Appalled, Ramona said the unthinkable. “Then you were really glad he died.”
Marcy gave a vehement shake of her head. “No! Don’t you remember what I said the very first day I spoke to you—I was disappointed?”
Ramona said nothing as she stared at the woman sitting opposite her, the person who only a few moments before had been so completely unemotional. Clear, unadulterated, all-consuming hate shown in the flashing eyes.
“You seemed surprised at what I said then,” Marcia continued, the rage making her voice shake. “But I meant it. You see, I was looking forward to his coming home.”
Ramona’s long training as a counselor went out the window. She knew her face was showing all the horror she felt as Marcy continued. “Yes! When I heard he was dead, that’s exactly what I felt. Disappointment. I was planning on killing him as soon as he got back, and in a way where I would never have been even suspected. I know you can’t possibly understand it, but I was disappointed in not having a chance to murder him.” With that, Marcy rose, walked across the room, went out without looking back, pulling the door shut quietly behind her.
Ramona sat for a few moments staring at the door, then turned off the tape recorder. Looking down at the folder on her desk, she closed it and slipped it into the “case completed” section of the file cabinet.
THE MAN FROM HAUSLABJOCH
(News item, September 23, 1991) The mummified remains of a body discovered by two mountaineers in the Ötzal Alps on September 19th have been definitely identified as being of prehistoric origin. Scientists at the Institut für Anatomie in Vienna estimate the frozen remains are of a man who died some 5,000 years ago and have proclaimed them to be perhaps the single most important European archaeological find of the century.
***
There was a storm coming. Lufa, with the instinct of his people who had lived for many generations in the mountain country, could tell from the smell in the air, the wisps of white clouds coming down from the north and the sudden stillness. He knew now he should have left a day earlier.
He had had to wait longer than usual this summer for the pass to clear. Other than that, the trek down from the mountain valley had been uneventful. It had taken only eight days. But he knew it would take more than twice as long to return home. All in all, however, he was satisfied. It had been a good decision to make the journey by himself, instead of allowing the group of young men who had accompanied him last year to the lowlands to come along.
They had caused trouble—which had not been entirely their fault. The lowlanders produced some kind of drink which made a pleasant muddle of the mind, but too much had been consumed on the final day of their stay last year. There had been anger and unpleasant words on both sides. So this year he had come on a peace mission. There was too much at stake for both his mountain people and the lowlanders. The copper axe he was taking back was a precious item. And then there were shells, and special mushrooms, and many other items the mountain people would never receive unless they maintained friendly relations with these distant neighbors.
And the lowlanders benefited in return. Fine goatskins, and even occasional bits of precious amber which had worked its way down the trade routes from the tribes in the far north. Lufa had reason to be satisfied as the first flakes of the storm drifted down from the ridges above.
It took a whole day in the shelter of an overhanging rock to convince him this was no ordinary storm. To try to fight it and continue was hopeless. The only thing he could do was to wait it out. Pulling his cloak around him and curling up in his shelter, he decided sleep was the best choice. He would need all of his energy to work his way through the snow. As he drifted off, he once more thought with satisfaction about what he had accomplished. There would no longer be any quarrelling between his people and the lowlanders. Perhaps when he arrived back in his mountain valley his people would call him “Peacemaker.”
***
TERRORISTS THREATEN REPRISALS
(News item, January 16, 1998) Today, Austrian terrorists threatened the Italian scientists who arrived in Vienna to move the mummified body of the famous Ice Man of the Alps to Italy. The dispute which began shortly after the discovery of the 5000-year old remains is still raging between Austrian and Italian officials concerning ownership of the valuable find.
THE MOTEL GUEST
Josh Hamlin had insisted the motel was a “sure-fire” investment. Bess had felt more than her share of doubts, but she finally gave in. Josh was always so positive about everything, it wasn’t easy to resist his arguments.
As it turned out, they limped along. The Clayton Bypass didn’t help the Hamlins any, and Bess resigned herself to making do with what they had.
Today the weather was turning bad, which could be good for business. With Fort Worth thirty-odd miles away, they were much more likely to have guests drop in who wouldn’t want to fight the rain all the way into the city. Josh checked the sky and announced, “Nope! It’s going to pass over. You can always tell when the clouds start looking fleecy.”
Following the announcement, he settled down into his recliner with the evening paper while Bess worked on the account books. “Another one of those satellites shot off into the air.” Josh’s favorite pastime was commenting on the news. “Might as well flush the money down the toilet for all the good they’ll ever do us. You mark my words. Kennedy is going to drive the whole country to the poor house. Now he keeps talking about flying to the moon. Never heard such nonsense. No man’ll ever reach the moon.”
Bess barely nodded, making out little of what he was saying over the noise of the rain hammering down on the office’s metal roof. Headlights flashed the approach of a car. “Josh! Check out Unit 6. See if Geraldine cleaned it the way she was supposed to. Looks like we have a customer.”
Josh pried himself up from his chair, struggled into a hooded rain slicker and, on his way out, passed the prospective guests—a young couple with a baby.
Dropping back heavily into his chair after having settled them in their accommodations, Josh reached for his paper. “Nice couple,” he commented.
“The baby’s real sweet,” Bess added.
“Where they from?”
“Fort Worth—on their way there.”
“Seems funny they’d stop. Could’ve been home in an hour or so.”
“He’s in the service, and they don’t have a house for the family yet. They figured it was too late to go house hunting tonight. She’s some kind of foreigner.”
“Mexican,” Josh asserted. “Accent’s easy to pick out. I didn’t catch his name. Wasn’t it ‘Oscar’? I knew some Oscars back home in Forth Worth. Nicest people you could ever meet. One of the boys, Lem I think his name was, was in my grade-school class before we moved away. Nice kid. Funny acting, though. Rest of us were devils. When we’d pull wings off of flies, he’d almost get sick and leave.”
Bess flipped open the register. “His name isn’t Oscar. It’s Oswald. Lee Harvey Oswald.”
“Probably his bad handwriting. This fellow must be an Oscar. Spittin’ image of them. And you can tell by looking at him, he’d never hurt a fly.”
Bess was now having an even harder time hearing, since the rain was coming down in torrents. Josh kept up a running commentary on the news.
THE NEOPHYTE
The Depression years had seriously curtailed Hiram Satterfield’s driving, but today’s problems with the ancient Dodge were due to something other than lack of practice. As he ground it into second, he was paying more attention to what he was telling his son than he was to the peculiarities of the old car’s clutch and shift. “The first time ain’t much fun, but it ain’t like goin’ to the dentist. You gotta tell yourself that.”
“But, Paw…”
“Don’t interrupt. That’s a bad habit of yours, Jesse. Like I was sayin’. A father owes more to his son than seein’ he’s got shoes on his feet and food on the table. We’ll drop by Gertie’s, since I gotta go into Steubenville anyway for a couple of harro
w spikes. Just as good a time as any for you to find out what a man is made for.”
“Yes, Paw, but…”
“Don’t go worryin’ none. I’ll wait there for you. And Gertie’s a good old gal. I’ve known her for years. Last time I was by she had a half-dozen girls workin’ for her. You’ll be able to take your pick.”
“I know, but…”
“Just because times are tough ain’t no reason why I can’t spare a couple a dollars for what I figure is the most important part of a man’s education—somethin’ they don’t larn you in school.” The sixteen miles into Steubenville continued to be filled with fatherly advice, right up to the driveway leading to an old mansion just outside the city limits.
Since it was only late afternoon, it was quiet at Gertie’s, so she didn’t begrudge Hiram the time to listen to his story. Jesse’s eyes roamed from the middle-aged woman to the several younger women lounging in what must have been a small ballroom back in the house’s halcyon days.
“Jesse, here, is just about ripe, Gertie. Hair’s sproutin’ on his chin. Sure sign he’s comin’ of age. I told him, I did, you’d have one of your girls take care of him.”
Before commenting, Gertie lit a new cigarette from the butt which she then snubbed out in an overflowing ashtray. “First time, huh?” she asked as she inspected young Jesse.
Hiram broke in before Jesse could answer. “Shouldn’t we get some kinda cut-rate for the first time, Gertie?”
Gertie’s whiskey baritone began with a chuckle. “First time should cost more. Girl’s going to have to work overtime. Teaching don’t always come easy, you know. But for you, I’ll stick to our regular price. Two dollars. Up front. Cherry Lee should suit him fine. Hey, Cherry Lee,” Gertie called to a short blonde girl who had just come in from a back room; “I’ve got a first-timer for you.”
Cherry Lee rolled her eyes heavenwards, shrugged and crooked a finger in Jesse’s direction. Jesse looked back at his father who, with a stern expression on his face, said, “Go ahead son. I told you I’d wait right here.”
Gertie held out her hand and Hiram placed two wrinkled dollar bills in the outstretched palm. Putting down her cigarette, she proceeded to fish a gray cloth sack from the front of her dress between her oversized breasts, opened it carefully, wrapped the bills around the existing roll and returned the sack to its resting place. “Care for a cup of coffee while you’re waiting, Hiram?”
“Ain’t got nothin’ stronger?”
“Sure. But it’ll cost you. You been here often enough to know booze ain’t never free. Sure, it’s cheaper now than it was back in Prohibition days, but liquor’s still my biggest expense. A shot’ll cost you twenty-five cents.”
“I’ll stick to coffee.”
The trip to the hardware store and then back to the farm was a comparatively quiet one. Hiram assumed Jesse wouldn’t much want to talk about his experience, and most of the conversation—carried on single-handedly by Hiram—was about hog prices, weather and the prospects of an early harvest.
The sun was setting by the time they got back to the farm but, as they drove into the yard, a shiny new Model A pulled in behind them. “Looks like Carl Meyer,” Hiram commented. “Wonder what he’s after?”
While Jesse went into the house, Hiram walked back to his neighbor’s car. The usual small talk ensued and lasted for ten minutes or so before Carl managed to come around to the reason for his visit. “It’s about Becky Lou,” he said.
“What about Becky Lou?”
“Well, she missed this month, and her Ma says she’s always regular as clockwork.”
Hiram raised an eyebrow. “You tryin’ to tell me somethin’?”
“I sure am, Hiram. That there Jesse of yours has been bird-doggin’ round, and Becky Lou says he’s responsible.”
Hiram passed his hand through his thinning hair, looked back at the house, pulled out a cut of tobacco and bit off a chunk. “Reckon it’s time for a confab,” he said. “C’mon in.” As they entered, Hiram sent his wife and the younger children off to their bedrooms, saying he, Carl and Jesse had need for serious man talk.
Sitting at the kitchen table, Hiram turned to Jesse. “Carl, here, tells me you’re responsible for catchin’ Becky Lou up. You got anythin’ to say ‘bout that?”
Jesse looked from his father to Carl, nodded his head and began to say something when Hiram broke in. “Well, Carl, it’s early yet, since Becky Lou just missed one month. But, if it’s for real, then Jesse will do right by her. I’ll see to that.”
“Paw…”
“Never you mind, Jesse. Right’s right. I guess I wasted two dollars on you, today. You shoulda told me right out. Didn’t need those spikes for a couple a months. Could a saved a trip. Let’s break out some cider, Carl. No need for hard feelins. Stuff like that happens. Cider’s hardened just right. Wasn’t much of a crop last fall, but my Paw always said lean apple years make the best cider.”
It was getting dark by the time Carl, now less steady on his feet than when he arrived, climbed aboard his Model A and wheeled it down the gravel driveway, as father and son watched from the porch. “Carl’s borrowin’ trouble,” Hiram told Jesse reassuringly. “Girls her age can have more false alarms than a twelve-year-old sow. But if it’s for real, it won’t be all bad. Carl’s got one of them almost new International tractors. As an in-law, it wouldn’t be right for him not to help out with the fall hayin’. We could get the whole crop in in half the time with a new rig like his.”
Jesse tried to speak as they went back into the house. “Paw…”
“Don’t you go interruptin’, Jesse. You know what it was got you into trouble—but that mouth of yours probably led the way. I can see you now sweet talkin’ Becky Lou.”
“Yes, but Paw…” Both of them turned at the sound of a car coming up the driveway. Looking out the window, Hiram could see the unmistakable outlines of Bertie Bligh’s decrepit Chevy pickup, with its one working headlight shining balefully off at a sharp angle. As he watched, the car coughed and shuddered. Since the truck had no brakes, Bertie—as usual—stopped it by leaving it in gear and turning off the key in the ignition. In a moment he emerged from the driver’s side, as his daughter Abbey stepped carefully down from the passenger side.
“Now, what in the world are they wantin’ this time of night?” Hiram asked. “I reckon he’s come by to borrow again. Can’t figure out why else he’d be comin’ over.
“That’s what I been tryin’ to tell you, Paw. I ain’t for sure about Becky Lou. But I know for sure about Abbey.”
THE PLAGIARIST
“So all of it was a lie,” Professor Roger Fleming plunked the stapled pages down on the table in front of his colleague, Regan Chong. The plunking was accompanied by a further exasperated, “Nothing but a lie! This student lied to me. Take a look at what he turned in.”
Fleming was known to have a short wick, and the wick had seemed even shorter than usual as Chong had watched the candle-thin Professor of English hurrying across the length of the faculty lounge to reveal his latest source of aggravation. Chong picked up the sheets, recognized it as a term paper and, for lack of anything better to say, read the heading aloud: “The Influence of Persian Philosophy on Eighteenth Century English Poets.”
Looking over at the irascible Fleming, who had set himself down abruptly in one of the cushioned chairs, Chong shrugged. “I couldn’t name you a single Eighteenth Century English poet, and probably wouldn’t be able to find Persia on the map. That’s why I majored in mathematics.”
Fleming snorted. “You don’t have to have a Ph.D. in English to spot what’s wrong with this paper. It’s a scam. It’s a lie. That’s what it is. Stolen. Cheating is what it is. It came right off the internet. Not a word, not a punctuation changed from the version they peddle on one of those trash sites.”
Chong tried not to show too much amusement at his colleague’s discomfiture, but couldn’t resist saying, “That’s what’s nice about math. Students can’t find the answers t
o differential equations on the internet—not when they’re sitting in class taking an exam, anyway.” Assuming Fleming had exaggerated about the extent of the copying, Chong went on, “But, really, how do you know for sure it’s plagiarized?”
“How do I know?” Fleming’s face had become noticeably redder. “First of all, because the student who turned this in is totally incapable of writing a coherent paragraph about anything.”
“You never know. Maybe he or she is a late bloomer.”
Fleming’s voice trembled with rage. “There’s more to it than that. This paper was written by me fifteen years ago when I was a senior at North Central U.”
Chong cracked up. “I can’t believe it. The poor slob must be about the unluckiest student in all of academia. Maybe you should give him an ‘A’ for having such good taste.”
“This is no laughing matter. I’m going to bring it up before the Student Discipline Committee. Frankly, I think he should be expelled.”
“Oh, c’mon. Aren’t you being kind of harsh? At least talk it over with old Kennington first. After all, he’s your Department Head and should be alerted to something like this. Besides, this is his last week on campus. He’s not taking his retirement too well, and this might give him something different to think about. Hey! And not only that, but isn’t he an old-time grad of North Central U? He’ll get a charge out of hearing a fellow alumnus has made it onto the internet.”
Fleming wasn’t amused, but he did pick up on the suggestion. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. I’ve never had much time for Kennington. He just masquerades as a scholar. But he is the head of the department and this is a departmental matter, after all.”
When Fleming rapped on the jamb of the open door to Kennington’s office, he found the small, gray-haired professor in the midst of packing books into one of a dozen cardboard boxes littering the floor. Oliver Kennington looked up, “Come in. Come in. You’ll have to excuse the disorder. I hope you won’t mind if I continue with this endless task. Do come in. Sit down.” He waved Fleming to one of the chairs which had somehow escaped being piled with books.
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