two other print media people and her.
She had promised Crystal there wouldn’t be any pictures, so her photographer, Stan, could keep an eye on the house. Rebecca pulled him aside and whispered, “I’m going to go meet Crystal. Here’s my digital recorder in case Dr. Byrne comes back. Don’t tell anyone where I’m going.”
Stan had been in the business for close to twenty years, and she could tell he found her tiresome. He had made it clear he thought the whole cloak and dagger thing was stupid. “Sure, whatever. Have fun.”
Rebecca took the car. It was about thirty miles to Springville, and she would need a little time to find the coffee shop.
Three o’clock came and went. Rebecca started to get annoyed by a quarter past. At 3:20, Crystal, wearing dark glasses, walked into the coffee shop. She set her jacket on the chair across from Rebecca and said, “I’m sorry I’m late. Let me grab something, and we can talk.”
Rebecca got out her notebook. She hated to be kept waiting.
Crystal sat down, took off her glasses, and said, “I’m not sure what you want to talk to me about.”
“I want to know about the picture.”
“It’s just me sitting next to Arthur at Edgar’s Pit.”
“Who is the woman on his lap?”
“I honestly don’t know. She was drunk and hopped on his lap just before the picture was taken.”
“Where was her shirt?”
“No idea.”
“How do you know Dr. Byrne?”
There was a hesitation. Crystal took a sip of her coffee and said, “I was his teaching assistant a couple of years ago.”
“What was he like to work for?”
“He was fine. He knows his stuff. Frankly, I don’t see what all the fuss is about. He was just having a beer, and this crazy woman threw herself at him just before the picture was taken. I don’t think he even knew her. It wasn’t like she went home with him or anything. I mean, I saw her leave with some guy five minutes after that was taken.”
“And who did Dr. Byrne go home with?”
“Well, it certainly wasn’t me, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m married.”
“I’m just trying to understand what sort of person he is.”
“He’s just like every other guy.”
“How so?”
“He likes women. Is that a crime? Sure, he drinks at the same bar as the students, but it isn’t that big of a town. There aren’t many choices. He isn’t the only one.”
“He has a bit of a reputation. Do you know anything about that?”
Crystal looked out of the window at nothing going by. She sat with her legs crossed. One foot nervously zipped back and forth like it had a short circuit. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Did he ever sleep with his students or TAs?”
The lack of an answer was telling.
Rebecca kept pushing. She asked, “Did he sexually harass you in school?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“He was your boss. Did he make you have sex with him?”
“I was an adult. I’m married now. I was just having a beer. I don’t know why everyone is making such a big deal of this.”
Rebecca smelled blood and asked, “What sort of sex acts did he make you perform? I need to know. Is there a pattern of abuse? You’re a victim and there are probably others. You can
tell me. Did he make you have sex with him?”
Crystal didn’t say a thing. She just kept looking out the window.
“You need to come forward. I’m sure there are others. Do you plan to sue? If you were to tell me your story, it would help get people on your side. That way you could get all the money you deserve. Just tell me. What did he make you do?”
“I have to go. My husband will be coming home from work.”
“Does he know about the abuse? Is that why you don’t want to talk?”
Crystal grabbed her purse and left.
Rebecca had been here before. The seed was planted. After a night’s sleep, she was sure Crystal would be ready to tell her story.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Just the concept of a road trip made Arthur feel better. It reminded him of the days before he knew what he wanted in life. Arthur had only the vaguest recollection of what that had been, but he had found it for a while.
The day he had accepted the teaching job was still clear in his mind. It had been a declaration to the world that he was giving up. Arthur had always imagined that the world cared, but that was his ego talking. Nobody cared.
The miles flew by, and he desperately wished he could cruise all the way back to before hope had been lost. The more he tried to remember what happiness looked like, the worse his melancholy became until he finally had to admit he couldn’t put it into words.
Arthur could remember one thing: her eyes. They were dark and seemed to have hidden behind them all the secrets of the world. It was those piercing looks that drove him crazy with love...or was it lust? He could remember the sex, but why had so little else remained behind? Was it all the years of drinking? Probably, but maybe there was a clue in the loss.
When he was with her and those stunning eyes, he was drunk with satisfaction as if everyone around were looking at her with him and thinking “What the fuck?” Could that have been it? Was it merely the reflection of himself through her that had passed itself off as love? It seemed disappointingly possible.
Arthur pulled into a truck stop and filled the tank with gas. Beef jerky seemed like the proper snack for a road trip, so he grabbed some and a Pepsi. The TR3 was running like a top.
As he pulled back onto the interstate, Arthur set out to remember facts. Anything he could nail down from the past would do. The radio helped when Gordon Lightfoot started to sing. Arthur sang along. It always choked him up a little.
February 28, 1983 was a fact he remembered. It was the day the last episode of M.A.S.H aired. He remembered it because he decided he couldn’t watch the episode a few minutes before the show came on. Arthur had seen the last episode many times since, but on that day he wasn’t ready for the show to be over. He remembered when Radar came into the operating room to announce that the chopper carrying Lt. Colonel Henry Blake had been shot down, spun into the sea...there were no survivors.
That was some good writing and a great memory, but did it count? How many times had he seen those episodes in the thirty years since the show went off the air? Still, it was a part of his life, a show that a generation shared with universal understanding.
He recalled the smell of the bakery he had taken her to on their first date but not the name of the place. It was two blocks from where they lived. He could see the interior, the glass case filled with pastry, and the clock on the wall behind the register, but the name was lost to him.
There was the time they went to State College to visit a friend of hers. Her name was a mystery, too, but Arthur clearly remembered a game of pool. The women had been going on about something ridiculous, and he had snuck away to shoot some stick. After three games, he started to piss off the locals. They didn’t care for losing.
The fourth rack was set. Her friend was ready to leave, so he promised it would be the last game. The break put the five ball in the side pocket, so Arthur was solids, but he didn’t have a clear shot next.
His opponent, some frat boy, made five balls before he missed. The table was wide open. Ball by ball, Arthur cleared them until he was down to one more before the eight. It was a tough-cut shot, but he ran the ball all the way up the rail and in. The problem was the eight ball was now on the other side of the fourteen. There wasn’t enough space for a masse, so it looked like he would have a tough time even hitting it.
If he missed, it would be ball in hand. He would be toast. The memory was clear as a cliché about clear things, he knew he might be able to hit the eight if he ran the cue ball around three rails. He said, with a practiced nonchalance, “eight ball, corner pocket, three rails.”
He always called his shots as a matter of fact because it looked better if the ball happened to go in. At least a dozen people watched as the white ball zipped around the table, kissed off the eight, and sent it slowly into the corner pocket for the win.
She had been impressed.
For another two hundred miles he tried to piece together their history outside the bedroom. The gaps were depressing if not telling. Eventually, it just made him tired.
Arthur pulled off the interstate and found a motel of questionable quality.
It was a small town in the middle of nowhere. They had a grocery store that was within walking distance of the motel. It was cool outside, and the walk helped work the hours of driving out of his legs. He bought a spiral notebook and a bag of powdered donuts.
When he got back to the room, he called information and got the number. The phone rang twice.
“Hello?”
“Laurie, it’s me, Arthur.”
“Arthur Byrne, the author?”
He had expected something different. Shock maybe, perhaps anger, or even getting hung up on. He wasn’t prepared for casual and timeless. “I used to be. How have you been?”
“I’ve been doing fine, but I have had to find someone else to read. My favorite author has been slacking the last decade or so.”
“I’m going to be in town the next few days. You think we could grab a cup of coffee?”
“Sure, how about I meet you at Wood’s Bakery at say noon day after tomorrow?”
“Sounds great. See you then.”
Arthur set the phone on the nightstand and said, “Wood’s Bakery. Of course she would remember.” It made him smile.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
The room had been a disappointment. Sleep was twice thwarted by a rather amorous couple in the room next to Arthur. When the sun came up, he decided it was time to leave. A diner on the way out of town with its shiny metal walls and fifties music was exactly what he needed.
The waitress was a little more bubbly than he would have liked, but she took his order and kept his coffee filled, so he couldn’t complain. Arthur’s first call was to Wen.
“Arthur, I tried calling last night, but your phone was off.”
“Yes, I hit the road after you left. I turned it off.”
“What?”
“Biggus Road Trippus, from the Latin, which means I’m driving to New York to bury some ghosts.”
“I’m not sure you can bury ghosts. Aren’t they all vapor and floaty stuff?”
“That is an excellent observation. I guess I’m just going to visit some old friends after far too long.”
“When will you be back?”
“Before the grand inquisition.”
“The feminists are building up quite the little army.”
“What about the news vans? Have they left?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t been back to your place. I’ll try to drive by this morning and see if they’re still hovering out front.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“There is some good news - Kurt and Lawrence have been getting a lot of inquisitive tweets from students who seem concerned.”
“I haven’t been checking Twitter.”
“It’s probably best if you stay off social media for now.”
“Do nothing. Okay, I’ve got that shot in my bag.”
Wen giggled and said, “That was much better
than the burying ghost thing.”
“I should stick to sports.”
“I’ve got to get going. Lots to do before class. I don’t want to sound clingy or anything, but if you have time to call me when you get to New York, I’d appreciate it.”
“I think I can swing a call. Talk to you later.”
The bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich was delicious. Morning was normally the time of day he would start to think of something to complain about, but Arthur decided to take a day off from surly. He was in the middle of nowhere, so he figured nobody would find out.
If he did the math right, he would be trying to find a parking spot in Manhattan around noon. Arthur never had a car when he lived in the Big Apple because he hated parking. As he drove along, it seemed like the perfect thing to stress out over, but he decided luck was on his side.
He wondered if deciding to be positive was all it took. He could make a list as long as his arm of all the happy, cheery people he wished would die a horrible death. Perhaps they just chose to be happy? It seemed like a plausible theory. He might try it for the rest of the day, or he might get pissed off at the next stupid driver who cut him off and get back into his comfortable blanket of angst.
When he finally arrived, he got a room at the Hilton and paid for parking. It was a king’s ransom, but Arthur was sure it was a sound waste of money. He got settled in his room, let Wen know he had arrived in one piece, and called his old buddy Robert Goldberg. He was always good for a laugh.
Ten minutes of talking with Robert had indeed been full of chuckles. They made plans to meet for a drink.
Arthur took a shower. It was nice to wash the grime of travel away. He soaked for thirty minutes. When he got out, Arthur had an idea about his new novel and jotted down some notes for later.
Arthur had plenty of time before Robert would be at the bar, so he decided he wouldn’t bother with a cab. He had an app he hadn’t tried yet. He punched the address “121 W 28th St, New York, NY” into Maps, and a little red pin plopped down on a graphic of Manhattan. It read Hilton Garden Inn, which amazed him a little.
Underwood, Scotch, and Wry Page 12