Concentrate.
Linette's lover was probably someone I knew. Which was logical, if not much comfort. Picking up a class schedule from my desk, I scanned through the names and thumbnail photos.
Found myself imagining each of them with Linette ... God. Couldn't handle that. Pushing the images away, I chose a different approach.
I tried to recall any suspicious comments she'd made about my colleagues. It wasn't difficult. I have an excellent memory, especially where Linette is concerned. But I couldn't remember anything out of the ordinary, and none of them seemed likely candidates anyway. Most of my colleagues are as bookish as I am.
But I wasn't looking for a real person, was I? Apian would have to seem larger than life, somehow. An idealized figure. Heroic. And busy as a bee.
I quickly reduced the directory to a short list of active, energetic types, athletic coaches, administrators, board members. Then I scanned through their bios, looking for some connection—
And there it was.
A powerful, very busy man. A self-made man. Who'd worked his way through college on the G.I. Bill after serving in the U.S. Navy during Operation Desert Storm, Gulf War I.
In a construction battalion, or C.B. More commonly known as the Seabees. Where he drove heavy equipment.
The Seabee emblem was an angry bee toting a rivet gun.
A tattoo I'd seen on the muscular bicep of Dean John Mackey. Head of the university Humanities Department.
My boss.
God. How could Linette ...? No! Don't think about that. Focus. Concentrate on the problem at hand.
Dean Mackey was definitely a man I knew, though not very well. Senior administrators seldom mix with lowly profs. But I did know a thing or two about Big John.
We'd played in the same racquetball league last term. I'd even played against him a few times.
And he cheated. He'd deliberately block your path to the ball with a shoulder or even his racquet. Hell, he'd drive you through the wall rather than concede a point.
These were just friendly pickup games, no money, no prestige, not even any spectators. No reason at all to cheat. And yet Mackey did. Regularly. He just couldn't bear to lose. At anything.
Big John's bully-boy tactics were an open joke around the locker room. But no one ever called him on it. Petty or not, Mackey was still head of the department.
Which was the second thing I knew about him. His position was political, not academic. His appointment came after a substantial donation to the school by his wife, Doreen. A Dodge Motors heiress.
Dory Mackey was a few years older than John. A good, gray wife. But a proud, wealthy woman, who'd drop her husband like a hot rock if she learned he was cheating.
And Linette had promised to do exactly that. Break off the affair and warn his wife. John Mackey was a powerful man with an ego and temper to match. He would not be discarded. Nor threatened.
So he lashed out. First with his fists, and then...
Sweet Jesus. Big John had been at the wheel of that truck. I knew it now, beyond the shadow of a doubt.
The question was, what could I do about it?
Linette was drawn to Mackey because she saw him as a man of action. And I'm not. She was quite right about that. The little I know about violence generally involves Goths or Tartars, dead a thousand years before I was born.
Now I had to deal with real violence. A brutal killing committed by a man of wealth and influence. Who might well be beyond the reach of the law.
I could almost picture his attorneys scanning Linette's lyrics. And laughing. Her gossamer verses weren't proof of anything, and John's tattoo only confirmed his honorable military service.
If I accused the dean of the Humanities Department of murder on the strength of a few murky poems and a partial tattoo glimpsed on a grainy security-camera playback, I'd be fired and my claims would be dismissed as the ravings of a grief-stricken cuckold.
And yet...
I could not let this pass. God knows, without Linette, I had little enough to live for anyway. Somehow I would have to settle up with Mackey. Or die trying.
Famous last words.
The funeral-home chapel was filled to capacity, standing room only with a train of mourners spilling out onto the steps, a testament to Linette's vivacious spirit, the joie de vivre she'd shared with so many.
I thought Sergeant Kovacs might be there, but didn't see her. I did see the man who mattered most, though. Dean John Mackey made an entrance just before the service began, accompanied by his wealthy gray wife.
I half expected some sign of guilt or concern, but there was nothing. Mackey was the picture of solicitude, greeting my colleagues and Linette's friends like a senior member of our bereaved family. Which he was, I suppose.
But seeing him there, with Linette's broken body boxed in a coffin awaiting delivery to the flames, it was all I could do to keep from charging into the crowd to get my hands around his bull neck.
But I didn't. I kept my peace and my place at the edge of the dais, greeting the mourners, accepting condolences, making appropriate responses.
"Thanks for coming, I know how much Linette would appreciate it,” blah, blah, and so on. All the proper platitudes.
And all the time, waiting.
Then suddenly, he was in front of me. Dean John Mackey. Burly and sure of himself in an impeccably tailored dark suit. Offering his sympathy like an old friend. Or trying to.
Without thinking, I locked onto his hand with more force than I knew I owned. And met his eyes. Then leaned in to whisper, “I know what you did, you sonofabitch. Linette kept a diary and your name's on every page. Once she's laid to rest, I'm taking it straight to the police. Brace yourself, Big John, Armageddon's coming!"
Any doubts I had were erased by the mix of shock and murderous rage in his eyes. And he wasn't the only one. At his shoulder, his wife had gone pale as a ghost. She'd overheard every word.
"John, what on earth—?"
"Shut up!” he snapped. Seizing her arm, he practically dragged Dory past the startled line of mourners and out of the chapel.
Leaving me to deal with the curious stares of the crowd. I didn't care. Confronting Mackey had been my last duty to Linette. Only the final words remained now. Her eulogy.
I began with one of Linette's verses, then went on, speaking from my heart. I shared my pain at her terrible loss, but shared my gratitude as well. That I had been lucky enough to know this marvelous woman at all, let alone share her love. Even for a little while.
It was probably the single best address I've ever given. And it wasn't even necessary. When I finished, others rose to express their grief and mourn their fallen friend. Dozens of them. The ceremony continued long past its allotted hour. As powerful and moving a time as I've ever known.
But eventually, it drew to an end. The organist played “Amazing Grace,” and everyone sang. And that was it.
Perhaps I was supposed to thank people as they left, but I was too depleted to make nice. I slipped into the minister's empty office instead, waiting for the chapel to clear out.
Then I sat silent in the chapel's front row, watching as Linette's coffin was lowered hydraulically from the dais to the crematorium below, and consigned to the flames.
She'd always been an ethereal spirit. Now she was free to soar at last. A glint of quicksilver across the sky.
And I was free as well. The bitterness over her betrayal was gone. Burned away. Only her memory remained. And the ache of her loss.
Dusk was falling as I finally trudged out to my rental car. Climbing in, I lowered the windows and sat quietly a moment, breathing in deep draughts of cool autumn air, trying to fill the hollow in my heart.
Time to go. Firing up the rental, I headed home to my apartment.
I didn't make it. At an intersection, I was waiting for the light to change when a utility van suddenly roared out of a side street, screeching to a halt beside my sedan!
Its windows were down, and for a split second
I stared into John Mackey's wild eyes before he raised his shotgun to fire.
I only had a split second, but this time I knew exactly what to say.
"Gun!” I shouted, diving under the dash.
In the backseat, Kovacs threw her blanket aside, and came up with a pistol in her fist, blasting three quick rounds that blew out the van's side window, ripping into Mackey's shoulder.
His shotgun went off and something slammed into the side of my head....
* * * *
For the second time that week, I woke in a hospital. Groggy and aching, but in less pain than before. I had no idea how long I'd been out, or what time it was.
Sergeant Shane Kovacs was slumped in the chair beside my bed, her chin resting on her palm. Sound asleep. I studied her face in the pale light. A good face. Not conventionally pretty, I suppose, but strong and honest. A bit careworn, I thought...
* * * *
When I woke again, she was watching me.
"We can't go on meeting like this,” she said, straightening in her chair. “How do you feel?"
"Awful. What happened?"
"Mackey's shotgun blast shattered your windshield, some of the fragments gave you a pretty good whack in the head. You've been out cold for several hours."
"What about Mackey?"
"His wounds aren't serious, he'll live to stand trial. One slug zipped through that Seabee tattoo he was so proud of. I'd call that poetic justice."
"It all happened so fast. Weren't you supposed to shout a warning? Stop or I'll shoot? Something like that?"
"There was no time, his gun was up. Besides, you warned him at the funeral. He had plenty of time to change his mind. But he didn't.” She leaned forward, intently. “And you knew he wouldn't. That's why you asked me to hide in your car. How did you know he'd come after you?"
"Linette described him perfectly, a man of action. When I threatened him, he turned violent, as he did before. Only this time, you were there to nail him."
"And if I'd been too slow?"
"Even bookworms have to take occasional risks."
"Well, thanks to you and Linette, Mackey will be arraigned for murder and attempted murder as soon as the hospital cuts him loose. And from the screaming match they had in the emergency room, I don't think his wife will be bankrolling his defense."
"He's always claimed to be a self-made man. He certainly made this disaster on his own."
"And what about you, Professor? What will you do?"
"I haven't thought much about it. Take a few days off to pull myself together, I suppose. Then go back to teaching. I'm a scholar. A bit of a drudge, actually. Linette was right about that, too."
"I'd better get back,” Kovacs said, rising to leave. “Can I offer you some friendly advice, Professor?"
"You saved my life, Sergeant Kovacs, offer away."
"Fair enough. No disrespect intended, but for a perceptive woman, your girlfriend made some incredibly stupid moves. She idealized Mackey into some kind of conquering hero, and it cost her everything. Don't make the same mistake. Don't idealize her memory into some kind of ... Apian. She deserves better than that. And so do you."
I stared at her, surprised. Meeting those intelligent gray eyes. “You're pretty perceptive yourself, Sergeant. I'll remember the advice. And you."
"Sorry if I overstepped."
"You didn't. And I'm sorry too."
"About what?"
"That we met in such terrible circumstances. Given the ways of the world, I probably won't be seeing you again."
She hesitated in the doorway, giving me an odd, unreadable look.
"Famous last words,” she said.
Copyright © 2009 by Doug Allyn
[Back to Table of Contents]
Department of First Stories: A FELLOW OF INFINITE JEST by Nina Mansfield
One of Nina Mansfield's short stories was published last year online, in The Chick Lit Review, but this is her print fiction debut, and her first paid fiction publication. As a playwright, she has already been both produced and published. Her plays No Epilogue and Crash Bound were brought out by One Act Play Depot, and she is one of several winners of the Longwood University Ten-Minute Play Competition, for the recently produced Missed Exit.
The smell of sawdust brought it all back. Paint-splattered jeans. Brushes soaking in turpentine. The ever-present power drill. “Walk purposefully holding one. People will just assume you're busy.” That had been Harrison's advice during strike. Five shows up. Five shows down. Summer stock in Vermont. I'd been twenty years old then. Summer apprentice. More like summer slave. Understudying Equity actors by night, hammering away at sets by day. I had wished that I could sew, and could join those spindly fingered girls in the costume shop to avoid inhaling paint fumes on a daily basis. My lungs had practically built their own set. Pneumonia the Musical. I drifted through those days in a sleep-deprived haze.
When that mousy, tired-looking girl—what was her name (Jenny? Ginny?)—went home with mono, they'd reassigned me to props. With Harrison. Harrison could make just about anything with a glue gun and a sheet of Styrofoam.
But that had been another decade. Fifteen years ago, to be exact. I half expected him to emerge from the prop closet, glue gun in hand. Overalls hiding his sweaty physique. Striped cap covering his receding hairline. Permanent five-o'clock shadow dotting his sturdy chin. But Harrison belonged to another lifetime. Harrison was dead.
"Can I help you?” I recognized the man-boy without knowing him. A gangly teen with safety goggles flipped up onto his forehead. Brown eyes with too-long lashes. Chin like a shoe horn. Tiniest bump in the bridge of his nose.
"Jaime sent me here for a master key. She can't find...” I stopped. Was I being rude? “I'm sorry. I'm Sheila Brighton."
"Oh yeah, the writer. You wrote ... that book.” Clearly my fifteen minutes had come and gone.
"I'll be staying at the Cottage this summer. Well, for a few weeks, anyway. In ... I think Jaime called it the blue room. But she can't find the key."
"Jed Mann,” the teen responded. No wonder he looked like a ghost.
"Harrison's ...?” It had been ages since I'd spoken that name aloud. Harrison Mann. Was this his brother? No, too young.
"Son,” Jed filled in the gap. I hadn't known. So Harrison had a son. I tried to keep the surprise from creeping into my face. “I lived with my mother back then. In Manchester.” How did Jed know when back then was?
He must have noticed my twisted eyebrows, my inability to speak. I looked around the shop. Plywood. Nails. Building accoutrements. To my relief, he spoke. “Jaime filled me in. You apprenticed up here that summer, right? Worked with my dad or something?"
"We worked on props. Your dad was really...” I hesitated. What did Jed know about his father? He couldn't have been more than two years old back then. Again, my eyes moved around the shop. Sledgehammer. Axe. Building sets, then tearing them down. “He was a talented artist. Loved his work. Did they ever..."
"Find the body?” Jed asked. It wasn't what I'd planned to say. I sucked in my breath. Waited. “My mom is still under the delusion that he'll come back some day. Thinks he's probably living the life in Rio with some underage hussy. Guess he had a thing for younger girls or something. Anyway, let's get you into that blue room. Jaime must like you a lot. That's definitely the sweetest room in the Cottage.” Jed snapped a large ring of keys off of his tool belt and led the way.
* * * *
Jaime met us outside the Cottage, and led me up to the blue room, as Jed slinked back to the shop. The Cottage. I'd barely set foot in it back in the day. That's where the real actors stayed—the professionals. Perhaps a visiting playwright. The apprentices were squeezed into a dilapidated ski shack on the outskirts of town.
"I see you made it. Drive up okay?” Jaime made her way up the winding wooden stairs to the blue room. Polished oak. They creaked with age.
"I left early. No traffic, if you can believe that. And once I got out of the city..."
&nb
sp; "I'm so glad you could come up here.” Jaime fumbled with the key, hand shaking. Arthritis, and years of nightly wine. She was a silver-haired woman, probably close to seventy by now. Strong chins seemed to be bred in those Vermont hills, but her eyes were soft, her cheeks finely wrinkled. She looked prim, conservative, in her long denim skirt and pastel top. It was hard to believe she'd had a sordid past. An affair with Sir Laurence Olivier (or someone like that). An illegitimate child born backstage on the road, left on the doorstep of an orphanage. Those had been the rumors. But we knew her as artistic director extraordinaire. She'd taken an empty barn and turned it into an award-winning summer playhouse. Back then she'd been like a mother to me, to all of the apprentices. I almost felt guilty for not staying in touch. “I think you'll get a lot of writing done."
"I hope so. I'm still wondering...” I trailed off.
"Yes?” Jaime looked up at me, inquisitively. She seemed so much older, more tired. It had been fifteen years.
"How did you ever get in touch with me?” Her call had been more than unexpected. It shattered a certain silence that had crept over my life. I'd left more than Vermont behind that summer. I'd stopped acting. Decided to turn my attention to writing.
"Ginny Carson read a review of your book in the Times. A few phone calls was all it took to track you down."
"Not Ginny—” So it was Ginny. “Ginny who went home with mono that summer?"
"Yes, that Ginny. She's directing our outdoor Shakespeare this season. She had quite a smash off-Broadway last year, you know."
"Did she?” I stayed away from the theater these days.
"It tickles me pink to see my apprentices hitting the big time. First Ginny, then you."
"I would hardly say that I've hit the big time."
"But of course you have."
"Your invitation came at a good time for me. I've been working on my next novel. They say the second one is always more difficult to..."
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