The Rebuilding Year

by Kaje Harper

  “Ryan Ward. I’m a med student.”

  The cop flipped to a new page in his notebook and made a note. “Officer Danielson. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.” He glanced at Ryan’s cane, and back up. “We could sit on the bench over there, if you like.”

  Fuck. But his back was sore. He’d wrenched something in that wild grab. Sitting down was smart, not weakness. “Okay.” He led the way over and eased onto the bench. John didn’t follow them, but he leaned against the tree, listening. After a glance his way, the officer turned to Ryan.

  “Do you have identification on you, sir?”

  “It’s California.” He passed over his driver’s license.

  The cop noted the details, then said, “Please give me your local address and phone, and then run through what happened.”

  Ryan went through the story.

  “What made you go up after her?”

  “The way she was talking. She clearly wasn’t thinking normally. You’re going to want to do a complete drug screen on her.”

  The officer nodded. “Could you tell what drug she’d taken?”

  “No clue. She was calm but not coherent, dissociated, but almost happy.”

  “She was like that the other night too,” John said from where he stood.

  “The other night, sir?”

  “Yeah. The first day of term. I was working late on the grounds, and I came across that same girl wandering in the alder grove. She was talking nonsense, like disconnected poetry. I figured she was high. I guided her back to her dorm and asked one of the other girls to get her to her room. I assume that’s what she did. I didn’t actually go inside.”

  “You’re sure it was this same girl?”

  “Yes. I got a look at her just now before she… fell. And that night, she said her name was Alice.”

  “And you didn’t report her possible intoxication to anyone at the time? Her dorm monitor or health services?”

  “No, I didn’t.” John spoke more slowly. “She seemed happy, her pulse was normal, she just seemed high. It’s not my job to police these kids, as long as they seem safe.”

  “But she wasn’t safe, was she?”

  “Not this time.” John didn’t look down. “She was then.”

  “Who are you anyway?” the cop asked. “What is your job?”

  “John Barrett. Groundskeeper.”

  Barrett. Ryan figured he might actually remember that now. Although after an hour of sharing drunken rambling, he was probably entitled to think of the man as John.

  “I’ll want to talk to you afterward.” The cop turned back to Ryan. “Even if the girl was high, what made you think it was a good idea to climb up after her?”

  “I didn’t like the way she was talking about flying,” Ryan said carefully.

  “And you didn’t worry that you might scare her into falling?”

  “Sure I did.” He kept his voice even. “But she had that out-of-control feel, like she wasn’t coherent enough to even realize the danger. I hoped I could grab her first.”

  “That’s a difficult call to make.”

  “I was a firefighter for eight years. I’ve seen jumpers. And fallers. I made the call. But she was fast. I didn’t get close enough.”

  “He’s telling the truth.” John sounded angry. “She went straight up, leaned out, and let go. He came closer than the rest of us to saving her.”

  “Firefighter where?”

  “San Diego.”

  “And now you’re a med student?”

  “And now I am.” The cop’s eyes dropped to his cane again, and then rose. Ryan met them, trying to seem indifferent. Don’t ask.

  The cop gave him a more friendly look. “More excitement in the big city than we get here, I guess. You didn’t know the victim before today?”

  “Never saw her.”

  “Okay.” He flipped a page in his notebook, and held out his hand. “I guess someone should say thank you for trying. If we have more questions, we’ll be in touch.”

  Ryan held up his sticky palm. “You don’t really want to shake my hand right now.”

  The cop nodded. “Right.” He turned to John. “And now you, sir, if you don’t mind.”

  Ryan closed his eyes and leaned back on the bench. He listened with half an ear as John described seeing the girl in early September. The cop was fishing for some kind of drug connection. John wasn’t giving him much. He’d seen the girl around campus the last two years, had a few bits of information about where she worked.

  “So, how come you know so much about a random student? You said you’re the groundskeeper.”

  John’s drawl got deeper. “Yeah. Which means I’m out on the grounds, every day, all year. If it happens outside the buildings, I probably know about it.”

  “But you were pretty familiar with this particular girl?”

  “I’d noticed her. Mostly because she changed a lot from her freshman year. I like when college does that for a kid, makes them grow. I’m really sorry it ended like this.”

  “Taking drugs isn’t growing.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “So how many of the undergraduates do you know, sir? Five, ten, twenty?”

  Ryan could hear the suspicion in the cop’s voice, but somehow John answered calmly. “I can probably tell you which year or program a couple hundred are in. The ones who stand out in any way. I know the names of about fifty.” He nodded at the huddle of Alice’s friends, still speaking to the paramedics. “That dark-haired girl is a senior, with an interest in literature. She likes to read Proust on the rocks by the daffodil bed in spring. The guy with the bright red hair over there is a med student. Second year, I think. The short kid next to him is Brian. He skateboards. Also a med student.”

  Ryan twisted to look at John, surprised. He got that warm smile in return.

  “I like the kids,” John said. “I have two of my own, not quite in college yet. And I have a very good memory for names and faces.”

  “Apparently,” the cop said sourly. “All right, sir. That’s all for now. We’ll be back in touch.”

  As the cop headed back toward the body, John came over and dropped onto the bench beside Ryan. “Whew.”

  “He seemed like he was interrogating you.”

  “Yeah. I guess I can see it. Thirty-seven-year-old guy knows the name of a pretty undergraduate who may have committed suicide. They’d like it to be about sexual abuse, or for me to be her pusher. Tie the case up neatly.”

  “Too bad for them.” Ryan frowned. “I don’t think it was suicide. Not really. Maybe something like PCP or ketamine. She wasn’t thinking right. But she was too calm for either of those drugs. Maybe acid, on a really mellow trip.”

  “Yes. Serene. That first time I saw her I thought it looked like a nice high. Maybe not so much now.”

  “Not so much.”

  Ryan was in no hurry to get up, and walk past that spot. John sat next to him, patient, his bulk warm and steady in the shade of the giant pines.

  Chapter Four

  Two weeks later, John was raking out the bushes in front of the library, when he heard a familiar voice curse inventively. He glanced up. Ryan stood at the top of the steps, pulling on the locked doors.

  “They’re closed,” John called up to him. “Ceiling maintenance. It was posted yesterday.”

  “I forgot,” Ryan called down to him. “Damn.”

  He came back down the stairs and walked over to where John was working. “What are you doing here so late? A gardener’s work is never done?”

  John smiled. “I was bored and restless. Figured it was this or the bar, and I’m trying to cut back.”

  “I haven’t seen you drink too much. Well, not since that first night.”

  I don’t when you’re around. It was when he was alone in a darkened, anonymous room that the first glass became a second and a fifth. They’d met several times now at The Copper Stein, happening on each other by chance, and glad of the company. Ryan was bri
ght and fun. They’d kept off the subject of Ryan’s firefighting days and his own bad marriage, since that first time. But the conversation ranged far and wide. Ryan was interested in travel, and science, and politics, and comic books, and sports. John had enjoyed those evenings.

  His two moves and the divorce had isolated him from his old friends. Here at the college he was in an odd position. The faculty were not about to socialize with him, and yet he didn’t fit in well with his workmen either. Spending his time outdoors, he rarely talked to the other staff who kept the place running. Until Ryan, he hadn’t found anyone whose company was more comfortable than an evening spent alone.

  He’d recently realized how often those evenings alone included too much alcohol. “Yeah, well, I don’t need to spend the money on overpriced drinks, either,” he hedged. “What did you need from the library? Research?”

  “Nah, just study space.”

  “Jason again?”

  “Yep.” Ryan leaned companionably against the stone pillar at the bottom of the steps. “He’s got a new girl. Mona. And God, if anyone was ever more appropriately named it’s hard to imagine. On top of which she likes rap. Now, when I leased the apartment, I specifically asked Jason if he listened to rap, and he was all like, no, man, I don’t like shit that doesn’t have some melody. But it turns out what Mona wants, Mona gets. Which is rap. On my own stereo system. I can’t study.”

  John knew that Ryan’s roommate considered requests for quiet to be suggestions with about a twenty-minute expiry date. Ryan got sick of asking. Several times he’d brought a textbook to the pub to study, until they got sidetracked into conversation. “I’m about done here. I could give you a ride to The Copper.”

  “No, thanks. I’m trying to stay away too,” Ryan said. “I like it too much, especially when you’re there. We start talking, I have a beer, and next thing you know it’s midnight, and I haven’t done any work. Besides this is biochemistry, and I suck at it. I need someplace quiet.”

  “How about my place?” John surprised himself, but now that he thought about it he liked the idea. Better than going home to an empty house and leftovers. “I was going to call out for pizza, work on a little project. You’d be welcome to a piece of the kitchen table. It’s quiet.”

  “God, that’s tempting. But I have to work, not socialize.”

  “Me too,” John said quickly. “I mean, I have this present for Mark’s birthday that I’m working on, and I need to finish it. And I could make coffee. Fresh delivery this morning.”

  “You’re an evil man,” Ryan said. “Lead me to it. Although I warn you, if it’s as good as last time, you may never get rid of me.”

  Fine with me. John blinked. Man, he was lonely. Maybe he needed to get a dog. “Okay, let me put the tools away. Truck’s in the green lot.”

  On the drive home, John had a moment’s panic about whether he’d left the kitchen in a mess. That coffee had come as he was finishing breakfast. Had he washed the dishes? He made a point of preceding Ryan into the kitchen, and yes, he had. Which was stupid to worry about, because why would Ryan care?

  He stuck his phone in the charger, and began getting out mugs. “There’s a flyer for Domino’s on the refrigerator. I think there’s a coupon for a large deep-dish. I eat anything except olives and pineapple.”

  “Mushrooms and pepperoni?”

  “Perfect.”

  Ryan pulled out his cell to make the call, as John lifted down plates. The kitchen felt warm and welcoming this evening. John found the real fabric napkins in a drawer.

  “Hey,” Ryan called with his hand over the phone. “I don’t know your street address.”

  John fumbled a piece of mail out of the pile on the hutch, checked it for accuracy and passed it over. Behind him, Ryan’s clear voice recited his address. The hot water rose over the ground coffee, filling the air with the amazing scent.

  “They say twenty minutes.” Ryan came over and leaned in beside him to breathe in the aroma coming off the grounds. “Oh, wow, nice.” His hair brushed John’s cheek, a light scent of man and lemon herb shampoo. John was struck with a sudden sense of déjà vu. Like he had done this before. Like he had smelled exactly this combination of rich coffee and clean skin and light citrus herbs. Then Ryan stepped back and the moment was broken. Weird.

  “So, what’s the gift?” Ryan asked.

  “Huh?”

  “The one you’re making for Mark.”

  “Oh.” He shrugged. “It’s not much.”

  “Show me?”

  He went to the workshop and brought it back. The bent roots had suggested the final form, an abstract of a baseball player, his bat in motion, shoulders swinging round. There was a lot of polishing to do, but the shape was there.

  Ryan handled it gently, turning the piece in his clever hands. “Now that’s something. How old is Mark again?”

  “Turning fifteen.”

  “Yeah. That might be old enough to appreciate this. It’s not realism, but God, you’ve got the heart of the motion there. You can almost hear the crack of the bat on the ball. You just know he’s going to connect.” He set it carefully on the table. “There’s a reason you’re not making a living charging a gazillion dollars for these, right?”

  “Don’t want to.” Damned if he could explain it to himself, let alone someone else. Cynthia had wanted him to put a price on everything. Maybe that was one more reason he didn’t sell the work of his hands. He shrugged abruptly. Drop it.

  Ryan obviously understood when a topic was hands-off, because he just gave a sweet smile. “You’re a unique man. Who makes amazing coffee. And was just about to offer me a big cup when I distracted you.”

  “Right.” John poured, and passed over his favorite extra-sized mug. “Here.”

  Ryan sipped appreciatively. “The woman who left you was a fool.” Before the words were out of his mouth he was making a face. “Sorry. So, is it okay if I crack the books until the pizza comes?”

  “Sure.” John felt off-balance. A retreat to the workshop would be good.

  He was deep in the initial sanding when the doorbell rang. Before he could get his hands clean, Ryan appeared at the door of the workshop. “Pizza’s here.” His bright green eyes scanned around the room. “This is nice. You’ll have to give me a tour some time. Now wash up and come eat.”

  “Yes, dear,” John muttered as Ryan disappeared down the hall. His stomach felt oddly bubbly, like champagne. He obviously needed to put some food in it.

  Ryan had cleared his books off the table and set it with the dishes John had gotten out. The pizza box sat open on a towel in the center, steaming lightly. Ryan eased down into a chair, and reached into the box, pulling out a big oozing slice. “This is one of the perks of small-town living.”

  “Domino’s?” John sat down and took his own piece. “I hate to break it to you, Ry, but they have Domino’s in big cities.”

  “Yeah, but the pizza’s never hot.” Ryan bit in, and licked a strand of cheese off his fingers. “You’re always fifth or tenth on the delivery list and the pizza’s lukewarm. It just isn’t the same.”

  “Glad you like it,” John managed. The pizza was good. Everything was good. He refilled their coffee out of the thermos, and found the remains of a pack of Oreos in the cupboard. Ryan ate six, dark hair falling into his eyes, his teeth dusted with black cookie crumbs when he laughed.

  John turned down help with cleanup and set him back to studying his books. The only sounds were the scratch of Ryan’s pencil, and the running water as John washed the dishes in companionable silence. He found it surprisingly hard to head back to his beloved workshop, and leave that simple warmth.

  By ten o’clock he was done with the rough sanding on Mark’s present. He stood to stretch the kinks out of his back, and looked over at Ryan’s knock on the doorframe.

  “Hey.” Ryan’s smile was bright. “I think I’ve got amino acid synthesis down cold. I should probably head out.”

  “Already?” John glanced at the c
lock. “It’s not that late. There’s more coffee.”

  “Get thee behind me, Satan. If I drink any more I won’t sleep. Anyway, there’s only more coffee if you make more, because I just might maybe have finished off what was in the thermos.” Ryan gave him a little-boy mischief smile.

  “You’re welcome to it.” John sighed and dusted off his hands. He was reluctant to have the evening end, even though they hadn’t spent most of it in the same room. The house was a different place with Ryan in it. “Okay. Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

  “You don’t need to do that. I can catch a cab.”

  “Don’t be silly.” He passed through the kitchen and grabbed his jacket off the hook. “You’re no millionaire either.” They hadn’t talked money. John didn’t know what firefighters made, or whether there was disability pay. But he had the impression Ryan wasn’t rolling in funds.

  “I can pay for gas, then.”

  John aimed a swipe at Ryan’s head, then converted it to a quick steadying touch on his back as Ryan’s dodge brought his weight onto his bad leg. John pressed his fingers into solid muscle just for a moment, steadying Ry, then pulled his hand away without comment. Because it didn’t take a genius to see that the most sensitive topic in Ryan’s life was that leg. “Wow, big spender,” he said lightly instead. “Gas both ways, in my truck, you probably owe me a buck fifty. Which is less than I owe you for the pizza.”

  “Which balances out what I owe you for the coffee.”

  “So we’ll call it a wash, after I give you a ride home.”

  “Okay.”

  They drove in easy silence. Once, John slowed to point out a doe with her half-grown fawn under the trees along the verge. They eased past with his foot riding the brake. Luckily, Bambi didn’t seem to be in a suicidal mood tonight.

  Ryan directed him to a concrete apartment block near campus. It was…basic. Not bad but just a place. Reasonable-sized balconies. Smallish windows. Ryan looked up and then sighed. John followed his gaze.

  On the third floor, one of the units was lit up like a Christmas tree. The balcony doors were open, and a young couple stood necking in the doorway.

  “Jason and Mona?”