by Kluge, P. F.
“I didn’t think we were getting many prospectives this year,” Caroline said. “Harry Carstairs said they were few and far between.”
Fewer and farther now. This was it. The college had its handful of celebrated graduates. A few professors had national reputations. But famous names weren’t what made the college work. Appearance was what counted—the hill, the paths, the one-block village. Make no mistake, this place was admired for its looks, not its brains—its looks and the promise of a good time. Make that a good, safe time. Once we lost that, we lost everything.
I’d never have said what came next, had that prospective student not been murdered. His death, and the likely death of the college, made me weary of the charade I’d been playing with Caroline Ives. It was the worst possible moment to test her. And the best.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you about your ambitions,” I said. “Whether they are here or elsewhere. I wonder if you know.”
She nodded, swallowed. It was something she’d thought about but that didn’t mean she was ready to answer. So she flushed and floundered, which was out of character for her. And I pressed, which was out of character for me.
“Whether you’re the sort of person who aims for the top of the field. Whether you want—or need—to associate yourself with recognized excellence. The Ivy League. A small well-endowed New England college. Or whether you might settle in a place like this. A good place. Sometimes, very good indeed. That was my question. Perhaps it’s inappropriate. Shall I withdraw it?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Besides, I think I know the answer.” I added.
“I think you do,” she said, glancing downward, feeling (or feigning) shame.
“I can’t blame you,” I said. Of course I blamed her. And we both knew it.
“I want you to know,” she said, “that I have nothing but the highest regard for you, Warren. And for this place. I’ll never regret...”
“That’ll do,” I said with unexpected decisiveness. Never bullshit a bullshitter, they say.
“Jeremy Alan Gould was college material,” Dan Rather said. “An A student from suburban Chicago, student council president, swim team captain. He was courted by state universities with hefty scholarship offers. But Jeremy insisted on visiting this small, liberal arts college in Ohio. His parents had their doubts. But this was his first choice.” Rather was standing on Middle Path, at the gates of the college. “And it cost him his life.” He strolled down the path, towards the bench just inside the gates. “He was not the first to die here lately.”
“These days, debate about the future of higher education—its cost, its purpose—is commonplace,” Peter Jennings began. Jennings stayed in New York. “And often, the debate focuses on small liberal arts colleges, proud, private places like...” And now a clip from the college’s promotional film, a heart-stopping overhead of the hill in autumn, accommodated by a student chorus singing one of the college’s wistful anthems. “Places like this are routinely described as endangered. But tonight there is a college more endangered than most. And more dangerous.” Then it was Martha Yeats, then the students. Amy and Jarrett. Next came that prospective student, a body under a rubber blanket, tucked into an ambulance. Then Graves and Niles and Peter Jennings again, how the University of Texas was stunned when Charles Whitman started shooting from that tower. But Whitman was dead at the end of the day, the mourning and healing had already begun. We were smaller, poorer, more isolated. And so, tonight, this picture book campus slept in fear.
I missed Tom Brokaw but later I heard he positioned himself in front of the college’s oldest dormitory, which had burned in 1949 with nine students losing their lives. A tragedy this feisty little college had survived, he said. But tonight, with dorms emptying, parents arriving to pull their offspring out of college, the trustees arriving tomorrow for an emergency meeting, it was anybody’s guess whether the college would pull through. Brokaw was the only one who noted the college’s tuition dependency, that eighty percent of this year’s budget derived from this year’s tuition.
At first, I wanted to meet the trustees off campus, at one of the places we use for annual retreats. There’s an inn in Amish country, just north of here. But Willard Thrush talked me out of it. The word retreat sent the wrong message, he said, and I suppose he was right. There’s a room in Ascension Hall, wood-beamed and dark paneled that they say once accommodated the entire faculty, thirty years ago. There, the Trustees awaited me, accompanied by Deans Sullivan and Carstairs, Provost Ives, Vice President Thrush. Photographers snapped our photo as we walked from Stribling to Ascension. The network TV reporters were gone, but local affiliates filled in and there were a dozen newspaper reporters too. Groups of students stood behind them, red-eyed and dumbstruck, some of them with parents, protective and concerned. It was sad, seeing this drizzly November ceremony, right where our colorful rituals took place, this parade across the grass to the room where capitulation awaited.
Dean Sullivan reported that, as of that morning, at least 300 students had already left the college. They drove off in their cars. That was only the first wave though, the ones who fled in a panic, leaving dorm rooms full of books, clothing, stereo equipment, mini-refrigerators. They just took off. This was when Willard Thrush leaned towards me, his lips close to my ear. “Well,” he whispered, “I guess we finally solved the student parking problem.” An unknown number of parents were arriving to pull their kids out of school, Sullivan continued. We didn’t know how many, we wouldn’t know until they actually were gone. All we could do, he said, was count the empty rooms, the unserved meals, and make an estimate. The Dean of Students swallowed hard. He was the only one of us who had much contact with students. Each May, he was the heavy favorite to win the trophy seniors awarded to the staff or faculty person who had meant the most to them. “The real honor,” Willard Thrush once said, “would be if a Dean of Students got through a career around here without receiving that award.” The dean had about finished his report. But, he said, one question wouldn’t go away: refunds. We were well past the date when the college was obligated to make even a partial refund on the semester’s tuition payments. Someone would have to decide whether the college would adhere to its written policy. Or not. After Sullivan finished, it was Caroline Ives’ turn. And she was ready.
“One-third,” she said. “I walked the campus yesterday. I walked through most of the buildings in which instruction takes place. I did this at period three, 10:10 to 11 a.m., one of the busiest slots. I’d say that one-third of the classrooms were occupied, sometimes by a handful of students without a professor, sometimes a professor without a student. My guess is that the earlier sessions had fewer than one-third. As for evening seminars...” Her voice trailed off for a moment, while she let her message sink in: no one was showing up for a class at night.
“One more thing,” she said. “The question Dean Sullivan raised about tuition payments also arises in regard to faculty contracts. I don’t mean to be heartless, but we’ll need a decision about continuing payment to faculty who have absented themselves from classrooms and, in some cases, from campus. Granted, of course, these are unusual circumstances. There’s no provision I can find for acts of...” She almost said it, she came close enough so that we could fill in the missing word: acts of God. “For acts like this,” she said.
Already somber, the mood in the room got darker, heavier. Its very weight pushed me into my chair, determined never to rise and stand again, in this place. Still, there was something else. I noticed it in Willard Thrush’s face and in some of the trustees, the business types who regarded tenure, sabbaticals, release time, leave and other faculty perks with skepticism, even contempt. In the midst of all the bad news, a possibility glimmered. End an arrangement of lifetime employment, an arrangement unmatched anywhere, now that Japan had discovered pink slips. Get rid of them all, a total housecleaning, and bring back the ones worth keeping. Bring them back on contracts—one year, three years, five or seven—and wo
uldn’t that strike a blow for everything we said we esteemed, for teaching, scholarship, community service, for plain civility? Was there a college administration anywhere that wouldn’t take advantage of that opportunity, if they thought they could get away with it?
“Next year’s freshman class?” Dean of Admissions Harry Carstairs began. “Forget about it.” He stood there for a moment, letting the brutal news sink in. “I’m not going to tell you that admitted students are changing their minds, but that’s only because our acceptances don’t go out until March. I can feel it happening, though. In a routine year our yield is thirty percent. Thirty percent of those we admit end up coming to campus. With this...well...I’d be surprised, as a matter of fact I’d be suspicious, if anybody came. We’re a costly, private liberal arts college. The chance of a student, especially a full-fare student, choosing to enter...” He waved it away. This was hard to bear. Our Mr. Outside, our recruiter, was telling us that the game was over.
“I’ll say this,” Carstairs said. “If the killer is caught tomorrow, if we can convince ourselves and our clientele that what happened here is definitely over, then there’s a chance we’ll survive. As a matter of fact, flourish. I don’t mean to sound cynical but, if you look past these murders, we’ve had huge publicity these last few days. Our promotion film on network news, television and newspaper correspondents all over campus, discovering this college and—make no mistake—liking what they see. If we can get through this, soon—I mean not in weeks, but in days—there’s hope.”
There it was again, that stirring of interest, like a shaft of sunlight breaking through a skyful of thunderclouds. A brand new faculty, stripped of attitude and entitlements. And, for Carstairs, the chance of an all new student body drawn by the publicity the college’s tribulations had generated. How many other colleges made the evening news?
“About money,” Willard Thrush began. “I’ll tell you what I know and then I’ll speculate a little. Without this year’s tuition, the college can struggle through in a reduced way, assuming anyone wants to go to college here. We’ll take a hit but we can do it, for one year. Maybe longer, if we’re willing to sell off some assets, some non-essential assets...”
He held up for a moment, waiting to be interrupted, challenged even, waiting for someone to say what, pray tell, was or was not essential. Waiting for someone to ask about our secret treasure, our castle keep, the Stribling Tract. That, of course, would lead to prolonged debate, the soul of the college at stake. What was the land without the college? What was the college without the land? Amazingly, no one asked. Did I see Thrush’s eyes meet those of Averill Hayes, in a moment of detente, a sense of ripeness?
“There are people discovering this college every day, wondering about it, pulling for us,” Thrush said. “Wealthy players, foundations that like our style, a lot of new friends. Then again, there’s someone who hates us. If we get him...or her...soon you might be surprised how strong we come back. If we don’t—soon—we’re dead. You can’t have a college that no one attends. Period.” Wealthy players, new friends. I heard it for the third time. Yes, we might hate ourselves in the morning and yes, it wasn’t appropriate but there you had it: we contemplated the college’s near-death experience with excitement. On the edge of extinction, we glimpsed magical possibilities. We looked around, too polite to say what we were thinking, yet the looks on our faces told the story: do you see what I see? Like a lost Atlantis, no sooner glimpsed than it disappeared. Because then it was my turn to speak.
“I’ll open discussion in a moment,” I said. “But let me anticipate some questions. I spoke with Mr. Sherwood Graves, the lead investigator, just before coming here. Point one: These killings are serial. Probably the same weapon, almost certainly the same killer. Point two: with the possible exception of the first death, these victims were targets of opportunity, randomly chosen and probably unknown to the killer, certainly unknown to each other. Point three. The killer’s target, it becomes more and more clear, is this college.”
I felt a stirring in the room, surprise, perplexity, anger. Murders were familiar. Crimes of passion for the most part. Maniacs shooting up elementary schools. But to learn that a school—our school—was itself the target was startling. Not one of them raised a hand to question the logic, or the absurdity, of murdering a college.
“Point four—last,” I resumed. “Mr. Graves’ investigation continues. But for reasons of—and I quote—‘logic and law’—he declines to be more specific or to indicate when we can hope for peace. Alright then, I have a recommendation I must offer. And not just to promote discussion. Let me be clear. I want you to pass it. I am recommending that we close this college...”
I heard a groan through the room. But they’d have groaned if I said, keep it open. A groan from the same people, I’d bet. For a moment I just stood there, though not as long as I’d planned to. I thought it was a moment to take note of, a moment that would change things forever. When the moment rolled around, though, I just wanted it to be done, and quickly. Like an execution.
“I am recommending that this semester’s tuition be partially refunded,” I said, “that our faculty be furloughed at half pay, that other staffers be similarly furloughed, that caretaker and maintenance functions be consolidated into one or two locations, off campus if necessary, and that appropriate security personnel be hired to police and protect the vacant campus. I’m recommending these actions be effective immediately and continue until circumstances permit our reopening.”
I said all of that as if it were one long sentence, a recitation, rushing through it, and when it was done I heard people crying. Then hands started going up around the room, voices were raised. “If you think that...” “There was a time when...” “There’s a lot more at stake than...” And then: “How’s it feel to be this college’s last president?”
I was startled. It was a question for a tabloid journalist, a low blow that landed and knocked the breath out of me.
“This is a time when the college needs your wisdom and your courage,” I said. “I’m not sure, however, they’re the same thing.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” someone fired back.
“It means that I wish they’d come together,” I answered. “But if it’s to be one or the other, coming from you to me, let it be wisdom, please.”
“Why not courage?” Another voice. “That’s what’s in short supply around here. This place is in the hands of the undertaker!”
“Stop it!” Ave Hayes shouted. “Before these deliberations go any further, I think we should excuse those of us who are not trustees.”
So we took a ten minute break. I watched my team depart—the Provost, the Deans, and Willard Thrush marching out into a nasty November morning, windy and spitting rain. The leaves were gone and that made the campus seem skeletal.
Ave chaired the meeting, when it resumed. He fielded the howls of pain, declarations of love, professions of faith. And the questions. How did this happen? Why hadn’t we seen it coming? Why hadn’t someone—anyone—been arrested? What about an appeal for federal aid, a call to the National Guard? After that, they got to specifics, asserting themselves in small ways. They decided against refunding tuition, which would set a dangerous precedent: any malcontent student could fire a few shots, stop worrying about his grades, and live off his tuition refund in Portugal. The faculty wouldn’t get half-pay either. Another bad precedent. So, without asking or even saying much, the trustees revised my soft-hearted recommendations. But when it came to the main point, closing the college, there was little they could do. They formed a committee, headed by Ave, to decide if and when we would reopen. They decided, at Ave’s suggestion, on a decent interval, an evening of reflection. They would meet the next day to cast a final vote. Nonetheless, some trustees wanted to pull the plug right then. Why spend another night on a campus that wasn’t safe?
That was yesterday. Last night, I stayed at home, alone. I called Maine, where my wife urged me to leave, and soon,
to join her in our new home. There’s no escaping it: she never liked it here. If I were to linger here, I would do so alone. I sat in my study, picturing the years ahead. We would travel, I supposed. There were trustees with places in California and the Caribbean, in New England. And, Averill Hayes had made clear, if the college reopened, there would be a place for me. He did not specify what that place would be. He did not say President. Meanwhile, if Phillip Nolan were “the man without a country,” sailing back and forth forever, I could be the president without a college, attending a board meeting here, teaching a course there, writing the occasional op-ed piece on violence in schools or crisis in the liberal arts. This wasn’t a tragedy, I told myself, except for the four who died their unlucky deaths. Some people had done pretty well. Before the murders, trustees were contemplating my retirement. Now, as it turned out, I would outlive the college. Wasn’t that a kind of victory? Add Caroline Ives to the list of winners, a college president-designate, somewhere in California, so I’d just heard. And Mark May, his drunken writer days long behind him, a serious teacher now. He’d be a hit with students someplace. And Hiram Wright, plucked from exile, suddenly America’s favorite grumpy professor. And, as for the college itself, had we ever been better known, more highly regarded than at the hour of our closing?
I turned on the television, to see what the newsmen had made of us. In the absence of hard news—a vote to close the college—they dusted off Hiram Wright, down on the river, where the venerable one treated them to a reprise of what he’d said after the second and third murders.
“Trustees are not the college,” Wright told them, sitting on his porch, the image of a cracker-barrel philosopher. “Administrators are not the college. Presidents come and go. Provosts come and go more quickly.” Ouch! Someone had tipped him off about Caroline. “Professors and students are the college. And as long as I am here, I will teach whoever comes to me. One or a hundred. I’m a professor. I profess literature and history. The flame that has burned in this far corner of Ohio will flicker. But it will not go out.”
