Light of Day

by Jamie M. Saul

  Light of Day

  Jamie M. Saul

  Dedication

  This is Marjorie Braman’s book

  Epigraph

  “The end of man is knowledge, but there is one thing he can’t know. He can’t know whether knowledge will save him or kill him.”

  —Robert Penn Warren, All the King’s Men

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part One

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  Part Two

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  Part Three

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

  XXVI

  Acknowledgments

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More…

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Part One

  I

  The road into Gilbert, Indiana, is U.S. 40. It’s the old highway that cuts east and west through town, a few blocks north of Main Street. Nobody drives it much these days, nobody who isn’t from Gilbert or nearby. Nobody who’s in a hurry, and most people driving through Gilbert are in a hurry, tearing across the interstate on their way to somewhere else.

  They built the interstate, and the mall that’s just off the exit, about thirty years ago. The smaller stores in town would have gone out of business, the larger ones would have followed the money, and downtown would have been a ghost town if not for a few far-thinking people on the city council who came up with the plan to save downtown by turning it into an outdoor shopping mall. Now there are parking lots on the side streets and clean, expansive sidewalks with shade trees and benches so people can sit and talk; so they can spend their time strolling down the street, looking in store windows, shopping and browsing, instead of looking for places to park their cars.

  And of course, the college helps keep the town alive. The students and teachers shop in all the stores, eat at the little restaurants, at Paul’s just off Main Street, where they serve the tenderloin sandwiches deep-fried on a soft bun with bread-and-butter pickles, or the meat loaf and mashed potatoes with gravy that they make at the coffee shop inside the Gilbert Hotel, which isn’t a hotel anymore but an office building. Not that Gilbert was ever known for its cuisine or convenient downtown shopping. It’s the air that everyone notices, or did until the winds of change blew through town and the EPA helped clean things up.

  But no matter which way the wind blows, the air is always tinged with sulfur, one of the by-products of coal, the leitmotif of industrialized Indiana. If not for coal, Gilbert would be just like all the other postindustrial towns—they strip-mine coal out on the east side. It’s the coal-burning power plants that keep the lights throughout the state glowing in the night. Most of that coal comes from Gilbert. But it’s the sulfur that does the trick.

  In sunlight it turns the air sepia, like an old daguerreotype photograph or a silent movie. The rose tint and warm brown hues look so soft and welcoming, you’d like to crawl in, pull them over your head and hide from the coming millennium. You might even think the past isn’t such a bad place to step back into. Then you see the old-timers, who look like they’ve stepped right out of that past, hobbling down Main Street wrinkled and weathered like old leather, emphysemic and broken down, like hard times, gnarled and grizzled. It makes you think your times aren’t so bad after all.

  Highway 40 crosses Highway 41—another old road which heads all the way from Chicago to Miami, Florida—over by Third Street, then runs past the railroad tracks by the Wabash River and across the nameless bridge that shakes and sways, like the hammock you hook to a couple of trees at the end of May and don’t take down until the leaves start to turn in late September. But if you’re not in too much of a hurry, when you get to where the highways intersect and you look south you’ll see the ruins rising like an apparition.

  The ruins stand in grand decay on the rise of a slow hill above the muddy banks of the Wabash in Fairmont Memorial Park. It’s just a façade, a replica of the Parthenon never fully realized. It was going to be the new post office back in 1936, when the WPA workers came to town. They went to work on the college first, built the Fine Arts building and laid down those beautiful brick sidewalks, and gaslights, and the grassy quadrangle, designed by some long-forgotten architect in love with eighteenth-century England. Then they moved their gear to the river and started working on the ruins and the park where it stands.

  Sixty years later and all the bricks are pockmarked and broken. The corroded Doric columns strain to support the majestic entrance. The four splendid windows are sealed with cinder blocks, braced against the damp river air. A bas-relief of the American eagle—about to take wing across eternal America—stares stoically past the broken patio and rotting cement steps. Anachronistic and decrepit, the ruins are a monument to a past that was, if not efficient, certainly ambitious.

  People from town, students from the college, come out to the park to sit in the shade of the sycamores, and on the steps of the ruins; lie in the grass by the river with their girlfriends; lean against the solid walls and think the private thoughts people think when their lives are falling apart or coming together. When they need to resolve their worries, or piece together their plans. It’s the quiet place they come to when they want to spend time doing nothing, or nothing more exciting than watching the river flow, thinking about their good luck or recent misfortune. When they need to feel the comfort of the past. Or when there’s no place left to go. This is where they found the body.

  II

  When Jack Owens yawned, his left hand knocked the videocassette off the desk. He didn’t move to pick it up, only turned to look out of his office window at the red brick sidewalk where students and faculty began appearing, like a time-lapse film, two and three, six and eight, then dozens, a hurtling mass of determination and purpose, caffeinic, amphetamine-fed, vibrant from their all-nighters. It was a nervous progress, a jangle of arms and legs, sleep-deprived voices. Soggy brains trying to keep the facts straight for just two more hours—Please God…

  Jack raised the window and breathed the morning air. He stuck his head outside to see an edge of sun, a corner of blue sky, while he watched the current of baggy clothes, jackets and sweats flow, unvarying and constant, toward the old buildings with the time-darkened stone.

  The sun moved an inch higher and the light reflected off the windows across the quad and onto Jack’s desk. The office door was open and a soft breeze blew through the room. It was going to be another cool and brilliant day in May, when the gods of meteorology conspire to drive professors crazy, and Jack wanted another minute with it, which was the same thing he thought yesterday morning—or was it the day before? He’d lost track of time, entire days, holed up in the office, busting to get the final projects critiqued and graded on time. He hadn’t had an actual conversation with Danny for nearly a week. They hardly talked at all while they managed a quick supper or their gulp-and-run breakfast. But that would all change a week from Tuesday. Then they were off on summer vacation. Rafting and camping in Pennsylvania. New York to catch the Yankees’ home stand. Two weeks on the Cape. Two weeks in Maine. Two more weeks in Nova Scotia. He reached for the phone and called the house, but Danny didn’t answer. He had apparently picked today to start being on time for the school bus. “It’s me, again. Your phantom father.” Jack pushed a laugh into the answ
ering machine. “Sorry I wasn’t home for breakfast this morning. I’ll pick you up tomorrow night, okay? Around six. And don’t forget, softball next Saturday, so oil your glove, pardner. I love you.”

  On Jack’s desk was a photograph of Danny standing at the tiller of a sailboat tacking into the wind, his face sun-bright and excited, smiling a full vacation smile. Jack looked at Danny’s face for just a moment, poured himself a cup of coffee and walked over to the sofa, just the slightest throbbing beginning behind his eyes. He turned on the VCR and sat down.

  There was always a pleasant anticipation about watching Natasha Taylor’s work, but the first viewing had been a disappointment, the piece was way off the mark. It started too slowly and lacked thematic focus, and now, seeing it for the second time only allowed him to home in on all the mistakes a student could make in ninety minutes. But when he started writing his critique, he made sure to keep it gentle.

  The nine-thirty bells on the Union building had finished chiming when the phone rang. Jack got up slowly to answer it, not unhappy about the interruption.

  “I haven’t seen you all week. And I miss talking with you.” It was Lois. He was even happier. “I just wanted to know how you’re doing these days.”

  “Trying to tame the beast.”

  “You sound tired.”

  “Tired would be an improvement. I’ve been here all night and if I work through the weekend I may still come in under budget. Next fall I’m teaching nothing but theory. I’d rather grade term papers any day.”

  “You know you love your video class.”

  “I’ll love it a lot more when my grades are in.”

  Lois said something else, but Jack wasn’t listening. He wanted to get back to work and was about to tell her that, but she began asking about Danny. It was Danny’s name that got Jack’s attention. Was Danny very upset, she wanted to know, about losing the “big game”? Jack said Danny seemed to be taking it in stride.

  Lois said yes, Danny seemed to take so many things in stride, her words coming slowly, deliberately—the way they had back when she was the teacher and Jack was her student, more than twenty years ago—when she wanted to make sure she had his attention.

  “He doesn’t seem to be taking his absentee father in stride,” Jack told her. “He’s treating me like a pariah. I don’t think he understands.”

  “Danny understands. You do this to yourself every year. You’ll make it up to him. Just as you did last summer and the summer before.”

  “This is the last summer. This is it. A couple of weeks ago he told me he wants to get a summer job next year. I asked him what the rush was. He said, and I quote: ‘It’s nineteen ninety-six, Dad. Get with the program.’ I asked him just what that was supposed to mean, and again I quote: ‘I’m fifteen. Duh.’ What the hell is that all about?”

  “You know what it’s about.”

  “But I don’t have to like it.”

  “You’re not supposed to.”

  “And how are you these days?”

  “Just fine. If I told you any more you’d hate me.”

  “You mean you’ve already turned in your grades and you called to gloat.”

  “That’s not why I’m calling. Tim and I want you and Danny to come out to the house for a barbecue next Saturday. People Tim works with. You’ll like them.”

  “That’s the softball game.”

  “Next Saturday?”

  “We’ll come by after.”

  “Say hi to Danny, tell him he’s a wonderful boy with a wonderful father, and give him a big hug for me.” And she hung up.

  It wasn’t quite eleven o’clock when Jack walked down the hall to fill his coffee carafe with water and came back to brew a fresh pot. He would try to finish Natasha’s critique by late afternoon. That would leave an even dozen to go and put him in not-too-bad shape for his dinner break tomorrow night with Danny—he’s too old to be seen with his father, and too young not to resent the time you spend away from him, Jack thought. This summer and that’s it.

  He didn’t like thinking about that and rushed back to his work and managed to get about another forty-five minutes’ worth done before Sally Richards stopped by, put a paper bag on the desk—“Comfort food. I know how you forget to eat”—and wanted to know, “Did Danny say anything about Mary-Sue?”

  Jack said Danny was hardly saying much of anything these days.

  “Hideous, aren’t they? Oh, Jack, before I forget. Howard and I are putting together a poker game for tomorrow night. Think you can make it? Easy money.”

  “My favorite kind. But I’m afraid not.”

  “All work and no play…” She wagged a finger at him.

  Coming and going, some were just starting work, most had already posted their grades and were closing up shop. All Jack wanted was to be on vacation with his kid.

  When the one o’clock bells chimed they brought with them Carl Ainsley. “I have to say, Owens, you look like shit.” Ainsley leaned against the doorway, feet crossed at the ankle. His black hair combed smoothly across his head, his face clean-shaven and suntanned. He wore fine linen pants, a pink cotton sweater under a beige linen sport coat. “You’re wasting your time. They don’t care what you think,” and he stepped inside. “Just give ’em a grade, that’s all that matters to them. If they don’t like it, they’ll bitch to your department chair or throw themselves at you. Either way it’s bullshit.”

  “Go away.”

  Ainsley laughed softly. “Why do you think they let us have student assistants? Ever since Samantha started grading papers and preparing my assignments, my backhand’s improved immeasurably and I’ve pared three strokes off my golf game.” He took a swing at an imaginary golf ball, then looked at Jack and smiled pleasantly, the way he usually smiled—the way he must have smiled at his students, who, he liked to remind Jack, loved him—a harmless smile, without a trace of malevolence or conceit, and when he said grading, or teaching for that matter, was bullshit, it was not meant to challenge any other teacher’s assessment or denigrate any other teacher’s methods or motives.

  Jack could only smile back. “You are one lazy man.”

  “I think I’m rather enterprising. But really, Owens. You’re knocking yourself out unnecessarily and if you don’t care about what you’re doing to yourself, think about what you’re doing to me.”

  “To you?”

  “Yes. Me. Just knowing that you’re in your office working all alone into the night is making me absolutely morose. Mandy and I were out last night for cocktails and supper and how was I supposed to enjoy myself knowing you’re up here working yourself blind like some poor little Dickensian clerk? It’s just not fair. It’s not right.”

  “I suppose it is rather thoughtless of me.”

  “Of course it is. And there’s only one thing to do about it. You and I are going out tonight. For drinks. Just to put my troubled mind at ease.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, of course you can, ‘Self-love is not so vile a sin as self-neglecting.’”

  “Can’t.”

  “Then at least go home and get some sleep.”

  “You’re a real pain in the ass, Carl, but a charming pain in the ass. I’ll give you that.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Take it any way you like, but please take it somewhere else. I’m trying to finish my work.”

  Ainsley laughed, a little louder than before, walked over to Jack and whispered playfully, “Did I tell you about the girl in my Shakespeare class? The one with the mouth…” He kissed the tips of his fingers. “She hasn’t done a thing all semester. Barely making a D. So, last week she said, ‘Is there anything I can do to improve my grade?’ Now what’s a man supposed to do?” He grinned and for a brief moment Jack wondered if that was the same way Ainsley grinned at Mandy when he came home late at night or when she caught him in a clumsy lie.

  “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Ainsley said. “I didn’t do anything. If I
did, you’d never let me get away with it.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Why do I always feel compelled to confess my sins to you?” He pushed Jack’s papers aside and sat on the edge of the desk. “Because Jack Owens would never do a thing like that. Because I know it pisses you off.” He leaned forward. “Or maybe, it’s because you think I’m completely without morals and I think you’re the most moral man I know and I afford you the standard by which that morality of yours can be gauged.” He patted Jack on the cheek. “We need each other, Owens. It keeps us honest. You in your way, me in mine.” He started to stand but stopped and asked, “Has Carl Junior been staying at your house the past few nights?”

  “Not that I know of. But I haven’t been there much lately. Why?”

  “I don’t know. Mandy asked me to ask you. It seems he’s in one of his moods. I’m hoping he’ll get himself a girlfriend this summer and it will take the edge off.”

  Knowing Carl Junior—C.J.—as he did, Jack found that both improbable and amusing, which he told Ainsley.

  “You never know,” Ainsley said, “he may be a scrawny little fuckup, but he just turned fifteen and summer is all about timid little boys becoming confident young men when those surges of testosterone…Anyway, I can only hope.” Now he stood up and walked to the door. “Please,” he called out, “stop busting your ass on these kids. It’s not worth it. Nothing is.”

  Then there were no more interruptions. No students. No one stopping by for a quick chat. There were just the sounds of academe in the hallway. The light footsteps in the office above. A telephone ringing somewhere. The sounds on the video, the flickering images on the screen. Natasha’s story was taking form, an actual narrative materializing.