by Merry Jones
‘He asked how you’re doing.’
‘Now. Why.’
‘He’s writing an article. He needs notes from your files.’ She waited, slowing down, giving him time to respond.
‘Trent.’ That was it, Hank’s entire comment. It had taken all that time for him to say one syllable.
‘So, your notes – are they on a jump drive? Or did you print them out?’
Hank twisted his mouth, frowning, agitated. ‘Not.’
Not. Not printed? Not in the computer? Or maybe he did not remember?
Hank moved away, pointing at her chest with his stronger hand. ‘Notes. Trent. Not. No.’ His voice was firm, his eyes steely. But why wouldn’t he want Trent to have his notes? They’d worked together for years, shared credit on articles.
‘Friend. Trent. Not.’ Hank’s eyes gleamed. Understandably, Hank would feel that way; Trent hadn’t come to see him in weeks.
‘He is your friend, Hank. He just can’t face you.’ Harper waited, choosing her words. ‘Trent’s been drinking a lot. He blames himself for your accident.’
Hank’s expression didn’t soften, and she wondered what he understood. The doctors couldn’t be sure, and Harper worried that his comprehension wasn’t much better than his speech. Hank glowered, his face dark with anger or frustration. Or something else. Fear? But fear of what?
‘Vicki. Trent. Cheat.’
Cheat? Vicki? Trent? What? Cheat? Clearly, he’d used the word by chance. He wasn’t – couldn’t be – telling her that he’d had an affair with Vicki.
Hank nodded, emphatically. Somberly.
‘You mean Trent cheated on Vicki?’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Me. Screw.’
Harper stopped breathing. She blinked, chest searing, not willing to decode any more of Hank’s phrases. Had he just confessed to an affair? So casually, without a trace of shame? With no apology? Quite the contrary; he seemed earnest, eager to talk. He uttered a syllable, stopped mid-word, started again, sputtered with frustration.
Harper almost asked him – almost said, ‘Hank, did you and Vicki have an affair?’ She started to ask, but stopped at ‘Hank’, not ready to hear his answer. Instead of finishing the question, she looked at the door and stood. It was almost time to go anyway. But Hank grasped her arm.
‘Hoppa. Wait. Hear.’ Or here.
She sat again, eyes on the door.
‘Not. Trent. Me. Push.’
Harper’s mouth went dry. For the first time, Hank was talking about his fall. She spoke slowly. ‘I know Trent didn’t push you. It was an accident.’
Hank tried again. ‘Screwed Vicki. Push me. Trent new.’ Or knew? He was breathing hard, watching her urgently, but Harper didn’t want to understand what he meant. In fact, she tried not to grasp his apparent assertion that Trent had pushed Hank off the roof because Hank had screwed Vicki.
‘Not let. Trent. Hoppa look. You find. Why.’ Hank was insistent. He slapped the armrest as punctuation. Or frustration. ‘You see.’
He was combining words. Another sign of progress. First, Hank had talked about his fall; then he was making phrases. Harper should be elated, but she wasn’t. She wanted to slug him.
Hank watched her, his expression open and guileless. Clearly, she was misinterpreting his meaning. She must be. There were other explanations for ‘screwed Vicki’; had to be. Even if she couldn’t imagine what they might be.
‘Not Trent. You find.’ Hank resisted her embrace, hell bent on telling her something, twisting his tongue to form a sound. ‘Ah. Coo. Mal.’
Had Hank just said Acumal? ‘Acumal?’
Hank nodded. Acumal. The town in the Yucatan where they’d spent their honeymoon.
‘Trent. Not. You see. You. Ah coo mal.’
Harper had no idea what he meant. Unless it was that he didn’t want Trent to know about their honeymoon? ‘Hank, I don’t understand.’
Hank kept trying. Repeating, ‘Ah. Coo. Mal. Save.’
Finally, she couldn’t stand it any more. ‘Enough. Please, Hank. Stop.’
Questions filled his eyes. ‘Hoppa?’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t get what you’re trying to say.’ Go on, she told herself. Get it over with. Ask him if he cheated. But Hank’s eyes were concerned, full of affection. Her question got stuck, wouldn’t come out. And the words that did surprised her.
‘Dammit, Hank. Dammit, dammit.’ Tears swelled in her eyes; she turned away.
Hank put a hand on her cheek, guiding it back so she’d face him. ‘Mad. You?’ He wiped a tear.
‘No, I’m fine.’
‘Me, Hoppa. What. Tell.’ He waited.
‘Tell? OK.’ Her tone was sharp, her mind on Vicki. ‘Hank, you’re not the only one who got hurt when you fell. We both did. This is a struggle for me, too.’
Hank looked down, shoulders sagging, jaw muscles tight. He didn’t try to speak, simply sat.
Harper felt as if she’d slapped him. ‘I’m sorry.’ She hesitated to touch him. ‘I just meant this has been tough on us both.’
Hank sat still for another moment. Then slowly, he put a hand out and gently moved Harper’s head to his shoulder. They stayed that way, wordlessly holding each other until the orderly came to take Hank to physical therapy.
Harper’s entire body felt bruised, and her leg was so stiff that, even though she despised the haze caused by medication, she allowed herself a pain pill. She popped one with a gulp of to-go iced chai from the coffee shop, where she avoided the eyes of the cashier, afraid to see grief for Chelsea, the murdered waitress. Then, with time to spare before her recitation, she parked the Ninja down the hill from campus and climbed, listing the good things in her life. Her chai. The panorama. Air that was free of dust and smoke. Her survival, and Hank’s.
At the top of the hill, she didn’t stop to enjoy the view; she detoured to Hank’s office in Snee Hall, hoping to find his laptop and notes. And to figure out why Hank didn’t want Trent to have them.
The office was locked, so she had to find Marcia, the department secretary, and ask for a key. By the time she finally got the door opened, the pill had started to kick in; she was tempted to curl up on the reclining chair and nap. Instead, she opened the blinds, letting in daylight, and looked around. Dust floated in the sunbeams, coated every surface. The room hadn’t been touched; the desk calendar was still opened to April. A pile of phone messages still waited to be answered. A Cubs hat hung on the coat rack, ready for Hank’s head. Photos dotted the walls: Hank on geologic studies with Trent; Hank with grad students. There were shots with Harper, too, snorkeling on their honeymoon, camping in the mountains, building their deck, soaking in the hot tub. From all corners of the office, pre-accident Hank beamed at her, sturdy and confident, without the faintest idea of what was to come.
Harper couldn’t breathe, had to leave. Without even looking for the notes, she located Hank’s laptop, stuffed it into her sack and fled the office, leaving it to the dust.
About forty minutes until recitation. She still hadn’t finished her remarks about Graham, and the dean was coming. She’d have to introduce him. Harper walked to her office, trying to come up with appropriate words.
Nothing.
The air was hot and breezeless again, the sky filled with dark swollen clouds. Harper looked up, wishing for a storm.
Oh, get on with it, she told herself. Just begin. OK. ‘Good morning.’ Excellent. She was on a roll. ‘We have a guest today.’ Brilliant.
Harper climbed the steps to her office without a clue what to say. Apparently, the pill she’d taken had numbed her brain more than her pain; her leg still throbbed, but she couldn’t think. Maybe she’d just say, ‘Dean Van Arsdale is here to talk to us.’ Was that too blunt? Did his ego require more fanfare?
‘Loot?’
Harper turned to the voice. Anna was waiting outside her office door. She covered her mouth, gaped at Harper’s face. ‘God. What happened?’
‘Just an accident.’
‘On your motorcycle? Did y
ou crash?’
Harper smiled at Anna’s earnestness. ‘No. Not on my motorcycle.’
‘But you’re OK?’
‘Yes. Fine. What’s up?’
Anna glanced at the office. ‘Do you have a minute?’
‘Two even.’ Harper didn’t; she had to prepare a eulogy and an introduction, but Anna seemed nervous, her plump fingers tugging the strap of her book bag. She unlocked her office door. ‘Come sit down.’
Anna came in but didn’t sit. She stepped closer to Harper, whispering. She looked out the door. ‘Loot, I’m scared.’
‘It’s OK, Anna – don’t be scared.’ Harper had no idea what was wrong, but she didn’t want the girl to collapse again.
Anna chewed a thumbnail, eyes darting.
‘Have a seat.’
Anna wouldn’t. She paced in small agitated circles, wringing her hands.
‘What’s on your mind?’ Harper glanced at her watch. Thirty minutes until class.
‘I heard stuff,’ Anna fretted. ‘At the clinic.’ Her breath was shorter, her voice thinner.
‘Anna, calm down. You don’t want to go narcoleptic.’
Anna still didn’t sit, but she stopped pacing, took long deep breaths.
‘Now. Calmly. Explain.’
‘I was in the Sleep Clinic, having an episode. And when I have episodes, people forget I’m there. They think I’m asleep, so I become like furniture. Or a potted plant.’
‘I’m sure they don’t forget—’
‘It’s called cataplexy. It’s like you’re stuck somewhere in between awake and asleep. You can’t move, no matter how you try. You can’t talk or call out. Can’t make a sound. You’re paralyzed, but you’re aware. You’re not actually asleep.’
Harper couldn’t imagine it.
‘But the thing is, you can still hear. During cataplexy, I can’t even blink my eyes. I can’t make a peep. But I hear everything perfectly.’
‘How horrific.’ Oops, she probably shouldn’t have said that.
‘I’m used to it. I’ve learned to just wait it out.’ Anna kept twisting the strap of her book bag.
‘So you heard something?’
Anna nodded, eyes wide. ‘About Graham.’
Really? ‘Go on.’
‘Two men were talking. One said Graham died because of stolen drugs.’
Wait. Stolen drugs? ‘What?’
‘That’s what he said. Clear as day. Loot, something bad is going on over there—’
‘Anna, don’t jump to conclusions. Those drugs didn’t necessarily cause his—’
‘Wait – you mean it’s true? He had stolen drugs on him?’
Lord, why had she said that? ‘No, I didn’t say—’
‘Are you sure, Loot? Because Graham wouldn’t do drugs. And he definitely wouldn’t steal them.’ Anna was beyond pale, her face translucent. Like a big oval moonstone.
Harper grabbed a bottle of water from her mini-fridge. ‘Here. Drink this.’ She opened the bottle, handed it to Anna. ‘Who were the men you heard, Anna? Do you know?’
She swallowed water. ‘One was the head of the Sleep Clinic – Dr Wyatt.’
Dr Wyatt? ‘Are you sure?’
‘Very. I know his voice. He said Graham stole drugs and overdosed on them, and that’s why he killed himself.’
‘Well. The autopsy will show if that’s true.’ Harper didn’t know what to think. Maybe Anna misheard; hadn’t Ron said the drugs were benign? She glanced at her watch. Twenty minutes until recitation.
‘There’s more, Loot.’ Anna paused, scrunched her lips. ‘They didn’t just talk about Graham; they talked about you.’
Harper blinked. ‘Me?’
‘Dr Wyatt called you “that Jennings woman”. He said you knew too much about the “situation” and might make trouble. The other man told him not to worry. He said you’d even help find the stolen drugs.’
What? ‘Anna, are you sure that’s what they said?’
‘Very. Dr Wyatt got mad. “You know what this means? Another dead kid – how many more will there be? It’s out of control.” The other one tried to calm him down. He said, “Steven, those deaths are not on us. Those kids popped whatever pills they got their hands on. If not on this, they’d have OD’d on something else.” He said he’d take care of everything, including you. Dr Wyatt said, “I hope so. Because every minute those pills are out there is a minute too long”—’
‘Wait, hold on a second.’ Harper couldn’t absorb what she was hearing.
‘But, Loot, why did he say Graham stole drugs? Or that you’d help find them? Do you know where those drugs are?’
‘Of course not.’ But she was pretty positive that she knew something else: that the second man in the conversation was Ron Kendall.
Anna’s eyes were wide. ‘Loot, that man said he’d “take care of you”. Don’t you get what that means?’
Harper had to smile. ‘Anna. This isn’t the movies. “Taking care of” somebody doesn’t mean feeding them to the fish—’
‘But they think you have Graham’s stolen drugs. Or that you’re able to get them. Don’t you see? Dr Wyatt said more people will die . . .’ Her eyes rolled.
‘Anna.’ Harper put her hands on Anna’s shoulders, gently shaking her. ‘Stay with me here—’
‘I can’t . . . go back there.’ Anna spoke in spurts. ‘I have an . . . appointment later. What if they . . . figure out what I . . . know—’
‘Sit, Anna. Please. Before you fall.’ Harper stood ready to catch her.
Finally, Anna sat.
‘Listen. Those men have no idea that you heard their conversation. But even if they did, it’s all right. They aren’t villains. The second man you heard – he does research at the Center. He’s my friend.’ But Anna must have misunderstood. Why would Ron tell Wyatt that she could help find the stolen drugs? Or that he’d ‘take care of her’. He’d said on the phone that he had a lot to talk to her about, that it was complicated. Clearly, he did, and it was.
But something else nagged at Harper: Larry. When he’d come to her office, he’d said that Graham had been dispensing the drug dosages for his research group. That Graham’s drugs were part of their study. But the vial in Graham’s bag had been stolen, not part of a study. So which was it? Was Larry trying to find legitimate test drugs or stolen ones? Harper had suspicions but not facts. And there were five minutes until class; the dean would be waiting. She had to leave. ‘Anna? We have to go.’
Anna blinked rapidly. ‘Loot, I swear. Those people at the Neurology Center – they did something to Graham. I know it. He never would have jumped—’
‘Anna.’ Harper looked into her eyes. ‘Your doctors at the Center are excellent. They aren’t going to hurt you.’ She was pretty sure she was right.
‘OK. Don’t believe me. But I’m telling you, something’s going on there, and if they find out what I know, I could end up like Graham.’ Upset, Anna stood too quickly.
Harper caught her as she fell and held her up, positioning her comfortably on the couch. She was late for class, but, as she hurried down the steps to the Arts Quad, she called Ron on her cell. She had a lot of questions, but Ron wasn’t available. Harper got his voicemail, left a message and ran into White Hall, climbed four flights of stairs and rushed into the hallway where the dean waited, scowling.
Class was a jumble of harrumphing by the dean, a brief talk by a grief counselor from Health Services and an unsuccessful attempt by Harper to open a discussion about Graham and his suicide. Despite her assignment, no one had prepared anything and no one volunteered to talk.
‘Nothing? Not one of you wants to say anything?’
Fourteen students had shown up; fourteen pairs of eyes diverted from Harper’s.
Gwen squirmed. ‘It’s too personal.’
Pam nodded agreement.
‘OK. Then write it down. Use the rest of the hour to write about what happened.’
Shuffling. Chairs scraping the floor. Students settling down to work.
Harper sat at her desk beside the fan. The assignment had nothing to do with Archeology; still, it was important. The group needed to acknowledge their own pain as well as their fallen comrade.
Esoso stared out the window, writing nothing, finally scrawling on his paper, ‘Dead is dead. I have nothing to say,’ and walking out.
Larry left next. On the way out, he leaned too close. ‘Hey, Loot.’ His voice was low. ‘I wonder if you found that study sheet? You know, the page numbers Graham had?’
‘Sorry.’ Harper shook her head and took his paper, a jagged, almost illegible composition.
Monique had trouble writing; she said she’d hurt her arm in a fall. The gauze of her bandage was, no surprise, bright pink, matching the rest of her outfit. Monique wrote about a different color, though – the color of blood; about how deep crimson now permeated her visions, even her dreams.
Shaundra’s piece described a classroom haunted by the spirit of a troubled, hovering soul. Jeremy’s detailed the moment in which Graham’s body made impact with the concrete below, describing in graphic detail what occurred to each of Graham’s individual body parts. Pam wrote about the incident from a grasshopper’s point of view; it was, he’d thought, the end of days.
Kevin was the last to hand in his paper. It was a pencil drawing of an agonized face.
Back in her office, Harper found Anna just as she’d left her. Harper sat at her desk, staring out the window at the heavy clouds blanketing the sky. Even in the middle of the day, the light was dim and bleak. Like her mood. Get up, she told herself. Go out. But she wanted company. No, not just company; she wanted Hank, the pre-accident Hank.
Her office phone startled her.
‘You called?’ Ron sounded warm and untroubled. Not like a man about to feed her to the fish. ‘Everything OK? You’re not canceling tonight, are you?’
Tonight? Oh right. Dinner. ‘No, nothing that serious.’
‘What’s up?’
‘Not much. Just that I’ve learned I’m in grave danger because of some stolen drugs.’
‘No, really. Why did you call?’ Ron sounded impatient.
‘I’m serious. Did you by any chance tell Dr Wyatt I’d help you get the drugs back?’
A sigh. ‘Harper, you’re not making sense. Look, we said we’d talk over dinner. Why don’t we wait till then and I’ll explain everything.’
