by Mary Angela
I walked by St. Agnes Church because a local chapter of the Catholic Daughters met there regularly to bake and talk and pray. If the French had the market on pastries, the Catholic Daughters had the market on bars and cookies. At least in my book. The gooey caramel, the semi-sweet chocolate, the fresh walnuts, the shaved coconut—every confection was a reason to sing glory to God in the highest. I needed only to close my eyes, and I could recall the soft, plump hands of the ladies—mostly older, though a few were young—stirring, shaping, baking. It was nothing for them to bake twelve dozen cookies before nine. Someone was always dying, about to die, or ready to give birth, and fresh cookies were always welcome. And then there were the St. Agnes School kids. They got some too, if they were good, and if they said their Hail Marys.
The women were never stingy with me, though I usually only attended Mass when I went home to Detroit. They knew my fondness for sweets, and the moment Arlis, a large Norwegian woman, saw me coming, she immediately dusted off her hands, cut me a seven-layer bar, and pointed me in the direction of the coffee pot. Just as I used to do with my own mother, I sat near the women watching them, thinking to myself how good they were, these quiet women who made the church go round. When they finished and sat down with their rosaries, I listened reverently. I figured this was as close to religion as I would get these days and blessed myself as I left.
As usual I admired the edifice as I passed by, the discolored orangish brick and the three stained-glass windows, each displaying a scene from Jesus’s birth. The idea that something could be so rugged and yet so beautiful appealed to me, and I found myself using the church as a symbol for the entire town, although I’m sure the Presbyterians would have objected.
I quickened my step. I needed all the time I could get to review the short stories by Flannery O’Connor, who was, incidentally, also a Catholic but one I could not reconcile with the ladies from the church. The students liked her mean characters and their funny clothes, so I always included a few of her stories in the literary unit. Yet I hadn’t managed to force myself to re-read them the previous evening in the peace of the fall moon. Now I would need to skim them quickly and mark passages with my highlighter before class.
I went straight to my classroom in Stanton Hall. I wanted space to think and sunlight to sit in. My office afforded me neither. I could ask for no better accommodations on this morning, feeling sad that the police had made no more progress on Austin’s murder. The room was quiet; the sunlight stretched out her long fingers to warm the corners of the foggy windows, and the light blue sky made the day appear milder than it was.
I opened my book to the case study on Flannery O’Connor and began scanning. It wasn’t long before I remembered she had lupus and died fairly young, and then my thoughts strayed to Austin and why it should be that some people got to live a long time and others not long at all. I blinked slowly, turned to keep the sun from crisscrossing my eyelashes, and refocused on the text. The letters seemed not to create sentences but words that didn’t come together in any meaningful way. I let out a sigh, which sounded so loud and foreign that it startled me. I looked up, expecting to see a student, perhaps Austin, seated in the back row, but there was no one. Just four empty chairs, like all the others, placed one next to the other behind the wooden desks.
I walked out of the classroom toward the water fountain and took a drink. It was time for class. This was one place I must close the door on my melancholy. I straightened my shoulders and walked back into the room.
A few students walked in, cheeks pink from the cold. I was glad to see Jared was not in class. His absence would give me a chance to question Adam—a pretty good kid when Jared wasn’t around—about the fraternity.
After taking attendance, I slipped my grade book back into my bag and organized the students into small groups. They would have more interesting things to say about O’Connor than I did, so I dismissed my prepared lecture and sat back to watch them work, waiting for an opportunity to talk to Adam. He was a good-looking kid, the kind who would fit in easily with the fraternity. His style was less obvious than Jared’s, but he had a nice face and fashionable hair. He was busily taking notes for his group and making sense of their comments. He would be the one to speak—being probably the best prepared—so naturally he took a greater interest in the conversation. A sophomore girl in his group had lots to say about the story while a freshman girl doodled. The other boy in his group seemed completely unorganized and only spoke when spoken to.
I walked around the room, contributing here and there to the various conversations to avoid making an obvious beeline for Adam’s group.
“Is the group all set?” I said, looking over the shoulder of the young girl who was drawing miniature cat faces on her notebook.
“Yep. Yes we are,” said Adam.
“Good,” I said. “And how are you doing?”
“Me?” said Adam.
The girl looked up from her cat.
“This must be a difficult time for you,” I said, awkwardly patting his shoulder. “I know Austin was in your fraternity.”
“He wasn’t in yet,” he said.
I pretended to look puzzled. It was a look I had perfected from years of hearing elaborate stories from students as to why their papers were late.
“He was still a pledge.”
I kept my look blank, but I knew what a pledge was. During this time, a pledge would get to know the fraternity members, do various odd jobs for them if asked, learn the Greek alphabet. Ultimately, the pledge was pledging his loyalty and trust to the fraternity and might have undergone any number of challenges that tested his devotion to the brotherhood. What I wanted to know was if one of these challenges had resulted in Austin’s death.
Adam said, “He hadn’t been inducted yet.”
“Of course,” I said, my expression clearing. “I suppose he was subject to various drinking contests and these sorts of things.” I was hoping he would confirm my suspicions that alcohol was involved, a substance that could have easily masked the taste of the chemical.
“Something like that,” he said.
I looked over his notebook. “Very thoughtful response there. I think you’re absolutely right about O’Connor.” He smiled at my compliment. “So … did he win? The contest, I mean?”
Adam furrowed his brow. “It wasn’t really a contest. We had a party Friday to celebrate everybody’s week of challenges. ”
“Well, that sounds like fun. I suppose you partied all night.”
He seemed to be thinking back to that night. “Yeah, pretty much. Austin left early, though.” He laughed. “Jared was kind of pissed about that.”
“Pissed?” I said. I supposed Jared would have preferred him to pass out on the floor.
“Sorry,” Adam said immediately. He probably thought the language offended me. “Really, he was probably just jealous that Austin had a girlfriend and he didn’t. The girls dug Austin. That farm boy thing really worked for him.”
I looked around, satisfied that the groups still buzzed with conversation. “Oh yeah? Someone you know?”
He shook his head. “No. I didn’t get a look at her. She didn’t want to come in.”
I wondered if this mystery girl was Sarah. Perhaps she didn’t want to take the chance of word getting back to Sean. Then a thought occurred to me. “How do you know it was a girl then?”
Adam shrugged. “I don’t know, I guess. He just said it was.”
“Oh. I see.” I looked around the room. Discussions had given way to giddy chaos. It was time to reconvene the class. I moved back to the podium, hushed the students, and began calling on groups. Still, my mind kept drifting back to Adam and Jared and Austin. Adam had said Jared was angry that Austin left early; certainly that wasn’t reason enough to poison him. Maybe Jared was jealous of Austin or his girlfriend. Austin was different and that made him popular, at least with the girls. Jared seemed to be the most influential, if not popular, boy at his fraternity. I couldn’t imagine boyhood
jealousy being a motive for murder, but then again, I didn’t understand the hierarchy of fraternities. If only there were some way to get more information about the fraternity itself. I didn’t dare pose any more questions in future classes, especially after Jared returned.
After the bell rang, I literally ran into Claudia, who was coming up the stairs and talking with a student who had more of her attention than the stairs did.
“Beth, I’ll see you tomorrow. Em, I want to talk to you.” Claudia did a full circle and began walking down the stairs with me.
“Hey, Claudia. How are you? How is Gene?”
“Gene is Gene,” she said, shaking her head. “He’s living downstairs. I cannot abide him in my living space right now.”
How she’d convinced a grown man to live in his own basement was beyond me, but I nodded anyway as if there were nothing unusual about the arrangement.
“But this isn’t about Gene. This is about Sarah Sorenson. She said you interrogated her before class the other day.”
“She said that?” I said, holding the door for her.
She tossed her head. We were outside the building now, and the breeze was stirring her hair. “She didn’t say that, exactly, but I know you, Em, and you’re on a witch hunt. I can tell from your lips. They’re twitching all the time.”
Instinctively, I put my hand to my mouth.
“I know you mean well, and I have nothing against you personally for trying to find answers to your student’s death, but as a representative of this sacred society—”
“You mean the university, right?” I interrupted.
“Yes, as a representative of the university, you must not succumb to your own whims. You must put the students first.”
I couldn’t believe Claudia was telling me I couldn’t succumb to my whims. Her whims were the basis for her entire creative writing curriculum. “I’m sorry if Sarah was upset by our conversation. She didn’t seem to be at the time. She should be upset that her boyfriend is dead. Now that’s something to get upset about.”
Claudia twisted her hair into a bun and secured it with a pencil. “See, it’s that kind of attitude that I’m talking about. Austin wasn’t her boyfriend. Even if he was, Gene could drop dead this very instant and I wouldn’t shed a tear—not one tear—and he’s my husband. You don’t know how these men are, Em. They’re absolute death sentences.”
I was somewhat insulted. I dated plenty of guys in college, but the dates never produced any long-term relationships, which might have been more my fault than theirs. When I was an undergraduate, I belonged to a book club that sent me five new historical romance novels and a rose-colored wine glass in each shipment. This routine ensured that a man would need to wear a kilt—or at least a well-woven cravat—to be worthy of my love. “Hey, that’s not fair. I’ve dated my share of death sentences. What about Ricky Anderson?”
Claudia fiddled with her bun. “Who?”
I threw up my hands. “You know? That guy I dated over the summer so enamored with his high school days that he still wore his letterman jacket on our dates? The Lincoln Lion Cat?”
“Oh, him. He was a piece of work. I’m not saying he wasn’t a piece of work because he was. But he wasn’t a death sentence. They can’t be death sentences until you’ve married them.”
Conversations with Claudia were exhausting, and I found my mind floating away on a little white cloud passing overhead. She was still talking, but I was no longer listening.
“And that could mean trouble for you.”
I refocused on Claudia. “What could mean trouble?”
She stopped directly in front of the rose garden. It smelled overly sweet and out of place.
“Your questioning. Your meddling. Your reputation. You’ll go from quirky to downright … strange!”
Now I smiled. Was Claudia actually worried about me? “I won’t harass any more of your students if that’s what this is about. I promise.”
“Em, it’s not just about that—although I am their chief advocate. It’s about you.”
Before I could be completely convinced of her concern, she had her hand on her forehead, shielding her eyes from the sun.
“There’s Owen Jorgenson. Now there’s a husband I wouldn’t mind having. They always say you should marry a man at least ten years your elder. Ann took that advice, but I just had to go out and marry the first piece of garbage I took up with.” She waved at him, and he waved back. “He attends absolutely everything with her—without a straitjacket. And he’s in the science department.”
I nodded eagerly. “I know. He was Austin’s science teacher. It was in the student newspaper.”
“Zip it about Austin,” she hissed. Then her voice turned silky. “Owen! Nice to see you.”
In his early forties, Owen was a substantial man with broad shoulders and sandy blond hair. His eyes crinkled when he smiled.
“Hello, Claudia. Hi, Emmeline.”
“Hey, Owen,” I said.
“The poetry slam was a big hit last Friday, Claudia,” Owen said. “There were a lot of talented writers there. Ann and I enjoyed ourselves thoroughly.”
Claudia beamed, gathering his praise like petals, and I quickly took the opportunity to ask Owen about Austin. Claudia shot me a disappointed look, but I pretended not to notice.
“Austin Oliver? What an ordeal, right? I was shocked. Just shocked.” He shook his head as if he were still as puzzled as on the day he heard the news. “Anyway, did he miss class? No, he never missed. He was a decent kid. Always helping set up lab on Wednesdays. I think he had a real aptitude for science, do you know?”
“Well that explains why he didn’t like my English class,” I said.
“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true, but I was supposed to meet with him about the science major. Very few science majors like English and vice versa, you know.”
“Which is why it’s so wonderful to see you at so many of our events,” Claudia said, trying to regain control of the conversation.
“So you never met with him?” I asked.
He shook his head slowly. “No, I never did. In fact, he wanted to meet with me earlier, but I didn’t have time. I had an interview in Minneapolis. We were going to meet on Monday ….” The end of his sentence drifted off into the mild breeze. He shook his head, clearly disgusted with himself. “It’s a shame. His last impression of me was that I was too busy for him.”
“That’s not true,” said Claudia. “You inspired him so much that he wanted to pursue your profession. That is something you can be very proud of. Not every teacher can say that,” she added, glancing at me.
“So you’re looking into a different campus?” I asked politely.
“Ann thinks she would have more opportunities,” said Owen.
“She’s probably right,” said Claudia. “Our Women’s Department can hardly be called a department.”
He readjusted his bag on his shoulder and glanced at his watch. “She always is. But I’d have a heck of a time leaving this place. I’ve lived here my whole life; the land is in my blood. Oh well, change is a good thing, right? That’s what everyone says, anyway.”
“It’s food for the soul,” Claudia agreed enthusiastically.
“I’m going to go get some food for the stomach right now, so I’d better hustle. Ann’s meeting me. If you’d like to join us, you’re both welcome.” He looked from Claudia to me.
“I’ve got office hours and then a committee meeting,” I said.
“And I’ve got an appointment off campus, but soon. We’ll get together soon,” added Claudia.
“I’m sure I’ll see you at your next reading,” he said to Claudia. “Keep us posted.”
“Always,” said Claudia cheerfully.
He was barely a foot away from us when her voice turned stony. “Do you think that was really necessary? You nearly had the poor man in tears.”
I rolled my eyes. “Not even close.”
“Heed my warning, Emmeline …” she said.
&nbs
p; I silently prepared myself for more inflated language.
“Otherwise you’ll be the next one looking for a new job.”
I stared after her as she stomped away, surprised by her vigor. Claudia was Claudia, but really! I hardly thought my job was in jeopardy. That was going too far even for her.
Chapter Sixteen
I had office hours scheduled before the committee meeting on Les Mis, so I went to my office and waited impatiently for my computer to start. I was still irritated with Claudia—and academia in general. This wasn’t a time for scholastic floundering; it was a time for action. How she could have the audacity to question my questioning was beyond me. A student was dead—my student—and if a death didn’t constitute a call to action, I didn’t know what did.
Owen Jorgenson’s class had proven to be inconsequential, as it didn’t meet on Fridays, so I had little there to pursue. Still, Owen had said something important—that Austin enjoyed science and had an aptitude for it. Adam’s revelation could also be key. Austin had been drinking at the frat party on Friday, the night before he died. I needed to find out what had happened that night, and if there was a chance Austin ingested the chemical at the party.
Although I didn’t know much about fraternities, I knew quite a bit about dorm rooms, having been a part of university life since I was a student myself. I knew almost anything could be found out by just asking a person’s roommate, who often held at least a detached interest in their roomie’s welfare. I double-clicked on the Internet icon and waited a few more seconds for the browser to launch. On the university’s intranet, I pulled up my Composition 101 class roster. I found out his adviser (Ann Jorgenson), his major (undeclared), and his dorm room (twenty-two) just by drilling down on his name. I scrolled over “Oliver” and clicked. He had been housed in Vanderwood, a co-ed freshmen dorm, before his death, and I wondered if his room had been blocked off for police investigation or if it was still occupied by his roommate. Knowing the university’s preference for full houses, I predicted the room would still be in use.