Needled to Death

by Annelise Ryan

  Bob doesn’t answer me. His face screws up in thought, his eyes narrowing, his lips contorting as he chews the inside of one cheek. His fingers play some imaginary keyboard on the steering wheel. I think maybe he suspects what I’ve just done, but he isn’t sure enough to say anything.

  “You’ll have to be careful not to sound like a cop,” I go on, taking advantage of what I assume is at least consideration on his part, if not outright capitulation. Then I lean forward and give him a once-over like the one he gave me moments ago. “We should probably change your clothing and hair, though. The way you look right now, you might as well have a lighted banner running across your forehead that says cop.”

  Bob appears mildly offended by this comment, and he looks down at himself as if trying to see what I’m seeing. Phase two of my plan is in place: get him focused on something else and make my accompaniment and participation an assumed thing, a done deal.

  “We should try to pass you off as having some other occupation,” I say. “What did you want to be when you were a little boy?”

  “A cop.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “There has to have been something else.”

  “I did want to be a pirate for a time.”

  “Yeah, that’s not going to work.” It’s all I can do not to smile, because I can tell he’s fully engaged now. “It will help if you lose the overcoat and the tie. And untuck your shirt.” I stare down at the floor and frown. “Your shoes are kind of a giveaway, too, but I imagine we’re stuck with them.”

  “Not necessarily. I have an overnight bag in the trunk,” Bob says, acquiescing to my attempts at a makeover. “There’s a pair of jeans in there, and a sweater. I also have a gym bag in there, but the clothes in it are kind of stinky.”

  “The overnight bag might do it,” I say, nodding thoughtfully. “Let’s find a place to stop before we get to the frat house so you can change.”

  * * *

  Ten minutes and the purchase of two cups of coffee later, Bob emerges from the men’s room in the convenience store we’ve stopped at. He is wearing the jeans and sweater. It helps, but he still looks too much like a cop. I frown, studying him, and then tell him to bend over.

  “What?” he grumbles, clearly not willing to oblige.

  “I want to do something with your hair, but I can’t reach it,” I tell him. “Bend over.”

  Bob looks around at the other customers, and at a mirror hanging from the ceiling at the end of the aisle. “It’s going to look like I’m bowing down to you,” he grumbles. “My hair is fine.”

  “Okay,” I say, pretending to give in. “I think you should put on those boots you had in the trunk.”

  “Those are for snow or mud,” he says.

  “Today they’re part of your new role. Please, just for a little while. Those shiny black shoes of yours are standard cop issue. You need to ditch them. And your sneakers don’t work with the rest of this.”

  With an irritated sigh, he takes his coffee cup from me—I had obligingly offered to hold it for him while he changed—and strides toward the exit. I follow, pleased to see him head for the trunk of the car when we reach it. There is some muttering involved, the words of which I can’t make out, but when Bob once again slips in behind the wheel, he is wearing the boots. He sets his coffee into the cup holder slot on the console beside mine. And as he does so, I institute the rest of my plan.

  “Hold still a second,” I say, and then I take both of my hands and apply them to his hair, digging my fingers into the plastered strands and mussing things up as much as I can.

  Not surprisingly, he pulls away from me, rearing back with an offended, “Hey!” He tries, unsuccessfully, to return his hair to its prior state of gelled and sculpted immobility, but I take hold of his arms and pull them toward me, ignoring the knife of pain that the movement triggers in the muscles of my upper arms and across my back.

  “Stop,” I say in a soft voice. “Trust me, okay?”

  He scowls but lets me continue. I use my fingers and a tiny bit of spit to organize his hair into a disorganized coif that makes him look both younger and rakish. “There,” I say, tilting my head to one side. “Now you look the part.”

  “The part of an idiot,” he grumbles, giving me a sour look. He does a quick glance in the rearview mirror, sighs, and starts the car.

  Fifteen minutes later we are both jazzed up on caffeine as Bob pulls up and parks in the street a block and a half from where the fraternity house is located. There are several fraternities in the area, a section of Madison’s isthmus nestled between Lakes Mendota and Monona with an impressive view of the capitol building. The fraternity Toby and our quarry belonged to, Alpha Theta Pi, is located two blocks from the shores of Lake Mendota, though there are buildings around the frat house that block the water view at street level. Alpha Theta Pi is in an old three-story brick building featuring Colonial architecture mixed in with some modern updates, including handicapped access, parking areas, and bicycle racks.

  We walk up to the front door, me at a half run as I try to keep up. My muscles are protesting strongly, but the pain eases a little the farther we go. By the time we step up onto the porch, I’m feeling looser, and my pain level has dropped from a-thousand-knives-stabbing-me-all-at-once to I’ve-been-punched-here-and-there.

  Bob pushes the doorbell. We hear it chime inside, and it doesn’t take long before a young man dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt opens the door. His blond hair is tousled and messy, as if he has just gotten out of bed.

  “May I help you?” he asks with a smile that looks only half-genuine. I expect he’s surprised, curious, and perhaps a bit annoyed to find two middle-aged people on the doorstep, as opposed to some fellow students.

  “We’re Bob and Hildy,” I say, putting on my best Midwestern smile. People in this area are generally inherently polite, but college students are a different breed, and I’m not sure we can count on them to respond in the typical manner. “My husband is the brother of Sharon Cochran, who is the mother of Toby Cochran, who used to live here.”

  The young man at the door appears to be having some difficulty following me until I get to Toby’s name. Then his stricken expression tells me he’s oriented all too well. Behind him in the shadows I see a couple of other curious faces peer around a corner, looking and listening. The young man before us starts to stammer, looking more uncomfortable with each syllable. “He’s . . . Toby is . . . why . . .” He finally gives up and sighs heavily, briefly looking skyward as if he’s hoping for some sort of divine intervention. Finally, he looks at us, his smile completely artificial and forced at this point. “All of his stuff was picked up long ago.”

  “We know that,” I say. “That’s not why we’re here. Toby’s mother is having a difficult time dealing with his death, as I’m sure you can imagine. We’ve been trying to help her as much as we can, and a counselor suggested that talking with some of the people who were around Toby right before he died might lend some insight.” I pause, looking sad. “You see, Sharon feels as if . . . well . . . like she didn’t know her son before he died. We’re hoping to fill in some of the blanks for her, to help her understand better and come to grips with some of the harsher truths if need be.”

  Our young man licks his lips, shifting from one foot to the other. My request is one he’ll have a hard time saying no to without looking like a total ass, and to augment the persuasiveness of my request, I add, “Sharon, Toby’s mother, is an emotional wreck right now, so we thought it might be best if we talked to people, rather than having Toby’s mother come here herself.”

  The floating heads behind our greeter have increased to four now. I sense Bob growing impatient beside me, and I’m afraid he’s going to get frustrated and resort to cop mode any second and then barge his way in. I step in front of him and make one last appeal to our young man.

  “May we please come in? It’s chilly out here.” I shiver to prove my point, and that default Midwestern politeness kicks in.

  “
Of course,” the young man says, stepping to one side.

  As we step over the threshold, a different kind of shiver shakes me.

  Chapter Twenty

  As we enter the building, the heads I saw a moment ago all disappear. We stop inside a small foyer and wait for our host to shut the door. When he turns to us again, I say, “There are some names we have, people we think Toby knew well. We’d like to start by talking to them, if they’re here.”

  “Let me get Mrs. Barlow,” our host says. “She’s our housemother and she can probably help you.” With that, he quickly disappears around a corner, leaving us standing there. I get a sense he is relieved to have escaped.

  “You’re quite the actress,” Bob says in a whisper, leaning down close enough to my ear that his breath moves my hair.

  “It’s all about understanding how people think, what makes them tick,” I whisper back with a shrug.

  “And does that sort of manipulation work most of the time?” he counters.

  I look up at him and smile warmly. “It worked on you.”

  I expect Bob to react with denial, or anger, or at the very least some mild irritation, but instead all he does is smile complacently at me. It’s a bit disconcerting.

  By some silent, mutual understanding the two of us take several steps forward, moving deeper into the house. After a few feet, the wall on our left gives way to a wide opening, revealing a large living room area. Straight ahead is a gallery hall that runs left and right, its walls lined with portraits. Beyond that is a suspended landing that splits a flight of stairs going up to the second floor into two more that come down either side of it into the gallery hall. To the right of the landing I see a short length of hallway and part of a large dining area with cafeteria-type seating. It is from here that our door answerer reappears toting a pleasant-looking, fifty-something, cherub-cheeked woman. She boasts a full head of blond hair streaked with white that is doing its best to escape the clip she has on the back of her head. She is a large woman, not fat or portly, but tall and sturdily built. The young man points us out to her and then promptly heads for the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  The woman puts on that ubiquitous Midwestern smile and comes toward us. “Hello, I’m Carol Barlow. Welcome to Alpha Theta Pi.” She extends a hand to first me, then Bob. Her warbling voice borders on shrill, though it still manages somehow to come across as pleasant and warm. It, and she, reminds me of Julia Child. After we exchange smiles and handshakes, she says, “What can I do for you fine folks?”

  I repeat my spiel about Sharon and Toby, and our desire to speak to some of the boys who knew him.

  “Such a sad thing,” Carol says, looking truly troubled. “Why don’t we have a seat and we can talk.” She steers us toward the living room, which is furnished with several couches and chairs arranged in small groupings to create cozy conversational areas. There is a large fireplace along the wall bordering the gallery hall, and a grand piano in a far corner. A group of young men are seated on two couches that face each other in front of the fireplace, a coffee table between them. They are having a heated debate about the pros and cons of various styles and forms of government. Carol leads us past them to a small sitting area in the far corner near the piano that consists of a couch and two chairs around a small table.

  “Please, have a seat,” Carol says, gesturing toward the couch.

  Bob and I dutifully settle in and Carol takes the chair to our left, closest to me. She leans forward, her smile still in place, though it is currently tempered with subtle hints of pity and sadness now that she knows the reason for our visit.

  “I was so sorry to hear about Toby,” she says, the smile fading. “He seemed like such a bright boy, not at all the type to get into that drug scene.”

  This piques my interest, and I lean forward. But before I can say anything, Carol adds, “Though I suppose these days it can happen to anyone. Lord knows there has been plenty of substance abuse here on campus lately.”

  “Do tell,” Bob says, and I see him reach for the shirt pocket—and presumably the small notebook he typically carries in it—that isn’t there. I place a placating hand on his arm in a gesture I hope Carol will see as supportive and loving as opposed to restraining.

  “You knew Toby personally?” I ask.

  “Of course,” Carol says. Then with a proud maternal tone she adds, “I know all of the boys here very well. They aren’t involved in any of that . . .” She pauses, looking like she wants to spit out something she just ate that tastes rancid.

  “Any of what?” Bob urges.

  Looking upset and, I think, the teeniest bit judgmental, Carol says, “Well, I’m sure you’ve heard about all the issues with the Greek houses here on campus over the past year or so. A dozen or more of them have been punished with probations or suspensions for drinking violations and hazing abuses.”

  “But not this house?” I say.

  “Oh, my, no,” Carol says, as if such an idea is anathema. “Not Alpha Theta Pi. Our boys know better.”

  “I’m surprised this place has a housemother,” Bob says. “I thought those went the way of the dinosaur.”

  “They did,” Carol says, her smile returning. “But a few have hung in there, and now we’re making a comeback, in large part because of all the abuses that have gone on. They find that having a supervisory influence in the house has a calming and restraining effect on the residents. The fact that this house has avoided the sorts of scandals the other houses have experienced is often attributed to my presence.” She looks pleased with her accomplishments.

  “How long have you been here?” I ask.

  “Five years. My son used to live here, but he died six years ago.”

  “Sorry for your loss,” Bob and I both say at the same time.

  “Thank you.” Her eyes momentarily take on a faraway look. “I certainly can understand your reason for coming here and wanting to talk to the boys who knew Toby,” she says, looking wistful. “Coming here and offering my services as a housemother was a way for me to be close to those who knew my son.”

  “What was your son’s name?” I ask in my best bereavement counselor voice.

  “Russell,” she says, giving me a quick, brittle smile.

  “How did he die?”

  Bob shoots me a look, but I ignore him. If Carol wants to tell us she will. If she isn’t ready, she’ll find a way around it.

  “Suicide,” Carol says, and she does so without reservation, without lowering her voice, without any of the shame so many survivors in her situation display. She has come to grips with the situation better than most. “He shot himself. We’re still not sure how he got the gun. According to the police it was stolen several years before and had been missing ever since. They figured Russell bought it on the street.”

  “How awful for you,” I say, sensing Bob getting impatient beside me. “Did it happen here?”

  Carol shakes her head. “No, they found him in James Madison Park. It’s not far from here. The cops think he must have walked there in the middle of the night.”

  She looks at us, scanning our faces, searching for pity, I think. I don’t dare look at Bob, though I suspect his expression is more likely to be one of irritation or impatience than anything. I reach over and take one of Carol’s hands, forcing her to look at me rather than Bob. I pin her with my eyes.

  “Suicide is always difficult,” I say. “It seems to come as such a surprise for many. Was it like that for you?”

  I see tears well in her eyes, and she nods. But she regains control quickly with a sniffle and a straightening of her spine. “That’s how I came to be here. I wanted to talk to the other boys about it, not just about Russell and what he might have been going through at the end, but about suicide in general, how destructive it can be to the survivors, and how alcohol contributes to it. I was trying to create a legacy for my son, something to prevent other mothers from having to go through what I did.” She shrugs. “I didn’t intend to take a job here, but o
nce I started coming I just sort of stuck. I’ve always loved to cook, and since I no longer had anyone to cook for at home, I started bringing food here and fixing it for the boys. They liked what I made and eventually asked me to start doing it full-time. I was able to convince the school to pay me a small stipend—I’m comfortable enough already financially—and started spending the bulk of my days here.” Her gaze leaves my face and she stares off into space, smiling dreamily. “It didn’t take long for the idea of living here to set in, and when the authorities saw how the boys seemed to be avoiding the trappings the other houses were experiencing, they started looking at bringing back the housemother concept.”

  “Good for you!” I say, giving her hand a squeeze and then letting it go. “What a wonderful way to honor your son’s memory.”

  She smiles, looking abashed.

  “No father in the picture?” I say.

  She shakes her head. “No, he died when Russell was three. Car accident.” Her gaze slides away at this and I know there’s more to the story that she’s not sharing with us.

  “You were a single mother, then? That couldn’t have been easy emotionally or financially.”

  Carol dismisses this with a wave of a hand. “I was lucky. My parents were quite well off, so it really wasn’t too hard for me. Russell and I moved in with them. And Harlan, that was my husband’s name, was well insured.”

  “Still,” I say, looking at her sympathetically, “it couldn’t have been easy for you emotionally. And given that, I’m sure you can relate to what Toby’s mother is going through. She has so many questions. What can you tell us about him?”

  Carol’s smile fades and her face takes on a surprisingly stern and judgmental look. “I can tell you that she should be the one here talking to me and the boys. The fact that she isn’t explains a lot. No wonder Toby turned to drugs.”