Final Exam

by Maggie Barbieri

  “So, what did Wayne usually talk about with all of you at these meetings?” I asked, perching gingerly on the edge of the credenza against the wall. I assumed that word of Wayne’s unceremonious departure had swept the dorm and that we didn’t need to cover that.

  My question was met with a bunch of vacant stares, with the exception of Amanda, who looked up at the ceiling as if it held great interest.

  “Any issues?”

  Nothing.

  “Any concerns?”

  Michael Columbo spoke up. “Yeah. I need someone to cover the desk for me Wednesday night. I have to work.” He dribbled his basketball a few times, deftly working it between his legs. He pretended to shoot at an imaginary basket.

  Impressive, I thought, watching his basketball skill. I wondered about his “work.” Wasn’t being an RA a job? “Okay. Any takers?” I asked. There was murmuring and mumbling about plans made and studying to do but no commitments. I looked around. “Spencer? What about you?” He didn’t look like the type who would have an impressive social calendar, but who was I to know, really? I took the chance that I was right.

  He responded with a huge sigh and a shake of his blond, overgrown mop.

  “Is that a ‘no’?” I asked.

  “I’ve got a Japanese anime convention in the city that night.”

  Of course you do. That was so weird that I knew he hadn’t made it up. If you’re going to lie, you usually use something a little less, well, specific. “What do you do if nobody can do it?” I had a feeling I knew the answer but I hoped against hope that I was wrong.

  Amanda looked at me. “The RD has to do it.”

  Of course they do, I thought. I looked at her and smiled weakly. “Is that what Wayne used to do?”

  They all nodded in unison.

  “Wayne was the best,” Amanda said, her eyes filling with tears.

  “Well, he’s not dead! We don’t have to talk about him in the past tense,” I reminded her. “Why was he the best?” I asked. I looked around the room. “Anyone?” I felt like I was leading the “Wayne Brookwell Seminar” with a group of unwilling students.

  Everyone was silent. Finally, Bart Johannsen stopped twirling his lacrosse stick long enough to proclaim, “Wayne was just really cool.”

  What a testament. “Anything else?”

  “Really cool,” an RA named Jamie chimed in. There was a collective murmur of “cool, really cool,” uttered by the RAs.

  “What made him cool?” I asked.

  “He just was,” Amanda said, wiping another tear from her eye. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  Why? Because I’m old? Or because I hated him for putting me in this predicament? I obviously wasn’t going to get anywhere tonight, so I called the meeting to an end at precisely seven oh seven and headed back to my room.

  Crawford was leaning against the door to the janitor’s closet, across from my room, talking on his cell phone. He smiled when he saw me coming down the hall.

  “I love you, too,” he said to the person on the other end of the conversation, and mouthed “Erin” to me. She was one of his twin seventeen-year-old daughters, and from what I had both gathered and observed, the needier of the two. “You, too, honey. Sleep well.” He flipped his phone shut. “You can’t joke to me that you’re bleeding internally and not expect me to follow up.” He gave me the once-over, holding me at arm’s length. “You look pretty good.”

  “Pretty good?” I asked. “Pretty good?” I repeated, my voice rising. “I expect better than that.”

  “You look amazing,” he revised. He gave me a hug and it didn’t hurt, so that was a good sign.

  “Did the guys in the radio car turn up anything?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Nothing. They went through the cemetery and all of the usual hiding places on campus, but nothing.”

  I hadn’t expected that they would turn up anything, including Wayne, but it was worth a try, I guess. “I’d ask you to come in, but you know, I wouldn’t want to look like a hussy,” I reminded him, shrugging my shoulders apologetically.

  He nodded. “I know. And I wish I could take you to dinner but I have to go back to work.”

  “I’ve got an entire cold pizza in there. Want to take a few slices back to the precinct?”

  He mulled it over. “No. But thanks. I’ll pick up a sandwich on my way back.” He looked me over once again. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Really. Go back to work.”

  “Stay out of the cemetery,” he pleaded.

  I hustled him toward the door. “I will. Promise.” I crossed my fingers over my heart. Even in my heels, I was still not tall enough to reach him without standing on my tiptoes. I kissed him good night, my toes squishing into the front of my heels. “Now go. If you get found here after eleven, I’ll have to write you up. And then I’ll get written up, and suffice it to say, it will be a big giant mess.”

  “I wouldn’t want that.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” I said, and watched him as he went through the side door and back to his police-issue Crown Victoria. I gave him a little wave as he drove off.

  “Good night, Crawford,” I whispered, tracing a little heart on the glass on the door.

  Ten

  I got up at the crack of dawn the next day and walked down to the river with Trixie, who I have to say was really enjoying her new accommodations. I always looked at Trixie and thought that I should adopt her devil-may-care attitude; as far as she was concerned, as long as I was around, she was happy. It didn’t matter where we were or what we were doing; I made her happier than anything, or anyone, else.

  But she did love the water. My house in Dobbs Ferry is fairly close to the river, but not as close as my dorm room. Trixie and I wended our way along the path that led from the dorm all the way down to the water’s edge, where I let her off the leash. She stopped short of going into the water, surprisingly; golden retrievers love to swim, but she seemed more interested in getting done what she had come out to do and digging a hole in the narrow shoreline. The sun rose behind us, its early morning rays warming my back as I watched her frolic in the soft sand.

  I looked at my watch and saw that we had been walking for close to an hour. My thoughts had been focused on Wayne and where he was. If that had been him in the cemetery, that meant he was close by. And what role did Sister Mary play in all of this? Did she know that Wayne was in trouble and had she stashed him somewhere else on campus? I ran through a bunch of scenarios in my head but came to the conclusion that my primary goal—as it had always been—was to find Wayne Brookwell.

  I had an eight o’clock class, which meant that Trixie and I had to hurry back up the hill to the dorm. I put the dog on the leash again and started walking briskly up the steep incline toward the dorm. I passed a couple of guys on their way up the hill, towels slung around their necks, fresh from a swim in the indoor pool. St. Thomas didn’t have a swim team but it had renovated the pool building since I had been a student and now it was used more than when it was a green, murky mess in the bottom of the Student Union. I waved to one of the guys, the practitioner of anime—and apparently, swimmer—Spencer Williamson.

  “Hi, Spencer!” I called.

  “What are you doing on campus so early, Dr. Bergeron?” he asked, peeling away from his group and coming over to give Trixie a quick hug. He took in my sweatpants and jeans jacket. We were midway up the steep hill to the men’s dorm and I was grateful for the break.

  “I live here, remember?”

  He shook his wet mop and droplets of water sprayed everywhere. “Oh, right!” he said. He gave himself a knock to the head. “Can’t believe I forgot that.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. I wasn’t that memorable as a teacher, and now was nonexistent as a resident director.

  “Nice dog. She yours?”

  “She sure is,” I said.

  “How do you like living here?” he asked.

  I was a little stunned. A student who care
d about my comfort and well-being? That was unusual. “Well, I wish Wayne hadn’t left campus but I’m making the best of it.”

  “Left campus? More like hightailed it out of here.” He shifted from one foot to the other, a broad-shouldered man with a boy’s face and demeanor.

  “Did you see him leave?”

  He looked at me, deciding how much he was going to tell me.

  “Come on, Spencer,” I said. “The longer he’s missing, the longer I’m you’re RD. And from what I gather, Wayne was a really cool guy,” I added, even though I didn’t believe it. There was no way that doofus was cool, even if all of the RAs said so. I took that to mean he was completely checked out and they didn’t have to do their jobs with anything approaching competence.

  He hemmed and hawed a few more minutes before giving it up. “I saw him leave the night spring break started. In his car. I was waiting for my father to pick me up to go home and I saw Wayne peel out of the parking lot.”

  I didn’t know why he was reluctant to share that with me so I asked him.

  “You’re right. He was a cool guy. I just don’t want him to get into trouble.”

  So he left of his own accord and with his own car. “What kind of car did he drive?” I knew from experience with male students that they couldn’t remember to bring a pen to class but could recite make and model years of cars with alarming accuracy.

  “A Prius. Black.”

  How sensible of young Wayne. Not very cool, but sensible. I thanked Spencer and started back up the hill. He called after me.

  “You’re not going to tell anyone, right?”

  “Right,” I lied. What was with everyone and their trying to extract promises of silence? I wasn’t going to keep my trap shut and it was their fault for believing otherwise. The first thing I was going to do when I got back to my room was leave a message for Crawford.

  Trixie pulled me along and I made it to the top of the hill, panting slightly. My midsection still hurt and I promised myself that first chance I got, I was going to kick Wayne Brookwell in the nuts as retribution. He wasn’t directly responsible for my gravestone injury but he did play a major role in it.

  I got back to my room and heard my cell phone ringing, deep in the bottom of my purse. I pulled it out and flipped it open. “Hello?”

  “Me.”

  “Hi, Max. What’s happening?” I sat on the bed and prepared myself for a long-drawn-out conversation about love and marriage.

  “I’m going back to work today,” she said dully.

  “Good!” Max is the president and general manager of a very well-known and successful cable television station called Crime TV. I didn’t know how she had stayed away from work for so long and still had kept her job and I was hoping that indeed she had a job to go back to.

  “You think?” she asked, not sounding anything like the confident, carefree sprite that I knew her to be.

  “I think it’s great. You need to start getting back into your life, Max. Remember when I got divorced? What did you tell me?”

  She repeated her own words back to me in a monotone. “The sooner you start living, the sooner you’ll forget about that jackass.”

  That wasn’t exactly how I remembered it, but that was the gist of her advice all those months before. Max had been no fan of Ray, my ex, but she had kept up an amazingly good front for the entire time I had been married to him. “I think you called him a much worse name but that’s the basic idea.” And I didn’t think Fred was a jackass or otherwise, but I kept that to myself. “I think going back to work is a really great idea, Max.”

  “I’m so tired.”

  “I know. But getting into your regular routine will give you energy,” I said, pulling off my gym socks. “Didn’t you tell me that you’ve got a new reality show about Hooters’ waitresses who are really private investigators that you’re very excited about?”

  “I guess so,” she said flatly.

  “Focus on that,” I said.

  “You’re out of baked beans,” she said. Losing track of the conversation was one of the hallmarks of my phone calls with Max.

  “I’ll bring some home when I visit on the weekend. Now what are you wearing for your first day back?”

  “Well, right now I have on a black bra and tights.”

  She wasn’t going to get very far in that getup. But she might be able to make a few dollars. “Put on that cute pencil skirt and the pink flowered blouse.”

  She snorted derisively into the phone. “That doesn’t match!”

  I knew it didn’t and was hoping that I would get that reaction. By the time the phone call ended, she was sounding a little bit like her old self and I felt better. I smacked my head after I hung up. “I forgot to ask her about the paint!” I said to Trixie, who gave me a look that made it seem that she wasn’t surprised. I was hoping that Max’s going back to work would usher in a period of routine and order and, ultimately, reconciliation with her husband. Because after she went to work for a few days from my house to her job downtown, the commute, while not a terribly long ride, would definitely begin to wear on her. Max likes her world to be very small so that she can work as late as she likes yet still be home in fifteen minutes. Commuting on Metro North and being a slave to a train schedule was not in her plans; I was sure of that.

  I left Crawford a message about my conversation with Spencer and updated him on the house meeting from the night before. “Apparently, Wayne was really cool,” I said. “That’s all I know. And that he drives a black Prius. They haven’t been out that long, so I’m guessing it’s pretty new. Let me know what you find out.” I remembered that Crawford hadn’t gotten any information from DMV on Wayne, so I guessed that the car might be registered to his parents. “Try the parents. It’s not registered to him, but maybe to Eben or Geraldine?” If that didn’t make him cool, I didn’t know what would.

  After showering, I gave Trixie some fresh water and a bowl of food and headed out to the parking lot, where I saw Joe, one of the older and more rotund security guards sliding a ticket under my windshield wiper.

  “Joe!” I called. “What are you doing?”

  He looked at me sadly. “Sorry, Doc. I have my orders.”

  “Orders?”

  “You can’t park here. Pinto said he told you.”

  I walked over to the golf cart that Joe drove and placed my heavy messenger’s bag on the passenger seat. “You’re kidding, right? He’s got to be insane. I live here now.”

  Joe nodded. “And all residents need to park in the residents’ lot, up the hill,” he said, pointing east, a fat finger extended.

  I knew where the lot was. “But I live here now,” I repeated. Was Pinto really serious about enforcing that rule for me?

  He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. All residents park in the residents’ lot,” he said. “That means you.”

  “That does not mean me!” I protested. “This has been my spot for nine years.”

  “But you weren’t a resident for most of those nine years,” Joe explained slowly, as if talking to someone of impaired intellect. “Now you are. And you—”

  “Need to park in the residents’ lot,” we recited together.

  I figured that fighting with him wouldn’t get me anywhere, so I decided to exploit our long history together. “Come on, Joe. It’s me. I’m only going to be here temporarily so what does it matter if I leave the car here?” I asked, my tone conciliatory.

  “I have my orders.” He let the windshield wiper, which had been projecting out from the glass, slap back down. “You’ll have to move the car if you don’t want to get another ticket.” He got back into the golf cart and started to pull away. “Have a nice day.”

  I reached in and pulled out my messenger bag before he got too far. I saluted him. “You used to be one of the good guys, Joe!” I called after him but the whirr of the cart engine drowned out my voice. Or he chose not to acknowledge my last comment, because he didn’t turn around to respond.

  I was s
till muttering to myself as I let myself in the back door of the building where my office was and where I taught all of my classes. I saw that I had fifteen minutes before my first class so I bypassed my office and went straight to the commuter cafeteria where I could get a quick breakfast before my teaching day began. Fortunately, the friendly face of my old friend Marcus, the grill cook, was the first one I saw, down at the short end of the L-shaped food prep area.

  “Marcus,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief. “It is so good to see you.”

  He looked surprised at my overly enthusiastic greeting. “Good to see you, too,” he said in his musical Jamaican lilt. “The usual?”

  “If you mean two eggs and Canadian bacon on a roll, then yes,” I said, walking over to the coffee machine at the end of the food line. I filled a large cup with coffee and added a splash of milk, which I drank while waiting for my breakfast to come off the griddle. I was starving. I hadn’t given a lot of thought to what I would do for food, since I didn’t have a kitchen. I couldn’t afford to put on the “freshman fifteen” but was thinking that it would be extremely likely if every day held the promise of a bacon-and-egg sandwich for breakfast as well as a nightly pizza. I made a mental note to invite myself up to Kevin’s that night for dinner so I could have a home-cooked meal.