Braided Gold

by Glen Roylance

  Perhaps the most disturbing aspect of the newscast was reference to scores of students who had been hospitalized and three who had lost their lives in the Administration Building fire. Paul was appalled! How could things have gotten so completely out of control? One question plagued him: To what extent was he responsible for what had happened? The anger that had driven him for so long had now yielded to sickening dismay and he wished he could turn back the course of the day’s events. He cringed at the flowing montage of images and sounds that seemed to turn the nightly news into an indictment against him.

  Television cameras brought onto campus by his own orchestrating efforts had meticulously documented the activities of student rioters spurred on by acid rock music. There were sound bites from the heavily charged rhetoric of John Sanders’ speech, pictures of the rabble that assaulted the fire truck, and frightening shots of others who, with mob-like malicious intent, stormed the Administration Building. There were pictures of the plumes of heavy smoke rising skyward from the building and panicky students caught in the middle of the crisis. There were also shots of impotent officials and campus police, and then came pictures of the deserted campus, looking like a war zone with a true military presence to maintain peace – the aftermath of a campus that had been convulsed with anarchy.

  The generally accurate TV commentary was heavily slanted against the cause that had precipitated the violence. It was apparent that the tide of public opinion had turned against Dr. Paul Kirkham. The accusations were sharp and there seemed to be an implicit demand for redress against Paul and the radical element on campus. There was a brief interview with President Michaelson in which he pledged a full and complete investigation into the activities that had spawned the violence. He referred to the imminent hearings into allegations against Dr. Kirkham, now just a few days away, and vowed that justice would be served through this established process.

  When asked about the presence of the National Guard troops on the campus, Michaelson stated that he had been initially reluctant to resort to force against his students, but when it became apparent that the rioting was endangering public property and student lives, he had made an urgent appeal to the governor for help.

  The phone rang, and Paul shut off the TV set. He picked up the receiver warily. No phone call this night would bode good news. But just how bad the tidings of this call might be he could not have guessed. It was Kristel, who seemed to be beside herself in grief. The moment Paul answered there was a paroxysm of sobs and then silence. He knew that she was unable to speak.

  “What is it, Kristel? Has something happened to Jerry?”

  “Jerry’s dead,” said Kristel after a long pause.

  Paul reeled emotionally. He felt that ugly detachment from reality he had known as a boy when looking upon the lifeless body of his aunt – the way he had felt at the announcement of Cathy’s death many years ago. He leaned against the wall as dizziness overtook him. Paul seldom wept. He simply willed himself not to display that kind of weakness, but tears would have been easier for him at this point and he cried out, full of pain deep within him. “No, no Kristel, not Jerry, not Jerry! When did it happen? How did it happen?”

  Between sobs she did her best to explain. “There was a fire in the Administration Building.”

  “Yes, yes, I heard about it …”

  “They think he probably died from smoke inhalation.” There were more sobs before she could continue. “He was also burned badly.”

  “Oh Kristel, I’m so sorry. Are you OK? Do you want to come over?”

  “No, I really don’t want to talk to anyone. I just need to be alone. I called because I thought you should know.”

  There were a few stumbling efforts on Paul’s part to offer comfort, but there was little to be said as this painful conversation came to its close. Alone and tormented Paul now searched through his distraught thoughts for something to hold onto — for some realistic course of action, but everything was in turmoil. His efforts were fruitless. His impulse was to run, to distance himself from this calamity that had befallen him.

  It was some time past midnight when there was heavy pounding on his front door. At first he was reluctant to answer, but he made a conscious effort to pull himself together. He turned on the porch light and opened the door, only to see a disheveled and angry Tony Ballard. Obviously he had been drinking.

  “It’s time for us to talk, Dr. Kirkham,” he said with slurred speech. Alcohol had invested him with boldness that was typically absent in his retiring, insecure personality.

  With some reticence Paul let Tony in, very much aware that this unstable young man possessed knowledge of his doings that could be extremely damaging, although he wasn’t sure that mattered anymore. Still, he did not wish to alienate Tony.

  Once inside it became apparent that Tony was being driven by great personal agitation. Although Paul invited him to sit down, he refused. Without coherence, he rambled on about his worthlessness, declaring himself unfit to live.

  “I killed her,” he said, “and you killed her. We both killed her!”

  “Come on, Tony, get ahold of yourself. Come and sit down here,” Paul said, moving in Tony’s direction.

  Then came the surprise. Tony pulled a small handgun from his pocket and pointed it at Paul. “You’re not fit to live, either. We both killed her and we both have to die.”

  Impulsively Paul struck Tony’s forearm, causing it to swing away from his body. At that instant the gun went off, sending a bullet into the wall at their side. With unbroken movement Paul lunged at Tony’s midsection, taking him to the floor with the force of a football tackle. The two struggled wildly, Tony trying to free his arm from Paul’s grasp where he held him at his wrist. Paul was able to immobilize Tony’s hand, causing the gun to fall free. With the heel of his hand, Paul struck the small revolver, sending it skidding across the floor out of Tony’s reach. In that moment as he relaxed his hold on Tony, the young man flailed loose from under the weight of Paul’s body. Managing to spring to his feet, he bolted for the door.

  Before Paul could restrain him he was gone into the night.

  Paul now stood alone, bewildered at what had just occurred, his mind trying to piece everything together. His first thought was to call the police, but then it occurred to him that Tony’s present condition, his lowered inhibitions, and his loose tongue could prove disastrous. He picked up the small caliber pistol from the floor, then looked to the bullet hole in the wall. It had been a close call. He felt an insistent need to talk to Claire; yes, he needed Claire! But he could not bring himself to dial her number. Her rejection would be unbearable on this dismal night, nor was he willing to listen to her moralize about the tragic events of the day.

  About three o’clock in the morning his agitation yielded to complete exhaustion. Wandering into his bedroom he threw himself onto the bed – still fully clothed, but wishing for the escape of sleep. He had slept very poorly during the past several nights. When sleep finally came this night it was of a fitful, tormenting variety. There was a kaleidoscope of bizarre, disjointed images, and he found himself trapped in a ghoulish dream he could not escape.

  He was in a long, dimly lit corridor that seemed to have the aspect of a morgue. There were three open caskets, one after the other, down the length of the hallway. Some invisible force was pressing him forward, requiring that he look into the first casket. Though he resisted strenuously, he was compelled to obey the command. With loathing he approached the side of the casket. A stifling feeling came over him as a thick floral scent made it impossible for him to breathe. He sensed that his knees were about to buckle. He had closed his eyes tightly, but now a voice spoke to his mind.

  “Look!” came the command. Fearfully he opened his eyes only to scream with horror as he saw Cathy’s lifeless form. She was gaunt and white as if she were a ghostly apparition. He was now propelled to the next casket. His body trembled and his heart pounded as he gazed with revulsion upon the body of Jill Fairclough. Again the compu
lsion came, moving him to the third casket. There, before his eyes, lay the third lifeless form. It was Jerry Warren, with eyes opened wide. It was as if he were trying to cry out in pain.

  Paul struggled against the power that held him in his place and then, deep from within him, came a torrent of emotion and he cried out in utter anguish. His tears flowed as he wept uncontrollably, much as he had wept following his childhood viewing of his dead aunt. The horrific experience continued without deliverance until, for some inexplicable reason, he was required to lift his hands up before his face. They were trembling as he gazed upon them in the pale light of his dismal surroundings – the stains were unmistakable – bloodstains – the blood of these three people whose lives had, in some measure, been entrusted to him.

  He was awakened by his own cries for deliverance, but the trauma continued. Though the dream had passed, its ugly images were still vivid in his mind. He was wet with perspiration and the room seemed to be in motion. Suddenly a wave of nausea swept over him and he stumbled into the bathroom.

  Sleep had now fled from Paul. It was as if time stood still. The minutes seemed like hours as he resumed his thoughtless pacing from one room of his house to another. Gradually, from within the abyss that had claimed him, there came a glimmer of reality. The faint light of dawn was becoming visible through his kitchen window. He had not undressed from the preceding day, and as he looked at himself in his hallway mirror, he noticed for the first time that his shirt had been badly torn in his scuffle with Tony some hours earlier.

  He determined that he would shower and prepare for the day. What he would do that day was yet unclear to him. The newscast of the preceding evening had made it clear that the University had temporarily suspended operations by order of the Governor. This was of some relief to him. He could not bear the prospect of being seen on campus.

  As he moved towards the bathroom, the doorbell rang. Insistent knocking followed. He froze in the hallway. How curious that someone should be at the door so very early in the morning, then it occurred to him that Tony had perhaps returned. The knocking persisted and Paul moved quietly to the living room window. He craned his neck in an effort to see who was on the doorstep. In the dim light he could tell that it was a young man with a package under his arm. Again the insistent knocking came. Paul opened the door a few inches.

  “Who is it?”

  “I have something for you, Dr. Kirkham.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Just a deliveryman.” He might have said, “My name is Frank Russell” but that would have meant nothing to Paul. He might also have said, “My aunt, Elizabeth Russell, sent me,” but that would have been equally meaningless. “I just want to leave a package with you and I’ll be on my way.”

  Paul opened the door a little wider and unlatched the storm door, holding it ajar. The young man extended the package to Paul and then, true to his word, turned and left without further comment. Paul watched him as he walked down the steps and the length of the sidewalk to his parked car. It was a sporty Jaguar, far too pricy for an average college student.

  Paul stood in the open doorway looking curiously at the package in his hands. It was narrow, some two feet in length, and was wrapped in brown paper without markings of any kind. It looked like a florist’s box. Closing the door he walked to the kitchen where he took a utility knife from a drawer and sat at the table. Quickly he pried loose the taped edges of the package and removed the brown wrapping paper.

  Indeed, it was a flower box. He could not have anticipated its contents. The sight of the long golden braid nestled in tissue paper was like an electric shock for Paul. It was Cathy’s hair – Cathy’s braid! The top and bottom of the braid were secured with red ribbons. His mind raced back to those unpleasant memories the morning of Cathy’s surgery. He had no doubt that this was the box and the braid she had attempted to give him that fateful morning. Again, intense feelings convulsed within him. The earlier feelings of nausea returned and he felt perspiration on his face.

  Then something caught his eye – an envelope carefully placed beneath the braid of hair. It was addressed to him. The envelope, which had not been sealed, contained two items: an airline ticket and a typed note. The note read:

  Dear Paul,

  Pardon me for my intrusion into your life, but the time has come for us to become acquainted with one another. I have kept this box and its precious contents since it fell into my hands many years ago. I have known the time would come for me to see that it found its way to you. As you know, Cathy intended it to be yours.

  I believe that the contents of this box provide something of a link between you and me. We both loved Cathy, even though my acquaintance with her was of brief duration. You and I both knew her innermost yearnings and fears as she faced the greatest test of her life. There are a few particulars regarding her final hours that are of enormous importance. These are known only to me. And now the time has come for me to share them with you.

  What I have to tell you could have a great bearing on the crisis you are facing at the present time. In the spirit of love I plead with you to come to me. Leave the storm clouds behind for a brief respite. Though your circumstances are bleak, there is the very real possibility of deliverance from the turmoil of your life. I can assure you that there are answers to the questions that have troubled you these many years.

  Please come to me, Paul. It is most important that we visit. Use the enclosed airline ticket to Detroit. Go to the Hertz car rental counter in the Detroit Airport upon your arrival. There you will find a prepaid car reservation in your name, together with travel directions to my home. I look forward to seeing you again.

  Elizabeth.

  Paul was dumbfounded! Michael’s reference to Aunt Elizabeth and her seeming intimate knowledge of Paul returned to his mind. Who was this woman? What was the significance of her statement, “I look forward to seeing you again.” Had he met Elizabeth during his days in Michigan, and what was the nature of her relationship with Cathy? How was it that this braid of hair, which suddenly seemed precious to him, came to be in Elizabeth’s possession?

  Under other circumstances he would have dismissed Elizabeth’s invitation out of hand, but he was in a vulnerable frame of mind. His agitated state, prolonged sleep deprivation, and the crisis that had enveloped him all had a curious effect upon him. He examined the prepaid airline ticket. It indicated a 7 a.m. departure for Detroit the following morning. There was a scheduled return two days later, a return that would bring him back to San Diego the evening prior to the hearing which now loomed up on the horizon as a day of judgment.

  Again, Paul took to pacing back and forth from room to room, his mind racing. There were feelings and impulses within him that he had never experienced before. He was uncertain that he could, or even wanted to, fight against them. Under other circumstances this early morning delivery, with its accompanying invitation, might have seemed meddlesome and presumptuous, but today these things had a profound impact upon him. The sincere warmth in Elizabeth’s gesture made it difficult to dismiss the invitation as the mere fantasy of some busybody intruding her way into his life. It all came down to the question of the woman’s motive. What was the reason for her apparent interest in Paul, an interest which had presumably spanned many years? Paul felt a strange desire, even a yearning, to accept this unusual invitation. Still, he mistrusted his feelings, knowing how much unfinished emotional business there was in Ann Arbor.

  For a second time Paul stopped in the hallway and looked at himself in the mirror. The tension in his face was apparent. He shook his head. It was ridiculous to fly off to Michigan in the midst of a personal crisis to satisfy the whim of a stranger. He would speak with her over the telephone. Somehow he would make contact with her this very morning and discover the reason for her efforts to become intimately involved with his life.

  He moved to a small phone desk in the kitchen and withdrew a loose-leaf phone directory. He thumbed quickly to Charles and Anna’s phone number, then di
aled. Anna answered on the third ring. Sleep was still in her voice.

  Paul excused himself for the early morning call, realizing that it was only a quarter past six. Anna reacted with alarm, assuming that such an early call could only mean that Michael had taken a turn for the worse. But Paul reassured her that Michael’s condition remained unchanged, and that it was an important personal matter that had prompted the call.

  “I’ve received a letter from a woman by the name of Elizabeth,” he said in an even voice, trying not to reveal the tightness in his chest or his shortness of breath, “the one Michael referred to as ‘Aunt Elizabeth.’ You and I talked briefly about her once before. Her letter has no return address, and it’s very urgent that I respond to her. Can you give me her address or, better still, her phone number?”

  There was a long pause before Anna spoke with hesitancy and discernible discomfort. “I can’t give you the phone number, Paul. I can’t give you her address either. She asked me not to.”

  “Anna, who is this woman? I insist that you tell me!”

  Anna’s silence became an annoyance to Paul. “For pity’s sake, Anna, I’m not asking for the impossible. Just give me the phone number.”

  Anna was in tears when she answered. “Please don’t ask me to do this, Paul.”

  “But why doesn’t she want me to have her phone number?”

  “I can’t give you any information – nothing at all. Please don’t force me.”