Did he know?
Did he kill?
Placing the mug of the bedside table, Ronna reached and took Luna’s hand. “What’s wrong, Lulu? You seem bothered by something.”
“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about me, Memaw.” Luna patted her hand.
“Hush that nonsense.”
“You need your rest.”
“I’m not dead yet, girl.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”
“Just speak your mind.”
“I…”
“Don’t be shy.”
“Huh. Well.”
“Are we talking boys, here?”
“Memaw!” Luna played shocked, though despite herself she enjoyed the mischievous gleam in the old woman’s eye. The smirk. The coyness. She could almost imagine another place and time without the decades of not knowing each other and the cancer and death quickly approaching. Discovering she was not alone just to have that taken away so soon felt like a cruel and unnecessary joke. Regardless, like the old saying goes, she knew she had to take what fate had brought her for it is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all or some such nonsense heartbroken people tell themselves. Perhaps, she wondered as her thoughts returned to Bobby, if it would have been better to not have loved at all.
“I’m concerned about…a friend.” Luna said finally, looking out the bedroom window, at the branches swaying in the mild late summer breeze.
“A friend, huh?” There was something about the way Memaw looked at her, the kind of look parents have when they know their kid is fibbing.
“Well, maybe a bit more.” Luna’s face felt warm.
“Spill it, girl.”
“Bobby, that’s his name. Bobby Weeks. He’s—he was a soldier. Has a grumpy way of carrying himself, but he can be so kind, when he wants. Kind and stubborn.”
“All men are stubborn, Lulu.” Memaw glowed; her eyes teared. From joy or sadness, Luna did not know. She seemed to be looking past her, to some other place, perhaps her husband from another once upon a time.
“I guess they are.” Luna patted her grandmother’s wrinkled hand.
Memaw’s focused returned. “I’m taking it, he’s from Texas?”
“Yes.”
“And you miss him?”
Luna hesitated. “Yes.” She watched as her grandmother’s jubilant glow turned grim. The change was as sudden as summer rain. “What is it?” she asked.
Ronna took her hand away. Her expression drained of color and mirth.
“Memaw?”
“I need some rest, Lulu.”
“Okay.” Luna stood and took her mug of herbal tea, resting it on the nightstand. Helping her ease onto her back, she pulled the thick patchwork quilt up to her grandmother’s chest, tucking her in. “I’ll be downstairs, if you need me,” she added. “Just ring the bell.” She gestured to the small serving bell with bronze bowl and dark wood handle.
Memaw nodded, solemnly. Refusing eye contact, she closed them.
Slowly, almost on tiptoes, Luna left her grandmother’s room. She closed the door, leaving it slightly open. Downstairs, she made herself a cup of coffee and took the mug with her to the porch. The weather looked like it was getting ready to change for the worse. Dark looming clouds rolled above. The high pine branches surrounding the cabin shook and swayed, creaking like weight on a loose wooden step.
Luna sat on the porch swing, coffee steaming in hand. She sipped, thoughts swirling around her grandmother’s depleting health. Concerned the end was near, she forced herself to think of something else. Easily, as if by second nature, Bobby came to mind again. Picturing his scruffy beard and smelly street worn shirts and cargo pants, she wondered how he was.
Birds squalled over in the woods. Luna glanced over, expecting to see blackbirds or maybe a few sparrows flapping over a piece of shelter for the coming storm. Instead, she saw a shadow. A dark and tall, mountainous shape, almost as it were like a man, but larger. Too large. The shadow stood among the trees, unmoving. Seeming to glare over the cabin, or perhaps waiting for something, or someone.
Nearly spilling her mug, Luna jumped up off the porch swing. Moving closer to the banister steps, she peered again out into the woods.
The shadow, man, whatever it was, was gone.
Lightning flashed and thunder boom not far behind.
The storm had arrived.
Chapter 18
Baelo University
Boris
Boris left the radio off on his drive to the first day of his new job. The morning sun had a pleasant orange glow spilling over the pastures and undeveloped rolls of green hills where every mile or so there was a cluster of black-and-brown-spotted cows grazing. Thick forest lined the horizon, dark and somewhat menacing and tall, yet unable to touch the satisfyingly banal drive to the University. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. A smile crept his face as he rested his head on the Peugeot’s headrest. The red and black striped boxcar bounced over a pothole, jarring him from his somewhat meditative trance. And how could he not feel so content? Everything was working out just as he’d hoped; no, better than he could have anticipated. The townhome, their new home, was at the very heart of Jotham. A red brick and stone duplex surrounded by one of the quaintest places he’d ever been. Traffic was, as he’d seen thus far, never congested. His neighbors were nice, especially the elderly couple who lived next door. Everyone seemed so cordial and, well jeez, dare he say, neighborly. People waved to each other as they crossed the street. At the bakers, this charming vista called Carmichael’s Donut Shop, folks gossiped about town news. On their first weekend, he took Neville out to the local movie theater, the Rio, to watch an old black and white showing of Carl Laemmle’s Universal classic, All Quiet on the Western Front, which was, counting himself a proud member of Professors of 20th Century American History, one of the best films regarding the Great War ever made.
—Full Professorship, he could scarcely believe his luck.
When Boris heard that Barnes was not retiring, though he did not express any of this with his wife Neville, he had some strong reservations about staying with Ole Miss. He’d been given the runaround more times than he cared to count. Passed over in favor of some more distinguished scholar. Some old fart-head packing more experience than anyone his own age could ever hope to possess. If the young are never given a chance to spread their wings, as the saying goes, how on earth are they ever to gain any of this so-called mythical experience? It was, to Boris, the most vexatious tendency, one he’d seen more than he cared to remember, of being a teacher. And then the offer had been made. Charles, or the Tramp as some of the non-tenure teachers often referred to him, given his odious resemblance to Charlie Chaplin, called him in for a meeting. Though he’d hoped perhaps the meeting was regarding his promotion, in his heart he doubted. When he was told Barnes was not stepping down, it pretty much sealed the deal, he’d have to search for a new university. But then Charles had done something rather unsuspected. He’d offered a new job at a new university, as a full professor on track for tenure. He couldn’t believe his luck. The old stooge had done the work for him. A new school in a new state. If he was to be honest, this was exactly what he wanted, better than tenure at Ole Miss to be completely transparent. The University of Mississippi had become too…what’s the word? Stuffy, perhaps. Too full of purebreds. None of the magic that comes with teaching. The risk. The adventure.
Above all, Boris wanted something new and new is what was offered. The hardest trick would be to convenience Neville. She certainly looked hesitant, during that fateful breakfast. In the end, she understood (or at least he hoped as much) they needed a change. And who knows, maybe one day they’d return to Ole Miss.
Or maybe not.
Let fate decide, huh?
Boris chuckled at the thought.
And besides, there was something alluring about Jotham. Something wholesome and altogether perfect for raising a family.
A family…
If
only Neville could get pregnant. It would help make the whole venture seem…what’s the proper word? Prophetic? Sure. A baby would certainly seal the deal, in her mind at least, put her more at ease. She’s been placing too much stress on herself. And now with the move. Having a child, here, in Jotham, would make this pace more her own; ours. A part of us. The first root from what could possibly be a very strong oak. Could be wonderful.
Could be.
If only.
After twenty or so miles of, what they call in Jotham, country cruising, the trees became denser. The rolling hills smoothed out, sprinkled, at first, farther along, crowed with elm and oak whose leaves had begun turning dark green with splashes of yellow, branches gnarled and strangely homely and somewhat reminiscent of the Delta of Mississippi during this changing season. Soon, Baelo University unfolded on a cobblestone road of faint browns and greys that gave way to a castle like a Masonic fort with tall brick walls surrounding the school. At the great entrance, the pass was blocked by a giant black iron gate. A large brick sign lay a few meters from the fence line with the university name, and beside the entrance sat a small box filled from roof to stern with a rather portly looking fellow, forty-ish with reddish brown hair and an equally appalling Tom Selleck suggestive rug lying flaccid just beneath a bulb-like cheery-red nose.
Boris rolled down his window as he approached.
“What can I do for you?” implored the security guard with an inquisitive yet cheery voice.
“Doctor Petry, I’m new to the school.” Boris angled his arm out of the Peugeot to show his driver’s license.
The guard looked oddly at Boris. His gaze drifted to the held out driver’s license and then back at Boris. “You don’t have a pass?” he asked.
“No. Like I said, I’m new.” Boris reeled back his ID, adjusting his thick glasses. “Dean Bachman should have me on the list.”
Pulling out a worn clipboard, the guard traced the names with a remarkably swollen digit, tongue pressed slightly out of his pursed lips in a sign of extreme concentration.
Squirming slightly, feeling as if time had slowed, Boris began strumming on the steering wheel, humming some song he couldn’t for the life of him recall the name of. Another car pulled in behind him. And another behind them. The air seemed void of the quaint charm he felt during the drive. Sweat beaded his forehead. The weather felt warmer as the morning melted away.
“Oh! Here you are. Professor Boris Petry. Boris, huh? That’s some name. Don’t see too many Boris’s around these parts.” The guard checked off his name on the clipboard. His meaty arm rested on the sliding glass window sill. His gaze lingering.
“Parents are orthodox.” Boris smiled politely.
“That so. Well, welcome to Baelo, Professor. You have yourself a great day. Be sure to stop by the administrative office and get you a teachers pass.” With a grin that exposed more than a few yellowed crooked teeth, the guard flipped a switch hidden inside his tiny box. The large black iron gate began to rumble. The chains moaned and screeched as it pulled and heaved. Soon, the way was clear. Boris gestured goodbye and puttered his red and black striped Peugeot toward his first day as a full professor at a new school in a new town.
I wonder if they’ll like my bow tie.
***
Everything seemed brand new. The wood flooring was polished to a high shine. The vaulted desks in the waiting room glistened as if freshly flayed from the sycamore. The staff was friendly enough, only a few spoke with that stereotypical Texas twang you hear about in John Wayne movies. A sweet girl by the name of Marcy was working the front. Boris listened in on her phone conversation. Not trying to be noisy, just bored. Apparently, there was some kind of disagreement about semester tuition. From what he’d gathered, only gleaming the conversation entirely from Marcy’s perspective, the phone call had something to do with some students GI Bill running out during the last semester as an undergraduate. They wanted to continue but couldn’t afford to make the tuition fee altogether. They needed to make payments. As it would seem, Baelo University couldn’t make the exception or any sort of payment plan for the student in question’s tuition fee or for any other student regardless of age, sex, or nationality. The student would need to make the payment in full or would not be registered for this fall’s semester. Some more words were exchanged. Muffled shouts from the other end.
Marcy seemed strangely unfazed. She placed the phone back on the receiver, smiling with that same glow she had when Boris first walked into the administrators building, humming politely.
Curious, or perhaps still bored waiting for the Dean, Boris tugged out his cell phone from his selvedge slim fit jeans and texted Neville.
How’s your morning?
He waited for the delivery confirmation and the three flashing dots signifying her response.
Bored, you?
Same. <3. C U L8R.
ILU. BFN, Professor.
Neville ended her text with a kiss-face emoji.
Though he knew he was probably grinning like a fool, Boris did not care. He’d probably text her again, randomly, as he typically did back at Ole Miss. Maybe even take a selfie in his new classroom to send to her. She’d like that, he thought.
“That your wife?” Marcy was peering below at Boris from her vaulted desk. Her eyes twinkled in the florescent light, her voice cooing almost.
“Yes, Neville. Her name is Neville.” Boris put away his phone, wondering why it was taking so long to see the Dean.
“Neville? That’s a nice name.” Marcy rested her chin on her fist. There was something bubbly about her Boris found both equally charming and off-putting.
“Thanks. How much longer for Dean Bachman?” Boris flipped open his pocket watch from his vest, remembering he’d forgotten he needed to replace the batteries. Still one of the few who refused to use his phone as a clock.
“Oh, not too much longer, hun.” Marcy giggled, licking her heavily painted lips, exposing a rather impressive set of white teeth as she giggled at Boris. Returning to her computer screen, he could hear her long red polished nails ticking away on the unseen keyboard.
***
Dean Theodore Stephen Bachman seemed to somehow tower above his equally massive dark cherry-red oak polished desk. He had an uncanny resemblance to someone Boris could not quite place. His shoulders were square and wide, like a linebacker from a pro football team, but not one of the nice ones, rather the ones that tended to play rough, like New Orleans or Oakland. His hair was trimmed short and parted to one side. Slick and black, greying only near his sideburns. He had a full mustache, thick and walrus looking. His blazer looked like wool, and light grey in color. His vest was a darker shade with a gold chain attached to what Boris could only assume to be a pocket watch, similar to his own. He wore a simple black and white polka dotted pattern tie, tucked inside the vest. His glasses were small and circular, fitting tightly across his boxed face. The air was stuffy and sweet, smelling both of some kind of flower fragrant and pipe tobacco. On the desk, only a few possessions. A table lamp with a bright green shade. Two picture frames, one with an elegantly looking woman, his wife perhaps. The other was of himself in a pair of tall waders, a khaki shirt and twill ball cap, standing next to a terrifyingly large Great Dane holding a modest flock of yellow-billed duck by the neck. A few books were stacked on one side, The History of the Peloponnesian War, Aristophanes’ Frogs, and a dusty looking text whose print was well worn down to the thread, nearly illegible. The title was Paradise Lost. There were more books, of course, lining the wall on dark cherry-red shelves. And odds of various souvenirs collected from around the world. Fat Buddha statues from somewhere in the Orient. Snow globes of what looked like the Eiffel Tower. Germanic coo-coo clocks. And a few beautifully hand carved Ukrainian wood smoking pipes. Among other things.
To say Boris was both impressed and intimidated by the Dean and his office would be an understatement. The oaf Charles never said much about the Baelo University or its dean, and now he kinda wish he had. H
e would have come better prepared. Without much expectation, he assumed this dean would be just like the last, a spineless bureaucrat. The man before him was in no shape or form, spineless. Bureaucrat he may be. Administrations, be it Ole Miss, Baelo, now, or 1958, remained largely unchanged. Besides his bullish appearance and intriguing collection of philosophical works, there was something else about him, an aura of power and strength seeping from him that can only be naturally born; wholly unlearned, shaped by a life filled with experiences worth having.
In front of the dean on his desk sat a fat manila folder, containing what Boris could only assume to be his record. They sat unspeaking for longer than he cared. There are few things worse than uncomfortable silences. As the man before him breathed, he seemed to growl, low and guttural, licking the top of his giant finger before turning a page. He grumbled some more as he read, as if clearing his throat or some innate reaction to what he saw on those dingy white pages.
Boris rubbed his legs, fighting the urge to tap whatever tune had snuck in his head. He wondered for a moment if Neville was having as much fun as he was.
“Very nice, Doctor Petry. Very nice. Cum Laude with the Arch Dalrymple III Department of History. Not an easy program to excel.” Dean Bachman glanced up from the folder. No visible expression on his face other than stern seriousness.
“No, sir.” Boris floundered for better words. Oddly, he felt like he was back in grade school, being reprimanded by the principle for refusing to participate in whatever P.E. activity had been given.
“Of course, I had read your dissertation, ‘Harlem Hellfighters, the Strength of Soldiers during Segregated America,’ prior. A very interesting choice for your specialty, African-American Studies.” Bachman leaned against his swivel-wood chair. The springs creaked slightly against the man’s massive size.
Conceiving (Subdue Book 3) Page 13