Murder Is Academic

by P. M. Carlson

  “No. Wish it were, it might be less frustrating. But it came out exactly as predicted. Except there was so much individual variation that my test says, correctly, that it might all be chance.”

  “Mm. I see. But really, it’s good to know you’re on the right track.”

  “Oh, yes, theoretically that’s true. I’m just not ready to face thirty more damn babies.”

  Linc laughed. “Just listen to us,” he said. He got up and kicked the wedge from under her door so that it would close. “We’re two educated, brilliant, adult human beings, completely routed by thirty infants and a flock of finches.”

  Jane smiled. “True. Listen, Linc, could you leave the door open? I get kind of edgy with it closed.”

  He took her hand and pulled her up, suddenly serious. “Jane, I just wanted to say thanks. You’re the only person around here who can really understand me.”

  “Linc, don’t be silly.”

  “But it’s true. You can be honest and still never hurt.” His hands were moving up her arms, tenderly. Jesus, thought Jane, here it comes, my wife doesn’t understand me, let’s comfort each other.

  She pushed against his chest. “Linc, okay, that’s enough.”

  “Jane, please. Be honest. You must feel something too, you’re always so sensitive to me.”

  His face was closer now but it seemed farther away. The walls were closing in, throbbing at her. She had to get out, get out, so she could breathe. She closed her eyes, felt a ballpoint pen on the desk behind her, and jabbed Linc with it blindly.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Come in!” cried Jane desperately. Linc, his face twisted with pain, released her suddenly. She fell back against the desk, half-sitting.

  The door opened and the room stopped throbbing. Her student Jackie Edwards stood there, accompanied by a tall young man with a swatch of dark hair falling across his forehead.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Professor Freeman. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “No problem, Jackie. Professor Berryman had finished.”

  “Right,” said Linc, successfully hiding most of the hurt in his voice. “See you later, Jane.”

  “Cheers.”

  As he left, his eyes met Jackie’s knowing ones briefly. God, I hope she’s discreet, thought Jane. No sense getting Cathy Berryman upset. Unbidden, another thought intruded into her mind. Thank God, thank God it was Linc, and not someone who would be voting on tenure.

  She forced herself to become businesslike. “Well, what can I do for you, Jackie?”

  “I just realized that last week’s reserve reading would really be useful for my paper, but someone else has it checked out now. Would it be possible to borrow yours? I could copy it on the basement machine, and have it back in ten minutes.”

  “Sure, Jackie. The Gibson paper?”

  “Yes. I wouldn’t bother you, but the paper’s due in three weeks and I may have to visit my subjects again to check some things Gibson says.”

  Jane pulled out the mimeographed sheets, wrote “Gibson — J. Edwards” on a slip of paper, and handed the folder to Jackie. “There you go,” she said.

  “Thanks. I’ll bring it right back.” She and her handsome escort headed for the stairs.

  Jane replaced the wedge under her door. God, what a day. What a week. She went back to her list of happy new parents and began to look up telephone numbers.

  Across the nation, the rioting went on.

  VIII

  6 Kaoo (June 14, 1968)

  Robert Kennedy had been the next to go. The university was rocked by the tragic news just as the first summer session began. Sue’s summer work kept her on campus all day, but Jackie and Mary Beth and Maggie came back from their shorter duties to watch the TV glumly.

  Sirhan Sirhan was arrested immediately and soon Dr. King’s assassin was found too. “Well, at least they’re starting to catch the guys,” said Jackie.

  “Justice triumphant,” said Maggie bitterly.

  So it was a refreshing change, a few days later, when Jackie and Frank returned from an afternoon date in Syracuse with something pleasant to report.

  “It was so wonderful, and so sad,” Jackie enthused. “Wasn’t it, Frank?”

  “It was terrific,” he agreed.

  “I cried and cried. You really ought to go see it.”

  “Wish I could,” said Sue. They were all sitting on the square front porch, enjoying the fresh silky June night and trying to ignore the music throbbing from across the street.

  “Where is this place?” asked Mary Beth.

  “Just outside of Syracuse. I guess it used to be a farm, but they have a real theatre building now.”

  “There’s no way you can go?” Mary Beth asked Sue.

  “Nope. Too far, too long. This weekend I’m supposed to be charming hostess and interpreter to a couple of Russian professors visiting the chemistry department. And I can’t afford the time anyway until this goddamn summer session is over.”

  “Cyrano will be closed by then,” said Jackie regretfully. “But they’re doing a bunch of other shows this summer.”

  Mary Beth looked hopefully at Maggie. The good-natured blue eyes met hers a moment. “Sure,” said Maggie. “I love Cyrano too. But I promised Jackie here she could use my car this weekend while I’m fixing the brakes on hers.”

  “We’ll take the Land Rover,” said Mary Beth, delighted.

  And so Friday night, the fourteenth of June, they drove the forty minutes through the scent of new clover to the Syracuse farm that housed the theatre, Mary Beth in a pale yellow dress with her Nebaj woven belt, Maggie in light blue and white stripes. There was one odd moment on the way. Maggie had asked, “Do you know anything about this production?”

  “Just what Jackie said. The scenery is a bit simplified, but the costumes and everything are good.”

  “Who are the actors?”

  “I forget his name, but the guy doing Cyrano is really good, she said. I think it’s your usual summer stock company, good professional actors who aren’t superfamous, plus young new ones.”

  “Mm.”

  “Jackie gave me her program. If you’re interested it’s in the outside pocket of my bag there.”

  Maggie pulled out the folded program and flipped it open. Suddenly she said violently, “Goddamn it, Mary Beth!”

  “What?”

  “What the hell are you trying to do?”

  She was genuinely angry. Mary Beth glanced at her, bewildered. “What do you mean?”

  Maggie checked herself visibly. “You don’t know?”

  “No, I don’t know. What are you talking about?”

  Maggie didn’t answer, just leaned back in the passenger seat and stared out the window for a moment at the young green world. Eventually Mary Beth said, “Well, whatever it is, I apologize.”

  “Oh, what the hell.” Maggie sounded cheerful again. “Let’s forget it and just enjoy the goddamn play.”

  They did. The theatre was well equipped technically, although the wooden seats were not the most comfortable in the world. The director handled the crowd scenes skillfully. Roxane and Christian were suitably beautiful, and Cyrano, as Jackie had promised, was splendid. The long hideous nose was the only flaw in this twinkling muscular soldier with the enchanting flexible voice and sorrowful brown eyes. The poetry, the swordplay, the intense pain of his unrequited love were all woven flawlessly into the romantic fabric of the show. As the lights came up afterward Mary Beth was still pressing her handkerchief to her face, and she thought Maggie’s eyes too were suspiciously shiny. They moved slowly with the crowd up the aisle toward the exit.

  “That was so good!” Mary Beth said when she could speak.

  “Yes.”

  “Jackie was absolutely right.”

  “Yes.”

  “That actor was really good, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “God, I wonder how he does it.”

  “Talent and hard work, I imagine.” There was an ir
onic edge in Maggie’s voice. But Mary Beth was too enthusiastic to stop.

  “He was really good,” she said again.

  “Yes.” And then, carelessly, Maggie added, “You want to go congratulate him?”

  “Oh, no, he’s probably busy now. He wouldn’t appreciate people popping in.”

  “They’ll do it anyway. And why wouldn’t he appreciate it?”

  “It would be nice to meet him,” said Mary Beth wistfully. “But ... ”

  “Then come on.” With sudden resolution Maggie pushed out of the lobby door and turned abruptly to the side, skimming around the building and back toward the stage door so swiftly that Mary Beth had to run a few steps to keep up. No one stopped them. They found themselves in a narrow hall. Mary Beth regretted her whim now. What could they say to an actor that he hadn’t already heard a thousand times? But Maggie, unstoppable, stuck her head into a crowded room where actors and many other people were chattering excitedly. “Where’s Cyrano?” she asked a young man near the door.

  He pointed farther along the hall. “First door around the corner,” he said cheerfully. Maggie nodded and followed directions.

  He was in the hall by his open door, his broad back to them, talking to a couple of other people. Maggie paused several feet away from them, and Mary Beth sensed suddenly that she was tense too, very tense, like an athlete prepared for a difficult test. Damn, why were they here? The actor was still in tights and loose white shirt and full makeup, including the long nose. Dark hair curled from the loosened cuffs of the shirt, but his head was balding. He was holding his stiff white ruff in his hand. He was a big, solid man; seeing him now, Mary Beth was a little surprised at the agility he had shown on stage, the ease and grace with which he had performed the sword fights and the leaps onto tables or ramparts.

  The well-dressed couple he was talking to smiled and finished congratulating him, then turned to go. Maggie said, in a low clear voice, “In fact, ladies and gentlemen, the actual underlying nose is a trifle bumpy but rather nice.”

  He turned, and Mary Beth had never seen such an expression of pure joy as the one that lit his friendly face. “Mademoiselle Marguerite!” he exclaimed; and it was apparently the right thing to say because Maggie relaxed a little, smiling too, in the instant before he had bounded across to wrap her in an immense hug. Then suddenly he seemed to have second thoughts and stepped back a little, still holding her hands but pushing her to arm’s length, the warm brown eyes searching her face anxiously.

  “You’re okay,” he said.

  “Sure.” She shrugged. “You too?”

  “Getting that way.” He smiled a little. They were both ignoring Mary Beth. He said, “I’ve thought about you, Maggie. But I was a little afraid to meet.”

  Maggie smiled a little too, and nodded.

  Mary Beth said, “So was she.”

  “Yes, well, we’d been through a lot.” He glanced at her, accepting her as naturally as though she belonged, and then turned back to Maggie. “It’s so damn good to see you!” he said, amazement still clear in his voice.

  “Yeah.” She was still smiling at him, pleased and relieved now, not tense. Then she remembered and said, “Nick, here’s one of my very best friends. Mary Beth Nelson. Mary Beth, this is Nick O’Connor. Uncle Nick.”

  “Hi, Mary Beth.” He shook her hand.

  “Hi. I thought you were terrific tonight,” she faltered, not quite knowing what to say. But he beamed at her as though he had never been complimented before.

  “Thanks. It’s a terrific play.”

  “Un succès fou,” said Maggie.

  He looked at the two of them with enormous pleasure and said, “Look, come in while I get off my nose. Then we’ll go have some coffee.” He motioned toward the dressing room behind him and then cleared bits of costume off a couple of folding chairs for them. As he sat down by the mirror, he said again to Maggie, “Hey, you’re okay.”

  “Sure,” she said. “It was only my elbow.”

  He grinned conspiratorially at Mary Beth. “Only her elbow! Last time I saw her she was strapped up in the flashiest sling you ever saw. Gorgeous. Probably designed by Dior. But Maggie, I never did quite understand how you hurt yourself.”

  She was smiling at him again. “Stupid trick on the uneven bars,” she explained. “Got myself too tired and twisted my arm on the dismount. I’ve been a lot more careful since.”

  “Good. It looked pretty painful.”

  “Doesn’t hurt at all now. But I’ve sworn off that particular stunt.”

  “I see. But you know, human beings are pretty resilient,” he said. He turned to the mirror and began, carefully, to remove the grotesque nose. “Time heals, they say.”

  “That certainly is what they say,” agreed Maggie neutrally. In the mirror Mary Beth could see that his friendly brown eyes had flicked to Maggie’s image. Then he asked her what she was doing now, and they talked about the university and about statistics and about WAR for a few minutes.

  He was slapping cold cream all over his face and down his neck and even on top of his balding head, Mary Beth noticed, and down into the edges of the little beard and all over his hands and hairy forearms. Then he wiped it off carefully with tissues. The nose took a little more attention. “Hate this spirit gum,” he complained, rubbing alcohol on it.

  “One of the few roles he can’t do with his own face,” Maggie said.

  His own face, as it was gradually revealed, was reassuringly ordinary, pleasantly ugly, an average guy with a little beard. Well, not quite average. His eyes were clear brown and filled with light, like water moving over rocks. Mary Beth suddenly realized that he was watching her reflection as she watched him. The lively eyes met hers briefly in the mirror, and she looked away guiltily.

  “Sorry,” murmured Mary Beth in confusion.

  “Hey, it’s okay,” he said.

  “He likes being watched,” explained Maggie. “Actors do.”

  “Right.” He was amused.

  “It’s just that you look so different,” Mary Beth explained.

  He grinned at her. “Thank God. Cyrano’s the only guy I know who’s uglier than I am.”

  “Well, I don’t mean just the nose. I mean the person.”

  Serious now, he turned around in his chair and nodded at her. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s a funny process, getting in and out of makeup and costume. It isn’t just surface, it’s a whole personality that’s being put on and taken off.”

  “It must be odd,” she said. She wished she could take off her personality that easily, put on the old confident Mary Beth again.

  “I suppose it is. I’m used to it.” He looked suddenly merry. “Let me tell you my nightmare. Every now and then, if you’re seriously distracted on stage, you lose the character for a minute. Your lines are just recited until you find yourself again. Well, the nightmare is that it happens in reverse. I take off my ruff and my nose and there’s no Nick there. Just air.”

  “Like Peer Gynt’s onion,” said Maggie, amused.

  “Exactly! Peel off all the surface layers to find the kernel, and there’s nothing there.”

  “No danger,” said Maggie reassuringly. “You’ve got character to spare.”

  “Well, thanks. But doesn’t it make a good nightmare?”

  “Excellent. I think you’d worry about something else too, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Suppose you took off your nose and put on your jeans and then found out you were still Cyrano? A short-nosed Cyrano?”

  He laughed. “That might be fun. But I’d hate to have it happen in some other plays.”

  “He makes an excellent villain too,” Maggie explained to Mary Beth.

  “Hey, look,” said Nick. “I’m going to get into the aforementioned jeans and then we’ll go somewhere. It’ll take me about a minute. Okay?”

  Maggie stood up. “We’ll wait in the hall.”

  “Okay. Or you could go inspect the stage if you want.”
/>   “Oh, I’d love to!” said Mary Beth. “But we don’t know anything about it.”

  “We might fall down a trap,” said Maggie, smiling at her. “But maybe Nick could give us a quick tour in a minute.”

  “Always glad to give a hand to trembling, moist-eyed, helpless females,” he said, and knew to duck as Maggie, laughing, swung at him. She and Mary Beth went into the hall.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Mary Beth asked urgently when his door had closed.

  Maggie shrugged. “Didn’t know I’d ever see him again.”

  Mary Beth frowned at her. “You knew in the car. There’s more to it than that.”

  “Yes. But not that I can talk about.”

  Mary Beth was silent. Some things should not be talked about, true. But how could there by anything to hide about the big comfortable balding man in the dressing room?

  “You said uncle,” she said tentatively at last.

  “An honorary title.”

  “He is sort of like an uncle.”

  “Mm-hmm,” said Maggie. The door opened and Nick, now transformed into an average American with a little beard and jeans and plaid shirt, joined them. Maggie added, to him, “You’ll be Mary Beth’s honorary uncle too, won’t you, Nick?”

  “Sure. Any friend of yours is a niece of mine.”

  “Great. Listen, we really would like to look around the theatre.”

  “Okay. Let’s see. You must have passed the greenroom on the way in.”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll skip that, then. Step right this way, folks, through the amazing incredible scene shop, noted in song, story, and commercial. E.g.: Edna, my flats are not as white as yours, what is your secret? Well, Marge, I got mine at the Syracuse Farm Theatre.” Even his falsetto could assume different personalities. Laughing, Maggie and Mary Beth followed him into a large many-storied room lined with stacks of platforms and racks of tall canvas flats, then through half of a huge double door. It was dark here; Mary Beth was aware of tall velour curtains and an array of ropes along the wall beside her. There were a few lights high up among the pipes and ropes that seemed to rise to a dusty infinity above her. Maggie stepped between a couple of the curtains and stood looking up, shading her eyes, the light blue and white dress a glimmer in the shadows. Nick watched her a moment, then glanced at Mary Beth.