The Mentor

by Lee Matthew Goldberg

  “Professor,” Kelsey said, cutting him off.

  “One second, Kelsey!”

  He snarled at her like a bull, and she shrank in place.

  “Class is over,” Kelsey said quietly.

  He looked at the clock, way past when he usually let his students go. He had lost himself, like he often did when creating. So he shooed them all away but stopped Nathaniel at the door.

  “I’m sorry for speaking against you,” Nathaniel mumbled.

  “Did you get what I asked for?”

  Nathaniel gave a slow nod.

  “Good. Bring it to the faculty reading later today.”

  Nathaniel made a move to slide out of the door. William grabbed him by the arm, staring in his eyes.

  “You got everything, right?”

  “Yes, Professor.”

  William eased up on his grip. Nathaniel yanked his arm away and was out the door fast. William could hear him running away down the hall. He returned his gaze to the window in the back of the classroom. The snow was teeming now, icy swirls tapping against the glass and trying to break inside.

  25

  KYLE DEBATED HUNKERING down in his hotel room to finish Devil’s Hopyard, but he figured it’d be smart to pay a visit to Mia’s mother first. The manuscript would have to be read in between any detective work. He found Karen Evans’s address easily and drove to the outskirts of Killingworth. The place was a shambles, the house sinking into the foundation and looking like a soufflé that never rose. Paint crumbled from the façade, making it difficult to tell the difference between the real color and the primer. The screen door came off its hinges as he opened it to knock. The front door swung open just as he fit the screen back into its grooves.

  “Can I help you?” a woman asked, whom he guessed to be Karen. She had a Big Gulp in hand, hair like straw, and a zoned-out gaze. A waft of alcohol blew from her lips, which explained the burst capillaries in her reddened nose.

  “Are you Karen Evans?”

  She answered with a nod and a slurp from her Big Gulp.

  “My name is Kyle. I knew your daughter.”

  She froze in midslurp, as if she’d forgotten the name and he was a cruel reminder.

  “Your daughter Mia,” Kyle continued.

  “I haven’t talked to reporters in years,” she said, closing the door. He wedged his foot inside.

  “No, Mia was a friend of mine at Bentley. We even dated. I’ve thought about her all these years.”

  Karen had a tic that caused her right shoulder to shoot up to her ear. She seemed to apologize for it with her eyes. She pushed the door wide open and turned around, heading to her couch. She sat down as if she’d been walking for miles.

  Kyle stepped inside, the stench overwhelming. A house that had never been cleaned, a hoarder’s paradise. Yellowing newspapers climbed up the walls. A collection of plastic bags hid the dining room table. An old television showed some talk show, the sound muted.

  Karen moved aside vials of pills on the side table and found a crumpled pack of cigarettes. She shook one between her lips, then offered Kyle. He took it to be polite. Also on the side table was a box filled with matches and lighters. She lit her cigarette and then his.

  “It’ll be twelve years,” she said, with the faintest trace of a Southern accent. “I was young when she left, now I’m old.”

  He wanted to tell her she was still young, but he couldn’t get the lie out fast enough.

  “Mia,” she said, pointing to the mantel over the fireplace. He waded over sticky magazines and picked up a framed picture. It looked as if it had been taken in high school, not quite the Mia he knew, this girl purer. She was on a beach, smiling wide, no clue of the horrors about to happen.

  “She’s beautiful.” He made sure not to say was in case Karen still kept her alive in her mind.

  “Oh, yes, very. That was Harkness Beach, Fourth of July. Her dad had made it to town for the weekend.”

  “Did he see her often?”

  “That sumbitch?” She let out a wheezy laugh. “Hardly. He poked around down in Florida, swindled old ladies out of their retirement savings. Last I heard he was still locked up. But they hadn’t caught him yet when that picture was taken.”

  Kyle placed it back on the mantel, the only part of the house kept clean and tidy.

  “So why are you here now?” Karen asked, her hand shaking as she took a puff and the ashes fell everywhere. “Don’t remember you bringing over any casseroles like all the rest of ’em when she vanished.”

  “I’m an editor now at Burke & Burke.”

  She shrugged her shoulders, unimpressed. He handed her his card, which didn’t seem to change her opinion.

  “I’m editing a book about missing girls. A lot of high-profile cases. I want to give a voice to those who aren’t able to tell their story themselves. Because I knew your daughter, I wanted hers to be the final chapter.”

  Kyle’s card fell from her hand. She blinked madly at him, her right shoulder finding her ear again.

  “I really didn’t come here to upset you,” he said, sitting on the couch next to her.

  She patted him on the cheek. “I know. You have a good face. I like your face.”

  “I had some questions to start, if that would be all right?”

  “What about?” Karen asked, launching into a coughing attack and then settling herself.

  “About your daughter. Mia.”

  Her eyes looped around. Whatever pills she had taken seemed to be kicking in.

  “Did you see her picture over there on the mantel? It was at Harkness Beach. July Fourth weekend. We had a picnic of bologna and cheese sandwiches.”

  “Ms. Evans,” Kyle said. “Do you believe that your daughter ran away?”

  This seemed to wake her up. “Ran? Away? Oh, no, no. She would never. I mean they say she did. ’Cause the police did squat.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, they gave Mia a month of their attention. Candlelight vigils, search parties with barking dogs, combing the woods. And then something else caught their interest. Mia became nothing more than a runaway.”

  “Why don’t you think she ran away?”

  “We ain’t had it perfect, mister, but we had it all right. She was pissed about her daddy going to prison, but she felt he deserved it too. I tried to snag other father figures into her life when she was a kid, but none ever stuck. Then she got a scholarship to college and she was studying … I don’t know, philosophy or somethin’, nothing I’d be able to help her with.” Karen guided the cigarette to her mouth for one final, jittery suck. “But she loved me, she wouldn’t just up and leave without a word all this time. I can’t believe that.”

  “Was there anyone suspicious in her life then? Someone you didn’t like?”

  “Eh, she was up at school and we didn’t talk as much. There were a million names she’d mention to me, tons of boyfriends, always a new boy.”

  “You don’t remember her saying my name?”

  “Sweetie, there are days I forget my own.” She cocked her head over to the vials of pills.

  “What about an English professor of hers? William Lansing?”

  “Nope, can’t say that sounds familiar.”

  “She never talked about any of her professors?”

  Karen lit another cigarette, almost chewing on this one.

  “Lansing, you say?”

  “Yes, Professor William Lansing.”

  She flapped her hand in front of him to shut him up, as if she’d lose the thought.

  “His kids own that bar on the border of town,” she said. “The Royal Wee.”

  “His kids? You mean his twins, right?”

  Her right shoulder rose up to her ear. He couldn’t tell if it was a shrug or not.

  “Not sure of their names, but there’s something a little off about them.”

  “Off like how?”

  Karen pressed into the couch to rise on unsteady feet. “I think it’s time for my nap.”

 
; He took her by the arm to led her to the bedroom. “Ms. Evans, how are they off?”

  She unstuck her eyes, mucus and tears causing them to flutter.

  “Word about town is how close they are,” she said with a shudder.

  “Right, they’re twins.”

  “I ain’t never seen twins acting like the two of them do.”

  They reached her bedroom. A hurricane of clothes created a fortress as tall as the bed. The curtains were down—Kyle imagined permanently. It seemed as if light had never hit the room. Her dusty bed sighed as she rolled on top, cradling the Big Gulp. He tucked the sheets up to her neck and she appeared satisfied.

  “Good night,” she said.

  “It’s not even noon.”

  “The day is over for me. Yes it is. I’ve spent enough time in reality already.”

  She closed her eyes.

  Kyle shook her on the shoulder. She didn’t move, dead to the world.

  26

  ON HIS WAY to the faculty reading, William mailed a package to Brett Swenson. Brett had been avoiding all of William’s e-mails and calls since Sierra’s book party, and William knew that meant he probably wasn’t about to be signed as a client. There’d been a fakeness about Brett that William found suspect, but he believed the guy genuinely liked Devil’s Hopyard. He’d tossed and turned all last night guessing what Brett’s motive might be for giving him a false sense of hope, and he surmised that it had to have been Brett’s way of messing with Kyle. So William decided to mess with Brett.

  Afterward, he headed to Rayne Auditorium to hear Brooks Jessup read from his new novel—or, rather, watch his colleague spectacularly embarrass himself in front of the whole department. Wine and cheese were being served, but he made a beeline straight to Nathaniel, who sulked by the auditorium’s front doors.

  “Do you have it?” William asked, smiling at the room and not looking Nathaniel’s way.

  Nathaniel passed him a paper bag. Inside William saw a box of ex-lax and a few containers filled with clear liquid.

  “How do I know the stuff is legit?” he asked.

  “It’s from a dealer on campus that everyone uses for everything,” Nathaniel said, devouring a fingernail.

  William removed a CVS receipt from the paper bag.

  “What makes you think I’d want a receipt for the laxative?” William asked, balling it up and shoving it at Nathaniel. “You didn’t tell anyone about this, did you?”

  The boy twisted and turned in place, a ball of nerves. “Professor, I…”

  “What is it, Nathaniel?”

  “I-I don’t think I can be your research assistant anymore.”

  “That is disheartening to hear. You’ve done such a spectacular job.”

  “Really?”

  “Solid A-plus work that will be reflected in your grade. In fact, I wanted to write you a recommendation later. There are internships I can get you into for the summer. Wouldn’t that make your parents proud?”

  “Yeah, but…”

  Nathaniel had given up on his fingernail and now just gnawed on his whole finger.

  “That is a disgusting habit,” William said, shuddering. “You need to ask yourself how you want the world to view you.”

  “Who are the drugs for?” Nathaniel said, at least smart enough to whisper it.

  William leaned in, causing Nathaniel to slouch. “Maybe I have an addiction, Nathaniel, one I’ve never been able to quell.”

  “But I think all that stuff does is knock you out.”

  “Addictions are not always easy for someone else to understand. Like the way you chew your fingernails, for example, that is an addiction I cannot understand either.”

  Nathaniel glanced at his fingers as if he was angry with them.

  “I have one final request for you as my assistant,” William said. “Then I will let you go.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m still figuring out the particulars. But you’ll be the first to know when it’s ready.”

  William spied Brooks over by the wine table. He was done with reassuring Nathaniel—less of a spineless wimp than when he first started molding him, but not by much. He turned on his heels and made his way over to Brooks.

  * * *

  WILLIAM WANTED TO get to Brooks Jessup before the guy could pick up a glass of wine. Rooting around in his paper bag, he managed to open the Ex-Lax box and grab a few pills. He squeezed until the pills were crushed up into a fine mist, took two glasses of wine from the table, and poured the overdose of laxatives into the glass he handed Brooks.

  “Thanks, Bill,” Brooks said, with a hearty laugh. The guy was always laughing boisterously, mostly at his own jokes. He knocked back the wine so fast there’d be no way for him to tell it was spiked.

  “I’m looking forward to hearing your new novel,” William said, sipping at his own glass.

  “It’s been a beast to write, I tell ya,” Brooks said. “What with doing all the press for Long and Winding and trying to finish pages. Thanks for picking up my class, by the way. No way I could’ve taught this semester with the tour.”

  “My novel is at Burke & Burke now,” William said, diving into this pissing contest.

  “Dynamite, man!” Brooks said, slapping William on the shoulder. “This is the one you’ve been working on for like a decade, right?”

  “I’m not one for fast prose,” William said, sneering. “I read that Junot Díaz took ten years to write The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. I like to linger over each word.”

  “Me too, but my checkbook certainly doesn’t,” Brooks said. “Long and Winding took five years, but this new one, I’m aiming to get it done in less than a year. I got no choice, it’s in my contract!”

  He made a gesture at being handcuffed, and then cackled.

  “So Burke & Burke, you say? Who’s the editor?”

  “The contract hasn’t been signed yet, still doing some negotiating. But Kyle Broder will be my editor.”

  “He’s the one who signed that debut author for a half-million-dollar deal, right? I read all about it.”

  “Fingers crossed I’ll be his first seven-figure.”

  “Well, boy howdy, that is just awesome, awesome news,” Brooks said, letting out a belch. “Excuse me, I feel like that one brought up last night’s dinner.”

  The department chair, Dr. Joyce Yancey, hovered over the two of them. She loved wearing pearls, loathed any kind of humor, and ran the department with the soul-crushing grip of a tyrant.

  “Brooks, we’ll begin soon,” Dr. Yancey said. “Looks like a packed house. I wanted to ask you about your character Anton from Long and Winding Road and whether you were influenced by Atticus Finch from To Kill a Mockingbird? We’ll start the Q&A there.”

  “Spoiler alert,” Brooks said, his laughter crowding the room. “I was!”

  Dr. Yancey managed a trickle of a smile.

  “Did William tell you he’s signing at Burke & Burke?” Brooks asked. “It’s with the editor who brokered that huge deal in the papers.”

  “When did this happen, Professor Lansing?” she questioned, never calling him by his first name.

  “Very recently,” William said. “I was going to stop by your office and tell you.”

  “Color me surprised,” she said, although her face didn’t indicate any emotion whatsoever. “And this is for that opus you’ve been toiling over?”

  “Devil’s Hopyard.”

  “Like the park,” she said, but became distracted by the sounds emerging from Brooks’s stomach. “Are you all right, Brooks?”

  Sweat poured from Brooks’s forehead and he scrunched up his nose. The sounds continued, as if animals were fighting inside his body. A sudden fart caused both Dr. Yancey and William to cover their noses.

  “Excuse me,” Brooks yelped, and dashed away.

  He fled to the bathroom, where he stayed for twenty minutes. Finally, Dr. Yancey went over to knock on the door.

  “Brooks,” she snapped, after he refused to ans
wer her knocks.

  A sad voice came from under the crack. “Must’ve ate something real, real bad. Hoo boy. Don’t think I can go on.”

  Dr. Yancey crept away from the door, as if she was afraid of being exposed to whatever Brooks was unlucky enough to have come across.

  “This is a disaster,” she said to William, fingering her pearls. “We’ve been promoting his reading all semester.”

  “I can go on in his place.”

  Dr. Yancey looked as if she wanted to slap him.

  “I have pages to read from my novel, I always carry them.”

  She narrowed her eyes, gauging his worthiness.

  “Come,” she finally said, taking his arm and leading him up on the stage. The audience of hundred or so people, a healthy mix of faculty and students, settled into their seats. Dr. Yancey stood at the podium, prepped her glasses low on her nose, and tapped on the microphone.

  “I want to thank everyone for coming to the first of our faculty readings this semester. I know you are all eager to hear from our very own Brooks Jessup, whose brilliant novel The Long and Winding Road has gotten rave reviews and made him a writer to watch. Unfortunately, Brooks seems to have come down with a bug and will have to reschedule his reading, but in his place, we have our esteemed colleague Professor William Lansing, whose novel, Devil’s Hopyard, is upcoming from Burke & Burke Publishing. Please give him a warm welcome.”

  She clapped along with the audience and motioned for him to come over. He clenched the pages in his hand and took her place at the microphone.

  “Thank you, Dr. Yancey, and first, I hope that my fellow professor Brooks Jessup has a speedy recovery. I’ll try to fill his boat shoes today.”

  A smattering of laughs came from the audience, who all knew that Brooks only wore boat shoes.

  William looked out at the crowd, breathed in the moment, and uncrumpled his pages.

  “This will be the first I’m reading it to an audience,” he said quietly, as if to himself. “My novel Devil’s Hopyard, well, let’s be honest—my third child—has been a part of me for a very long time. And now I’m just a few chapters away from finishing. It’s surreal. Sometimes I think about writing it forever, for the plot to keep unfolding, but I know it must end, like all things. For once I had figured out the ending, I knew I’d soon have to learn to let it go.” A knot of sadness gripped William’s throat, but he wasn’t going to let it ruin his moment. “I’ll be reading from a later chapter today, a very important one. Where one character learns that what he believed to be true from the start was far from it. And this sends him into a bout of madness. He questions his own sanity, his culpability. Could he be responsible for murder?” William cleared his throat, his finger on the first line of the chapter, raising his voice.