The Admirer

by Karelia Stetz-Waters

  “Ah.”

  “How about just ‘thank you,’” Helen instructed.

  “Here you go,” Patrick said, looking at the florist’s website. “You can choose a poem. Guaranteed to fit on the inscription card. How about this one?” Patrick chuckled as he read. “Life is full of ups and downs but every day the world goes round, I thank the Heavens that I found, a friend as true and kind as you.”

  Helen remembered the water burning in her lungs, the thrust of Wilson’s legs beneath her, their kiss, the trance–like sleep she fell into after she returned to the Pittock House. There was nothing she could say in an FTD card.

  “I’m going for a walk.”

  “Be careful,” Patrick said. “Watch out for the wells.”

  “To the coffee shop, Patrick. I’m going to the coffee shop.”

  ****

  After her coffee, Helen headed back to the office, but coming around the corner of Boston Hall, she ran into Professor Lebovetski. It seemed he was everywhere, his only goal in life: to intersect busy people, who lived in this century, and delay them with interesting, but useless, details from the past. Helen could not turn and go the other direction. It was too late.

  “I heard you had a little adventure in the asylum springs, lovely lady,” Lebovetski said in his accented English.

  Helen sighed. Apparently, Wilson’s discretion only went so far.

  “Don’t be mad at Addie, she couldn’t help it. She knows how fascinated I am by the happenings on Hospital Hill. I won’t tell anyone. It is inconvenient for a woman of your stature to suffer such an indignity. You’re not the first, though.” He raised a boney finger to the sky. The lecture was beginning.

  “Dr. Lebovetski, I apologize. I am on my way to a meeting.”

  Lebovetski spoke, as though he had not heard her. “You have just received a groundbreaking mental health treatment, circa 1820.” He chuckled. “Unfortunately, you received the most authentic application of this practice possible.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You see it all started in 1788 with King George III.”

  We’re never going to get back to the 21st century. Helen said, “Walk with me, professor.”

  Lebovetski fell into stride beside her, walking surprisingly fast for an old man with a cane.

  “You see, King George fell ill, mad, delusional. An ambitious doctor, Francis Willis, cured him with miracle science. Only, by modern standards we would call it torture. He beat the king, bled him, tied him to a chair, and poisoned his food. He raised blisters on the king’s legs so painful, the king screamed to God to kill him. Then, one day, the king was cured.”

  Helen raised an eyebrow.

  “Ah, you are skeptical, and so you should be. We would call the king’s condition porphyria. Toxins in the blood build up and cause symptoms including delusions. Then the attack subsides, and the patient is fine. But Francis Willis took full credit. He had cured the king. After that, doctors all over England invented their own miracle cures, and one was the dunk. They believed fear produced new thought patterns.”

  “New thought patterns?”

  “Terror. Tie a madman up. Blindfold him. Then walk him across a trapdoor and drop him in ice–cold water. It would scare the madness right out of him. Funny thing is…occasionally it worked. How about your thought patterns, Dr. Ivers? Did you experience the critical shift?”

  Helen thought of Wilson leaping from the water like Poseidon rising from the sea.

  “They were more humane in the asylum,” Lebovetski went on. “They would help their patients climb down into those wells. Bathing tanks, they called them. And then submerge the whole body—except the head—in canvas slings. Most facilities used indoor bathtubs, but there is a network of fresh water springs around the asylum, and the founding doctor believed in fresh water. Fresh water, fresh air, and the knowledge that beneath the patient’s feet the well went down to the heart of the earth. That, he said, was the miracle of the Pittock Asylum. No other facility could provide such a blessing.”

  Helen shivered as she thought about the dark water reaching down and down.

  “And of course, if it doesn’t work, there’s always the green bower.”

  “That’s all very interesting.”

  “The mausoleum in ivy. It’s so romantic really. Wilson had to tell me. You can’t blame her. The asylum is fascinating. Did you know that in 1942…”

  They had arrived at the administration building, soon to be renamed Meyerbridge Hall. It looked like Lebovetski was going to follow her in.

  “I must get to my meeting,” Helen said. She put a hand on the old man’s shoulder. This happened to professors. Their whole life they were obliged to speak. Then they retired, and no one wanted to listen. It wasn’t fair, but she still had work to do. “Thank you. We’ll talk again.”

  “Dr. Ivers, there is something I was hoping you could help me with.”

  “Yes?”

  “I have borrowed some documents from the rare book room, and someone is asking for their return. Insisting. I was promised a quarter to review those materials at my leisure. Could you use your presidential powers to persuade the library to give me my time? I am an old man. I might die before I got those books again.” He spoke with a smile, as though letting Helen in on a joke only she would understand. “I can assure you, there is no one whose need is greater than mine.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  It was easy to keep track of Ivers when she was in Pittock. She was often in her office, bent over her paperwork or talking on the phone. Or she was at the Craven where she ate dinner when she bothered to eat at all. Or she was at the Pittock house, where she drank alone at the kitchen table, sitting in the glow of the stove light, never bothering to turn on the overhead light.

  Tonight she was working. From his bench in an arbor near Meyerbridge Hall, he could see her at her desk, her fingers pressed to her brow. Finally she rose, disappeared, and, a moment later, reappeared in the doorway of the office.

  He stood to follow her. There were always a few professors hurrying back and forth from their offices, always a couple of townies cutting across campus. It was easy to bow his head, carry a brief case, and pause at the campus map as he contemplated Ivers’s next move. He was just another figure in the crowd.

  Each time he followed her, he drew closer. Closer. Closer. Until tonight he could smell her scent drifting in the air behind her, a hint of freesias and fresh dry cleaning. He followed her all the way to the Pittock House, then slipped behind the neighboring building to wait.

  ****

  At the Pittock House that night, Helen showered and changed into jeans. She took a shot from the nearly empty bottle on top of the fridge. Then she stepped out into the humid night. There were more people out than usual, mostly returning students, a few townies. In the entrance to one of the alleyways, an old woman held a hand–lettered sign. “Fortunes, $10.”

  She waved it at Helen.

  “Do you want to know?” the woman called after her. “Is there love in your future? Will you live a long time?”

  Helen put up her hand to signal disinterest and kept walking. The woman staggered to her feet and started to follow. Helen turned. “I’m not interested.”

  The woman’s clothing smelled of cigarettes and sweat. She was missing most of her teeth. “You would be interested if you knew what I know.” The woman was at Helen’s elbow. “I can see things in your future. Just ten dollars. I see a man who loves you. He’s watching you even now.”

  Helen stopped. She had a twenty–dollar bill in her pocket. “Here. Take this.”

  “I don’t want your charity.” The woman spat on the sidewalk. Helen followed the trajectory of the spittle and thought she saw blood in the phlegm. “I’m not begging.”

  “Fine.” Helen pocketed the bill. “Good night.”

  She walked quickly away, the sound of the woman’s muttering stuck in her mind like voices from a locked room. Your charity. Ten dollars. He’s watching you.


  Then—in a voice so clear, Helen thought the woman must have called after her—she heard, I know who killed Carrie Brown. I saw her face in the water.

  Helen turned, but the woman was gone.

  She was still glancing over her shoulder, certain the fortuneteller would reappear, when she arrived at the Craven Bar and Grill. Helen descended, pausing to let her eyes adjust to the dimness. Booths lined the subterranean bar, and a few locals and college students huddled in their vinyl embrace. Helen caught snatches of their conversation. The Pittock legs were on everyone’s mind, but so too was the start of school and the promise of another rainstorm.

  “Helen. Over here.”

  The friendly greeting surprised Helen. Drummond was seated in a booth on the other side of the bar. He gestured to her. When she slid in across from him, he said, “I thought you might be here tonight.”

  “I’m here every night.” Helen forced a smile.

  “You look worried.”

  “A woman tried to read my fortune on my way over here. She said someone killed Carrie Brown.”

  “That’s Crazy Sully. A local character. Every Pittock student gets their fortune read by her once. Sends most of them straight back to the campus ministries. Don’t go to her if you want a rosy future. Did she enlighten you?”

  “What?”

  “Did she tell you who did it?” Drummond watched her intently. Helen guessed he was gauging how seriously she took the fortuneteller and thereby how gullible she was.

  “Of course not,” Helen said.

  She signaled the waitress and ordered the fish and chips without consulting the menu.

  “I guess I’m not the only one who missed dinner at home,” Drummond said.

  “Were you working late too?”

  “I was visiting Adrian Meyerbridge in Boston. You remember, Adrian, our key donor. Everything is set for his convocation visit. He is excited. I asked him to say a few words. He can speak using an eye–tracking computer, although he’ll probably record his speech ahead of time. We don’t want him to feel like the only thing he has to give is money. I hope you don’t mind.”

  The convocation line–up was the last thing on Helen’s mind. In fact, Drummond’s announcement reminded her that she too should craft her speech for convocation.

  “Now if we can just keep Wilson from feeding some lurid story to the press,” Drummond said, “we might be able to keep Adrian from rethinking his gift to the college.”

  ****

  An hour later, Helen and Drummond were headed back to their respective homes. The street lamps had come on, and the sky was a dark periwinkle. Drummond touched a brick on one of the buildings as he walked.

  “The flood of 1996. The Barrow Creek flooded all the way to here. Washed away the damn on Arcadia Pond. Destroyed the downtown, but we recover. Don’t we?”

  “Sometimes,” Helen said.

  They had started up the hill that led to Pittock, when Helen spoke again. Her mind was full of questions, but one bothered her more than the rest.

  “Why,” she said slowly. “Why don’t you trust Adair Wilson? I know she is young and fiery. Is there something else?”

  “That fiasco in the woods wasn’t enough?”

  Helen thought about it. “Not really. No.”

  The search had been irresponsible, but Wilson had a point. Hornsby’s search seemed perfunctory. Helen shared this with Drummond, and before he could protest, added, “I’m not saying Hornsby’s search was perfunctory. I’m just saying that an outsider, who doesn’t know Hornsby, or understand police procedure, might be concerned. You disliked Wilson before that, however. I saw that the first time I saw you two together.”

  “Am I that transparent?” Drummond did not seem upset. “I guess I am. It’s not a secret. I don’t like Adair Wilson. She’s demanding, pushy, unrealistic, and a very talented performer. I have seen her woo the college board. They swoon over her, just like her students do. If that doesn’t work, she’ll do whatever she has to in order to get what she wants. She will not lose. It’s dangerous. You know how she got her first teaching job?”

  Helen shook her head.

  “She was sleeping with her married thesis advisor. Somewhere along the line, Wilson came to believe this woman was going to leave her husband. When the advisor didn’t, Wilson blackmailed her.” Drummond shrugged. “Wilson told her advisor that if she didn’t get a teaching post, Wilson would sue for sexual harassment. The woman had her whole career to lose. She was married to a dean at her school. She didn’t see a way out, so she agreed, and got Wilson a job at Duke. Two years later, Wilson is here.”

  Helen thought of Wilson’s arms wrapped around her, Wilson’s legs thrusting beneath the water, keeping them afloat. If it wasn’t for her, I’d be dead. Helen brushed her hand along the top of a boxwood hedge. In the distance, thunder rumbled, promising to break the heat.

  “And that’s not the only time Wilson has threatened someone’s career. She did it here.” Drummond hesitated. “She did it to me.”

  “To you?”

  “Wilson had fallen for a woman who worked in the physical plant, an Egyptian immigrant, named Anat. I guess Anat was very beautiful; I never met her. She was also illiterate and barely spoke English. She was a devout Muslim, and would have been horrified if she knew Wilson’s intentions. She was naïve, and thought Wilson was just a friendly face on campus. Since Anat preferred not to interact with men, they became friends. Of a sort.

  “Long story short, I made some unpopular budget decisions that affected the theater. Shortly after the budget went through, Wilson took Anat to the police with a story about me. I had never even seen Anat, but Wilson said Anat came to her in tears after I chased her down in the woods and tried to sexually assault her.”

  Helen felt Drummond’s eyes on her face as she passed beneath a street light.

  “She really did that?” Wilson was reactionary. Could she be that malicious?

  “I can guess what you’re thinking,” Drummond went on. “People cover up sexual indiscretions all the time, but I would never do something like that. Hornsby did a thorough investigation. He said there was so little evidence, the college should fire Wilson for making false accusations and wasting police resources. Unfortunately, she’d just got tenure, and the faculty association fought for her position. We’ve had an uneasy truce ever since.”

  Together they passed through the Pittock gates. I too have seen the angels and trembled. Helen had a momentary urge to slip her arm through Drummond’s. Instead, she said, “I trust you.” She did. Despite what Wilson believed, the man with Helen was no predator.

  A few minutes later, they arrived at the Pittock House. Helen was about to say good night, when Drummond cleared his throat.

  “I want to get something off my chest,” he said.

  “About Dr. Wilson?”

  “About you. I have not been entirely frank with you, Helen.” Drummond lowered himself onto the bottom step of the Pittock House porch. He picked up a holly twig and twirled it between his fingers. “I knew your V.P. at Vandusen.”

  Helen had never talked to her V. P., Josh Price, about her personal life, but information traveled from secretary to secretary, colleague to colleague. It was impossible to keep one’s personal life entirely secreted. And Josh had been there when the restructure was announced. We are sorry to say that Vandusen will be losing its vice provost.

  “Please sit.” Drummond dusted the step beside him. Helen sat, eyeing him warily.

  “I don’t mean to intrude, but I know a little bit about your commitments in Pittsburg, your sister and her death.”

  “I am fully prepared to take on my duties at Pittock.” Helen’s voice was sharper than she intended.

  “I’m not worried about that. Josh says you will be the consummate professional now that she is… dead. I just know that you chose us because you needed an escape. I want Pittock to be the refuge you hoped for.” Drummond spoke without looking at her, as though to give her priva
cy.

  “What do you know about my sister’s death?” Helen asked.

  “I know it was a suicide. Is there something else?”

  Part of Helen wanted to lean her head on Drummond’s shoulder. She wanted to tell him everything about the kitchen covered in blood and the black holes where Eliza’s eye should have been.

  “I found her,” was all she said.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Helen shook her head. Drummond allowed a long silence. He held the holly twig in his hands, gently, like a bird or a delicate sculpture. Helen had the urge to touch his face. She had slept with older men. Their patience was dull, but the power she wielded over them was intoxicating. She was fifteen, maybe twenty, years Drummond’s junior. He would be so grateful and it would refute everything he was now, his dead wife, his son, his honor. She would rip it from him, and he would bless her.

  Helen stood up and tucked her hands in her pockets. She was far too smart to sleep with her own provost. Still, she liked Drummond. If she could not lose herself in his bed, perhaps she could find herself in his friendship.

  “It was a real pleasure, Marshal,” she said. “Our evening together. Will you be okay crossing campus? We mandated a buddy system, and you’re walking without a buddy.”

  She held out her hand to help him up, and he took it, smiling at her teasing.

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m a tough old soldier.”

  He looked like a soldier in his gray suit. His clothes spoke of dignified economy, of purpose. The only flash of ostentation was the class ring he wore in honor of Pittock. Helen stood at the door and watched him amble across the quad. Just as he was about to disappear behind a building, he turned and waved, the light from a streetlamp catching in the stone and sending a flash of violet through the darkness.

  Helen turned back toward the house. Tucked on the top step was a rock the size and color of a skull. Underneath it rested a sheet of notepaper. “Call me if you need anything,” the message read. “I’m thinking of you. Adair.”