The Semester of Our Discontent

by Cynthia Kuhn

She turned around, her finger on her lips, thinking. “You know, I believe it’s upstairs on my nightstand. Make yourself comfortable while I go take a look.”

  I gladly moved closer to the bookshelves, which resembled mine with everything from classical Greek drama to contemporary fiction and poetry, and horizontal books placed on top of the vertical ones—in other words, stuffed into all available spaces. She also had several sections devoted to mysteries, which made me smile, and numerous stacks of books on the floor next to the shelves. I would have bet that her office had once contained hundreds more, as did mine. Occasionally I tried to streamline, but one never knew when it might be necessary to dig up the source of an allusion; thus, my efforts had so far been unsuccessful. I had just tilted my head to read the titles when one caught my eye.

  It resembled the red volume that Detective Archer had shown me, though this one was called Selected Works of Sylvia Plath. I held the book flat on my right palm and opened the cover carefully with my left hand. As I began flipping toward the title page, I was half-hoping the symbol would be there and half-hoping it wouldn’t. Even though I was prepared for it, my breath still caught in my throat at the sight of the rose and thorns embossed on the white stock.

  Dang, they were everywhere.

  When I heard footsteps coming down the stairs, I quickly set the book back on top of the stacks. But then I picked it up again. No time like the present.

  Elisabetta walked up to me, smiling. “Found it.”

  I thanked her and held out the red book. “What’s this one?”

  Her smile faded briefly, then she rekindled the wattage.

  “Oh, it’s just a collection of Plath’s work.” She handed me the paperback and took the other one from me.

  I pointed to the red volume, which she held next to her chest, arms crossed. I’d apparently have to wrestle her to get another chance at examining it.

  “That one has a symbol embossed on the front page. What is that?”

  She didn’t move. “I don’t know.”

  “Could I show you?”

  Her arms remained crossed. “No, I’ve seen it, but I really couldn’t say what it is.”

  “It’s just that…well, it keeps showing up, including on the book that was used to attack Judith. Which looked exactly like the one you’re holding, by the way.”

  Elisabetta’s eyes widened. “That is strange.”

  The silence stretched out between us.

  “Where did you get that book?” I asked.

  “It was a gift,” she said. “Calista gave it to me.”

  Chapter 16

  The next day, I strolled towards my office, allowing myself to ponder once again the questions I’d been wrestling with all night long. Why did the symbol seem to point to my cousin? And why did anyone I asked about the symbol tell me they didn’t know what it meant? There were too many of them to be merely coincidental. Then again, just because a symbol kept showing up didn’t necessarily mean it was dangerous—did it?

  I wandered over to the large elm between Crandall and Randsworth Halls to see if I could find the statue Nate had mentioned when we’d visited the fountain. I stepped into the shade of the massive tree—its thick trunk exploded above into an eerie tangle of stark, empty branches—and circled around until I found a statue of a woman in a veil, about four feet high and carved from white stone. She wasn’t holding a bird in her raised right hand, as Nate had said, but a feather, and it was poised over a small square bottle next to her feet. Her left hand, which was by her side, held a rectangular shape like a tablet or an open book. It appeared the mysterious woman had been writing with a quill, but had paused or had been interrupted or was waiting for something. Her blank stone eyes were haunting.

  I moved back onto the sidewalk and walked quickly to Crandall, shivering, grateful for the sun on my shoulders again.

  Several of my students leaving the building said hello as I stepped to the side to allow them to exit. Seeing them reminded me that I needed to catch up on my grading and prepare the following week’s lecture. There was plenty to do to keep my mind off of recent events. I resolved not to think about the symbol for a few hours, if I could help it.

  As I climbed up to the English department floor, I passed Norton talking animatedly with Spencer. They stopped speaking when I went by, though they both nodded a greeting. The awkward silence seemed to fill up the hallway, prompting me to scurry to my office.

  I angled the key at the door lock, then noticed it was already open, just barely. That was odd—I always locked it. Maybe one of the cleaning crew forgot to pull it shut all the way. After I pushed it open, I couldn’t process what I was seeing at first.

  The desk and bookshelves had been knocked over and the file cabinet was on its side. Books and papers were scattered everywhere, and the top of my desk was smeared with crimson, in the shape of a crude rose. A network of red thorny branches with jagged edges covered most of the far office wall. Was that paint? Or blood?

  I screamed, grabbing at the doorframe as my knees buckled.

  Spencer and Norton ran down the hallway, stopping short at the sight of the mess inside the room. Spencer gently pulled me out of the office and propped me up against the hallway bulletin board. I could feel the edge of a poster cutting into my neck but didn’t seem to have the energy to move away. He looked deeply into my eyes.

  “This is not right,” he said. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out.” Spencer glanced at Norton, who confirmed he was already dialing campus police on his cell phone, then back at me. “Lila, are you okay? Do you need a drink of water?”

  I couldn’t answer. My knees shook as I concentrated on breathing.

  He nodded and began propelling me down the hallway to the main office. “Yes, let’s get you a drink, I think. Maybe something stronger than water if we have it.”

  Norton called from behind us, “I’ll bring her bag and keys.”

  “Don’t touch anything!” Spencer called back.

  “Why? She brought them into the room after this was already done.”

  “No, you can’t touch anything,” Spencer insisted.

  “But her bag isn’t part of anything, so why not—”

  “Because,” Spencer boomed with authority. Then his shoulders slumped and he continued, sounding defeated, “You’re just not supposed to touch anything.”

  Typically, that was about as much as English professors were expected to know about crime scenes. And I really didn’t want to learn any more.

  Spencer set me up in the main office, along with the promised water, although I was shaking too hard to hold it without spilling. He gently removed it from my untrustworthy fingers and set it carefully on Millicent’s desk. I was vaguely worried about water stains but couldn’t seem to figure out what to use as a coaster—my brain was working too slowly. Millicent took care of that herself, sliding a folded-up tissue underneath. She had an inquiring expression.

  “I’m fine,” I told her. She nodded and retreated to another corner of the room. It had to be bothering her that Spencer had commandeered her territory, but she didn’t show her irritation, for once. Thank goodness for small favors.

  Soon thereafter, I was treated to another lengthy session with Detective Archer, who all but accused me of trashing the office to steer suspicion away from myself. I could understand why he was distrustful since I kept showing up at crime scenes. But I was the victim here. Didn’t that count for something?

  I stressed the existence of witnesses in Spencer and Norton. I hoped they would be able to explain the sincerity of my surprise upon seeing the office for the first time.

  Though what were they whispering about when I first went up the stairs? Norton had told Calista she’d pay for Roland, hadn’t he? Maybe he’d decided to take it out on me instead.

  Enough, I told myself. There was an explanation for all of this. I just h
adn’t discovered it yet. I had to stop thinking everyone was up to something nefarious—or at least stop feeling as though the environment was unusual: academia is chock full of gossip, malice, and treacherous plots. Just like any other über-competitive place.

  Then again, on this campus there was a body count.

  The next afternoon, I met Spencer in the main office, as requested.

  He gave me a cautious smile. “Lila, how are you?”

  “Feeling better.”

  “Good, good. Glad to hear it. We took care of your office—painted the wall, put in a new desk and everything has been, er, cleaned up,” he said. He removed a small envelope from his pocket, which he held out to me. “We also had the lock redone—here’s your new key.”

  Relief swept through me. I hadn’t even thought about having to deal with the office and here it was already done. I thanked him, and he waved his hand to indicate that it was nothing. “I’m so very sorry you had to endure such a thing. If there is anything I can do to help you move forward from this, please let me know.”

  I expressed my gratitude again as he, in the dignified way he always had about him, took his leave. Then I headed down the hall, fighting the flicker of anxiety welling up the closer I got to my door.

  Inside, the office was pristine, aside from the piles of papers on my desk that some kind soul had picked up and stacked neatly for me. I’d have to re-file them, but at least the red wall marks were gone. It was almost impossible to imagine that anything horrifying had ever happened here. I opened the window to let in some fresh air to counter the strong new-paint smell. I was impressed that facilities had been willing to repaint the wall overnight. Spencer must have some pull over there.

  Before tackling the filing project, I booted up the laptop and turned on some Bach, whom I usually find calming. It would be good to at least aim for tranquil before any advisees arrived, and I did not want to let yesterday’s ominous warning control me—even though I was scared, I wasn’t going to act like it.

  In fact, maybe I should hang the rose-and-thorn necklace on my office door as a sort of reverse psychology declaration. That would show whoever was responsible that their effort to scare me had failed.

  Or it might get me killed.

  After completing the filing, advising several students, and plowing through one grading stack, I was exhausted.

  My cell rang, and I was surprised to find Detective Archer on the other end. He said he was in the neighborhood—why do people feel compelled to say that when they want to stop by?—and had a follow-up question about the incident today. I agreed to his visit. Three minutes later, he knocked on my office door.

  I guess he really was in the neighborhood.

  I invited him in, indicating the student chair next to my desk. He set down a brown canvas field bag overflowing with papers. I deduced from the way the pages were bent at the corners that someone had been doing a lot of examination.

  He flipped open his black notepad and reviewed a few pages, running his free hand across his short black hair. I waited patiently. Finally, he gave me a smile that was far more neutral than friendly. Professional, if I had to call it something. Meant to put me at ease.

  I wasn’t at ease.

  “Yesterday you said you couldn’t think of anyone who might have had a grudge against you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s dig into that a little bit more,” he said.

  “Okay.” I reflected. Still came up empty. “I haven’t been here very long, so I have no idea what I could have done to upset someone.”

  “How about Tad Ruthersford?”

  I was stunned. “Not that I know of. He’s been very welcoming to me.”

  “Ever hear him talk negatively about anyone else in the department?”

  “Just, you know, normal gossip. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  When it became clear I wasn’t going to offer any examples, he nodded. “Let’s try something else. Tell me more about your relationship with your cousin.”

  “We grew up together.”

  “Did she ever confide in you?”

  “Sure. All the time.”

  I stopped short—maybe emphasizing how close we were wasn’t a good idea. He’d already insinuated that I’d performed the office vandalism myself. It was only a short leap to a worse accusation, like being an accomplice to Roland’s murder, which he probably thought already. My palms were sweaty. I didn’t know why he always made me feel guilty when I knew I wasn’t, but he was good at it.

  “Did she ever say anything about Roland?”

  “She did,” I said warily.

  He waited.

  “She thought he was mean.”

  He wrote that down.

  “What made her think he was mean?”

  “He was very critical. Rude. Unkind.” I gestured vaguely. “Et cetera.”

  “Would you agree with that assessment?”

  I sighed. “Yes. But she was just venting. Everyone complained about his behavior. What does this have to do with my office?”

  “We’re looking for connections.”

  I could see his reasoning. “But why are you focusing on Calista? She couldn’t have done anything to my office because she’s in jail.”

  “Who says she has to be working alone?”

  That was a scary thought, but I shook my head firmly. “If there was someone working with her, they wouldn’t go after me. She wouldn’t let them.”

  “Them?”

  “Whoever. You’re the one who proposed the group scenario, not me.”

  He tapped his pen on the desk top.

  “What about the symbol on the book you showed me? Those elements were in my office too…there was a rose on my desk and the thorns painted on the wall.” I decided not to tell him about the other places I’d found it, for now anyway. He seemed more interested in gathering evidence against my cousin than in helping her, and until I understood what the symbol meant, I’d keep a few things to myself.

  “You forgot the tattoo.”

  “What tattoo?”

  “On your cousin’s back.”

  “What in the world are you talking about?”

  The detective pulled a manila envelope out of his field bag and shuffled through some photographs. He placed one on the table between us. It was a clear shot: an expanse of skin with a dark red and black tattoo about four inches long that matched the emblem I kept seeing everywhere. “This is a picture of Calista’s back.”

  “I’ve never seen that tattoo.”

  “It’s recent,” he said. “According to your cousin.”

  “She told you that?”

  “It was noted when she was processed, but yes, she confirmed it was new.”

  “Maybe she just picked it off the menu at the tattoo shop.” It sounded weak even as I said it, but I desperately wanted to believe it. “Have you checked out wherever she had it done?”

  “Yes, but they said she brought it in. And we found the design for it on her laptop.”

  He watched my reaction. I’m sure it said that Calista and I were going to have a long talk.

  Chapter 17

  I sat in my office, staring at the wall. The vandalism incident, along with the detective’s revelations, had shaken me, and I was having trouble concentrating on the reading in front of me.

  Why did Calista have a tattoo of the rose-and-thorn symbol? And why was it showing up at crime scenes? And why did no one admit to knowing what it meant? I couldn’t fit the information into any coherent explanation. As if that wasn’t enough, Detective Archer had actually said that I should let him know if I planned to leave town—that I recognized from countless movies as the line no one is happy to hear. My mind was racing.

  “So what are you wearing to the Halloween party?” I turned to see Nate standing in the doorway. He w
as holding a literature anthology easily in one hand, which was remarkable, given that they ran to well over a thousand pages each. They inflamed my carpal tunnel even when I used two hands.

  “I’m not going,” I said. Although I had received the engraved invitation sent by the chancellor to all faculty members, I planned to spend the evening handing out candy to children. It was not my favorite holiday by any means, and I thought it would be wise to stay out of the chancellor’s line of vision as much as possible this semester.

  Nate walked into my office and settled himself on the chair next to my desk. “Oh no, Professor. You have to go. It’s the social event of the year.”

  “Not after what happened to my office.”

  “That was brutal. I get it. But I’ll go with you to the party. No one is going to mess with these guns.” Nate pointed to one of his biceps. “Don’t let the small size fool you.”

  I laughed. “That’s a kind offer, but I don’t have anything to wear anyway.”

  “That doesn’t matter, Lila, because it’s not so much a party as a command performance. Everyone goes. And I swear the chancellor has someone taking attendance.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, one year Tad didn’t go and it was mentioned more than once, if you know what I mean. And you remember what happened to him with Roland and tenure and whatnot. Not that they are necessarily connected…but they could be.”

  “Speaking of Tad, the detective asked me about him.”

  Nate nodded. “They’ve been questioning him.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “I thought you said the detective talked to you again too.”

  “Yes, but I went to him with some additional information.”

  He considered this. “Well, I hope they’re just trying to be thorough.”

  “You don’t think Tad—”

  “No way.”

  He looked down at the anthology and aimlessly flipped a few of the pages. “Anyway, back to the party. You must find something to wear.”