“Are you two….”
“I don’t know. We had ten good years. It was a rich time. We travelled to interesting places, were passionate lovers, and wonderful companions. The difference in our ages didn’t seem to matter. Then Clifford got cancer. They didn’t give us much hope at first. We went up to Rochester. I think they cured him, but at a cost.”
They sat in silence for several minutes, then Ray asked, “Where would you go, what would you do?”
“I don’t know. I think we’re both afraid that we’ll just take our emotional baggage with us. Things are just so damn complex.” Stephanie paused, then asked, “Will the Bensen investigation take a lot of time?”
“I don’t think so. It’s still early, but everything says suicide. I can see how Bensen might have felt that life wasn’t worth living.” He stopped and looked over at Stephanie. “You have an insider’s view of the English department. Are there people who might...?”
“Have a motive, no. Sheila was impossible. She was full of anger, full of hate, a master at extracting guilt and often extremely unpleasant. But you don’t kill someone for that. Besides, in the English department they are all talk and no action.”
Elkins pressed, “You can’t think of anyone?”
“No, especially now. Sheila was no longer a threat. Once you’re out of the tenure race, you’re a non-person, a leper. People just wanted her to go away.”
“You’re talking about professional things. How about personal relationships?”
“I don’t know everything that happens in the department, but I don’t think so. She had no love interest there. She wasn’t stealing a husband—or wife—as far as I know. No, I don’t think there was enough passion on anyone’s part to do her in.”
“Tuesday night, I don’t know if I thanked you. Dinner was wonderful. Hard to be vegetarian when I’m tempted with roast lamb.”
She stood up as if she was going to leave and then approached him, bent over and gave him a wet kiss. She knew he had to be looking at her breasts.
“You’re more of a carnivore than you realize,” she said playfully. “Remember the party Saturday night.”
“I thought you probably cancelled it.”
“We had the caterer, the food was ordered, and no one was saying we shouldn’t have the party. Quite the opposite. Like I said, in her colleagues’ eyes, Sheila was a non-person long before she jumped from the carillon.”
13
Friday afternoon a few minutes before 2:00 P.M., Ray and Char Pascoe were standing outside of the Campus Interfaith Chapel. “Strange, I walked by this building hundreds of times during my years here and didn’t ever quite notice what this place was.”
“So you were never inside?” asked Ray.
“Not once. Why are they doing this?”
“Chesterton told me it’s something one of Pearson’s PR people dreamed up. Having Bensen kill herself, especially in such a public way, doesn’t look good for the university. From the beginning of her tenure fight, some of the campus women’s groups contended that the administration was trying to unload her because of her political activities. So this is the school’s attempt to say that the university really cared.”
She laughed, “Would I be too cynical to suggest that if this isn’t pure hypocrisy, it is, at least, bad taste?”
“No cynicism on your part. You’ve demonstrated the rare ability to perceive the obvious with great clarity. But even when you were an undergraduate, I saw that.”
“You’re almost funny, and I used to think you were just one more boring middle-aged....”
“Careful.”
“But, why am I here?” Pascoe asked. “I hate funerals, I’m not much of a church person and....”
“And now you’re an adult, an employee, a member of the university community. As part of your initiation, you have to learn about the way we bury our dead. And seriously, we’re here gathering data. I want to see who’s here, what they say, how they act. Look at it as just part of the job.”
Elkins and Pascoe slipped into a side door of the chapel—a splendid example of 60s ugliness—bad design and a strange mix of materials: thin blond bricks, field stone, redwood, copper, brushed aluminum, and weathered shake shingles. The stained glass windows were abstract representations with religious motifs. A small sign under each window contained the artist’s interpretation of the work.
The lobby was jammed; Elkins and Pascoe skirted the crowd and got seats in the back, just off the side aisle. A large electric organ in the front, three steps up and on the far right of the nave, flooded the church with Bach. The woman at the keyboard—amply filling a large robe, her bleached blond hair in a beehive—played in a style that was more athletic than aesthetic.
“What’s the deal with the music?” asked Pascoe. “Where did they get the organist, a roller-rink?”
“Times are tough in Branson.”
Promptly at 3:00, the ushers urged the crowd in, the chapel filled from back to front. The organist launched into the Kyrie and Dies Irae from Mozart’s Requiem, played in swing time.
Elkins pointed to the crucifix above the altar. A pained looking Christ in bleached wood sagged from a large, hammered, copper cross. “Look to the left,” he whispered and motioned toward a Star of David and a small Crescent Moon and Star in a dull aluminum, hanging low on the wall. “Who says the university’s administration doesn’t recognize diversity?”
The organist moved into the opening of the Brahms Academic Overture. Chesterton and Dean Bertram Bateson, in full academic regalia, led the procession up the center aisle. They were closely followed by Father Bob, Chancellor Pearson, and several dozen more faculty members in robes and academic hoods.
Pascoe asked, “What the hell’s going on?”
“The dress or the music?”
“Both, either.”
“Well, they usually only get to wear that stuff twice a year at graduation. I’m sure they’re delighted to have another chance. The choice of music, that’s academic.” He gestured, turning his hand over and opening his palm with a “what the hell did you expect?” look on his face.
“Who are all these people?”
“Deans, regents, faculty members, anyone who likes to dress up and strut, especially those who enjoy mourning in public. I’m sure we have our share of death followers here, also.”
After the procession was seated in the front, a young woman in her late twenties or early thirties, mounted the pulpit. Her glued-on smile gave her a slightly crazed looked. She stood and peered at the congregation for more than a minute holding the painful smile.
“Who’s that?” Pascoe asked.
“That’s our official chaplain, Patsy Lynn Jolly. Pretty liberal of the administration to have a woman represent the university in celestial affairs.”
She began, “I bring you greetings from Jesus Christ and the Kingdom of God. And I have great news, wonderful news, terrific news. Sheila Bensen is with him. Our dear friend and colleague is now beyond the pain and suffering of this world. Sheila is now in eternal joy.”
Patsy Lynn rambled on for quite some time. The congregation became increasingly restless. Finally, she asked the congregation to stand and join her in reciting the Lord’s Prayer. Elkins looked around to see who was participating.
Chesterton spoke next. Standing high over the congregation, he began, his rich voice booming out at the audience.
“From medieval times, the university has been a community of scholars, an order committed to the pursuit of truth and the preservation of knowledge. We share the joys of discovery, and the pleasures of scholarly accomplishment, and we take pride in passing our collected knowledge from generation to generation. But like all communities, we also share sadness and loss, so it is that today we gather to mourn the passing of our esteemed colleague, Professor Sheila Bensen, a remarkable woman and a dedicated teacher. She understood a scholar’s obligation to the needs of....”
“Fucking hypocrite,” came a loud whisper.
> Elkins looked in vain for the source.
“....and her many contributions will be remembered and honored. Her work will remain part of the rich legacy of this university. We celebrate her life. We mourn her passing.”
Father Bob followed Chesterton. “We are gathered here today to remember Sheila Bensen. She was a remarkable woman and committed and caring teacher, and in her own unique way, a devoted Catholic....”
Father Bob’s comments were very brief. Then he invited members of the congregation to come forward and say a few words about Benson. At least a dozen did; all but one were female. The one male, a tall gangly kid with orange hair, told the congregation how Bensen changed his life by taking him out of this century and connecting him with the past. The others, serious looking women, talked about Bensen’s commitment to the women’s movement and to social justice. Elkins noted that their sincerity and passion was more compelling than the earlier remarks.
The service concluded with a young woman, backed by guitars, singing “Amazing Grace,” slightly off key and with a Nashville twang. The organist pounded some up-tempo Bach for the recessional. Elkins and Pascoe slipped out a side door.
“What now?” asked Pascoe.
“There will be a reception at the University Club. Sherry, small sandwiches, cheese and crackers, a silver tray with chocolates, and polite conversation.”
“Are we going to take this in, too?”
“I’ve got some other things I’ve got to get done. You can go if you want to.”
“No thanks. Let me ask you this. What did you learn or see there, anything significant?”
Elkins smiled at her. “You don’t usually have an ‘aha’ experience when you’re confronted with new knowledge, the ‘aha’ comes later when you’ve had an opportunity to integrate it with everything else you know. That’s when you make the cognitive leap.”
“And when is that going to happen?”
“You can never tell. Sometimes it’s at 3:00 A.M. Some times when you’re in the shower, or walking, or driving. You’ve just got to let things percolate.”
“Aha,” said Pascoe.
14
Ray spent Saturday in his office doing catch-up on the paperwork. It was the kind of task he hated. First he had to review and sign several dozen purchase orders. Then he read through and approved leave requests. And last he had to respond to dozens of memos, most coming via e-mail, many requiring a carefully written response. Without the interruptions of the normal workday, Ray was able to complete most of the work that had piled up as his attention had been directed at the investigation of the death of Sheila Bensen.It was early evening by the time he returned home. He settled on his deck with a microwave dinner and the Times, the sun low on the horizon. The sound of voices in the Chesterton’s yard indicated that the English Department party was already in full swing.
Ray was almost through the Op Ed section when he was startled by Stephanie’s sudden appearance out of the shadows.
“Are you coming over, or are you just going to sit here?”
“I thought maybe I’d sit here. I’m awfully tired and not feeling very social.”
“Come on Elkins, you’ve got to stop this. You can’t become a hermit. You’ve got to get on with your life.”
“I’d have to shower and shave and….”
“You look fine. If you want, you can throw on a sport coat, but even that isn’t necessary. You know how the men in the English department dress. Half of them won’t wear a coat. Come on.” Stephanie was behind his chair, pulling it back from the table and herding him into the house.
“I’ll get you a coat.” She disappeared into the house. Stephanie had been Ellen’s best friend and knew Elkins’s house almost as well as her own. He could visualize her marching into the bedroom, opening the walk-in closet, and looking through his sport coats, quickly rejecting most of them.
She reappeared with a blue, lightweight blazer.
Ray looked at it. “That’s fairly wrinkled.”
“It’s the best there is. Everything in there should be sent to the cleaners.” Pulling the coat off the hanger she said,
“Come on Elkins. You’ll look terrific in it.” She helped him into the jacket, then stood in front of him and straightened the collar. She kissed him, full on the mouth. “You’re a good man, Ray. Good men shouldn’t be wasted.” Taking him by the hand, she led him out of the house and across the lawn to her house. They pushed their way into the living room.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Scotch.”
Ray watched her fight to the bar. When she got back, she handed him two glasses and said, “Thought I better get you a couple of drinks while I was there.”
Elkins sipped one of the drinks. “This tastes like straight Scotch.”
“Shouldn’t ruin it with water. Besides, you’re behind the rest.”
Stephanie got a look of delight as she surveyed the crowd. “This party is something. Everyone comes, gets drunk, and forgets that they hate each other. I love seeing Clifford’s distinguished colleagues get all cleaned up and then act like a bunch of animals. Free food and booze makes them crazy.”
She pointed to two waiters, one clearing the way, the other carrying a large punch bowl filled with shrimp. Before they got to the serving table, people were reaching over and around one another, picking handfuls from the bowl. Eventually the waiters set the bowl on the table, but their retreat was made difficult because the crowd surged forward to snatch the last remnants from the bowl.“Note the blood frenzy,” continued Stephanie. “It’s common to sharks, piranhas, grizzly bears in heat, and down-at-the-heels humanities professors.”
“It’s quite astonishing.”
“The first few years I found this embarrassing, but now I’m amused.”
Reda Rudd slid her arm through Elkins’s and playfully bumped a hip against his. He noted that her party uniform was a far cry from her undergraduate, activist/editor garb. The Birkenstocks, T-shirt, and shorts had been replaced by a more sophisticated persona, chic and tailored. The Scotch was starting to hit. Elkins looked at the fashionable Reda, seeing her in a different way.
The sensation passed. Reda seemed to be with someone, older then her, but still quite young. She introduced the man, Gus Ginopolis, as a member of the English department. Over the noise he picked up bits and pieces of the conversation.
Stephanie liberated him from the triangle. With charm and skill she led him toward the kitchen. She was stopped along the way by a man who, in Italian, launched into a long, highly-animated speech; he was tall, thin, African-black, with James Baldwin eyes and hands that moved with each inflection. Stephanie rattled back in Italian; she smiled, but Elkins sensed that she was trying to extricate herself. She pulled someone new into the conversation, a woman—short, round, wrapped in brightly painted material, face layered with powder, chopsticks jutting from a gray-black bun. Once they’d started talking, she pulled Elkins away. He passed his drinks to a waiter.
From the kitchen, she guided him through the basement door. As they went down the steps Elkins asked, “Who were those people?
“Faculty. The woman’s Bobby Jo Hendrickson,” Stephanie replied.
Who was that man speaking Italian?”
“That was Seneca Carducci.”
“What does he do?”
She paused at the base of the steps and turned to him; she put her arms around his neck and leaned into him. “His dissertation was on the writers of the Harlem Renaissance. He was hired to expand an Afro-American lit program. But a few years after he got here he had a Fulbright in Italy. There he discovered—don’t ask me how—that his true ethnic heritage was Italian. When he came back he changed his name and refused to teach any more Black lit courses, saying he was being discriminated against. Now he says he’s a Dante and Nabokov specialist.”
“Interesting combination. And the Italian?”
“When he’s had a few drinks, he loses his capacity to speak English. He says that
was the final proof—in his last life he was in Renaissance Italy. He’s sure he was a Medici. Always wears those black suits. The man is very taken with Italian gangsters—Italy, not Chicago. I know this all sounds crazy—being slightly drunk makes it more plausible.”
“No,” Elkins shook his head.
Stephanie opened a heavy door, pulled him forward and pushed it shut behind them. She turned off the lights. He saw rows of bottles on racks before the room went black. He felt her opening his shirt and running her hands over his chest. She pulled away from him, and then he felt her naked breasts, her tongue slowly sliding back and forth between his lips.
She pulled away. A few seconds later the lights went on and she was dressed, looking unruffled. He reached for her, but she moved beyond his grasp. Then she turned and buttoned his shirt.
“You have a nice chest,” she taunted.
“So do you.” Then the anger hit. “What the hell are you doing? This isn’t fair to me, it isn’t fair to....”
“Isn’t fair to whom...to Clifford? You know about us, he doesn’t care. To Ellen, she’s dead, Elkins. It’s been a year. You want me, and you don’t know how to deal with it.”
“But this kind of teasing...”
“I want to tease you. I want you to get angry. I haven’t seen any affect for months. I’m going to push you until I know you’re alive again.” She playfully slapped him a few times, two hands, one on each cheek.
She grabbed his hand and pulled him along, turned and kissed him quickly at the top of the steps, and then said, “Come on, there’s someone I want to introduce you to.”
She guided him through the chaos, moving toward a group in the living room and extracted a woman—petite, attractive—from the group. Stephanie introduced them. “Jane, this is Ray Elkins, the man I told you about. Elkins, this is Jane Arden.” Stephanie tried to get a conversation going, but was pulled away by a member of the catering staff.
After a few minutes of trying to talk over the noise, Jane suggested they go out and get some air. She led the way toward the front door. They paused and looked into the library. Chesterton was holding court, a circle of junior faculty members hanging on every word.
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