Summer Session

by Merry Jones

  Harper envisioned it again and again. Hank kneeling, maybe checking a shingle; Trent watching as he began to stand, coming at him with the full force of his body, knocking him over, watching Hank fall.

  It was possible. It would explain why Trent never visited Hank, and why Hank was so insistent: ‘Trent. No.’

  Enough uncertainty. Harper had to know for sure. This time, she wouldn’t let Hank change the subject, blindsiding her with questions. This time, the only questions would be hers.

  Once again, Harper headed outside. She didn’t care about darkness, danger, pain or exhaustion. She cared only about Hank. About getting the truth.

  The room was dark, the curtains closed. It was way past visiting hours, but Harper told the night guard that she’d left her phone in Hank’s room. Hank was asleep, breathing evenly. Harper stood at his bed, imagining him sneaking around with Vicki. When had they done it? Late at night? Early morning? And what about their pillow talk? Had they invented pet names for each other? Was Hank her Snookums or Teddy Bear? Damn. Vicki deserved to smolder in hell. And how could Hank look so innocent, lying there, dreaming peacefully without a single pang of regret?

  ‘Hank. Wake up.’ Harper nudged him without tenderness.

  His eyes opened, and he grunted, confused. She nudged him again, and he squinted up, identifying her. ‘Hoppa?’ He looked surprised, then happy, then concerned.

  ‘Wake up.’ Still no affection in her voice.

  He sat, rubbed his eyes. Looked at her blankly, with no clue why she was there. God, she wanted to throttle him. Or maybe to jump into bed with him, reclaim him, feel his body next to hers. Half asleep, he looked mussed and cuddly. Strong. Damn, who was this man? What did she know about him?

  Do not be sidetracked, she told herself. Make him admit the truth. He watched her, eyebrows knitted, yawning, no doubt wondering why she’d awakened him.

  ‘You have some explaining to do.’ Her tone was harsh, unforgiving; she took a seat on the side of the bed.

  He blinked, waiting. ‘Do?’

  ‘Yes, you do. Tell me about Vicki.’

  ‘Vicki. No.’ Or, maybe, Vicki know.

  Harper tried again. ‘What’s your relationship with her?’

  ‘Vicki? Why. Hoppa?’

  Good. They were having a conversation. And it was Harper’s turn to talk. ‘Why? Because I want – no – I deserve to know.’

  Hank’s head tilted, puppy-like, confused.

  ‘I was looking in your computer for the notes Trent’s been looking for—’

  ‘Trent. No.’

  ‘And guess what? While I was looking for the notes, I found Vicki’s emails.’

  Hank scowled. ‘Snoop. Mad.’

  ‘Mad? You bet I am. Damn you, Hank. I know about you and Vicki.’ Harper’s eyes welled up. ‘I know what you did.’ Her words came out too fast and shrill, accompanied by unanticipated angry tears.

  Hank looked stricken. He put his hand on her back. She squirmed at his touch, pushed it away.

  ‘No. Hoppa. Not. Wrong.’

  Harper was stunned, humiliated by his denial. Apparently Hank felt no need to admit his behavior.

  ‘Why, Hank? Just tell me why.’

  Hank didn’t respond. He sat, silent, staring at her.

  ‘Stop pretending you can’t talk, Hank. I know you can if you want. You can tell me why you cheated. Go on. Tell me how you screwed your best friend’s wife.’

  Nothing.

  ‘Fine. Just sit there. You know what? I lost three students this week. Three kids. Dead. But I’m not able to mourn them or help my other students because all I can think about is my cheating husband and how he was fucking my best friend.’ On its own, Harper’s fist rose and took a dive, landing hard, right in Hank’s solar plexus.

  His mouth opened and he grunted, air blasting from his lungs. Harper kept slugging, shouting at him until Hank managed to block her with his weak arm and grab one of her wrists with the strong one.

  ‘Hoppa,’ he gulped. ‘Stop.’ He squeezed her wrist, letting her carry on until she finally got tired of smacking at him and quieted down, still stiff with anger.

  ‘Dead.’ He repeated it, reminding her of the gravity. ‘Three. Safe. Not.’

  ‘Don’t change the subject. Tell me about Vicki.’

  Hank frowned, still panting. ‘Hoppa. Rife. Ell. My. Take.’

  His rifle. He was dodging. ‘Answer me, Hank.’

  ‘Shoot.’ His eyes were worried.

  ‘I don’t need the fucking rifle—’

  ‘House. Take. Shoot.’

  ‘Hank. Forget your rifle. Tell me about Vicki.’

  He watched her severely, his eyes insisting that she heed his advice.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Not.’ Hank’s jaw set, hard and angry.

  ‘Did you have an affair?’

  Hank’s eyes were steely, unwavering. ‘Not. No.’

  What was he saying? Was he denying the affair?

  ‘Hank.’ Harper wasn’t convinced. ‘What were the notes Trent wanted—’

  ‘Notes. Cheat. Tell. She.’ His answer confused her, frustrated him.

  What?

  ‘Write.’ Or right? His nod was emphatic. ‘Not.’

  Not write? Or not right. Harper thought for a second. ‘You mean Trent didn’t write an article? He cheated?’

  ‘No.’ Hank’s hands tightened into fists. ‘She. For. Trent. Ten. Cheat. Yure.’

  That might have been the most complex statement Hank had made since his fall. Harper tried to make sense of it. Vicki cheated? Trent cheated? One of them cheated somehow to get Trent tenure? Maybe Hank had found out, had proof of their cheating in his computer – and the proof was those ‘notes’ Trent wanted? But Harper didn’t know what the proof was or even that it existed; she had no evidence that Trent had done anything unethical or dishonest. She was making up the whole story. Even so, when she closed her eyes, she saw Trent standing on the roof, arms reaching out as Hank fell.

  And, once again, Hank was diverting her attention. ‘Tell me about you and Vicki.’

  ‘Not. Her.’ His eyes softened, became puppy-like. He reached out with his strong arm. ‘No. Not. Hoppa. You. Me.’

  Hank’s good hand stroked her arm, knowing just how to touch her, giving her goose flesh. She closed her eyes, her body recognizing his touch, reacting. Lord, she missed him. But no. She wasn’t going to be so easily won over.

  ‘Hank. I read Vicki’s emails.’

  His eyes darted away and he released her arm. Was that a confession?

  ‘What went on, Hank?’ Harper insisted. ‘I deserve to know.’

  Hank stared into air for a long moment before meeting her gaze. When he did, his eyes seemed wounded. And the slightest bit altered, as if belonging to a Hank impersonator. Someone who was almost but not quite Hank. ‘Hoppa.’ He shook his head. ‘Mail not. Write.’ Or male not right? ‘Hay. Den.’

  Hayden. Dr Hayden, head of the Geology Department? What about him? Hank’s mouth twisted, forming another word. ‘Bee leave?’

  Harper didn’t know what he was saying or what she believed. She wanted to trust him. But trust was beyond her. Hank held her shoulder with his good hand, tightening his grip until it began to hurt. She tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t release her.

  ‘Hoppa. Bee leave.’ His tone was grave. ‘Oowife. My.’ For once, his eyes were not laughing. They held on to hers, much as a cat’s might hold on to its prey’s. Hank’s grip tightened. For a heartbeat, Harper felt afraid.

  She sat still, a captive of her husband’s eyes. Finally, Hank released her, and they sat silently, watching first each other, then the walls, each knowing that something between them had shifted and that there was nothing either of them could do about it. Harper got up and told Hank she’d be back in the morning, but he didn’t respond; he stared stubbornly at the wall.

  For the second time that night, Harper left without a kiss. When she passed the guard, he called to her, ‘Did you find it?’
>
  Find what? ‘Oh, yes.’ She nodded, but didn’t remember – had no idea – what he meant.

  A sunbeam carved its way through the crack in the curtains and landed on her forehead, spotlighting her eyes. Harper moaned and opened one of them. The drapes were unfamiliar. So was the wallpaper. Harper closed her eyes again. Maybe she was dreaming. But when she opened her eyes again, the drapes and wallpaper had not changed. For a few confused eye blinks, Harper couldn’t figure out where she was.

  Slowly, though, with a wave of disgust, she remembered. In the middle of the night, she’d gone back to the bitch-slut’s house and finally fallen asleep. The clock on the nightstand said eleven forty-nine. What – almost noon? In a heartbeat, Harper was on her feet, limping on her sore leg, cursing, looking for clothing, grabbing her bag, rotating without efficiency and without being fully awake until she remembered that, oh – hadn’t the day before been Wednesday? Yes. Bloody Wednesday. The day of the murders. Of dinner with Ron. Of discovering her husband’s affair. Which meant today must be Thursday. Which meant she had no recitation. Which meant she hadn’t overslept.

  Harper stood in the middle of Vicki’s guest room, checking the clock, the window. Seeing another police car parked in front of the house. Feeling a sickness in her bones: her encounter with Hank, his lack of repentance. How was she supposed to deal with that? What did people do when they found out their husbands had had affairs with their best friends? Murder was far too mild. She was thinking of other alternatives when her phone rang.

  Caller ID announced MOTHER. Damn, not now. She couldn’t talk to her mother now, couldn’t put on a front and pretend that she was fine. She let it ring; her mother must have heard the story of her dead students on national news, must be worried. Mom would smother her with well-intended but useless advice full of irrelevant tangents about a neighbor’s son who’d known somebody in college who’d taken drugs, or a distant relative of a friend who’d killed himself. She would ramble on, sharing stories. It was how she expressed affection. Suddenly, Harper missed her, needed to hear her voice. She grabbed the phone.

  ‘Mom?’ Harper listened for her mother’s smoky voice, which over the years had descended in pitch to a throaty baritone. But there was only empty air. Her mother had hung up.

  Harper closed her eyes, felt alone. Never mind, she told herself; it’s OK. You’ll talk to her later. Meantime, she needed to collect herself. She’d survived worse things than an affair. She was tough. Army tough. She’d be fine.

  She limped to the shower, turned on the water, stepped inside. Beginning her day. Afterwards, she’d dress, go assure the policeman in the cruiser that she was fine, and later see Leslie. She’d function. Even so, washcloth in hand, she stood with her face up, directly under the shower nozzle. That way, with water cascading over her face, Harper wouldn’t have to admit even to herself that some of the stream was salty, coming from her eyes.

  The Sleep Clinic was almost empty when Wyatt caught up with Ron and pulled him into a corner, demanding to know what had happened at Harper’s house. Ron dodged. He didn’t want to deal with Wyatt.

  ‘You saw it on the news. What more do you need to know? It was a mess.’

  ‘But you were there?’

  ‘Don’t act surprised, Steven. You sent me there.’

  Wyatt sputtered. ‘Damn it, Kendall. What the hell were you thinking? What if somebody had seen you? You could have been charged with murder. This whole thing would be exposed, the trials cancelled. Forget the trials – the entire Center could have been brought down, our careers with it.’

  Ron kept his voice calm. ‘How was I supposed to know people were going to be murdered there? Steven, you yourself insisted that I find out how she’s involved.’ He had anticipated Wyatt’s reaction, had resolved not to get riled. He’d prepared what he would say, how he’d say it.

  ‘But I didn’t tell you to break into her house—’

  ‘I didn’t break in. The back door was open.’

  Wyatt crossed his arms, scanning the mostly empty Sleep Clinic. Just three occupied cubicles. Two sleep apnea patients, one narcoleptic. He was fuming; Kendall was too impulsive, had become a liability. When this crisis resolved, he’d have to deal with him.

  ‘Did you see what happened?’

  Was Wyatt kidding? ‘Of course not. When I heard people coming in, I hid. When things got quiet, I left. The dead girl was on the porch.’

  Wyatt drew a breath, eyed Ron pointedly. ‘Did you kill her, Kendall?’

  Ron remained calm. ‘If I did, Wyatt, do you think I would tell you?’

  They glared at each other. ‘Assuming you weren’t seen, then. What did you find?’

  ‘Nothing. Not a thing.’

  Silence, except for Wyatt’s wheezy breath. ‘She’s involved in this, Ron. It’s obvious. Everything connects to her. Even if the drugs aren’t in her house, she must know where they’re stashed. Maybe she’s got a key to the place. Or maybe they’re up in her attic. Did you check her attic?’

  ‘No. I didn’t check her attic. I figured it was time to leave when I saw the dead kid.’

  ‘Well, then, how do you know she doesn’t have the drugs? Stop thinking with your dick, Kendall. That woman has something or knows something. Why else did those kids go to her place? Why was the killer there? All of them were there for the same reason you were. To find the goddamned drugs.’

  Ron didn’t reply.

  Wyatt faced the door. ‘Christ. This is out of control.’

  He was right.

  ‘And it’s only going to get worse until we recover the pills. Too much is at stake.’

  Ron still didn’t answer. What was the point? Wyatt was stating the obvious.

  ‘So. You’re convinced she doesn’t know anything.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Well, how about this?’ Wyatt squinted, thinking. ‘Maybe she does know something, but she doesn’t know that she knows it.’

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  ‘Maybe that kid who committed suicide said something to her before he jumped. Or maybe he had a key, like I said, and slipped it to her without her noticing. And maybe those kids found it, but whoever killed them took it from them. In which case, the killer has access to the pills—’

  Ron rubbed his eyes, fatigued. A key? Harper would certainly have told him about it; after all, she told him about finding a scrap of paper. Ron interrupted, ‘So bottom line, Steven, what do we do now?’

  Wyatt hissed, inhaling sharply. ‘If I’m right, the killer has what we want. So, we find the killer, we find the drugs.’

  Great. ‘And how do we do that?’

  ‘Dammit, Ron. I don’t know. Ask your lady friend what she had that’s missing, so we’ll know what to look for. And find out who those dead kids hung out with. We’d better find this guy before he starts selling those drugs. Or, God help us, who knows what will happen.’

  Wyatt was right. There was nothing else to say. Ron started for the door.

  ‘And, Ron? If we want to save the trials – let alone our jobs – we’d better find him – and the drugs – before the police do.’

  Ron kept moving, furious with Wyatt. The man seemed to hold him responsible for everything – the theft, even the murders. Which stunk, since Wyatt had seniority over him. So, unless he could somehow come out the hero in this mess, his status at the clinic – hell, his entire career – was in jeopardy.

  Wyatt remained in the hallway, rubbing his forehead. His head ached, and he was feeling the effects of high blood pressure. The stress was making him ill, but he had to keep up appearances, behave normally. He ought to check on the narcoleptic. She should be waking up any time now, and she needed a scolding for not taking her medications.

  For the first morning since he’d been at the clinic, Harper didn’t visit Hank. Even if she hadn’t overslept, she wouldn’t have gone. She needed time. Wasn’t ready to see him. Leaving Vicki’s, she saw a note with her name on it in the kitchen, but she didn’t read it,
didn’t even touch it. She asked the policeman to drive her back home to get her Ninja. Then, promising to be careful, she got on her motorcycle and escaped. Harper rode randomly through sticky hot air until it was time for her appointment with Leslie.

  She arrived early, but Leslie was ready for her, handed her a mug of sweet chai.

  ‘You’ve been crying.’

  She had been. More in the last few days than in the last decade. But she shook her head, no. ‘Just allergies.’

  Leslie smiled. ‘Don’t lie to your shrink.’

  Harper sipped chai to hide a wobbly chin. When she was able, she answered. ‘Hank.’ But her throat closed, unwilling to let her speak. So she paused, started again. ‘Hank was having an affair. With Vicki.’

  Leslie didn’t react. Holding her mug in both hands, she settled into the big green leather sofa. ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘Email. On his computer.’

  Leslie waited. ‘And you’re sure?’

  Harper nodded, choosing anger over grief. ‘God, Leslie. After everything we’ve been through. His accident. And all the hell that’s happened these last few days – all that’s not enough? I also have to find out my husband was fucking my so-called best friend? Really?’ She paused, nostrils flaring, jaw tightening. ‘So I guess I must be real superficial and self-centered, because here I am, worrying about their affair, obsessing on it. A waitress was murdered. A student killed himself, and two others got murdered right in my own fucking house, and what am I doing? I’m picturing my husband in bed with my friend—’

  ‘Harper. Stop right there.’ Leslie’s tone was firm. She waited for Harper to catch her breath.

  ‘Let’s put this in perspective. You’ve had one shock after another, not just these last few days, but over a period of years. You’ve suffered significant traumas, which is why you came to me.’

  ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘Finding out that Hank cheated is another trauma. But this one isn’t like the others.’

  ‘You’re right. Nobody died. So why am I fixated on it when so many worse things have happened?’

  ‘Harper, in its way, Hank being unfaithful – if indeed he has been – would be more traumatic to you than anything you’ve been through. It would hit you right in the gut, and not because you’re selfish or superficial, but because, unlike the other events, it involves not physical but emotional injury. And not just any emotional injury. It involves betrayal. Betrayal by the people closest to you, the people you’ve trusted.’