by Rick Homan
I thought about skipping the Faculty Senate meeting at midday on Tuesday. The email from its chairman explained that the purpose of the meeting was to discuss issues arising from President Taylor’s speech at the convocation two weeks ago. To me that sounded like my colleagues were getting together to blow off steam even though it wouldn’t make any difference. I thought I might better use the time to get to the library and follow up on the leads Lionel had given me.
But I had to admit, I was curious about what my colleagues had to say in response to the president’s call for courses and majors that prepare people for careers. Surely I was not the only one to believe that liberal arts are a preparation for any career. Lionel had been eloquent on that subject the day we went to Yellow Springs. Similar thoughts from other colleagues would go a long way to restoring my spirits.
I texted Abbie, “Senate?”
She replied, “Meet outside.”
I walked over to the Old Classroom Building, but kept my distance from the entrance to the auditorium. I didn’t feel like having brief conversations with people I had never met.
When I saw Abbie coming down the sidewalk from the library, I walked over and joined her. “What should I expect here?”
“Not much.”
“Any advice on how to get through this?”
“Bring a book.”
“You don’t have one.”
“It’s on my phone.”
As we walked toward the entrance, Abbie nodded and said good morning to a few colleagues. Behind us a couple of older gentlemen seemed to be looking forward to the meeting.
“Do you plan to introduce a resolution?” one of them asked.
“I’m undecided. You?” said the other.
“Not sure how I feel about this career-preparation business, although I suppose we have to do something. We can’t just keep turning out art-history majors.”
Abbie turned to confront the man, and the look on her face was scary, even to me. The elderly professor stopped dead in his tracks and his eyes searched her face and mine, apparently trying to understand how he had provoked her reaction. Sensing she was about to demand an apology, I grabbed her arm and pulled her forward with me. “Let’s not do this right now,” I said. She relented and followed me in.
“Art-history major” has long since become shorthand for useless knowledge, frivolous indulgence, waste of time and money, and no future. After hearing it enough times, I decided to stop fighting it and instead to apply myself to doing art history as well as I could.
The aisle seats were mostly taken, so we sat in the middle of a row, toward the back.
The chairman called the meeting to order while people were still streaming down the aisles. “President Taylor spoke to this faculty two weeks ago and gave us his reasons for changing the name of this institution when it becomes a university. No doubt some of us would like to retain the name Fuchs, while others agree with the president’s reasons for eliminating it. Professor Jacob Schumacher has prepared an analysis of this issue.”
The chairman sat with the other members of the Executive Committee on the stage behind the lectern. For a moment, it seemed nothing was happening, then Jacob came down the aisle from the back of the auditorium. Everyone was silent as he climbed the stairs at the side of the stage and walked to the lectern. Though dressed in his habitual costume of blue blazer, shirt and tie, and slacks, he looked impressive on this occasion. After laying out a few sheets of paper, he surveyed the assembled faculty and began to speak.
“In 1851, Felix Fuchs and his followers purchased land in these foothills and established the Eden Commune. They had left Germany where the land they worked was owned by aristocrats, and their faith was dictated to them by unscrupulous clergy. What little they had, they risked in order to live a more dignified life: a life in which their labor benefited the community, not the privileged few; in which women were treated equally with men; in which worship was a simple act of pausing in one’s labor to thank God for the earth’s bounty.
“Forty years later the descendants of those founding families dissolved the commune to live as individuals in the larger society of southern Ohio, but they did not leave behind the values of the commune. True to their heritage, they established the Eden Independent School, so that children from surrounding counties could receive an education. They donated much of the land from the commune to be the grounds of the school, land which they otherwise could have sold for their own profit.”
I felt inspired as I listened to Jacob narrate the history of the place. Lionel was right: he had a wonderful feel for this material. Yet this was the man who went behind my back to steal my student’s idea and put a stop to my research. Perhaps the college’s benevolent patriarch was in fact a ruthless dictator. I couldn’t allow myself to be lulled by the image he projected. I had to stay focused on replicating Kate’s discovery and stopping him from calling it his own.
“In 1920, the next generation of descendants built upon this land a liberal arts college so that the young men and women of this region could continue their education without traveling far from their homes and families. And they called it Fuchs College in memory of the founder.
“Today we walk upon the same land where the members of the Eden Commune toiled, land that was dedicated, and has twice been rededicated, to helping people lead a more dignified life. We call it our campus.
“Is it important that we remember those who risked and sacrificed to make this land a place where people are raised up and set upon a higher path? Does it matter? I think it does. Otherwise how are we to emulate them and deserve their legacy?”
Jacob ducked away from the lectern and covered his mouth with one hand while the other hand reached into his pants pocket for a handkerchief. He stood with his back to us while the coughing subsided and he wiped his mouth. Everyone was silent until he returned to the lectern.
“What do we have to remind us of them? The only building left from the days of the commune is the chapel, and our new colleague in art history, Dr. Nicole Noonan, tells me its mural has much to teach us about the people who made this land their home. Beyond that, there is nothing visible to distinguish our campus from the many other liberal arts colleges in Ohio.”
I have to admit, I sat up a bit straighter upon hearing my name and my work announced to one and all. “Take that, art-history bashers,” I thought.
“But there is the name. ‘Fuchs’ is a common word in German, equivalent to the English word ‘fox.’ Likewise, it is commonly used as a family name. Our president is correct when he says that it can be mistaken by people whose native tongue is English, and he is right to urge caution. But I ask you, can we not teach our fellow Americans one word from another language? Can we not teach them one name from another country? Can we not make the name of this college—soon, this university—the beginning of their education?
“Or, in order to prevent an error of pronunciation, will we commit the greater error of forgetting those who walked this land before us?
“That is the question we must decide.”
Jacob was impressive, and his speech earned him a warm applause.
The chairman waited while Jacob left the stage and walked back up the aisle before returning to the lectern. “Thank you, Professor Schumacher, for your thoughts on retaining the name of the college. Does anyone wish to speak in favor of eliminating the current name?”
We all waited for several seconds. No one spoke up or raised a hand.
“If no one wishes to speak, do I hear a motion to bring the matter to a vote?”
“So moved.”
“Second.”
“It has been moved and seconded to bring the matter to a vote. On the question of elimination versus retention . . .”
That’s when I lost it. I did my best to stifle my laugh, and I think I made it sound more like a hiccup. With my hand over my mouth, I added a few coughs to disguise what was really going on, got up, and started sidestepping toward the aisle.
; Abbie followed me, and, once we were outside and away from the entrance, I let out the guffaw that I’d been holding in. Abbie looked at me like I was nuts.
I waited a moment, hoping she would catch on. When she didn’t, I asked, “Elimination versus retention?”
She thought about it, and chuckled. “Oh. Right. I’ve always said the old guard around here acts like they’re constipated.”
“Got time for coffee?”
“Sure.”
Chapter 26
Abbie and I walked to the Student Services Center, got cups of coffee, and settled at a table overlooking the quad.
“Do you think they’re going to discuss the president’s plan to emphasize careers?” I asked.
“I doubt it. That’s a done deal.”
“I think you’re right,” I said. “Two weeks ago Frank asked everyone in my department to send him a memo about how we prepare people for careers. I just don’t have the heart to do it. I could make a good pitch for how any career is enhanced by a knowledge of art history, but my colleagues made it clear that was not welcome. I’m supposed to tell them how studying art history gets you a job as an art historian.”
“That’s crazy. You can’t be successful at anything by studying just that one thing. What are you going to do?”
“I may as well just write the memo. I won’t be around long enough to see if it makes any difference.”
“So you’re searching the job market?”
“I’m about to start. I know the pickings are slim, but if I can get a couple of publications out, I’m hoping something will come along in a year or two. With any luck, I’ll be gone before any of this career-orientation kicks in.”
Abbie stopped and turned to me. “As you know, I keep my eye out for something better too. Whoever goes first, I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too. We’ll visit.”
We hugged, and she went out the door to the patio and walked across the lawn instead of using the sidewalks that bordered it. That must have ruffled a few feathers on the old birds who were just then spilling out of the Old Classroom Building on the west side of the quad. At least, I hoped it did.
I left the same way and took the sidewalk over to the library.
In one way, Jacob had done me a favor by mentioning me and my work in his speech. But in another way, he had given himself an advantage in the unfolding conflict between us. He now appeared to be my champion. If I ever complained about him plagiarizing a student’s work and trying to obstruct my own, I would appear to be ungrateful. My strategy looked better and better: beat him to the punch.
According to the record in the library catalogue, one of the books Lionel suggested gave an introduction to Fourier’s thought in only 300 pages. I found it on the shelf, and got a chair near a window. From one of the chapters I learned that in Fourier’s ideal society the wealthy would live on the top floors of the four-story phalanxes while the poor lived on the ground floors. Everyone would be paid according to the value of their work, and each phalanx would be self-sustaining. When the whole world was organized this way, there would be a World Congress of Phalanxes.
In many ways, his vision of society was benign. A minimum income would be provided for everyone to live decently. Women would be in all ways equal to men; there would be no marriage contracts to bind them. Homosexual relationships would be treated no differently than heterosexual ones. Children would not be limited to playing and learning, but would be encouraged to do useful things.
However, one aspect of Fourier’s vision was sinister. Since each phalanx would be self-sustaining, there would be no need for trade. Therefore, he argued, since Jews were traders, they would have no place in the new economy except as manual laborers on farms. It was shocking to see European anti-Jewish bias included in an otherwise enlightened philosophy.
I read the beginnings of several other chapters and could see that they provided more detail on these topics, but I had to stop and ask myself whether any of this looked like it would help me understand the significance of the spotted child. I looked in the index for “children” and found “childhood.” The main entries talked about education and appropriate work for children, but I couldn’t see a connection to the image in the mural. For the moment, I couldn’t see any reason to go further into the particulars of Fourier’s philosophy.
The chapel was only a little out of my way as I headed home from the library, so I stopped in to sit and look at the mural for a few minutes. Low-angled sun coming in the west-facing windows made bright rectangles on the floor, which reflected a dim glow onto the mural. Details were visible on the bottom row of scenes; fewer were visible as I looked higher on the wall. The coffins were no more than shadows at the top.
As I left the chapel and waited to cross College Avenue, a car came from my right. When it rounded the curve near where I stood, the sun flashed off its windshield and momentarily blinded me. That gave me an idea.
Once across College Avenue, I picked up my pace as I walked along Ohio Avenue and was almost running as I turned onto Montgomery. I went into my Rabbit Hutch and, without stopping to take off my coat, emptied my backpack and refilled it with a notebook, sketchbook, pencil box, digital camera, and binoculars. I strapped it on, went into the bedroom, and took the long mirror from the wall.
Lucky for me, it was a simple, metallic sheet with a plastic edge, not a silvered glass mirror. Still, although it wasn’t heavy, the autumn breeze caught it as I walked back on Ohio Avenue and made it awkward to carry. That and the weight in my backpack made my trip back to the chapel slower than my trip home. I was perspiring as I let myself back in.
The sunny rectangles on the floor had moved and stretched thinner, but still had power. After taking off my backpack and coat, I set the long edge of the mirror on the floor in one of the rectangles and tried reflecting the sun’s light onto the mural. The effect was startling. Colors and contours leapt out at me as never before.
I experimented with different angles for the mirror and managed to reflect some light up near the roofline where the coffins were. I used a chair to hold the mirror in place and stood on another chair to give myself the best angle on the coffin with the spotted child. I lifted my binoculars to my eyes and focused.
At first I couldn’t believe what I saw. The spots on the child were not just shapeless dabs of maroon paint. Each one consisted of a short, thin line with two or three thicker lines perpendicular to it. The effect was unmistakable. Each represented a slit with blood running from it. The spotted child was really a child with multiple stab wounds.
I got down off the chair and turned away for a minute. I didn’t want to look at such a horrific image, but I had to do my job. After refocusing the mirror to correct for the sun’s movement, I got back on the chair and looked again.
I counted nine stab wounds: one on each arm, two on each leg, and three on the abdomen. Given the muralist’s simple style, I couldn’t guess the child’s age. He was probably old enough to walk, but not much more. The image was made more sickening by the appearance of the eyes with the lids half closed.
I stepped down again, sat, and stared at the floor in front of me to give my mind a moment to catch up with what I had seen. Was this image the record of a crime committed in the Eden Commune? A frenzied attack on a child? A murder? What else could it be?
Answering these questions would have to wait. I had one more task to complete before the late-afternoon light expired. After once more repositioning the mirror, I traded my binoculars for my digital camera and got back on the chair. I took several exposures of the overall image and used the zoom lens to get detailed photos of the face, body and legs.
The sun had just dipped behind the treetops when I left the chapel and crossed College Avenue. Parked in the drive in front of Jacob’s house was a white pickup truck. I had probably seen a dozen or more like it on the roads during the two months I’d lived in southeastern Ohio and had never thought about them. But seeing this one on campus reminded me of th
e day I went knocking on doors near the corner of Ohio and Montgomery Avenues and heard from a neighbor that such a truck had come by in the middle of the night when the hood of my car was spray-painted.
As I approached, a man came from behind the house and put some lumber into the back of the truck. Though his cap, t-shirt, jeans, and work boots were typical for working men in the area, there was no mistaking his big arms, thick body, and aggressive posture. I remembered seeing him the day Abbie and I sat outside Emma’s Deli in Blanton. It was Huey Littleton.
Chapter 24
Huey Littleton looked up, saw me, and stared as I walked by. I kept my eyes forward and did my best to ignore him.
When I was almost past Jacob’s house, I glanced back, and he was gone. My insides boiled. How dare he stare me down? I was a professor on this campus. He was on my turf now.
I leaned the mirror against a tree, walked back to his truck, and waited for him to return. Within a minute, he came walking from behind the house, carrying a bucket of tools and a carpenter’s level. When he looked up and saw me, he hesitated for a moment. Score one for me.
“What are you doing here?” I asked as he put the tools into the back of the truck. The moment I said it, I knew it was not my strongest opening. Obviously, he was doing some work on Jacob’s house.
“Don’t believe that’s any of your business,” he said as he closed the tailgate of the truck.
“Did you spray-paint my car?”
He said nothing as he walked to the door on the drivers’ side, but his smirk was just about the ugliest expression I had ever seen on a human face.
I stepped between him and the door of the truck. “‘JAP OUT?’ If you don’t want me here, why do you have to sneak around in the middle of the night with a can of spray paint? Why don’t you have the courage to tell me to my face?”
The way his eyelids lowered, I could see he was just about out of patience. He reached over my shoulder, grabbed the handle, and swung the door open. He would have knocked me down with it if I hadn’t stepped aside.