Sticks and Stones

by Janice Macdonald

  sticks

  +

  stones

  A Randy Craig Mystery

  by

  Janice MacDonald

  Sticks and Stones

  copyright © 2001 Janice MacDonald

  published by Ravenstone

  an imprint of Turnstone Press

  206–100 Arthur Street

  Artspace Building

  Winnipeg, Manitoba

  Canada R3B 1H3

  www.RavenstoneBooks.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical—without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any request to photocopy any part of this book shall be directed in writing to the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, Toronto.

  Turnstone Press gratefully acknowledges the assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Manitoba Arts Council and the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for our publishing activities.

  Cover design: Doowah Design

  Author photograph: Randy Williams

  This book was printed and bound in Canada

  by Friesens for Turnstone Press.

  Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data

  MacDonald, Janice, E. (Janice Elva), 1959–

  Sticks and stones

  ISBN 0-88801-256-X

  I. Title.

  PS8575.D6324S74 2001 C813'.54 C2001-910050-7

  PR9199.3.M31132S74 200

  Acknowledgements

  First, thanks to Marni Stanley, friend, colleague and great conversationalist, who mentioned what was to be the kernel of inspiration for this story to me in a phone call. Thanks to The Canada Council for the Arts, The Alberta Foundation for the Arts and Joyce MacDonald for funding the time it took to write the first draft.

  Thanks to Cora Taylor, Martina Purdon and Randy Williams for reading drafts; to Jennifer Glossop for ­tightening the manuscript and stretching me; to Manuela Dias and Jeff Eyamie for making the non-writing parts of this fun; to Madeleine and Jocelyn Mant for their patience and support; to the folks of both Biz and Brainstorms who cheered it on; and for my mom, who never got to read the final version.

  Edmonton is definitely more than a state of mind. The University of Alberta is a real place, as are most of the places mentioned. None of the events depicted actually took place there, though. None of the people really exist, either, although some of the names are borrowed from people I like.

  This is for Randy—the real one.

  1

  I WASN’T SURE IF IT WAS THIS PARTICULAR CROP of students or this year’s freshmen in general, or, God forbid, me, but I was finding it tough to inspire in my morning class an appreciation of English literature. Granted, English 101 is the required course for those who hate reading, culture and aesthetic experiences on principle, but in past years I had usually been able to jolly them into a semi-sullen respect for what they were studying by late September. It was almost a month past that, and these folks still weren’t buying it.

  I suspect that most of them had made some sort of deal with each other to share notes and texts and to alternate attending lectures. Those who approached me after missing two lectures to ask if we had taken up anything “important” while they were away were the ones I really adored. “No,” I would coo, “I noticed you weren’t here so we just marked time doing shadow pictures on the overhead projector.” A few had the grace to blush.

  Not that all of them were lackadaisical. I had some ­keeners, and thank the lord for mature students. Other sessionals remarked that lecturing to people older than themselves intimidated them, but I’d found that students who returned to school after a break in the real world were thrilled to be studying anything. As well, they had a fund of life experience to add to discussions of literature. There were two older women in my morning class, and one older guy and one woman about my age had transferred into my afternoon class.

  This was my third year as a part-time sessional lecturer in the English department of the University of Alberta, in Edmonton, or what one professor had jokingly called the University of the Southern Yukon. Two classes of thirty-four students each, a small overheated office in a condemned house on university property, and year-long library ­privileges. All in all, not a bad part-time job. When I wasn’t marking essays and exams, I tried to keep my hand in the freelancing game by writing reviews and articles. Anything longer, like the Great Canadian Novel, was just going to have to wait.

  At the moment I was standing in the general office, reading my paltry mail and waiting in line to use the photocopier.

  “How’s it going, Randy?” came a voice close to my left ear. It startled me, absorbed as I was in the list of new acquisitions to the department reading room. I turned to look at Denise Wolff, a full-time sessional who also had an office in the House, a former campus house now condemned for residential use and designated as overspill offices. As usual, she looked genuinely interested in my response. I find it a source of never-ending sorrow when incredibly attractive people are also incredibly nice. It would be so much easier to hate them and have done with it.

  “I’m just doing a little mourning in advance, Denise.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Today’s the day I start Shakespeare with my 101s.”

  “Oh, God. “ She sighed. “ I know; it’s not easy to lead the greatest poet the world has ever known to slaughter, is it?”

  “Exactly. This year I chose Twelfth Night because I couldn’t bear to hear one more eighteen-year-old dismiss Hamlet with an airy ‘We did it in high school.’ ”

  “Right.” Denise’s dissertation had been on Shakespeare’s tragedies. She nodded and her glistening sixty-dollar haircut bounced vigorously. “I’ve seen seven productions and studied it intensely for about nine or ten years, and they figure they’ve got it aced because they did a line-reading in grade twelve and saw Mel Gibson or Kenneth Branagh strut about at the Cineplex. It’s enough to make you weep.”

  I was just warming up into a good heated discussion when the copier came free. I smiled goodbye to Denise and settled in to figure out the intricacies of copying sonnets onto a transparency. The anthology we were using had chosen four, but only one was a favorite of mine. Thank goodness Shakespeare was beyond the regulations of copyright infringement.

  I got to class with just enough time to write the day’s journal topic on the board before the clock buzzed. I could have predicted the groans from the class as they read it. My morning class was politer, but they too had been slightly dismayed.

  “Why is poetry considered the language of love?”

  I glanced at their bowed heads as they began their daily exercise in writing to prescribed topics. Journals were a particular hobbyhorse of mine. They weighed a ton whenever I called them in for grading, but a year of journal-writing improved skills like nothing else I’d tried. It also got them into a literary mode, of sorts, at the top of the class. It cleared their minds of the business stratagems and amino acids they’d been pondering in the previous class, and focused them on rhetoric and ideas.

  The rest of the eighty minutes was taken up with a lecture on Shakespeare’s sonnets. I examined their order, the young man, the dark lady, and the argument of whether or not they were autobiographical. The young man seemed to excite the homophobes, while the mathematicians got a kick out of sonnet structure. Nobody seemed interested in the old Wordsworth/Browning argument of “with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart” versus “if so, the less Shakespeare he.” One person wanted to know whether they’d have to be responsible for the sonnets on the transparency for the exam. I smiled and nodded. They groaned.

  “Have a good weekend,” I chirped as they loaded their
backpacks and pulled on their jackets. Some of them looked resentful, and I recalled that I was the only one who worked a Tuesday/Thursday schedule. They likely had classes ­tomorrow.

  I glanced outside at the late fall beauty. It was weather like this that made me think of old university days movies. I had an inordinate desire to go out and win one for the gipper. Maybe there was some truth to that adage that these would be the best years of my students’ lives. At any rate, this was bound to be a fine weekend for those who could struggle through Twelfth Night in one sitting, I thought. What I didn’t realize was that it would be the beginning of a living hell for some others.

  2

  SINCE I HAD NOTHING TO MARK, I SPENT the weekend ­relaxing. Edmonton in the fall is a glorious experience. If the winds hold off, the river valley, which bisects the city, is literally ablaze in autumn hues you couldn’t get away with on canvas. We had been lucky this year; it had been a mild October, and the trees had been tenacious with their leaves. After stocking up provisions for the week, I’d spent most of my time on the endless bike trails in the river ­valley.

  My bicycle is an old-fashioned ladies’ one-speed with coaster brakes and a wire basket in front suitable for carrying extra-terrestrials should the need arise. My helmet, on the other hand, is made of a glossy space-age polymer over Styrofoam, which makes me feel like one of the flowerpot men from the old kids’ TV program. I gamely pedaled past power walkers and some runners, and moved over for the in-line skaters. Everyone, it seemed, was out enjoying the weather. Edmontonians know better than to look gift weather in the mouth. My students wear shorts till well into November and begin to sport them again in March if the snow deigns to melt.

  I was feeling pretty rested and at ease with the world by Monday. Even though I rarely head to campus when I’m not scheduled to teach, I popped into the Humanities Building to pick up my mail and kibitz with anyone who had time for a coffee.

  Denise and Julian Lang were already in the coffee lounge. Denise’s eyes were flashing—a sure sign that she had an opinion about something—and even Julian’s rather phlegmatic features showed signs of animation. They turned to me in unison.

  “Randy, where have you been? Have you heard?” Denise’s voice was shaking with what I assumed (correctly as it turned out) was rage.

  “Heard what? I just got in.”

  “Denise just came out of her 101 class.” Julian wasn’t teaching this year; he’d got a SSHRC grant to complete his dis­sertation. Unfortunately, the reduced pressure that steady money provided was playing havoc with his work schedule. He always seemed to be coffeeing or generally hanging out. I think he missed the teaching, too. From what I’d heard, he really came to life in front of a class. He’d have had to.

  Denise wasn’t going to let Julian scoop her.

  “I couldn’t get them to settle down at all. Half of them live in residence this year, anyhow, so most of them were in situ for the events.”

  “What events? Back up, Denise. What the hell are you talking about?”

  Denise took a deep breath to steady herself. “Apparently, on Friday night a group of Fraser residents took it into their heads to invite some women from Rundle to a party.”

  “Fraser, that’s the co-ed residence, right?”

  “Yep, and Rundle’s for women only, and Simpson’s the men’s only,” interjected Julian. Denise glared at the ­interruption.

  “So anyway, they drank a few cases of beer and penned personal notes to every woman on three floors, and then, before their testosterone deserted them, they sneaked in and slipped them under all the doors.”

  I was in awe, trying to imagine first-year students able to write more than a hundred letters. Something in Denise’s tone of voice told me this wasn’t the issue, though.

  “When those poor women woke up, they were treated to the knowledge that only one slim door had been between them and those cretins. Can you imagine how vulnerable they must have felt?”

  “I’ll bet some of them thought they were singled out, too. How could they know right off that they weren’t the only ones getting an ‘invitation’?” added Julian.

  I knew there was something missing from this story. I still wasn’t getting the point.

  “Sorry, Denise, I don’t quite make the connection between invitations to a party and your outrage.”

  Denise shuddered. “That’s because you haven’t heard the context of the invitations. They all began with some ‘I would like to invite you to our party blah blah blah,’ and then turned into ‘if you don't come we will dot, dot, dot.’ ”

  “What kinds of threats were they making?”

  “I heard only two verbatim. One said they would find her and rape her until her cervix bled. Another was sent to a ­student of mine who's confined to a wheelchair. It said, ‘we know you can’t run from us.’ ”

  “Apparently some verged on death threats, but all promised some form of sexual assault,” Julian added.

  “Does anyone know about this?” I was stunned.

  “I would think so. Some of the girls are pressing charges.”

  Julian and Denise went on to decry the mentality of male residence dwellers in general, combined with the primal urges of post-adolescent hormones mixed with alcohol. Julian, while making sure not to condone anything, tried half-heartedly to defend his half of the species in vague ­generalities. Denise just snorted.

  I poured myself a cup of coffee and sank into one of the understuffed chairs. I wondered what the fallout was going to be. How many of my students had been involved in this fiasco? Were any of my female students targets of such wrath? Had any of my male students been the authors? How in hell would I be able to look any of them in the eye tomorrow?

  3

  BY THE TIME MY FIRST CLASS MET ON TUESDAY morning, all hell had broken loose about the poison pen party ­letters. Tearful girls had been interviewed on the local television news, and solemn-faced university spokesmen had been interviewed on the CBC National. The abrasively energetic morning anchor of the radio station had asked the question that was on everyone’s minds: “What is the university going to do about the boys who had penned these ­letters?”

  I groaned over my Shredded Wheat when I heard the subject noun. The media, regardless of whether or not it thought it was pursuing truth and justice, had already bought into the myth that I knew was going to undermine any positive action. Punishment might have been meted out to “men,” but didn’t we all know that “boys will be boys”?

  Denise, it turned out, had also been quick to pounce on the underlying message. She was in the grad lounge when I popped in between classes, and as close to frothing at the mouth as I’d ever seen her.

  “Any minute now they're going to start equating this with placing Volkswagen Beetles in bus shelters during Engineering Week, and that’s the last we’ll hear about justice for these poor girls.”

  “Don’t you mean women, Denise?”

  This came from Professor Dalgren, a misogynistic old poop who had probably never been breast-fed as an infant. Why he bothered with the grad lounge was beyond any of us, but he always managed to be around long enough to find some sort of quibble. Denise looked over at him with a look that held less than her usual contempt for his hatred-masked-as-banter.

  “No, Dr. Dalgren, I mean girls. Unsuspecting, naïve, neophytes to a system that isn’t going to pay attention to the fact that they have just been victimized in an unconscionable manner.”

  Dalgren almost grinned at what he could foresee as an easy argument. “But you’ve just elaborated that the media is at fault by considering the perpetrators of this gag as boys. Surely you can't have it both ways?”

  The few of us in the lounge were quiet, waiting for Denise to rise to the challenge of the wizened old fart.

  “I think we’re at cross purposes here, Dr. Dalgren. I too think of the fellows responsible for what you call a ‘gag’ as boys. I certainly think of them as too immature to be housed in an establishment of higher lea
rning. Perhaps you are right: they are too young for university. In that case, it would be in everyone’s best interest if they were sent home to do their growing up. What I am objecting to is not that they are called boys, but to the fact that much is overlooked by society at large when actions are labeled the works of boys. The phrase ‘boys will be boys’ is not something of which our society should be proud, don’t you agree?”

  To give him the benefit of the doubt, maybe Dr. Dalgren was late for a tutorial, but those of us in the room he scuttled from felt that the round had definitely gone to Denise. In fact, even Arno Maltzan, a young professor who had been sitting next to Dalgren, seemed a bit uncomfortable, as if his position on the couch had somehow compromised his own integrity.

  Of course, I wasn’t too sure what a comfortable Arno Maltzan might look like, as I hardly ever saw him in the grad lounge. He hadn’t been a grad student here, and rarely came in of his own accord. He must have been entrapped by Dalgren in the mail room prior, or something. Or perhaps he was aspiring to move beyond being what my friend Leo Derocher would call a UTOF, or Untenured Old Fart, and was getting pointers from Dalgren, who was the quintessential TOF. Arno Maltzan wasn’t old, mind you; I figured he was about my age, give or take five years either way. He wasn’t much taller than Dalgren, though, which was likely why the old poop had zoned in on him. I’ve noticed that short men seem even more intimidated by tall men than tall women, although they don’t care all that much for us, either.

  Poor Maltzan obviously had no wish to continue the discussion and made a big production of reading the local ­theater playbills left on the coffee table. His sandy hair fell forward and hid his eyes. I didn’t blame him. I couldn’t imagine him flogging the same dead horse that Dalgren rode constantly. Of course, I’d been raised by ­feminists; I assumed that everyone of my generation thought much the same way I did. That sort of assumption had got me into trouble in the past.