by Ted Bernard
“Right. But patience is almost the least of Katherine’s and my worries. And here’s where I really need your counsel. To tell this piece, I’m afraid I must breach our agreement to avoid shop talk because what I have to say is wrapped up in the Blackwood Forest controversy, the university’s energy plans, and the future of our school director.”
Pushing around scraps of rigatoni on his plate, Burt raises his eyebrows. “This is intriguing, Stefan. How in hell can Truman Tulkinghorn possibly be connected to this affair of your heart? Has he been stalking you?”
“I trust not, though, as you are aware perhaps, he’s not pleased with my first few weeks as a member of his faculty. I got a bit of a slapdown in his office a couple of weeks ago.”
“Someone mentioned something, yes.”
I reel out the tangled tale of the collaboration of PCSA and ClimateThrong, the surveillance of Dr. Tulkinghorn by four of my students, the involvement of the governor’s deputy, the meeting in Henry Falls, the research on Morse’s international holdings, the break-in at Lara’s apartment, and my consults with Katherine about civil disobedience before and after the demonstration outside Stiggins.
Burt, his mouth slightly agape, shakes his head disbelievingly. “Christ, what a story! I can hardly believe this has been going on right under my grand Slavic nose. Perhaps I should not be surprised because I’ve never understood or totally trusted our director. I’m aware that he’s a climate change doubter but he’s steered clear of the subject with me. On the other hand, I really like Mitch Redlaw. I consider him a friend as much as that is possible across faculty-administration lines. I have had friendly conversations with the provost, though I know her less well. I cannot believe they are implicated except through the energy plan which admittedly was crafted by them and is a series of regrettable compromises. Then, of course, there’s Jasper Morse. He’s a tough customer I hear. Mitch once told me Morse was one of his biggest challenges.”
“That’s my impression,” I admit.
“Well, that’s all the scuttlebutt I have. So what can I do to help you through this quagmire?”
“As I mentioned, I have become a back-channel advisor on non-violence in civil disobedience. So far, I am anonymous, according to Katherine. To continue helping her, I obviously have to meet her somehow.’
“Any excuse will serve, right?”
“Yeah, there’s that. We have done so once clandestinely but this will be increasingly difficult if protest actions continue, as I suspect they will. A part of me thinks I should back away before it’s too late and I’m in deep trouble with Gilligan. Of course, the other side of me wants to jump in up to my ears. Fracking under that forest and the injection of wastes on adjacent lands would be criminal. And if we don’t get off fossil fuels soon, I see us down-spiraling fast, in large part from climate change. I am delighted to see these millennials thrust into old time street protests.”
“You usually cannot animate them unless there are some deals on Groupons or Saveology in exchange,” Burt said, surprising me with his awareness of the trendy apps.
“Well, in this case, I believe the students’ involvement is pure, like the people on the streets in Tunis and Cairo. But back to the essence Burt, overall I am seriously conflicted. What do you think I should do?”
Burt grabs his chin with his left hand and strokes his jaws with thumb and forefinger looking off across the darkened dining room, pausing long in thought. I know not what to expect. At length, he says, “Stefan, if I were you, if I were full of life in the prime of life and as quietly competent as you are, I would give this protest all you’ve got. Go for it, man! With my blessings. And if you ever need it, you can count on me for cover and further advice, whatever they’re worth. I do teach these precious souls, you know. And I do very much care about their futures. Whatever we can do to model behaviors they will need in future, we ought to commit ourselves to that. As for Katherine, she seems, from all you say, worth the commitment — a possible soulmate for you. Be careful, of course, but you are, after all, not a couple of eighteen-year-olds. Lost weeks or months in a cherished relationship can never be recovered.”
“Thanks, Burt. I was hoping you would tell me to follow my heart.”
16
Em, alone in the coffee shop of the Carsey Student Union, leaned down to remove her shoes and massage her insteps and toes. Whenever she did this, her soul would revert to childhood in Senegal when she enjoyed the perfect freedom of bare feet, all day long. That is, until age six, when she was shuttled off to St. Agnes of Assisi Primary School where the nuns required tight-fitting white shoes. Those days, twenty years ago, seemed remote. And what were the nuns thinking? White shoes on girls who walked through either dust or mud on unpaved, rutted streets and alleyways, hopping across open sewers along the way? She sipped a mug of coffee for which she had paid twice the price of a day’s wages for an unskilled worker in Dakar. She could not think about that.
Katherine, Nick, and I ambled across the coffee shop. Em looked up from her tablet. She exuded the countenance of an African princess, her gracefully folded hands, her welcoming smile, her long neck and dangling earrings.
“Bonjour, Émilie,” we said in unison. We laughed, happily engulfed as we were in friendship deepening by the week.
“Bonjour to you too.”
There in the hum of the half-filled coffee shop, late afternoon shadows tiptoed slowly across the room. We discussed the protest and the chaotic meeting, Zachary’s call to action, and Katherine’s battle to control the mob. Her apologies.
Nick spoke, his face that of a chastised hound. “No need to apologize for what happened the other night, Katherine, it was more my …” His sentence trailed off. His face drooped more, as if he realized he was about to explain something he had not fully figured out, maybe to open his heart to us. “Okay, I’m the one who owes an apology,” he said finally. “My demented outburst I’m sure freaked out everyone and probably gave the acolytes courage to challenge our smugness. Maybe that part wasn’t bad. But I was more out of control than at almost any time of my life and that scared me. It was a Late-K meltdown.” He hesitated. We could not tell whether he had more to say.
Then Nick was speaking again, rattling off a succession of explanations. “See, it’s been a couple of freaking bad weeks on the home front. Here I am in southern Ohio trailing after my girlfriend. I like it here but I would never have come on my own, you know? You guys haven’t met her but Amanda’s a beautiful, intelligent, and ambitious neuropsychology doctoral student. She’s from Vermont and we’d been sailing toward an international wedding, like right on the border between Vermont and Quebec, maybe next summer. Don’t know what she saw in me really. But it had been a good run. That is, until she came home last weekend and confessed that she and a young psych professor had a thing going.” Nick closed his eyes, lowered his head, shook it slowly, attempting to dispel this dolorous admission.
“A theeng going.” repeated Em. “Affaire de cœur?”
“Oui.” He paused grimly. “I find my liberal soul unable to absorb this situation. I cannot forgive Amanda. I was and am pissed, especially since she continues to be enamored of this man I have never met or seen, who, by the way, is also one of her professors this semester and is married.”
“Mon Dieu!”
“She moved out that day of the meeting,” Nick added.
Katherine swallowed deeply. A wave of panic swept through her. I could see something in her eyes, something terrifying. She explained later that she felt like a voyeur: a fascination with the alignment of Amanda’s and her own liaison, the thin ice of transgression, their hearts made vulnerable by centuries-old preconceptions and judgments. She clenched her jaws as she struggled to remain passive.
I found myself consoling Nick, who was, what?, seven years my senior. What did I know?
“That’s rough, Nick. I mean getting elbowed out by a professor. I can’t imagine the pain you must be feeling.”
“Yeah, it is painful
, Hannah,” Nick almost whispered. His eyes released tears. Em wrapped her arm partly around him. She could not reach across his breadth.
I noted her gesture with an open-hearted expression, my gaze at them, as a couple, soft. I said, “At the meeting, Nick, hey, I think you actually performed a service by firing up everyone. When you punched out the ceiling, I was, like, ‘Seriously, dude!’ Why can’t I have such passion?”
Nick wiped his eyes, raised his eyebrows and nodded a hint of agreement. He allowed a sly smile, probably remembering turds and feathers flying.
“Oh yes! I agree,” said Em, as usual lilting up toward heaven. Turning to Nick, she said, “But for you, Nicholas, this is all so tragique.”
Katherine’s eyes widened.
Me too. I had a hard time thinking of Nick as Nicholas. Was Em’s sobriquet hers alone? Nick’s shoulders slumped more. I had never seen the sturdy bear appear so vulnerable, his esteem so deflated, his proportions so visibly shrunken. There was no more to say. I looked across the table. In Em’s deep brown eyes I noted a flicker. Em’s facial expression seemed somber. Yet what I saw in her eyes was something sunnier.
17
Almost from the start, when Adrienne opened the door of the big Chrysler, she sensed something anomalous and fraught as touchwood. He was upset at her late arrival. He brusquely ordered her inside. She shuddered to think that he somehow sensed her impending infidelity, her role as secret agent. How did I drift into the vice-grip of this sordid patriarchal profession? Here I am in the business attire he mandated. He barely looks my way. A no-name chattel, I am.
“Ain’t you aware I’m a busy man? Christ, I haven’t got time to drive around and around this overrated town. What in hell you been up to?” She did not reply. As the car sped out of town, she turned to see two leather suitcases and the man’s coat in the back seat. “Are you going on a trip?” she asked.
“Yeah, and so are you,” he said roughly. Then in a friendlier tone, “We’re heading to the sunshine.”
She would probe no further. The man had never been one for small talk nor of telegraphing his moves. He turned onto the ramp and headed south on the interstate. In a half hour, they exited at the regional airport in West Virginia, drove to the far side, and pulled into a hangar. An unmarked corporate jet, its interior lit, running lights blinking, awaited outside. He ordered her to follow him. They walked out of the hangar into the dampness, her spike heels clacking across the tarmac. They climbed aboard the plane. His luggage and some other cargo were loaded. A cabin attendant closed the door: a shapely chocolate-colored woman, early twenties, with what sounded like a Jamaican accent. In ten minutes they were airborne. Soon after takeoff, the flight attendant brought a tray of hors d’oeuvres and sandwiches. The man sat facing her in a large reclining seat, she behind him and on the other side of the plane in an ordinary business-class seat. He said, “Have some champagne.”
“No thanks. By the way, just out of curiosity, could you divulge our destination?”
“No, my dear. We’ll be keeping a low profile for a few days.”
She realized belatedly that her preparations for what she believed to be one evening had fallen seriously short, and it was not clothing or her toothbrush that most concerned her.
Three hours passed. The man snored. She was too agitated to sleep. She sensed the jet descending. He awoke, coughing and wheezing, sauntered unsteadily to the toilet. He returned to belt up for landing. She gazed out her window. Pitch black. As the engines decelerated, she saw points of light, a runway.
They disembarked into a dense tropical night, the scent of the sea predominant. She felt the weight of her mid-latitude clothing. They were walking through a cavernous hangar. He led her to a doorway that opened to a parking lot. No immigration formalities. Puerto Rico? A ground attendant was there with the luggage and cargo. She heard the plane take off. A limousine driver escorted them to his car. He took the cargo aboard and drove into the night.
After about a half hour, she noted a steep upward climb. A road with multiple switchbacks. At the end of it, a gate. The driver entered a code. The gate opened. Two Rottweilers barked furiously and ran alongside the vehicle as it proceeded along a lane lined with palm trees. They aimed toward a faintly lit structure. The car pulled up. He got out and harshly scolded the dogs, giving each a slap. He led her across a portico into a spacious villa. “This here’s my Caribbean hidey hole,” he explained.
“Hardly a hole,” she replied, taking in the elegance of the air conditioned great room where they stood.
“Just a manner of speaking. We got everything we need up here: food and drink, pool, servants, the whole nine yards.” Without further explanation, he said, “Well, damn. It’s almost three and I’m tired as an ol’ houn’ dog. You sleep down the hallway there. Suite to the left. Big bathroom and shower, balcony too. Good views. You’ll find all the clothing you need so you can come out lookin’ sexy for breakfast.”
After a shower, she slumped on the bed, trying to wrap her mind around this turn of events, especially the few hours of apparent reprieve from what could be days of depravity. She checked her phone. No service. No wireless. No surprise. Before falling into a shallow sleep, she recalibrated for the coming days.
She awoke to brightness only imaginable near the equator. It was after ten. In bare feet, she walked across her expansive room, opened the blinds, then the shutters, and crossed to the balcony railing. She looked out to an east-facing seaward horizon. Ocean, the color of Persian turquoise, flat and featureless. The villa was perched atop a small mountain surrounded by acres of undeveloped land with sharp drops to the sea. She saw neither people nor structures on a small half-moon beach far below at the head of an embayment with a tiny off-shore island. A yacht of indeterminable size and provenance bobbed off shore. Where exactly was she? She returned to the room and changed into a black and fuschia bikini, a crocheted tunic, and flip-flops. She needed coffee.
In the kitchen, an amiable round black woman in a white uniform, who called herself Josephine, greeted her warmly and introduced her daughter, Jacinta, similarly dressed.
“Hello Josephine and Jacinta, I’m Adrienne,” she responded, shaking their hands.
“Mistah Jaspah ain’t up yet. You won’t see him much afore noon,” Josephine informed her. She led her to a table set for two on a veranda overlooking the pool deck. After a light breakfast, Adrienne explored the open floor plan of the spacious villa, all pastel, wicker, and generic Caribbean paintings. She found no clues on location. She wandered into the meticulously kept tropical gardens with palms, gardenias, hibiscus, and other flowering plants she could not name. Under a broad straw hat, a muscular shirtless man raked palm debris. He flashed a wide smile. She noted both the locked gate they had passed through in the night and a smaller servant’s gate to the right. She looked down at the sea from the spectacularly steep cliffs, one-hundred feet or more. She returned to the infinity pool and dove into the tepid water. She swam laps, a vigorous crawl, then settled onto a lounge with a plum-colored beach towel. She wrapped herself in the towel. Suffused by the effervescence of hibiscus and the warmth of diffuse sunlight, she fell asleep.
The day transpired without unpleasantness, prompting in her both relief and anxiety. He had made no advances. He spent the afternoon at work in an office one level below the main floor of the villa; she heard him talking. A telephone there. They shared a sundown cocktail at the pool, went to their quarters to change and returned for dinner, served by Jacinta. Broiled kingfish, rice, okra, and fresh salads. As desserts and brandy were served, Morse excused himself. Quickly and without fanfare she poured an aliquot of powder into his snifter. With their brandies in hand, they retired to lounge chairs in low lighting aside the pool. She took the opportunity to report on the PCSA/ClimateThrong meeting, which seemed like weeks ago but in fact was twenty-four hours earlier. He listened without comment and began nodding off. After some minutes, his body jerked awake, a neurological myoclonus she expected. He shook hi
s head in a vain attempt to clear it and slurred a farewell. “Sorry. Past few days been busy. Need sleep. Guess we’ll have to postpone after-dinner playtime 'til tomorrow.”
She said good night and let out a long breath; she had deployed her only passive defense and could not use it again. When Josephine came to the poolside to collect glasses, she asked, “So, Josephine, do you live up here?”
“Oh no, ma’am. Jacinta and me, mos' days we take taxi from town 'cross island. Nobody but Mistah Jaspah live on dis mount’n. Sumtime, one of us do stay heah to clean up, den go to sleep in room ovah dere.” She pointed to a door off the kitchen.
“Town?” Adrienne asked.
“Yes’m. Charlotte Amalie. Maybe he take you dere fo' dinner some night.”
“I’d like that. Do you suppose you could post a letter there for me tomorrow?”
“Oh yes, ma’am. No problem wi' dat.”
Another night of reprieve. Another night to prepare for tomorrow’s inevitabilities. Charlotte Amalie? Not Puerto Rico.
The second day passed, again without harsh exchange or discord. It reminded her of her days as a mistress in Hong Kong for an aging Chinese CEO with a limp dick. She was certain that such tranquility would soon end. In late morning, they descended to Bartley Bay, the bay she could see from her room. To the left of the stairs to the little beach was an exceedingly sheer cliff that dropped straight to the water.
Morse took hold of her elbow and guided her into a dingy bobbing in shallow water at the beach. A barefoot crewman, no more than sixteen and decked out in a naval-style shirt and cap and khaki shorts, fired up the outboard. He aimed them toward the yacht 200 yards off shore. They boarded via a rope ladder: a gleaming white vessel, 80 feet in length with twin-engine inboard diesel engines, elaborate navigational equipment, and sleeping quarters for six. The crew of two consisted of the youth who had ferried them and an older man obviously in command. Morse led Adrienne to an aft deck. He donned a captain’s hat with scrambled eggs on its visor. No doubt who owned this vessel. And the jet, for that matter. They cruised to an unoccupied cay about an hour away. She swam and snorkeled in the crystalline water while he sunned himself on the beach. They ate a picnic lunch there. He drank three beers and seemed to relax. Uncharacteristically, he spoke of his company, the fracking boom, and his plans to tap shale gas in Bartholomew County.
