by Lev Raphael
But I wasn’t finished. I said, “What will you do when they start throwing black hoods over our heads and dragging us off for interrogation in some basement somewhere? Wave goodbye?”
I slammed the door after her, hoping that it made her jump. I had no idea exactly who else was out there on the department floor aside from funky Estella, and I didn’t care.
Celine was chuckling. “I’ve never heard you yell at anybody,” she said.
“Juno deserves it. She’s become a fascist.”
Celine shrugged. “They all do, when they’re administrators. It’s like The Invasion of the Body Snatchers. They look the same, but they’ve been hollowed out and replaced.”
I walked over to give her a quick hug. “You were brilliant. I couldn’t have thought that fast.”
She thanked me.
“Now we have to clean up,” I said.
“Yeah. And fumigate.”
We shut the doors and got to work. I didn’t say it, but if my office did have hidden camera surveillance, somebody would have seen Celine dump the powder and shred the envelope. So we were safe, but only up to a point.
“When you put stuff back, check everything for bugs,” I said.
“Already on it,” Celine replied.
They’d emptied the desks and rifled the books and it took an hour to put our offices back together. Though I was quietly furious at what the campus police had done, I realized it could have been much worse. The glass on one Seurat print had cracked, but having it replaced wouldn’t be a big deal. They wanted us to feel scared and violated, and they’d only partially succeeded in their mission. Yes, I did feel like a survivor of an explosion who was disoriented and couldn’t hear quite right, but I was still standing, still functioning, and angry as hell, not crushed. We’d thwarted Valley—and apparently Juno—in getting rid of the drugs, if that’s what that powder had been. But what if it was something harmless, meant as a warning of some kind?
“They won’t try it again,” Celine said, falling into her office chair, and sighing. But then she jumped up, grabbed her mug and some Palmolive dish soap from a desk drawer. “Bathroom,” she said. “I have to wash this out.”
While she was gone, I opened up the shredder to see if I could find the traces of that envelope. I couldn’t detect anything in that chaos of paper strips, but was it safe to leave the stuff there. What if Valley and his minions came back and did an even more thorough search? I stepped out to the reception desk to ask Estella if she’d seen anyone heading to my office.
“A bunch of cops?” she said tentatively. “Oh, and Dr. Dromgoole.”
“No, before that.”
She winced as helplessly as if I’d asked her to define a subatomic particle. “I don’t know,” she confessed. “I was, like, texting my boyfriend.” She grinned dopily.
“Okay, thanks.”
I headed back to my office, wondering if the law considered a man’s office as his castle, or was it just his home. And did that even matter since we were on a college campus.
I asked Celine what she thought about the shredder when she came back with her washed-out mug and the dish soap. She wordlessly set them down on her desk, found a brown paper shopping bag in another drawer, emptied the shredder refuse into it, folded it up tightly and put it in her large shoulder bag. She took a can of Lysol from a bottom desk drawer, thoroughly sprayed the inside of the shredder container and dried it with paper towels.
“I know they’re not going to risk stopping a black woman and searching her without a warrant,” she said. “Because I will work their last nerve if they mess me around. I will sue their asses for discrimination and the stink will go national.”
She was dead right. As oppressive and intrusive as the university had become, it feared bad publicity that could go viral, feared the blizzard of tweets and YouTube videos that would flood the Internet if it made that kind of misstep.
“Was it the same cologne?” I remembered to ask. “Was Valley wearing what you thought you smelled after you got back from lunch?”
“I don’t know, Nick. I’m not sure. I was too agitated.”
I sat down at my desk, the Herman Miller chair suddenly feeling as comfortable as a soak in a hot tub. Could Valley really have been behind everything that’d hit me and Stefan this past week? Why? He didn’t like me, but that was nothing new. He didn’t like most faculty, openly considered them nothing more than over-educated miscreants, carriers of the disease of chaos. But why go after me and Stefan now? We had not run into each other in years and there was nothing we’d done back then that would have precipitated such a campaign of harassment and revenge. Or was Valley doing someone else’s dirty work? The dean? Juno? Both of them? It wasn’t paranoid to ask these questions because someone really was out to get us, and was hitting harder every time. If drugs had been found in my office, I could have ended up not just fired, but arrested, imprisoned, and likely unable to work anywhere again as a professor. Who’d hire me after being fired from SUM in disgrace, and with a felony conviction on my record?
My face must have betrayed some of this, because Celine grabbed my arm fiercely and said, “Nick, we’re going to get the bastard who did this to you. I don’t know how, but we will.”
18
I left campus in a daze and drove around town, unwilling to go home where I’d have to tell Stefan about this new outrage. He’d been through more than enough trauma already. Reporting the cops and Valley in my office would be like letting go of someone’s arm when you’d been dragging him out of quicksand. How could he not sink?
So I drove. But where could I go? Where could I ever go to escape what had just happened, what had retriggered the shock of the SWAT team night? Away from the scene, down from whatever ledge I’d climbed onto when I’d shouted at Juno Dromgoole, I thought it impossible that the scars of this week would ever heal. There was no closure possible, only deeper immersion in shame. It didn’t matter that we lived in a small city with only one major newspaper and that the paper hadn’t reported what had happened at our house. It didn’t matter that my name wasn’t being bitten into like a breakfast donut by tens of thousands of people, mocked by some, defended by others. The exposure and humiliation I’d already suffered was enough. It was inside now, searing me like a brand.
I ended up heading home with a weird sense of defeat, and was glad that only Marco was home, needing attention, dinner, and a walk. Stefan still wasn’t back when I returned from the walk, and I didn’t bother calling him. I was glad to be alone with my own thoughts, and I fell asleep in bed watching one of my favorite classic noirs, Laura, Marco by my side.
When I woke up Thursday morning, Stefan was snoring, which meant he must have taken one of his sleeping pills since that was the only time he snored. I was grateful, because that meant more time before I had to tell him about Valley and the campus cops descending on my office. So I showered, got breakfast for me and Marco, walked him, and when I returned, Stefan still hadn’t woken up.
I didn’t have a therapist, hadn’t had one in half a dozen years because my life seemed so placid, but now I thought I needed to talk to someone I could trust. Father Ryan popped into my head for some reason, so I drove to St. Jude’s, hoping to find him. I knew he was often there in the mornings before Mass.
Michiganapolis had two downtowns in a way, one centering on the state capitol west of campus, the other around the university, and St. Jude’s was on a cul-de-sac near campus, well inside the smaller, less built-up downtown. The short, dead-end street was the typical mélange of moderately priced ethnic restaurants and clothing stores, but St. Jude’s was near the end where the commercial buildings gave way to fine old houses and older trees and then a public park. Given the bosky setting, the unadorned vaguely Gothic brick façade and bell tower brought to mind a rural church. I parked across the street, put as many quarters in the meter as I had on me, but before I made it over to the steps, I saw Father Ryan emerging in his “clericals.” He looked surprised, then wave
d, and I dashed across to ask if he had some time for coffee. There was a Starbucks a block and a half away.
“That’s where I was going, Nick.” He studied my face as we walked over. “Are you okay?”
“Not really. The campus police raided my office yesterday. I haven’t even told Stefan yet.”
He looked stunned as we walked into Starbucks, which was almost empty. Coffee shops of all kinds had proliferated in town and you never knew when they’d be filled with students on their laptops, or nearly vacant.
I bought us both frozen mocha Frappuccinos and we settled into a corner where nobody could hear us, far from the counter and the baristas, far from the door, and far from the floor-to-ceiling windows. The interior was a small maze of worn leather armchairs and tiny tables, and not my favorite place in town for coffee, but it was close by, and I wanted to sit down with Father Ryan as soon as possible, not wander.
I’d never been alone with Stefan’s spiritual guide before, and it struck me as a little odd. In just a few short years, he’d had a profound impact on my partner, though he discounted his influence and said he was just journeying along with Stefan.
Today, his fashion model good looks didn’t register on me with the discordance they usually did. His face was like a beacon: clear, open, safe. I could understand why Stefan had been drawn to the door Father Ryan had opened for him, and then stepped through into another faith. He radiated a sense of calm, even though he had clearly been disturbed by what little I’d already told him.
“Tell me what else happened, Nick.”
I did, trying not to rush, and after the initial shock, his face settled into grave concern. At one point, he said, “Careful—your hand is shaking.”
I put my coffee down and took a few deep breaths.
“At first I thought you wanted to talk to me about Stefan,” he said, “ask me something, and I was going to tell you I couldn’t share anything he’s told me in confession, but you probably know that?”
I nodded.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go home? Wouldn’t you feel better there? I can drive you if you’re feeling unsteady. We’ll figure out your car later.”
“I’ll be okay.” Then I contradicted myself: “I feel lost, Father.”
“How do you mean?”
“Lost in what’s going on with me and Stefan. I mean, what’s happening to us. I don’t feel like the same person anymore.”
He nodded. “You’re not. Disaster changes us. It’s inevitable.”
“But what if it’s made me crazy?” I lowered my voice and leaned forward. “I’ve been to a gun range. I applied for a permit to buy a gun.”
He grinned. “I’m from northern Michigan. I grew up with guns, I have half a dozen, so that doesn’t sound crazy to me at all. If you want to go shooting together sometime, let me know.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
I went on to explain the most recent blows Stefan and I had experienced leading up to the raid on my office. His face grew even more pained as I went on. And then something unexpected popped out: “You told Stefan they weren’t coming back.” It sounded like an accusation, and I felt myself blushing.
He sighed. “It wasn’t a promise, it was something to hope for, to hold on to. It seemed reasonable at the time.”
“You’re not going to tell me to turn the other cheek, are you?”
He flashed a neon smile. “No, that would be glib. And probably dangerous.”
My thoughts were jumbled and I wondered now why I had even sought him out. Could anyone help me?
He said, “Tell me who you think is tormenting you.”
I ran through the short list of suspects with him. He dismissed them all.
“That professor—Lucky?—sounds miserable, but not like he has the energy to launch a campaign like this. And your chair or the dean? That’s not how these people operate. I’ve known enough academic types. If the administration wanted to get rid of you, they’d be more subtle. Bureaucracies may be cumbersome, but they’re devious when they need to be. They dread scandal more than disease.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Wait a minute! That scandal line, it’s from Edith Wharton.”
Ryan nodded. “The Age of Innocence. My mother was an English teacher. She adored Wharton. It rubbed off.”
“Are you kidding? How come I didn’t know that?” I wondered if Stefan hadn’t told me more about Ryan because he thought I would suspect him of making it up to curry favor with me, given that I was a Wharton scholar.
“Really, scratch those people off your list,” he insisted quietly.
“But bureaucracies are so twisted and power hungry, they eventually become evil, and whoever is after us has to be evil,” I said. “Stalking us, or me anyway, setting a SWAT team on us, breaking into our house, putting roadkill in our bed, provoking a drug raid …”
“Well, Nick, I’m careful about using the word evil. Even Christ forgave on the cross. ‘Forgive them Father for they know not what they do.’ His killers did something evil, but that doesn’t mean they were evil. I will say this, though: whoever’s orchestrating the campaign against you must be suffering inside, suffering profoundly, and is trying to make you suffer just as much. Who do you know who’d feel like that? Anyone?”
If that was the explanation, then I couldn’t think of a single person, and my frustration burst out in a totally unexpected way. “Stefan’s hiding something from me. He knows something about that guy’s suicide and he won’t tell me what it is.”
“What guy?”
“His student, you know, the one who Stefan caught plagiarizing? His name was Casey. The poor kid freaked out and hung himself in Parker Hall, remember?”
Father Ryan frowned, and I found myself wondering if he knew more about the suicide than he could tell me, whether through Stefan, or some other way. Or was that being overly suspicious? He took a long sip of his coffee drink, then said, “People claim secrets are bad things in a marriage. Sometimes they help keep it going. Sometimes not. You’ll have to find out which kind this is.”
“How?”
“Ask him, if it’s important to you.”
“I have, and he pulled away.”
“Give him time, then.” He added, “Love is patient, love is kind,” and I recognized the famous words.
“Corinthians,” I said.
He grinned. “Looks like we know each other’s favorite writers.”
I finished my coffee, and I asked him, “How are you so relaxed about me and Stefan—as a couple, I mean?”
“Well … my sister is a lesbian. But even if she wasn’t, the Church has got some of its current theology dead wrong. My feeling is, if it ain’t love, it ain’t God.”
“Wow. Do you say that in church?”
“Of course I do. And yes, some people complain to the bishop, but he hasn’t slapped my hand yet, so I’m okay.”
Before I could ask anything more, I happened to look up. There was nobody blocking my view of the front window, and on this bright spring day I could see a black car double parked across the street. That wasn’t common in Michiganapolis, and I stood up to go to the window. I couldn’t see the face of the driver, but it was clearly a man at the wheel, and when I opened the door and stepped outside, he sped away at easily twice the speed limit. Much as I hated the police, I hoped he’d get stopped for speeding, hoped he’d crash into something.
But even if nothing stopped him, at least I got the license plate number of the car: DXM 838. When I walked back inside and felt the soft cocoon of cold air, even the bored-looking baristas with hipster black-framed eyeglasses and beards had woken up and were staring at me. So was Father Ryan.
“That was the car!” I said, sitting back down and getting my phone out to text Vanessa Liberati. “It has to be the one that’s been following me. And it wasn’t a Chrysler, it was definitely a Caddy.”
“For a minute, I thought you were going to chase him down the street,” Father Ryan said so
ftly, and I realized how hard I was breathing, almost as if I had been running. I flashed on the image of that shape-shifting Terminator chasing Linda Hamilton in one of the movies, grim, determined, inescapable. If only I had that kind of power.
“I need to go home. Thanks for your advice.”
Ryan calmly thanked me for the coffee and I hoped he didn’t think I was crazy.
As soon as he saw me walk in, Stefan asked, “What happened?”
While I sat cross-legged on the floor in the living room with Marco nuzzling and mouthing my hands in greeting, I told Stefan the whole horrible story of yesterday’s drug raid. I didn’t exaggerate, but I didn’t leave anything out, and I didn’t look up at him once because I was sure meeting his eyes would send me over the edge. With all my recitals of bad news, I was beginning to feel like the Ancient Mariner.
“Omigod,” he said when I was done. “Omigod—omigod—omigod.” He was sitting on the edge of one of the armchairs opposite the fireplace, head in his hands, rocking back and forth like a mourner at a funeral. “This is never going to stop.”
Strangely, instead of being unnerved by his despair, I suddenly felt the opposite. I felt confident, I felt brave.
“It has to stop,” I said. “We’ll find out who’s behind everything and we’ll make it stop.”
He mumbled through his hand, “How?”
“Hell if I know,” I said, and he looked up, apparently startled by my flippant tone. But what I said amused him and he laughed a little, tentatively, and that grew and grew until he was taken over by laughter like an infant having its belly tickled. Pretty soon he had tears in his eyes and Marco started leaping up at him to participate in the fun.
“I need a drink,” I said, even though we hadn’t had lunch, and Stefan followed me to the kitchen where I poured us each several fingers of Lagavulin and let Marco out into the backyard. We didn’t usually drink smoky single malts in the spring, we preferred lighter scotches, but nothing was normal anymore. I set the kitchen radio to play something soothing by Thomas Tallis and I dug out some smoked salmon spread from the fridge. I toasted salty bagels in the four-slice Breville toaster my cousin Sharon had sent us for Christmas and Hanukah. She had initially taken Stefan’s conversion better than I had, coming at it from her perspective as a cancer survivor: “Be thankful he wasn’t diagnosed with something life-threatening and that’s why he chose a new path. He wasn’t desperate or afraid of dying. He felt called. You’re lucky.”