Light of Day

by Jamie M. Saul

  He realized that among the things he’d missed these past months, being around students was one of them. It may not have ranked near the top, but he’d missed the company of a student assistant, the sudden and harmless student crises. He’d missed the small preparations for the new semester, and even if he was working from memory, wondering if this was how he used to do it, was this the way he used to sound, it was the familiarity that did not breed contempt, the familiarity that he’d needed these past ten years, that he needed this morning while he sat at his desk rereading his notes, his critiques, working from memory, wondering if this was how he’d always done it.

  Carol Brink from the dean’s office called to ask if he was going to address the incoming freshman class next week as planned. The slight hesitation, the soft, cautious voice. “Of course, if you aren’t feeling…”

  “I’ll be there,” Jack promised, hoping he hadn’t betrayed himself, wondering if that was how he used to sound.

  Drinking his coffee, doing his job, the reflection of the reflection, the memory of the memory, listening to the noon bells chime, talking on the phone to Stan Miller—“Do you have a minute, Jack, to come to my office so I can officially welcome you back?”—Jack could only think that he was nothing but the past.

  One of Bach’s violin partitas played softly on the old stereo and there was the slight aroma of Chinese tea in the air when Jack walked into the office. Stan stood up and came around to the front of his desk. “Just a little department bookkeeping,” he said, nodding at the papers on the windowsill. His shirt was open at the collar, his blue seersucker suit was wrinkled and hung off his body as though on wire hangers. He straightened his jacket and tucked his shirttail into his pants, at the same time saying, “We could have taken care of all this on the phone, but I wanted to have a look at you and see how you’re making out.” Which is what he’d told Jack last year and the year before that and five years before that, when he was appointed department chair.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know how I’m making out, really.” Which was not what Jack had answered last year and the years before.

  Stan did not appear surprised to hear this. “I appreciate what you’re doing, staying on like this. I’m very proud of you.” He spoke slowly and unhurriedly, with understated courtesy. “That’s a very impressive class you’re teaching,” while he walked over to the credenza and the brass tray with the tea service. “I’m tempted to duck in to see a few of the films myself.” He filled two cups, put milk in both and handed one to Jack.

  “You’re welcome anytime.”

  Stan laughed softly. “I doubt most people in the department share that sentiment.” He tipped his chin toward the large unmatched chairs across the room—the sort of chairs they had in gentlemen’s clubs in Edwardian England and which Stan had found at the Goodwill shop on Woodbine Street. “I’m afraid we’ve got to go through what amounts to nothing more than administrative junk mail,” he said pleasantly, and sat in the chair next to Jack. “Susan Drake, in the registrar’s office, asked if you’d stop by and go over your grades from last semester. She assures me it’s just a matter of dotting some i’s. Today, if at all possible, or tomorrow.”

  Jack said that wouldn’t be a problem. “However, the registrar doesn’t usually go through the department chair for something like that.”

  “I’m afraid some people around here are going to be taking your pulse for a while. And using me to do it.”

  “That can be annoying.”

  Stan agreed. “I’ll see what I can do to minimize it.”

  “I mean for you. There’s no reason for you to get in the middle of it. You don’t have to run interference for me.”

  “There are plenty of reasons why I should be in the middle of it, and I wouldn’t exactly call it running interference.” Stan took a sip of tea, then another, and put the cup back in the saucer. “We’ve been friends for a long time and we’ve never stood on ceremony when things were going smoothly and I’m not going to stand on ceremony now. When I have the opportunity to make your work, or your life, a little easier I intend to do it.” His voice was hardly louder than a whisper. “And I’d be insulted if you expected me to turn away from helping you. If someone from the administration needs something from you and thinks she has to go through me to get it, then that’s the way I’m going to handle it.”

  Jack said he hadn’t intended to insult Stan. “I don’t know what I’m talking about. Handle it any way you see fit.” He said this apologetically and without contrition. “You of all people know the appropriate thing to do.”

  Stan leaned forward in his chair and looked at Jack straight on. “I’m not so sure of that, but I do know that I don’t want the administration to sic its bureaucrats on you every time there’s a blip on their computer screen.” He still hadn’t raised his voice. “Listen, Jack, you’re coming back to work for all the right reasons. I also think it happens to be the right decision, and it takes a lot of strength. You don’t need a bunch of kibitzers yapping at you and getting in your way.”

  Before Jack got out his “Thank you,” the telephone rang. Stan’s assistant cracked the door open and said Dr. Skowron was calling. Stan asked her to take a message. She bowed slightly, modestly, from the waist and closed the door.

  Stan got up and took the papers off the windowsill, picked through the stack until he found what he was looking for and told Jack the Tuesday morning meeting had been pushed up to Monday afternoon, looked at the papers again and said, “I have to start thinking about next year’s spring film festival. I don’t mean to rush things, but I need to know if you’re still going to be in charge. And your Midnight Movies. I need to sign off on your list. It’s more budgetary than anything else. However, if you’d rather take it off the curriculum—”

  “I’ll get the list to you by the end of the day.”

  “Are you sure you want to schedule them?”

  “To tell the truth, no. But I don’t think I can cancel them, either.”

  Stan offered a cautious “Okay…”

  “I’ll manage it.”

  “I’ve also got you on the honors committee this year.”

  “I think I can manage that one, too.”

  “You know what? I’m going to have Celeste Harrison take over the spring film festival. With your input, of course.”

  Jack thought that over for a moment and said he didn’t have a problem with it.

  “And there’s the ‘Gilbert College 2000’ committee, which I see no reason for you to be weighted down with.” There was another phone call, which Stan did not take, and then he told Jack, “I’m afraid I’m going to sound a bit insensitive with this next bit of business. There’s the President’s Dinner, Friday night, to welcome everyone back. You can take a pass on it if you want. And Christine wanted me to invite you over for supper next Wednesday. If you’re in the mood.”

  “You’re not being insensitive. I’ll be at the President’s Dinner. And I’d like to have supper with you and Christine.”

  “Good. She’s been quite concerned about you.”

  “Tell her I appreciate that.” Jack pulled his phone messages out of his pocket. “Now I need your help with something. Apparently, in a moment of weakness last spring, I signed up to speak at Vigo County High School’s ‘College Day’ in November, about the importance of a liberal arts education. Neil Weston at IU expects me to be a judge, again, for their October film competition. Carrie Mannheim’s invited me to be a guest speaker at Colby, she’s teaching my books this semester. And Mel Keller, at NYU, wants me to sit on a panel in March. They don’t know anything about what happened, of course. But I did make a commitment to them.”

  “I can certainly help get a replacement for you for the ‘College Day,’ but as for the rest, I’m afraid I can only give you my advice.”

  “Which is?”

  “Don’t do any of it. Cancel them all, for ‘personal reasons,’ don’t go into much detail if you can help it, no more than necessary, th
en put it out of your mind.”

  There was another volley of phone calls, which Stan shook off; and more of Stan’s “administrative junk mail,” mostly committees Jack had agreed to sit on, one he’d agreed to chair, a speech he was supposed to give at a luncheon at the end of the month.

  Outside the window, students and faculty hurried to their appointments and meetings, their voices rising into the office. Stan leaned in their direction like a maestro pitching his ear while the orchestra tuned up, confident about the concert ahead. He seemed reluctant to turn away and waited a moment or two longer, then turned around slowly and said, “We can’t pretend that this is just another semester. Nothing is the same for you and that means nothing is the same for me or any of your colleagues and friends, either. But I want you to know that one thing hasn’t changed and won’t ever change: you’re still among friends. You belong here.”

  Jack said he took comfort in knowing that.

  “It’s really about continuity, isn’t it, Jack.” Stan stirred his tea meditatively.

  “Continuity?”

  “Like in film, about keeping the scene intact, only I’m talking about something else that keeps us intact. I’m not talking about just you and me, although the small traditions the two of us adhere to, our meeting every year before the start of the fall semester, having tea together, simply talking face-to-face, I’d say helps us maintain our centrifugal force, keeps us from spinning out of our orbits.” He lifted the cup to his mouth and took a few short sips. “It’s something very human. Something everyone needs, don’t you think? Isn’t that why Susan Drake wants you to stop by and why, if she hasn’t already called, the dean’s going to want to know if you’re still giving your talk to the incoming freshmen, and why she wants you to? I’m not going to make speeches at you about how we’re all part of one big family here, because it’s not true and it wouldn’t be fair to say so. In fact, it would be cynical. But there are ripple effects when one of us is going through a bad time. Carol Brink, Susan Drake, all of us, in our way, need to know that the semester is moving along the way it always has, the way it’s supposed to, and that you’re still a part of it, that you’re involved in it, and that you’re going to be all right, most of all that. And you need it, too, Jack. I’ve always felt that your coming here with Danny was about continuity.” He said this flatly, without the look of expectation he might have had if all he wanted was for Jack to agree with him, if he needed that, if that were the reason why he was talking, just so he could feel good about himself. But that wasn’t why Stan was saying this, it wasn’t why Stan ever said anything; and there wasn’t the cautious tone of condolence or commiseration, either. Stan had not called Jack in to commiserate, to add to his mourning, which is what he said next, and then, “I don’t know what you want from your friends right now, but I imagine it isn’t that,” while they drank their tea, and the Bach partitas played in the background and all the department bookkeeping was finished and there was only their friendship to commemorate the moment, their time this September when it was anything but business as usual and the semester itself was still more in the future than in the present and the present extended no further than this moment, long enough for the two men to acknowledge, observe, this formality, just as they had in the past.

  When it was appropriate—in spite of his statement to the contrary, Stan did know the appropriate thing to do and when to do it, after they’d finished their tea and talked a little while longer, when it wouldn’t appear as though he were rushing Jack to the end of the meeting—Stan said, “I think we have enough time to enjoy each other’s company for a few more minutes.” But the telephone rang and this time Stan had to take the call. Jack let himself out.

  The hallway smelled like school. Of books and academic commerce. Of students’ stress and teachers’ woes. Of paper and ink and the warm smell of electricity that desktop computers make. Of Stan’s Chinese tea and the acrid smell of cigarettes smoked behind closed doors. Of stale coffee from a hundred semesters past and the morning application of perfume. Sweet smells, old smells, woven into the faded paint, the grain in the wooden doorframes, the glass transoms—transoms smeared with dust and a million human exhalations. It was the way college hallways smell everywhere, blindfolded you’d still know where you were. It was something dreaded and longed for, accepted and overlooked. Where it smelled like the first day of school and of thousands of school days before it, and where this early afternoon Carl Ainsley stood talking with a pretty blond girl, his country club insouciance on full display, the beige chinos, the pink V-neck sweater deepening his already deep tan, accentuating the smooth skin, taut across his cheekbones; the languid pose, leaning against the wall, one soft loafer crossed over the other at the ankle.

  Ainsley had a rested, loose-nerved, sun-polished affect, as though he’d spent the summer at a spa, not in a cottage on a lake in Kentucky with his son lying banged up and broken in the local hospital. It was an accomplishment, frightening for its ease, its indulgence and control.

  The girl was laughing at something Ainsley had said and he looked pleased with himself, but the laughter was cut short as Jack approached, and the girl walked quickly away. Ainsley watched her, ignoring Jack when he stopped and said, “I think I owe you an apology for what I did to you back in May.”

  “You know, I forgot that you ever did that, Owens.”

  “Then I will, too. I heard about C.J. How’s he doing?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” Ainsley kept his eyes on the girl. “From what Mandy tells me he’s recovering much too slowly and he’s severely depressed.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Wish him a speedy recovery for me.”

  Only after the girl walked down the stairs did Ainsley raise his eyes to Jack. “He’ll recover. After he’s tortured everyone sufficiently. I’m not so sure we will, however. He certainly has managed to suck the joy out of life.”

  “He’s a good kid. He made a mistake, that’s all.”

  “He’s a fuckup,” Ainsley told him with more conviction than Jack expected. “But he’s my fuckup and I’ve learned to put up with him.”

  Jack could not resist the envy he felt. That Ainsley could be so detached—or, Jack wondered, was it the lack of panic, trusting that everything would work out because everything had always worked out?—so constricted and restrained.

  “Tell him I said hello. Or tell Mandy to tell him I said hello and that I hope he’s feeling better soon.” Jack was about to walk away, but he felt compelled to say something else, compelled to see past the pose and the posturing and tell Ainsley, “I know you must be feeling something, fear or anxiety or something.” But he didn’t say that. It was Ainsley who spoke.

  “I don’t know what that kid’s got against me, Owens.” He let out a sigh that sounded about as sad as he ever allowed himself to sound. “All I do is worry about him. How he’ll look after they take out the stitches, how—you know, he’d be quite handsome if he just took care of himself. At night, I sit on the edge of his bed and try to talk to him, but he won’t even look at me. When he’s asleep, I touch his shoulder and try not to wake him just to be with him for a few minutes longer. That’s about the extent of our relationship, can you believe it?” He stepped away from the wall and straightened up. “The twins, of course, act as if anyone over the age of twelve is diseased, which means Mandy and me. And Mandy’s leaning so heavily on tranquilizers lately, Lilly’s and Upjohn’s stocks rise ten points every time she reaches for a glass of water. On top of it all, I can’t find a suitable tutor so Carl won’t fall behind in school, and they’ve stuck me with first-year advising.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I swear, Owens, can you imagine the kind of advice I could give to a freshman? What a life.”

  Maybe Jack was drawn to someone else’s sorrow, or maybe it was simply what one person says to another person when their kid is all banged up and hurt, even when the person is Carl Ainsley, torturing his face, working the muscles so he actually showed an emotion, scaring up a look
of concern. Or maybe it was something less honorable than that, that seeing Carl Ainsley in pain was reassuring, of what, Jack dared not admit to himself at the moment. Whatever it was, he put a hand on Ainsley’s shoulder and said, “I know it doesn’t look too great right now, but C.J.’s going to be all right. You’ll both be all right.”

  Ainsley grinned, but there was no warmth in it. He took a step back as though he were leveraging his body to throw a punch or take one, but he did neither. “Of course we’ll be all right.” He walked into his office and the door snapped closed.

  XXI

  Marty was waiting downstairs, leaning against the side of the building and staring at the ground. “Let’s not go to the diner again. I don’t think I can stomach any more of their grease.” By the way he said this, Jack knew it was more than greasy food that Marty couldn’t stomach. His jaw was clenched and he kept it clenched while he said, “Hopewell’s made the arrest. The guy’s name is Joseph Rich. The local news is all over it. They’re calling him ‘the Cyberkiller.’ And you know, once enough people say he’s guilty, he’s guilty.”

  “So I guess Hopewell won’t be too disappointed to know Danny’s never received any e-mail from the guy. Or any other son of a bitch.”

  There was a luncheonette, a salad and sandwich place, really, over on the north side of town, that Jack used to go to, maybe it was still there. He drove while Marty leaned back in the front seat and closed his eyes. Jack didn’t want to bother him with any more conversation, so he just kept on driving, past the railroad tracks and the old junkyards with the rusting cars and towers of hubcaps and retreads, and beyond that to where there was nothing but farms and cows and hogs and fields of wheat ready for harvesting, and then not much of that.