Remember Me, Irene ik-4

by Jan Burke

  I felt off-balance. I had expected Jerry Selman to be a smug, spoiled little bastard, not this vulnerable creature. Trying to regain my footing, I asked, “Do you know why I wanted to talk to you today?”

  This time he turned a furious red. “Not to hear my tale of woe, I’m sure.”

  “Listen, don’t misunderstand me. I’m glad you’ve talked to me about all of this. You’re right — I’ve never tried to get to know you before now. My former relationship with your father isn’t a source of great pride for me, and for obvious reasons you are someone I associate with him. But I’m sure I’ll think of you differently after today.”

  “Thanks,” he said. He finished off his coffee and tossed the paper cup into the trash. “But then, I don’t suppose you came here for my thanks. All the same, I do wish there was some way I could show you my appreciation.” He frowned, then said, “While I was waiting at the hospital this morning, I read your article in today’s paper — the one about Allan Moffett’s resignation — and then I realized that you weren’t at the Terrace by coincidence. I take it you’re here in connection with that dinner for Allan.”

  So, Lisa’s brother wasn’t nearly as thickheaded as she imagined him to be. I began to wonder if he wasn’t often underestimated. “Yes,” I said, “I thought your father might have talked to you about it.”

  “I’m not going to be of much help to you, I’m afraid. I wasn’t invited to it. Dad had mentioned that he was going to be there, but just said that Allan was going to get some of his friends together. I didn’t think anything of it.”

  OUTSIDE THE BUILDING that housed his office, I stopped at a concrete bench and took a moment to collect my thoughts. Chill air frosted my breath. I was near a big tree full of noisy blackbirds, but otherwise the campus was quiet. It was that time of day when morning classes were over and evening classes had not yet begun. A few students drifted by on their way to the library. I looked around me. Thomas Wolfe was right, except that home isn’t the only place you can’t go back to.

  I pulled my coat collar up around my ears and headed down the sloping walkways toward what a friend of mine used to call “the lower kingdom” — the administration building, nestled into the bottom of the hill. It was my fervent wish that Booter Hodges would find my visit there an unpleasant surprise.

  9

  “HELLO, IRENE! How nice to see you!” Booter wore a big grin as he welcomed me from his office door. “Pammy,” he called to his secretary, who was standing a few feet away, posed in the ready mode, “take this girl’s coat from her, would you?”

  Grateful that I had taken it off and draped it over to my arm before Booter could help me out of it, I handed it to Pamela and thanked her.

  “Would you like a cappuccino or an espresso?” Booter asked.

  “This won’t be from one of the vending machines, I take it?”

  He laughed as hard as if it had been one of his boss’s jokes. I looked at the long-suffering Pamela, who stood waiting for the next command. “No need to bring me anything,” I said. “I’m fine.”

  “Come on in, come on in,” Booter said.

  The enthusiasm didn’t fool me. Booter is paid to be enthusiastic. He was once an economics professor. He received lousy student evaluations, but he got along well with his colleagues — a gift in an academic setting — and was made department chair. What he lacked in teaching ability he made up for in administrative skill. He continued to rise quickly through the ranks, from department chair to dean and on to his current vice presidency. His ability to raise money from alumni and other sources had kept him there for many years.

  His real name was Lynn. He hated it. He was fond of telling male companions that he earned the nickname “Booter” by kicking ass in his college days. I knew better. An old chum of his gave me quite a history of the alias. Said Booter used to get drunk at frat parties, and then suffer a side effect of drinking, the one dry cleaners and cabbies hate. At his college, this charming act was referred to as “booting.”

  He motioned me to a plush white leather seat. Booter was slender and tanning-salon brown. His gray hair was styled perfectly, his hands were manicured. He was wearing an expensive dark blue suit and a dark red tie. As he sat at his big cherrywood desk, he moved a wide gold band with a diamond in it up and down his left ring finger like the bead on an abacus. I hoped his wife was saving for a rainy day, because it didn’t look like Booter was sure he wanted to keep that ring on.

  “Didn’t get a chance to talk to you at the Terrace last night, Booter,” I said. “You disappeared not long after you saw me come into the dining room.”

  “Oh, now, Irene, no need to take offense. I was just shaken up by Andre’s collapse. I’ll tell you a little secret.”

  I waited.

  “Promise not to tell anyone?”

  “Depends on the secret.”

  He laughed, a little bass chortle this time. “Spoken like a true journalist! Well, all right. Here it is: I can’t stand the sight of blood. I’m a decorated Korean War veteran, but I am an utter yellow-belly when it comes to anything having to do with doctors or medicine. I can’t even date nurses!”

  “Imagine that,” I said.

  “Say, was that your husband I saw you with last night?”

  “Yes, that’s Frank.”

  More movement with the ring. “Now, that man’s a hero. In fact, I’m going to recommend that the president send him a letter of thanks.”

  “The president,” in this case, would be the college president.

  “Entirely unnecessary, I assure you, Booter.”

  “No, no! I’m going to do it. He saved one of our most important faculty members.”

  “Jerry Selman did just as much,” I said. “And I don’t think Frank would be comfortable with the attention.”

  “Frank? Is that his name?”

  I nodded, wishing he would listen to someone besides himself.

  “Good-looking man.”

  I was trying to figure out if saying “thanks” was the appropriate response when he irritated me by adding, “But then, you’re a good-looking gal, right?”

  Trying not to do a little booting of my own, I forged ahead. “What brought the six of you together for dinner last night?”

  “You were there, you saw us. Nothing to hide. Allan retired and wanted to thank those of us who stood by him over the years.”

  “In what way does the college foundation stand by the city manager?”

  “Oh, in my case, it’s the other way around. Allan’s an alumnus, of course. He’s done a great deal over the years to keep community leaders in touch with the college.”

  “Just how much money has he brought in, Booter?”

  “Well, hard to say. Hard to say. Helped immeasurably. Let’s just put it like that.”

  “And the college has helped Allan, of course.”

  “We’ve helped him stay in touch with experts here at the college, helped the city as well. Is that what you’re driving at?”

  “Experts like Andre Selman?”

  “Certainly. Andre has done a number of studies for the city.”

  “And that brings in city grant money to the college?”

  “We apply for them, compete for them like everybody else. It’s cost-effective to use local experts whenever possible. Allan knows that.”

  “I’m sure Allan has done the college a world of good.”

  Booter leaned back, making the chair creak. He began stroking his tie. It was a nervous habit of his, pulling on his tie like that. Wouldn’t take a Freudian psychiatrist to figure out why Booter didn’t wear bow ties.

  “Is there something wrong with that?” he asked.

  “You tell me.”

  “Why no, of course there isn’t. That’s the trouble with the media these days. That’s why a lot of Americans are just plain fed up with the press. You’re all so negative—”

  I tuned out while he went on and on about what a heartless bunch we were. I’ve heard it all before. Every clown
who ever read the funny papers is a media expert these days.

  It was especially irritating to hear someone like Booter rant about the media’s supposed failings. People like Booter believe that newspapers (and almost everything else in the world) exist for their convenience. Their idea of cooperating with the press is to try to use it. They want to be interviewed, but only if the interview flatters them. We exist to supply them with public favor, whether they deserve it or not. Their motto seems to be “Don’t buy advertising, get the newsroom to hand it out for free.” But begin to tell the whole story, and suddenly, we’re the negative press. This gets damned tiresome.

  Booter ground to a halt, suddenly realizing his mistake. “Oh, Irene, I’m just an old windbag.”

  Although I was tempted to tell him that I knew exactly where he had found the wind to fill up that bag, and that he had his head stuck up in the very same place, I kept my temper in check and asked, “Did the six of you get together often?”

  “Not too often. We’re all busy.”

  “I’ve been saying six, but I guess it should be seven. Ben Watterson would have been there.”

  His smile disappeared, his eyes grew moist. Booter is such an oily fake, it was hard to trust what I saw on his face.

  “Ben was a good man,” he said. “The best. He was always kind to me. I wish he would have talked to me, confided in me. Maybe I could have cheered him up. I wish he would have just let me try to cheer him up. I wish he had called.”

  His wishes were wasted, of course, as are all our wishes for what we could have done for the dead. But it seemed his sadness was genuine.

  “Did you know Ben was ill?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, Booter, I didn’t know you and Ben were close.”

  “We weren’t, really. But Ben — well, he was a good man,” he repeated, half to himself. “Better than most.”

  I decided to change the subject, finding myself uneasy with a Booter that didn’t bluster.

  “Last night, did Allan Moffett ever get around to explaining why he resigned so quickly?”

  “No call for that, either,” he said absently. “A man shouldn’t panic.”

  “No,” I said, keeping my voice low and coaxing. “And Allan doesn’t scare easily. So he must have had good reason to panic, right?”

  “Huh?” he said, sitting up in his chair. I watched one other true emotion cross his face — his horror at speaking to me in an unguarded manner. He recovered quickly. “I’m sorry, I was talking about Ben. Allan had no need to panic. No, no. Allan simply decided to enjoy life, get away from all the hassles. That’s all.”

  He was about as forthcoming as a clam with a bad case of tetanus after that. Except for delivering another meaningless and infuriating lecture — on how unduly suspicious the members of the press were — he had nothing to say.

  My own jaw started to lock. I managed to mutter a good-bye. His secretary had my coat waiting for me.

  I had met with two men who — each using his own style — might have been trying to feed me a load of crap.

  A typical day; maybe even better than average.

  10

  KEENE DAGE might not have wanted to see me at Ben Watterson’s funeral services, but Roberta Benson made sure she got a seat next to me in the church. The place was fairly packed, and people were still filing in by the dozens. Keene and his friends were already in the crowded front pews, as were my friends Lydia and Guy. But I hadn’t known Ben very well, so I settled for a place near the back.

  The high number of “mourners” should have been a tribute to Ben’s power and contributions to the community. But in the course of a few short days, the community’s regard for Ben Watterson had changed. The man whose remains lay in the closed casket at the front of the church had become an enigma, and at least part of the throng was there because his suicide had become the focus of public curiosity. According to the coroner, Ben had no disease.

  Why would a man lie in a suicide note? The question had been asked at every lunch table and water-cooler in town. Rumors ran rampant. One was that his widow — his young widow — had somehow managed to kill him for his money. Quiet, withdrawn, and now very, very rich, Claire was a favorite target. Supposedly, she had either done some fancy sneaking in and out of the SOS meeting or hired someone else to kill Ben. The coroner continued to say it was suicide.

  Another rumor claimed that the Bank of Las Piernas was on the verge of failing. So far, the bank examiners were declaring it healthy and sound. No financial cancer, either.

  It was also speculated that Ben had led a double life, but no one could figure out where he had found the time to lead the second one. And the rumor that some doctor was going to be sued for a mistaken diagnosis was also false — Ben’s doctor hadn’t seen him in over a year. The last visit had been a checkup. Ben had been told he was in fine condition.

  The metal casket stood mute before us, as impervious to rumor as it would be to the earth that would soon cover it — while Claire was left to brave more than the elements. Still, it seemed to me that she, too, was encompassed — in a numbing, bewildered grief that allowed her to be absent from all that went on around her.

  I moved down the pew to make room for Roberta, thinking her worried look was for the widow. Roberta’s sense of vocation is seldom confined to her office, and I figured she wanted to talk to me about how we could help Claire through the crisis. But Roberta had another friend in mind.

  “Have you seen Lucas?” she asked in a whisper.

  “No,” I whispered back, leaning to catch a glimpse of Claire from my new position on the pew. “He hasn’t contacted me yet. How’s he doing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I turned to her in surprise. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  She leaned a little closer and whispered, “He’s missed two appointments with me. I’m worried. I’m afraid he may be drinking again.”

  I thought back to Lucas on the bench, my own hurried judgment of him. “Maybe he has some other reason for missing the appointments.”

  “No, you don’t understand,” she said. “I haven’t seen him since I got back into town. He hasn’t reported to his rehab program during the last three days — not once. He’s missed his AA meetings. The shelter told me he hasn’t slept there since Wednesday night.”

  “Are they sure? It’s been so cold the last few days. Haven’t they been overcrowded?”

  “Yes. They’re sure. They’ve held his place for him as long as they could each night. But he hasn’t checked in. I even looked at the log for the locker room. He hasn’t been to his locker since Wednesday night.”

  “Wednesday night? The night of the SOS meeting?”

  “Yes. I guess I was too optimistic about him.”

  I felt myself bristle. “You said he was doing well, was on the mend.”

  She sat back a little, then said in a low voice — each word enunciated as if English were not my native language — “He was. But when you’ve been in my line of work long enough, you learn that nothing is very certain when it comes to substance abuse recovery.”

  “This isn’t about your line of work,” I hissed. “This is about Lucas Monroe. A human being. You said—”

  “Keep your voice down!” She looked toward Claire, then went on. “I said seeing you really made a difference, and I never should have said a word to you about him.” I knew the look on her face. Every reporter has seen it a million times. It was the whoops-I’ve-told-you-too-much look. The look that always follows it is one you can see on a mule. “If he hadn’t asked me to say hello to you,” she went on peevishly, “I wouldn’t have mentioned him to you. It came very close to breaking a professionally privileged confidence—”

  “Cram your professional confidence!” I snapped, only to realize that I had spoken loudly enough to cause heads to turn. A lady in front of me scowled so hard I was afraid she’d never get her face straightened out again.

  I was ashamed
to notice that even Claire had been disturbed by my voice; she was looking toward us. In the next moment her heretofore blank gaze seemed to focus on me, and her brows drew together. I mouthed an apology, but she leaned over to the woman who sat next to her, an older person who sat between Claire and her sister. From the back, I could only see gray hair and a broad back stretching a dark dress. The lady glanced over her shoulder at me, holding the corner of her glasses as she peered over the rims. She nodded, rose, and moved slowly toward us. She was an apple-shaped woman, a wonder of balance as she trod carefully in her sensible shoes.

  Oh hell, I thought, this old biddy is going to scold me and ask me to leave.

  In the next moment, I decided that would be a blessing. The growing crowd made the air in the church steadily more stuffy, and my desire to escape the room had grown proportionately. I was angry with Roberta, probably unreasonably, which only made me more anxious to evade the “closure” she would undoubtedly seek. And, as will happen at funerals, I selfishly remembered those friends and family members I had lost over the years, and fought hard to prevent each shard of old grief from piercing whatever get-on-with-life barrier I had built around it.

  Roberta seemed to think the lady was approaching her, but the woman bent over and laid a cool, paper-dry hand on my wrist. Roberta leaned back to avoid smothering in the woman’s pillowy, ample bosom. I heard a lovely drawl when the lady said, “I’m Claire’s Aunt Emeline. Forgive me for disturbing you, sugar, but Claire wondered if you might be willing to please come up and sit beside her. You will, won’t you?”

  “Certainly,” I said, and stood up to move out of the pew.

  Roberta also stood. “I should be with Claire, too.”

  “Oh, don’t trouble yourself,” Aunt Emeline said to her, with a cool look that made Roberta sit back down.

  Claire nodded a greeting, but didn’t say anything to me or to her aunt. Alana moved over, so that Claire sat between her aunt and me. Claire remained silent, staring at the coffin throughout the service. I tried very hard not to think of Ben Watterson as I had last seen him. When it was time to leave for the cemetery, Aunt Emeline leaned over a little and said, “Ride with us, won’t you?”