A Function of Murder

by Ada Madison

“Apparently, you rate more than the city’s education bigwig these days,” Fran said.

  I knew what she meant. “I’m surprised he agreed to come,” I said, glancing back at Superintendent of Schools Patrick Collins, who had his arms folded across his chest. I suspected he’d sat that way throughout the mayor’s speech. It was a great way for academics at all levels to make a point without looking boorish themselves. Simply cross your arms and have people speculate as to what it is that you, in your great wisdom, disagree with.

  “I wonder how that’s all going to end,” Fran said.

  “Not well,” I suggested, recalling a month’s worth of newspaper headlines about the issues separating the superintendent of schools and the mayor. Poor Mayor Graves. I didn’t understand why anyone would want the job of dealing with all the city’s challenges, from its educational institutions to its waste disposal.

  The current classroom dispute was over the performance and the funding of the charter schools in town. Bitter words were exchanged and documented in living detail. I felt sorry for the bald, aging superintendent who had to compete aesthetics-wise with our young, buff mayor and his full head of auburn hair.

  My own experience as a volunteer at the Zeeman charter school, also known as Zeeman Academy, was mixed. I avoided the principal and the other administrators, who often seemed to be caught up in unnecessary paperwork and bureaucratic details, but I loved the students—full disclosure: I love all students—and kept at it as part of my lifelong mission for math literacy.

  I’d chosen Zeeman because of its business orientation and well-known selection of internships for its older elementary school students. To me, mathematics was the ultimate field for everyone, offering both beautiful equations and the most practical, business-friendly methods, and I wanted to get that message across early.

  We’d reached the exciting time in the Henley College commencement program when roughly five hundred students would be entered into the ranks of the college educated.

  The practice of having every student’s name called out ended a couple of years ago, when the exercises began to take longer than a two-credit class. Now students stood in blocks and degrees were awarded according to their major departments. Only the honors students paraded across the stage as their names were announced. Individual parchments for the gen pop of graduates were handed out later at separate, smaller department gatherings. My mouth watered as I thought of the catered appetizers that would be served to math and science graduates in my building shortly. Or longly.

  During the transition at the podium, I heard a lot of shuffling behind me as some of those in the back rows felt they could follow the mayor’s example and slip out unnoticed. Lucky me, sitting toward the front. Trapped. I mopped my brow in as ladylike a manner as possible and without knocking my tam off my head.

  “I have an idea,” Fran whispered through a barely open mouth.

  “Anything. Show me what you’ve got,” I said, as President Olivia Aldridge called for American Studies majors to stand. Only twenty-four departments to go, all the way past English and Political Science to Theatre Arts, and ending with Women’s Studies.

  I felt a poke from Fran and then something sliding across my lap. I pulled my robe over the new item, leaving only a small viewing space. I snuck a look and saw Fran’s new smartphone with a wordplay game under way.

  “I’m in,” I whispered.

  She’d started by forming the word windy. I checked the set of letters available to me and moved a word into place around her i: tickle.

  Our phones were smart enough to know the value of each letter and kept score for us. It was twelve to twelve, and we were off.

  Fran and I looked up now and then to clap for a student we’d taught, and finally to watch mortarboards soar through the air.

  “Another class goes off into the world,” she said.

  I nodded. “I hope they’re ready.”

  “The students or the world?” she asked.

  “Both.”

  In the air-conditioned comfort of Benjamin Franklin Hall, the math and science building, my feelings were different. Now I really didn’t want the party to end.

  This time the awarding of degrees was individual, some might have said drawn out, in Franklin’s large lecture hall. Each math and science major, twenty-five in all, made an Oscar-like speech, thanking parents, roommates, the groundskeepers, and—big thrill here—us, the faculty.

  To close the ceremony, the new graduates lined up to receive their official gift from the college: a letter opener with a replica of the college seal attached at the top. The blade was sterling silver, with a point sharp enough to open acceptance letters for grad school or jobs, we claimed.

  “I’d love to have the contract for those,” Fran said, as the last letter opener was removed from its box and oohed and aahed over. “Imagine the number of alumnae who have them.”

  “We should have done the calculation during the speeches,” I said. “Multiply one hundred years or so of graduates by—”

  “Maybe next year,” Fran said.

  We repaired to the first-floor lounge to await food and drink from the caterers. With students, parents, faculty, and guests, the room was stretched to its limit and many took to the hallways.

  At the close of every school year, I hated the idea of losing a class of senior math majors, plus all the science students I’d gotten close to over four years. I could, however, understand why they’d want to swear off grueling homework, pop quizzes, exams, and grades for the rest of their lives.

  As always, there was a whole lot of clinging going on, and many promises were made while a mix of the graduates’ musical favorites played in the background. Pitbull and Lady Gaga were prominent, as were the surprisingly long-lasting Black Eyed Peas, who dated back to before most of these students were born.

  “I’ll never, never lose touch with you,” Jeanne Flowers, near tears, swore to Bethany Riggs.

  “We totally have to hook up in California in August,” Bethany said to Nicole Johnson.

  “I’ll tweet and text you every day,” Nicole told Jeanne.

  And so on, with Claudette, Heather, Jessica, and a dozen other flushed young women.

  I could have written the script.

  After fifteen years of college teaching, I usually came pretty close with my estimate—it would take two or three months for all but a few graduation-day promises to fall off to zero; only one month if European travel intervened.

  Kira Gilmore, one of today’s academic stars, rushed up to me and nearly knocked me over with her energetic hug. At close to six feet, a large-boned Californian, Kira towered over me, her five-foot-three math prof. Only a couple of weeks ago, Kira had impressed a professional mathematics society with a research paper based on her thesis—the application of mathematical models to political science. Knowing Kira’s innate shyness, I was doubly proud of her performance.

  “I’m coming back here so often, you won’t even know I graduated,” Kira said now. “You’ve been the best teacher and the best adviser, Dr. Knowles.”

  I thanked her and hugged her back. As much as I cared about her, I hoped Kira would not keep her promise. What I wanted most was to see her move on.

  “Here comes the food,” Nicole said, getting down to basics, and illustrating that the transition from starving student to sophisticated graduate wasn’t immediate.

  Group hugs broke up and cameras were put away for the moment as the caterers hired by the Franklin Hall faculty entered the lounge with large trays, a pleasing, aromatic trail in their wake. The food line formed as soon as the trays of delectables hit the table.

  Our building, at the northwestern edge of the campus, was party central all year round, not just for graduation. Franklin Hall was famous for its Friday afternoon gatherings, celebrating the birthdays of famous mathematicians, scientists, and inventors. Besides commencement day, today, May fifteenth, was also Pierre Curie’s birthday. You can imagine our double excitement, though Pierre had to
take a backseat, his extraordinary scientific work commemorated with only a poster collage prepared by the physics and chemistry undergraduates.

  Like the rest of the faculty, Fran and I had shed our hats and robes as soon as we could and left them in our offices. Most of my colleagues were a little more dressed up than on class days, but it was too hot for me to put anything heavy on my small frame. Fran looked especially elegant in one of her trademark flowing, multicolor pants outfits. She fit in well with the dressed-to-the-nines parents of the graduates, but I was probably more comfortable than any of them, in my simple halter-top dress.

  None of the honorees had taken off their heavy black mantles. It made them easier to spot in the crowded room, which, I supposed, was the idea. I saw many proud, loving gestures as moms and dads adjusted the stiff white collars on their newly anointed daughters.

  Our long conference table doubled as the buffet table at weekly parties, but those offerings were like table scraps compared to today’s spread of gourmet appetizers. Instead of giant economy-size bags of cookies and chips, and dips of unidentifiable ingredients and questionable origin, the caterers had laid down a set of special hot and cold dishes. The faculty had sprung for clams casino, cherry peppers stuffed with shrimp, Swedish meatballs, and an assortment of olives, fruits, and cheeses.

  For dessert, a large cake took up one corner of the lounge. Baked and decorated by Franklin Hall’s underclassmen, the cake bore the message “LUV U GRADS” in blue and gold, to match the streamers and pennants around the room.

  “Doesn’t it bring tears to your eyes?” Fran asked me, faking a sniffle.

  I uttered a phony sob for Fran’s benefit, though in truth I really was more emotionally attached to my students than she was. Maybe because she had her own family to fawn over. For me, single, and an only child, Henley was my family. True, my boyfriend, Bruce Granville, and my best friend since childhood, Ariana Volens, were indispensable in my life, but I spent more time on campus than in Ariana’s bead shop or with Bruce and his crazy schedule as a medevac pilot.

  Once the food was served, the party groupings became reminiscent of middle school dances, where like stayed with like. Parents clustered together on one side of the room, eating at the small tables scattered around the lounge; the graduates gathered on the other side, balancing plates on their knees. Faculty roamed at first, greeting everyone, then we took seats wherever we found them.

  On the parents’ side there were exchanges of photos, both paper and digital, and plans for the future—the graduates’ futures, strangely.

  “Jeanne isn’t interested in settling down until she finishes graduate school at least,” Jeanne’s mother said, while Dad nodded vigorously.

  “Bethany won’t stop until she’s running the cardiology wing at some big Boston hospital,” Bethany’s father announced, spreading his arms to indicate the size of the medical facility his daughter would one day oversee.

  A few of us knew better. We knew that Jeanne, a bio major, was expecting her boyfriend, graduating today from a college in Boston, to give her a ring and set a date this summer. Bethany’s dream, well-known to her friends, was to move across the country to San Francisco as soon as she could pack up her jean shorts and flip-flops.

  “I’ll figure out what to do when I get there,” she’d told us, but apparently not her parents.

  If all went as usual, the parents of the grads would be the last to know.

  It didn’t do any good to try to remember my own dreams as a new college graduate. Life choices were never as simple as they seemed at twenty-one or twenty-two. If I hadn’t moved back home to take care of my ailing mother…If I hadn’t left the software company to teach…If I had followed my friend Ariana’s path and gone into business for myself…If I hadn’t met Bruce five years ago…

  Crash! Clatter! Crash!

  The sound of china and metal on tile brought all conversation and daydreaming to a halt. A mishap by one of the catering staff, was my first thought. How embarrassing for the person.

  But it wasn’t a young man or woman dressed in a black-and-white outfit two sizes too large who’d caused the commotion.

  It was Kira Gilmore. She’d dropped, or thrown, her plate and silverware to the floor, spilling olives, meatballs, and a clump of shellfish on the way, and was now in an agitated state not consistent with the party atmosphere.

  “You shouldn’t be mouthing off about Mayor Graves when you don’t know what you’re talking about,” she yelled. The comment seemed to have been addressed to Nicole Johnson, who scooted her chair back from the circle of diners, still sitting and holding on to her plate of fruit and cheese.

  “You have to admit he does have a nerve talking about service to the community when we know he’s only using his mayorship as a stepping stone for his own advancement,” Jeanne Flowers said, appearing to defend whatever Nicole had said.

  “That is so unfair,” Kira said, nearly in tears.

  It seemed that Mayor Edward P. Graves had invaded the party, not in the flesh, but in conversation.

  “Why doesn’t he put his money where his mouth is and fund the charter schools the same as the others?” Nicole continued, apparently emboldened by Jeanne’s defense of her initial remark. “Do you know that Zeeman Academy, my little brother’s charter, might close next year because His Majesty, the mayor, thinks they’re unnecessary?”

  That was news to me, but then, my eyes and ears glazed over whenever I heard the Zeeman faculty discuss issues other than the latest teaching methods.

  “Edward is not against Zeeman or any of the charter schools,” Kira said, her face reddening. “His own son went to Zeeman up to eighth grade. He just wants the schools to be more accountable. No one gets it.”

  “Edward, is it?” Jeanne said, with a neener-neener sound that I associated with junior high kids. “He’s such a hypocrite. You’re just his groupie, Kira, and you see what you want to see.”

  “As if your boyfriend is perfect,” Kira managed, though her heart wasn’t in it.

  I didn’t really want to hear what college students thought was wrong with one another’s passions of the month, but I was concerned that Kira was in distress. Her reaction went far beyond what might be expected of a loyal Henley resident, even one who was an award-winning campaign worker for the mayor’s state senate run.

  The girls’ voices softened finally, and the rest of the guests made awkward attempts to return to their conversations. The efficient catering staff came in with spray bottles, cloths, and sponges and relieved Kira’s befuddled parents, who had started to clean the mess she’d made.

  “What do you think that was about?” I asked Fran, who’d taken a seat next to me. I was still holding on to the notion that a math major, even one who’d graduated, was my responsibility. And I couldn’t help wondering why one of Henley College’s top students was defending the mayor as if she were—

  “She’s seeing him.” Fran broke into my thoughts, stabbing at a clam at the same time.

  “What? Seeing him, as in…?” I tried to erase the image that was forming. “Kira? Seeing the mayor? Are you sure?”

  “It’s obvious,” Fran said.

  “Not to me.”

  Fran rolled her eyes, a reminder that I seldom got the subtleties of who was hooking up with whom these days. Was it that long ago that I was twenty? Answer: yes. But Fran was older, and a grandmother, so I couldn’t blame my age and state in life for how often I missed cues regarding personal relationships.

  Though no one said so, Kira’s outburst had put a damper on the party. The good cheer and harmless gossip that were present at the beginning had dissipated. Guests began saying their farewells and wandered off in family units, presumably seeking a less charged environment.

  There’s some good in every ill wind, my mother, Margaret Stone, used to remind me. She was right this afternoon. The fact that the party was cut short meant all the more leftovers for the students who were staying in the dorm until official closing time ne
xt week. The caterers and a few of us faculty and undergrads helped pack up the savories.

  “You really don’t want these meatballs and peppers, Dr. Knowles? Dr. Emerson?” a sophomore chem major asked, eyes wide.

  We shook our heads. “It’s all yours,” Fran said.

  “There’s sooo much cake left. I could hack off a piece for you,” a freshman bio major said, licking her lips and wielding a knife that looked more suited to a slab of beef.

  “It’s our gift to you,” I said, and accepted another farewell hug.

  Fran and I decided to retreat to our respective offices for some downtime before going out to dinner with a group of math majors and their parents at seven thirty.

  We headed down the hall, still chatting about the Kira Gilmore–Edward Graves issue, whispering all the way. We stopped abruptly when our longtime janitor, working overtime today, came toward us, pushing his big barrel of cleaning equipment.

  “Afternoon, Doctors,” Woody said, sticking to his respectful guns, despite the many times we’d encouraged him to call us by our first names. “Congratulations to you all.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Conroy,” I teased.

  Woody reached into one of the many pockets in his overalls and pulled out a shiny key ring with a tiny soccer ball dangling from its chain. He held it up to show us both, then offered it to Fran.

  “I saw this little thing as I was checking out of the hardware store. I thought of your young grandson, Dr. Emerson. Do you think he might like it?”

  Fran took the key ring with a gracious smile. “How sweet of you, Woody,” she said. “I’m sure he’ll love it.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Woody said, sounding relieved.

  I didn’t for a minute think that seven-year-old Derek needed a key ring, but all that mattered was that Woody thought so.

  “If you hurry to the lounge, there might be some treats for you,” Fran said.

  We knew the girls loved the old guy, and why wouldn’t they? He’d jump at a chance to change a light fixture for them in the dorm or rig up an extra connector for the lab or chase down an alleged mouse in the supply closet. They’d be happy to share the bounty with him today.