by Crider, Bill
Earl Fox laughed and scattered ashes all over his colorful shirt. "What did you expect people to say? Everybody knew that Dr. Miller was behind this thing a hundred percent. Surely you didn't think anyone was going to cross him, did you?"
Burns shook his head.
"Of course not," Fox said, crushing the Cost Cutter in the new purple ashtray. "There may be a new administration, but some things just don't change. Besides, half the faculty's hoping Miller will appoint them Academic Dean, and they're all staying on his good side. Elmore may be dead, but he's still causing trouble."
It was true. The College Board had decided to let the new president pick his own second-in-command, and many of the current faculty hoped that Miller would choose from among the ranks. Their theory was that the devil you knew was better than the devil you didn't. Burns liked to remind anyone who said that about the last dean chosen from among the ranks—Dean Elmore, one of the biggest mistakes in the school's long history.
"So you think there might be some underground opposition to honoring Street?" Burns said.
"I'd say so," Tomlin answered. "But that's just what I'd guess from what I heard."
"I wish you could remember who said that," Burns told him.
Tomlin tried, through at least three more cigarettes, but he couldn't recall, so they all trooped downstairs to see where the pigeons were getting into the building.
It was easy to spot the place, or places, since there were plenty of the birds busily engaged in flying in and out.
"They should have taken better care of those windows," Tomlin said, stating the obvious.
He smiled at Burns. "Right over your office, too."
It was true. Burns's office was stuck out on the side of the building in what might have at one time been planned for an elevator shaft. Above it was a sort of bell tower that had never housed a bell and in which there were several tall windows, all of them with broken panes.
"I wonder how those panes got broken," Fox said.
Tomlin lit a Merit with a green Bic disposable lighter. "I bet it was that storm we had last year right at the end of school."
Burns and Fox nodded. That had to be it. There had been a tremendous thunderstorm with lightning and considerable hail. One of the windows in Burns's office had been broken, and his books on that side of the room had gotten soaked.
That window had been fixed, but apparently no one from the maintenance crew had noticed the panes in the windows up above. Not that Burns blamed them. He hadn't noticed, either.
They went back up to the History lounge so that Fox could have one last smoke before ten o'clock, when they all had class again.
"Did you call about the pigeons?" Tomlin asked.
"Yes," Burns told him. "I talked to Clarice."
"Ah," Tomlin said. He had talked to Clarice before. "I hope they take care of them before the seminar. I'd hate to see a guest on our campus getting shit-a-cosis."
"Can you get that from pigeons?" Fox asked.
"I don't know," Burns said.
"I bet you can," Tomlin said darkly. "And God knows what else. There'll be a ton of fresh shit up there in a month."
On that jolly thought the nine-fifty bell rang, and they broke up the first History lounge meeting of the year.
Chapter 3
The week had gone by quickly and about as smoothly as first weeks ever do. There was only one disturbing incident, and that had nothing to do with the seminar.
Friday afternoon, Burns hung around Main much later than was his usual habit, or anyone's usual habit for that matter. After one o'clock on Friday, it was virtually impossible to find anyone in the building except for the occasional student-secretary who had been left behind to answer the telephone and cover for everyone who had left, which was everyone. Well, Rose, the maid, was there, but she had to be. Her job description called for her to work from seven until four.
The general feeling among the HGC faculty was that they would teach day and night, Monday through Friday morning, but that Friday afternoon belonged to them. As did Saturday and Sunday, of course.
As Mal Tomlin liked to put it, "There has to be some reason to get a Ph.D., right?" Friday afternoon was that reason for a lot of people, including Burns. It was what made all the years of graduate school worth the trouble.
On the Friday before the seminar, Burns was to meet Edward Street at the Pecan City airfield at 4:30. Not really having time to go home and relax, Burns decided to stay in his office and get a little ahead in reviewing his texts and note-taking for his classes. He didn't really have any grading to do, not that early in the semester.
As usual, he got sidetracked into list-making before the afternoon went on for long. Tomlin and Fox were already gone, so there was no one to meet in the History lounge, and the English faculty had left right after lunch, so Burns was practically alone in the building.
Bunni, his student-secretary, was there, but she was at the desk in the hallway that ran in front of the three offices occupied by Larry, Darryl, and Darryl, as the other three male English teachers were called. Burns had learned to transfer his calls to the phone on the desk where Bunni worked, just in case anyone ever called on Friday afternoon. As far as he knew, no one ever had.
The list he was working on was a particularly troublesome one that he called "Great American Writers That No One Ever Heard Of." He didn't like the title in the first place, because a lot of people had heard of the writers on it. He thought of changing it to "Great American Writers No One Thinks Are Great." That might be better.
It was Burns's theory that there were many novelists who had written very good books (though not great books, he had to admit that, and he thought he would have to take that part of the title out or change it, too) books as good as those read in most of the classrooms where American literature was taught.
But whereas everyone would agree that Norman Mailer was an important writer, no one wanted to talk about James Gould Cozzens and Guard of Honor, much less writers like John D. MacDonald and Ross Macdonald, both of whom, Burns was convinced, had written books every bit as good as a lot of Hemingway, most of Mailer, and almost all of Truman Capote.
He had begun the list three times, torn it up and started over, when he heard noises in the attic.
It wasn't the pigeons. He had already gotten used to the pigeons. This was much louder, and it was clear that someone was up there. There was a lot of tromping around by what could only have been human feet, followed by a frenzy of beating wings that sounded almost like thunder.
Then he heard the gunshots, or at least he thought they might have been gunshots. He hadn't had enough experience to be sure.
The pigeons were going wild, and Burns was about to go see what was happening when Bunni came running into his office.
Bunni in full flight was a sight to see; she jiggled delightfully in all the right places, and Burns had to keep reminding himself that she was promised to George ("The Ghost") Kaspar, an HGC football player. She was also so many years younger than Burns that he often told himself that her mother was more in his own age bracket, which was a painful truth that he didn't dwell on any longer than absolutely necessary.
"Dr. Burns!" she shouted. "Dr. Burns!" There's something going on in the attic!"
Bunni had a talent for stating the obvious, and she also chewed gum, two more reasons why Burns's fantasies about her never lasted for very long. And of course there was her name. Even if she had been as old as Burns, there would have been the name.
"I noticed the noises, Bunni," he said, trying to be as calm as she was excited. He was older and had to keep up at least the appearance of serenity in the face of the unknown.
"Do you think . . . I mean, can you . . . well, . . . ."
The noise was right overhead now, and dirt and feathers were filling the air. "I think I'd better see what's happening," he said. He didn't want to stay in there much more than Tomlin had, though he didn't share Mal's fears of parrot fever.
He and Bunni both
went out into the hall and down to the storeroom door, which stood open. There was a note taped to the door that said:
Rose had taped the note to the door almost a year ago, and this was the first time since then that Burns had seen the door open.
At the back of the storeroom was the stairway that led to the attic. Burns was about to go investigate, when he heard someone coming down the stairs. He and Bunni backed away to see who it was.
It was a boy about eleven or twelve years old, carrying some kind of rifle. He was followed by a wolfish-looking man whose thick black hair was combed back on the sides of his head. He had a distinct widow's peak, like Eddie Munster. He was carrying a black plastic trash bag.
"Who's that?" Bunni whispered.
"Mr. Fairly," Burns said. "He's the Maintenance Supervisor, and that must be his son."
"What's he got in that bag?"
"I don't know," Burns said, which was the truth, although he had a pretty good idea. He just wasn't going to tell Bunni, unsure how she might react.
"It's probably just trash," he said, but he suspected that it was something else.
Dead pigeons.
Burns had not felt like accosting Fairly, so he sent Bunni back to her desk with the assurance that the attic had just needed a good cleaning.
He went back to brush up his office as best he could before going to meet Edward Street.
He got to the airfield, ten miles out of town and a relic of a World War II Army camp, just in time. Street had arrived and was ready to be driven to his motel.
For Burns, it was not a fortunate meeting. For some reason, he took an instant dislike to Street.
Maybe it was the way the man dressed. Like Franklin Miller, Street had been a college track star. Unlike, Miller, he had never gotten over it. He was wearing a royal blue silk warm-up jacket with the name "Speed" embroidered in red over his heart. "Speed" had been Street's college nickname, and he apparently still used it, though he looked anything but speedy. In fact, he looked as if he might die of heart failure if he had to do anything more energetic than type a line of poetry.
He was about five feet seven or eight inches tall, and he must have weighed a hundred and eighty pounds, with a lot of it concentrated in the stomach.
He had a round head, and Burns thought immediately of Charlie Brown, except that Street had thin black hair that looked dyed and probably was, considering the man's age.
When Burns introduced himself, Street tried to crush his hand and very nearly succeeded. Maybe all that fat was really muscle, Burns thought, trying not to give any indication that his hand felt a little like a horse had stepped on it.
"Glad to meet you, Burns," Street said. "Those are my bags." He pointed to two giant brown Samsonite leather bags near the car rental desk. "Where's your car?"
Burns showed Street the 1967 Plymouth Fury III, and though the writer looked astonished, he didn't say anything. He just went outside and got in, leaving Burns to get the bags.
Burns told himself that he didn't mind and that, after all, Street was a guest. He picked up the bags, though it was hard to grip the one in his right hand, and staggered outside, wondering if Street had brought along his entire wardrobe. Or perhaps two bags of bricks. He was sure that he was going to have a strained back from carrying them.
Fortunately, the Plymouth, in addition to being able to seat eight adults, had a trunk in which you could hide a small elephant. Burns hoisted the bags in one at a time and slammed the lid. He didn't even have to lay the bags over on their sides.
"Hell of a car," Street said when Burns got in. "I have a Porsche, myself."
"Umm," Burns said, starting the Plymouth. There was a loud roar—the car needed a new muffler—and a large puff of white smoke came from the tail pipe.
"Looks like you could use a ring job," Street said.
"Umm." Burns put the car in drive and started back to town.
Street made himself comfortable on the wide front seat. "I bought the Porsche right after Dying Voices hit it big. I figured I deserved it. Some people like diamonds, I wanted a Porsche."
"Right," Burns said, concentrating on the road. "That certainly sounds reasonable to me."
"Of course I never could have afforded it on my salary at good old HGC," Street went on. He was the type who apparently didn't need much encouragement when it came to talking. "I don't suppose they're paying any better these days, are they?"
"Probably not," Burns said.
"Didn't think so. But at least it's a job. Better than nothing. I could have done a lot better for myself after Voices, naturally. Plenty of schools will pay to get a famous writer on the staff just to teach one class. But I thought I'd try one more book, see where that got me. Boy am I glad I did."
"You don't miss teaching then?" Burns asked.
Street gave Burns a sideways glance, snorted, and then laughed aloud. "Don't try to kid me, Burns. You know you'd jump at the chance to quit. Anyone would. Spending your life correcting comma splices for people who don't give a damn, trying to teach the difference between a fragment and a sentence to kids who'll never write anything any more ambitious than a letter to their mamas, and who won't do that if there's a telephone within reach—what kind of life is that? No thanks."
Burns was tempted to argue, but he didn't. He had to admit that Street had a point, but there was something about teaching, or trying to teach that Burns liked, something that he would miss if he left the profession, or at least that's what he told himself, despite the fact that he would not really have minded owning a Porsche.
"I know what you're thinking," Street said. "But it's bullshit. You wouldn't miss those students for more than five minutes, I promise you. You can do all the lecturing you want to at writers' workshops if you need the ego boo."
Burns didn't think he needed ego boo. He thought he just liked to teach. There was something, after all, about seeing someone, even just one someone, catch on to an idea, or learn to write a complete sentence, or suddenly discover that he loved to read poetry after having told his buddies for most of his life that poetry was for sissies.
He couldn't tell any of that to Street, however, and Street probably would not have believed him anyway. Street got his pleasure from other kinds of things.
"You know," he was saying, "I told myself after I left HGC that I'd never come back, even if Dying Voices was a total failure. Maybe especially if it was a failure. I don't think I could have faced that. People around here always treated me like some kind of freak, just because I was a real writer, like most of them wanted to be if the truth were known, instead of someone who wanted to spend his life grading the writings of semi-literate cretins. The only place they ever got published was in some little magazine with a circulation of about ten. I promised myself I'd never return unless I was invited and unless I could come in style."
"Miss Darling told me you were a dynamic teacher," Burns ventured.
"Is that old bat still around? My God, she must be a hundred and ten. Or older. She was practically senile when I was here."
"She's still doing a fine job," Burns said, moved to defend Miss Darling even if what Street said was uncomfortably close to the truth. Last spring Miss Darling had tried to check her gradebook in at the library circulation desk, insisting that it was overdue.
That was only a momentary aberration, however, and it hadn't caused much of a fuss, since the head librarian had been on duty at the time and had told no one except Burns. The librarian had retired in the spring, and Burns was quite interested in the replacement, a certain Miss Tanner.
"Well, it's good to hear that Miss Darling is still doing well," Street said insincerely. "How about old Don Elliott?"
Elliott was the chairman of speech and drama, a short, shriveled man with an impressive voice. He had done fairly well for himself in HGC terms, having what amounted to free room and board for himself and his wife, in addition to their salaries. In Street's terms, however, that would be next to nothing.
"He's doin
g very well, too," Burns said. "His students did a fine job with last year's musical. Oklahoma. They'll be doing a Shakespeare play this year."
"I'm sure it'll be wonderful," Street said. "Poor old Don always thought he was going to be the next Olivier. I bet he never thought I'd be big in Hollywood."
He was silent for a minute, then said, "That was some doings you had with Elmore last year, wasn't it?" Burns didn't know how to take that. Did the "you" mean Burns specifically, or did it mean the school?
"Too bad Elmore got knocked off," Street went on. "He was a fine guy. One of the best. He and I always got along."
If Street was a friend of Elmore's, Burns thought, that explained a lot. He had never before met anyone who liked Elmore but somehow he wasn't surprised. The two men were a lot alike. Elmore, however, was not one of Burns's favorite topics, and he decided that it was time to change the subject.
"What did you think of the papers we received for the seminar?" he asked. As a courtesy, he had sent copies of the papers to be read for Street's perusal.
"Didn't read them," Street said. "I quit reading stuff about myself a long time ago. I never believe any of the bad things, and the good things just give me an inflated opinion of myself."
He was trying to sound modest, as if he didn't really mean that it was possible for his ego to be inflated, but he couldn't quite pull it off. Burns wondered if he was lying about having read the papers.
Street looked as if he might have had more to say on the subject of whether he read about himself, but there wasn't time. They had arrived at the motel.
Burns was just as glad. It had been a long ten miles, and he wasn't looking forward to the banquet that night at all.
Chapter 4
When Burns thought about it later, especially when he was feeling uncharitable, he wished that Street had been killed before the banquet. It would have saved everyone—except Street, who appeared immune—a lot of embarrassment.
