Half Dead

by Brandon Graham

  She touches her dark hair. It’s in soft curls that bounce on her shoulders. He’s never seen her hair curled. He likes it. She smiles for him, a nervous smile. “Thank you.” Her accent draws his attention to the way her glossy lips work the words.

  He is not the kind of professor who would sleep with a student. He is not that kind of husband to Mere. He long ago outgrew that kind of impetuousness. Maybe when he was younger. Young like the beautiful Kati sitting so near. He is afraid to speak. He nods and checks his rearview mirror, moves it out of place, catches a flash of Kati’s legs, fumbles the mirror back to its original position. “Here we go,” he says. He leans forward to watch the sky. “Hope we beat the storm.”

  He begins the drive from her dormitory to the Reva and David Logan Center. As soon as the car begins to move, black clouds blow in. Within blocks, rain comes so hard the wipers can’t keep up; everything goes dark, he can’t see the side of the road, the wind picks up. Trash blows across the street; followed by a wire café chair, then two more chairs and a tumbling table. A red umbrella smacks the windshield and is whipped into the thrashing black night. At an intersection, they watch a parked car lift, roll, and settle on its side, tipped by the savage, elemental will of the storm.

  Calvert can feel his car coming off the ground; the weight of the chassis lifting from the shocks, the tire tread of his spinning wheels barely brushing the slick pavement. Neither of them talk. Kati makes a worried chirp like a woodland creature.

  Calvert drives into the nearest parking lot and stops. They leap out for fear they will be carried away. The rain dies. The wind changes direction. The water from the parking lot lifts and stands on edge like a dark, rippling wall. It holds that shape. His breath catches in his body. Then the water slams into them like the smack of a hand. They are drenched and disoriented. The wind comes back, more fierce for its momentary rest. Kati makes a run for the nearest building. She’s blown so hard her straight path becomes a parabola. She abandoned her car door, leaving it wide open. Calvert runs around and forces it shut before the wind can rip it off. He aims himself at the restaurant Kati entered as a power line tears loose and falls across his path. It’s live and throwing sparks. It cracks and spits at him, an angry living thing. He withdraws three steps in preparation to leap over it. He stops short, reconsiders, changes course, runs the long way around, makes it through the restaurant doors.

  The lights are off. The employees and customers huddle in the dark, listening. The windows rattle to bust their frames. Kati finds Calvert’s hands. He’s drenched, his shoes filled with water, his eyelashes heavy with it. She hugs him, desperate. She presses her check to his chest. She’s wild with fear. Calvert holds her close. He cradles her wet hair, her curls pulled strait. There is no thought in it. Her mouth is on his, she is happy and excited and crying and grateful, and they kiss long and deep. The wind shakes the building. There is a baby wailing somewhere. They kiss until the storm rolls away.

  Calvert wakes again, still staring at the ceiling. The sun has risen. He doesn’t recall finding his way to the bed after rushing from Christian’s confessional. He’s still in his Bug Off coveralls with the shirt he helped print pulled over the top half.

  He draws a ragged breath. He doesn’t want to remember his affair with Kati. Doesn’t want to feel the empty place that used to be a life.

  He hears a noise, casts his eyes toward the strip of light at the bottom edge of his apartment door. A shadow passes. A few beats later, it passes in the other direction.

  Barney. Calvert is anxious to leave the place where he dreamed of Kati, anxious to put distance between his conscious self and the source of guilt. He turns on his lamp, slips his bare feet into shoes, and walks onto the landing.

  Barney is drinking coffee. He lifts his mug in greeting. “Morning. Hope the hoopla last night didn’t keep you up.”

  “I slept through it. I was exhausted.”

  “No doubt. Quite a day.” Barney switches the coffee to his opposite hand.

  “Thanks for the shirt.” Calvert pats his chest. “Sorry I left so quickly.”

  Barney can see Calvert is upset. “Don’t worry,” he says, trying to be comforting. “Like I said, long day. I figured you needed some space.”

  “The Blake Machine was, um, I don’t know. I don’t have the words,” Calvert admits.

  “Unsettling?”

  “It was. I confessed. To something I hadn’t remembered clearly before last night. I dreamed it, and the dream was more real than memories should be.”

  Barney slurps a bit of coffee. “That’s good. Christian will be happy it hit the mark.”

  Calvert feels Barney doesn’t get his point.

  “By the way,” Barney goes on talking, “we did well last night. Everyone sold work. Donations were good. Lyla’s photos sold well. Did I tell you she took photos for one whole day for the show? She printed them and framed them and displayed them all in one go. We made more than enough money for the Far Afield Fest.”

  “You don’t understand.” Calvert is focused on the Blake Machine. “I’ve sinned. Taken lives. I’d forgotten. But now a door in my brain is open, and it’s all I can think of.”

  Barney turns his eyes down the long flight of steps to the front door. He says, “Hmm.” He drinks coffee.

  Calvert stamps in place, trying to get feeling in his numb feet.

  Barney finally says. “I like being in a city like this. In small towns, everyone knows your business and has an opinion about it. In a city, you can reinvent yourself. Memories aren’t so long. In a place like this, you can move past things. Start fresh. It’s a place big enough to get lost in. Lost in a good way. It’s why I’ve stayed.”

  Calvert tries to cast being lost in a good light. He’d never considered it that way, isn’t certain of the logic even now. He says, “This city is where I’ve done horrible things.”

  “You can let go of the past. No one around here will tie you to it. You’re the one who makes it an issue. Not this place. Not me. Honestly, people don’t care about the things other people have done. People are too self-centered for that.”

  Barney is right. But the taste of Kati’s kiss lingers in Calvert’s mouth, and the dirty blue color of the wall over Barney’s shoulder looks remarkably like the shade of Kati’s broken neck the last time he laid his eyes on her.

  Barney keeps talking. “I’ve had too much coffee. Not good for the blood pressure. Besides, Calvert,” the big man says, “What the hell does any of it matter? You’re dead anyway.”

  “I’m having concerns I’m not as dead as I’d thought.”

  The Old College Try

  Jerome helped Moe make a connection with Assistant Professor Cynthia Regan, the U of Chicago’s resident Chaucer expert. Moe drives Taibbi to the park where she arranged a meeting. She takes city streets, staying off highways, interstates, and even parkways. The Honda had vibrated when she briefly hit fifth gear on her way home from her night out with Whistler. It lasted only a moment, but it got her attention. After online research over breakfast, Moe thinks she has a bad engine mount or a clogged fuel filter. Until she gets her paycheck, she can’t do anything about it. So she prefers to take it easy.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Cynthia says to Moe after introductions. “It’s scandalous for a woman to teach such bawdy material. What can I say? I’m wild and I refuse to apologize for who I am.” When Moe doesn’t react, the professor explains, “That’s my icebreaker for the first day of class. Freshmen give me that exact reaction: no reaction. It kills with grad students.”

  “Oh,” Moe says. “Jokes.”

  “If jokes by definition elicit laughter, then it doesn’t meet basic criteria.” Cynthia has a playful glint in her eye. She slowly smiles and her lips barely move, but her nose crinkles and the corners of her eyes show a subtle spray of fine lines. Moe is immediately charmed.

  “Mind if I record for background?” Moe asks.

  “No. Do you mind if we walk and talk?” Cynthi
a moves along the meandering path. Moe falls into step next to her. “Thanks for meeting here,” Cynthia say. “I’m doing research. Do you know the Newberry?” She indicates the grand building adjacent to the small park.

  “I’ve heard of it,” Moe says.

  “If you’ve never been, it’s a treat. They don’t have an original Canterbury Tales, but they do have photographic facsimiles of several of the tales from the Ellesmere manuscript. Including ‘The Miller’s Tale’ and ‘The Wife of Bath.’ It’s so saucy.”

  Moe smiles her most winning smile. They walk a few paces before she says, “So, you worked closely with Professor Greene?”

  “Yes. He was my department mentor. Showed me the ropes. He laughed at my attempts at humor. He deceived me into believing I’m hilarious.”

  “I’m sure your jokes are wonderful. I might not be your target audience.”

  “I’m only playing. Jokes that must be explained are the defining characteristic of my comedic repertoire.” A comfortable silence follows, filled only by the sounds of their footfalls, the city outside the park’s perimeter momentarily made distant.

  Moe says, “I read the reports of Greene’s accident. There was a student killed in the car with the professor. Kati Gabor. Pregnant at the time. The car that struck them was driven by the professor’s wife, Meredith Greene. You see where I’m headed? It certainly has the makings of a love triangle turned violent.”

  “I want to avoid speculation,” Cynthia says seriously.

  “I wouldn’t want to print anything speculative. But I would like to hear what you know.”

  “Calvert was a gentleman. Never once got out of line or hit on me. I’m gay. That isn’t a secret. But I didn’t list it on my CV. He had no reason to assume I was not interested in men. He never gave me reason for concern. There are professors with reputations for chasing skirts. It is a long-standing tradition in higher education. But not Doctor Greene. The circumstances of the accident did lead to rumors, but never from those that knew him.”

  “How do you explain Kati Gabor?”

  “I don’t have an explanation. She was an exchange student. She had no family here. Perhaps he offered to drive her somewhere. To her ob-gyn appointment, for instance.”

  “That would be weird. If I’m being honest, it stretches the bounds of polite to the border of creepy and inappropriate. I’m willing to be convinced.”

  “You’re right, of course. I would think a girl in a strange land would prefer a female companion on an outing to a lady doctor. However, it’s not beyond reason to think she simply felt comfortable with him. Calvert wanted to help. He was giving her a ride. Nothing more. Perhaps he persuaded her it would be easier than public transportation?”

  “Would you like such conjecture to be true?”

  “Yes. I suppose I’d like that to be how it happened. Something innocent. Something kind.”

  “Suppose then, the professor’s intentions were pure, the fetus Kati carried was not his. Why would the professor’s wife T-bone the innocent couple? The photos of the collision tell a story of an intentional crash. Her brakes were functional. She rammed them at speed. No skid marks. Witnesses say she accelerated into the impact.”

  “Perhaps she misunderstood the situation.”

  “That’s a hell of a misunderstanding,” Moe says.

  “Agreed.”

  “Mrs. Greene could only misunderstand if her husband didn’t explain the kind thing he was doing for a student,” Moe continues. “What man would miss the opportunity to prove what a good guy he is? Why keep it secret? If I’ve got it right, they were about to celebrate their twenty-first wedding anniversary. That’s significant.”

  “It is,” Cynthia agrees.

  “Do you have any impression of their relationship?”

  “He didn’t speak of her often to me. But when he did, it was always fondly. Maybe there was a wistfulness, but that is such a nuanced interpretation as to be meaningless.”

  “And I’m right that they had no children?” Moe asks.

  “No children. Not everyone wants kids. For instance, I don’t think I could be selfless enough to be a mother,” Cynthia says.

  “I feel the same. But I bet few parents feel ready before they have kids.”

  “Solid point—Moe, isn’t it? I’m so bad with names.” They have completed their circuit of the park.

  “Yes, my name is Moe.” She pulls her Vicky helmet on.

  “You’ll get to the bottom of things. Your determination is written all over your face.” Cynthia gives Moe a long, slow appraisal. She meets her eyes through the yellow bubble shield. “I better get back to it. Chaucer won’t read itself.”

  Moe starts Taibbi. Cynthia calls over the engine, “Is Vicky your girlfriend?”

  “No”—Moe knocks on the helmet—“came with the bike.”

  “That’s good,” the professor says. She crinkles her nose and smiles with her eyes.

  “See you around professor,” Moe says, but she doesn’t leave, only revs her engine.

  “You can call me Cyn. All my friends do.”

  Moe pulls into the city. When she glances back, Cyn is still watching her go.

  Partner Bonding

  On his drive back from Bug Off, Whistler calls Suzuki.

  “You got Zucchini. Shoot.”

  “Jesus, don’t say that. Stand up for yourself or the guys will treat you like a punch line.”

  “Ah, partner, I didn’t know you cared. Admit it, I’m growing on you.”

  “Like fungus. No. I’m sorry. I want us to act like professionals. Not an inept parody.”

  “You’re full of assumptions. You assume because we don’t take things seriously we are not serious. You’re wrong. Ever hear of coping mechanisms? You assume they call me Zucchini to ridicule my name, my Japanese heritage. In fact, it’s my prominent man-tackle that earned the nickname. I wear them with pride, the nickname and the genitals. Think about it.”

  “I did and it can’t be scoured away fast enough.”

  “No kidding, there are reasons to keep things light. The work is hard. It eats at you. I have a daughter nearly our victim’s age. The only way I can see that mangled throat and keep doing my job is to play it off. You see? People are capable of compartmentalizing for good reason. It’s a tool that works for us as a species. We are made for it.”

  “Maybe. Hey, I didn’t know you had a daughter.”

  “I made that up. But my broader point stands.”

  “Dick.”

  “I think you mean Zucchini.”

  “Did you make any progress on the case?”

  “I’ll tell you what I found soon enough. But I’m hungry and you owe me.”

  “Fine. Name the place.”

  “I’m feeling the need for some soosh. Meet you at Umami. I’ll get us a table.”

  “Dammit. Okay. But I’m going to smuggle in a cheeseburger.”

  * * *

  Umami has a lunch buffet; to Whistler it looks slimy, bright, and mysterious. He has no interest in expanding his palate. He loads up on California rolls with tons of soy sauce, wasabi, and pickled ginger.

  Suzuki looks happy. “The sapporo roll is killer, man. If you like tuna soosh, it is the go-to roll.” He takes up chopsticks and starts dipping and eating. “The only downside is no sake. But it is BYOB. So let’s remember for next time.”

  Whistler doesn’t mind the California roll. The salt punch from the soy sauce covers most of the seaweedy flavor. “Tell me,” he says. “What did Schmidt’s PO have to say?”

  “This guy looked like a power lifter gone to pot. He sat around his desk, not behind it. You know what I mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “He said Allen Schmidt was punctual, never had an infraction. Married with a stable job. Continues to meet the terms of his early release.”

  “Damn it.”

  “But get this. I asked the Incredible Bulk—” Suzuki pauses for the laugh that doesn’t come. “You are a tough crowd. His bottom
line on Schmidt: ‘Most people I deal with are career criminals, addicts, institutionalized in one way or another. But Schmidt is rare con that gives me hope for our prison system. Not because he’s a good person. He’s not. But prison scared the shit out of him. Fear of incarceration, fear of loss of freedom, fear of being powerless among bigger, meaner convicts; it keeps Schmidt very focused on the straight and narrow. He’s a success story.’ And you know what?” Suzuki pinches his last morsel with plastic chopsticks, shakes it at Whistler as he says, “He meant it.”

  New Horizons

  Moe finds managing Loni and Dale hugely inconvenient for many reasons, most of which revolve around the pair being young, green, and needy little humans. Moe’s biggest issue is that the kids work on their own stories at their own pace, which means Moe can be interrupted anytime, seven days a week, by a twenty-something in the middle of a crisis. It’s distracting. Everything is urgent; their stories are vital, their voices are so original they defy edits, and they speak for an underrepresented and misunderstood generation that intends to teach everyone older how it is done, despite their utter lack of life experience for context and apparent inability to write a paragraph without someone applauding them as they type. She’s learned her wards aren’t terribly active in the mornings. Little babies get tuckered out after a big day. Moe is finding a rhythm that involves focusing on her own stories first thing, then heading to the office for a long lunch and counseling session with the whippersnappers. Once she’s endured as much as she can, she makes herself scarce and does more of her own reporting.

  Whenever she sees Jerome, he’s pleased as punch with her predicament. Vivian, for her part, tries to give advice on how to guide the youngsters without crushing their spirit. “You have to keep showing them where the trail lies. They can’t see it yet, but if you keep pointing it out, they will find it.”

  “Tell me I was not like that,” Moe said.

  “You were not like them at all.” Vivian used a lugubrious and obviously patronizing tone, fully enjoying the moment.