by Bill Crider
None of it mattered, in the long run. Elmore had the power. Technically, all decisions had to be approved by the president. In practice, whatever Elmore said, went. As Burns put it to Fox, “‘That is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’“
There was a noticeable lack of small talk at the table. Even the usually irrepressible Mal Tomlin had little to say. Mostly there was the clinking of silverware and the rattle of ice in glasses. The room was always too warm, and condensation formed on the inside of the windows. Finally, Elmore stood. “I’m going to ask Dr. Swan to return thanks,” he said.
Swan rose, grateful to be called upon. If he had possessed a tail, he would have wagged it. He launched into a lengthy blessing that included everyone from the president of the United States on down, mentioned the afflicted and the needy, brought in the prosperity of HGC, and concluded by asking a special blessing on Dr. Rogers and Dr. Elmore, “as they guide and direct this great institution dedicated to Thy glory.” Burns felt the green ham turning over in his stomach.
“Amen!” boomed Swan. A number of other “Amens” chimed in.
Then Elmore passed around the toothpick holder, a ritual that Burns never failed to view with amazement. Not everyone indulged, of course, but the sight of six or seven adults digging around in their molars with toothpicks was something that required seeing for believing.
After the toothpick ritual was completed, it was time for the dreaded “Departmental Reports,” in which each person told what had been accomplished in his area that week. This was when Elmore got rolling. It started with Coach Thomas, who made the rookie mistake of referring to his team’s forty-eight to nothing pasting as a “moral victory.”
“Moral victory!” Elmore scoffed. “That bunch of refugees from justice wouldn’t recognize a moral if it bit them in the gluteus maximus. If they could hang onto a football like they hang onto their girlfriends’ mammaries when they strut around campus, we’d be ranked number one in the nation! I would estimate that our alumni contributions to our football program have fallen off by fifty percent in the last two years! Moral victory! One more season of moral victories like that, and . . . well, never mind. I don’t think we’ll have to worry about that.”
Coach Thomas sat red-faced and shamed, looking at the remains of the rubbery peas on his plate, as Elmore went on down the line. Fox got blasted for his Dallas Cowboys windbreaker. “If you can’t support your own school, Fox, why take its money?” Tomlin got it for his cigarette. “Only a sick and demented beast fouls its own habitat, Tomlin.” Dick Hayes got it for the incompetence (alleged) of a student secretary trained in his department. “She can’t even spell her own name the same way twice; much less type a decent business letter. It’s quite possible she types with only two fingers; otherwise she could hardly be so slow.” Even the local businessmen got it for their tightfistedness. “This town would die without Hartley Gorman College, but these sour-balls won’t give to support our little scholarship drive. We’ll teach them, though. I’m going to pass out a list of everyone who turned us down. I would hope that no one from this school would patronize their businesses.”
It went on, but not for as long as usual. Elmore had something else on his mind. “As some of you may know,” he said, “our school is in dire financial straits.” He stood with arms akimbo and looked hard at each department head. Burns met his eyes. He knew the reason why the school was in trouble.
So did Elmore. “Some of our ‘loyal’ faculty members have sown the seeds of discord among the students. They have said that the new courses I have introduced into the curriculum—with the complete approval of the Curriculum Committee—will water down their degrees. Make them worthless. I want these faculty members rooted out! They do not belong here at Hartley Gorman!”
Burns was staring straight at Elmore, but he had a powerful desire to stare down at his plate, which is what many of the others were doing. “Complete approval of the Curriculum Committee”—now there was a laugh for you. The committee had fought Elmore from first to last, Clem Nelson almost losing her job in the process, before Elmore had rammed his curriculum through by “Executive Decision.”
His decision. The committee hadn’t even been allowed to vote on the final measure, much less argue against it in a faculty meeting.
The new courses that Elmore was so proud of consisted of such stringent offerings as “Personal Money Management,” in which students were required to learn how to balance a checkbook and absorb such gems of wisdom as the fact that clipping newspaper coupons could save them money at the grocery store, especially if the store paid double for each coupon. Then there was the notorious humanities offering, especially hated by Burns, in which students were supposed to get a complete background in twenty centuries or so of music, art, and literature in one semester. Well, Burns thought, it beat learning to balance a checkbook.
Elmore was ranting on. “I have a plan,” he said. “A plan to save this school! There are several steps that we can take, beginning with the elimination of major sports, on which we lost over two hundred thousand dollars last year!” So that was why there’d be no moral victories.
All eyes, some furtively, some openly, turned to Coach Thomas, who had tried to take a drink of tea, some of which must have gone down the wrong tube. Thomas choked and coughed, slamming his glass down on the table. All the eyes turned away in embarrassment.
Burns sneaked a look at President Rogers. Rogers sat calmly, looking as if his thoughts were on heavenly things, or things at least unrelated to what was happening in the faculty dining room.
“Of course,” Elmore said, “such a move must be approved by the board, but I am confident that after I give them my facts and figures they will see things my way. All scholarships will be honored, naturally, but we would seek to hold no athlete here if he or she wished to transfer to another college or university.”
Of course, Burns thought. Naturally. But if all the athletes went elsewhere, a considerable portion of the student body would disappear without a trace. What then?
“What then, you ask?” Elmore said, startling Burns badly and causing him to wonder if he had spoken aloud.
“What then?” Elmore repeated. “Let me say now that I have a secret plan, a plan that is both bold and innovative, a plan that will bring thousands and thousands of dollars to this institution each and every semester. It will call for vision, but I believe that we have that vision, and I will be discussing, it with you individually in the days to come.” He sat down abruptly, leaving everyone to finish his meal, sneak glances at Thomas, and wonder about the “secret plan.”
All Burns could think was that the plan, as described by Elmore, must be complete lunacy. There was absolutely no way to bring that much money in without selling off the school’s properties, which Burns happened to know had already been done, or by forcing the entire town to enroll for courses.
As soon as possible without seeming too eager, people began to get up and leave the luncheon. As they passed by Elmore, he handed each one a list of businesses that he would prefer they avoid.
Chapter 3
Burns hung back, waiting for Mal Tomlin, who was defiantly finishing another cigarette, and that was how he came to see the confrontation. Most of the other department heads had departed, slinking away as silently and unobtrusively as possible, each one meekly taking the paper that Elmore handed him.
Coach Thomas, however, did not go quietly. He was a big man, who had once had a tryout as an offensive center with the Houston Oilers in the early years of their franchise. He had been one of the last players cut. He had the size, but not the quickness. He had shrunk a little since then, especially in the years since Elmore had been dean, but he was still big. He was wearing a faded HGC letter jacket in the school’s colors of black and gold, and his shoulders made any padding superfluous.
Thomas walked up to Elmore, who handed him a piece of paper. Thomas ignored it. “The board will never approve dropping the sports program,” he said.
Elmore looked up at him. “Of course they will. It’s a losing proposition, and I’ll prove it to them. It may be that the football team loses because it’s coached by losers, but that doesn’t really matter. No one wants to support losers.”
Thomas’s face was gradually turning a deep, dark red, the red of raw meat laid out in a butcher’s shop. As Burns watched, Thomas’s fists seemed to grow into hardwood knots, solid as croquet balls and twice as large.
Even President Rogers seemed to notice that something was happening. “Ah, Dean Elmore,” he said. “Perhaps it is a bit premature to speculate on what the board might do.” He sneaked a quick upward glance at Coach Thomas.
Thomas was not mollified. He reached out for Elmore.
What happened next was seen by both Burns and Mal Tomlin, who had crushed his cigarette in his plate and was now watching with as much interest as Burns. Elmore attempted to scoot his chair backward, but because he did not rise from it, it was difficult to move on the rug on the dining room floor. When Thomas’s hand had almost reached him, Elmore made one more attempt to scoot out of harm’s way, this time giving a good backward push. He gave too good a push, or so it seemed to Burns, and toppled his chair over. Coach Thomas looked as surprised as anyone to see Elmore on the rug, his chair half on top of him, scuttling around like a pair of ragged claws, trying to get out from under his chair, trying to escape from Thomas, trying to regain a little of his dignity.
Coach Thomas reached down a hand to help Elmore to his feet, but Elmore, fearing violence, or maybe fearing assistance, scuttled backward. He finally got to his feet and continued backward until he hit the wall.
Burns looked at Mal Tomlin, who appeared about to strangle, his laughter making spasmodic efforts to force its way past his tightly shut lips. Burns grabbed Tomlin’s shoulder and dragged him from the table, both of them making their way to the door and going out. Burns hoped that Elmore hadn’t seen them. God only knew what he would do to punish any witnesses to what had happened.
Once they were outside, Mal Tomlin broke into guffaws of laughter. Burns joined him. Coach Thomas emerged right behind them. His face was much more serious, and Burns and Tomlin soon calmed down, though Tomlin had more trouble controlling himself than Burns.
“He’s threatening to sue me,” Thomas said. “Says I shoved him down and tried to beat him up. I didn’t do it.” Thomas had a puzzled look, as if he couldn’t quite figure out what was going on. It was a look that Burns had seen often on the faces of people who had dealings with Elmore.
“Don’t worry, Coach,” Burns said. “Mal and I saw it all. We’ll be your witnesses. Rogers saw it too.”
Mal Tomlin shook out a cigarette and lit it, not an easy job, considering the wind velocity. He put his disposable lighter back in his pocket and said, “I wouldn’t count too much on Rogers. He’s never contradicted Elmore before.”
“It’s still the three of us against the two of them,” Burns said. “Elmore will realize that. He’ll never sue anybody, Coach. He’s just a bully, and he likes to make threats.”
The coach seemed to relax a little. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “Still . . . I didn’t even touch him.”
“We know,” Tomlin said. “Go on home and enjoy the weekend. He’ll have forgotten all about it by Monday.”
“Okay, thanks,” Thomas said. “I’ll do that. I’ve got worse things to worry about, after all.” He turned away and started toward the Gymnasium (Hartley Gorman VI).
“He’s right,” Burns said. “If the board does approve dropping the sports program, he’ll be out of a job.”
“They’ll keep him on,” Tomlin said. “They’ll just cut his salary.”
“Maybe so, but I’d hate to be the one to tell the players,” Burns said.
“Me, too. I think I’ll take my own advice and go home,” Tomlin said. “See you Monday.”
“Sure,” Burns said. “See you Monday.” He started back to Main, where his car was parked, thinking about Monday.
Burns’s car, which he intended to keep forever, or as long as was humanly possible, was a 1967 Plymouth Fury III, the kind they didn’t make any more, a gas gobbler from the word go, in which eight adults could ride in comfort. Its only real drawback was the vinyl seats, which were hot in summer and, as they were now, cold in winter. But the car started immediately, and the heater would be warm in a minute. Burns headed for home.
“Home” was three miles from the school in a nondescript tract house amid a hundred other tract houses built at a time when Pecan City had been going through a minor period of growth. Burns had gotten the house cheap, the previous owners having been transferred to another area and in dire need of capital. It was basic housing, and it suited Burns just fine. He knew his neighbors barely well enough to speak to, and he lived quietly in anonymous bachelorhood.
Once inside, Burns poured himself a glass of grape juice, put a couple of Creedence Clearwater LPs on the turntable, and sat on the couch reading a new Hemingway biography. He found it difficult to concentrate on the book, however; thoughts of Elmore kept intruding.
Elmore had always been Elmore, as far as Burns knew. He had been on the campus for several years before Burns had arrived and had already managed to alienate everyone who came in contact with him. At that time, though, he had been in the relatively harmless position of teaching biology. He had been filled even then with mad plans for the improvement of the school, but no one had taken him seriously, not even when he stood up in faculty meetings to explain his plans to the assembled multitude. When the position of academic dean had come open three years before, owing to the untimely demise of Dean Clark—a wise, respected, and even loved man—most people who knew that Elmore had applied for the job laughed openly. Most of them were now working elsewhere, and there was Elmore, dean indeed.
No one was quite sure how it had happened. It was now harder to find a member of the selection committee who would admit voting for him than it was to find a registered voter who would admit that he voted for Richard Nixon in 1968. Apparently Rogers had taken a hand in things behind the scenes, but that, too, was kept very quiet. Maybe, thought Burns, Elmore really did have the goods on someone.
Unable to read, Burns put down his book and went into the room he liked to call his library. Built-in shelves lined the walls of the room intended by the builder as a dining area. All the shelves were filled with books, not necessarily books that Burns would have wanted his students and colleagues to know that he read—mysteries, science fiction, horror, popular fiction of every stripe. It was Burns’s opinion that even an English teacher couldn’t read Faulkner all the time.
In the middle of the room was a dilapidated desk, a far cry from the one Burns had at school. Burns sat down at the desk in a straight-backed wooden chair and opened the top drawer. Several sheets of paper were stacked neatly inside. Burns took out the top one and looked at the heading: The Ten Best Bad Movies of All Time. It was a list that had bothered him a little because it had two Viking movies on it, The Long Ships and The Vikings. He wasn’t quite sure it was fair to have two movies with the same sort of subject matter on such a short list. He looked at the list for almost five minutes. Then he drew a line through The Vikings. It took him most of the rest of the afternoon to decide to replace it with The Black Shield of Falworth.
Burns liked to get to his office early. He liked to arrive at least an hour before classes began at eight o’clock so that he could read his newspaper, organize his thoughts, plan his day, or just generally goof around the office. He wasn’t one of those people who could drive into the parking lot at three minutes before the beginning of class, jog up the three flights of stairs, and begin lecturing.
On Monday, however, he didn’t even get to finish his paper. Bunni walked into the office at seven-twenty. Right behind her was her boyfriend, George (“The Ghost”) Kaspar. George was a good example of what was wrong with Coach Thomas’s football team. He was five-eleven, fairly stocky, and weighed about one-
eighty. Maybe one-ninety with all his gear on, suited up for the game. And George was the largest of Coach Thomas’s defensive tackles. Even the strong of stomach had to look away at times when the HGC Panthers attempted a pass rush. It often appeared that opposing passers had time to get a haircut and a manicure while looking for a receiver; it appeared that way because such was often the case.
None of which was Coach Thomas’s fault, really. It isn’t easy to recruit the cream of the crop to play football at a tiny denominational school a hundred miles from the nearest major population center. Thomas had to take whatever was left over after the Southwest Conference and the larger schools got through.
George had been in Burns’s American literature class the previous spring. He had been no genius, but he had tried hard and done fairly well. Burns liked him.
“I hope it’s all right if we come in and talk to you,” Bunni said.
Burns put down his newspaper and took his feet off the desk. “Sure,” he said. “Have a seat.”
Bunni and George sat.
“What can I do for you?” Burns asked. He had a pretty good idea what they wanted. Department heads were supposed to keep what transpired at the Friday meetings to themselves, but someone always talked, much to the chagrin of Dean Elmore, who had done everything but put a “Loose Lips Sink Ships” poster up in the faculty dining room.
Bunni and George looked at each other. “We’ve heard a rumor,” Bunni said, apparently having been chosen as the spokesperson.
“That’s not unusual around here,” Burns said, truthfully enough. Rumors at HGC were as common as prayer meetings. They had grown especially rife since Elmore had become dean.
“This is a rumor about the sports program,” Bunni said.
“So what’s the rumor?” Burns asked.