Steve pushed past Leo in the doorway and knelt in front of my chair, bundling me into his arms.
“How are you?”
So much for aloofness, and I was relieved. Steve’s hug was exactly what I needed, and I’d have probably held it against him if it hadn’t been there spontaneously. I hugged him back, and some of his strength seemed to flow into my fragile shell.
“I’m okay, just a little shook up.”
With some help from Denise, whom, I noted, Steve seemed to glance at only cursorily, I managed to tell him what had happened. Steve ordered a dusting of the bathroom door and the chair that had been wedged in front of it. One of the uniformed policemen set off for the nether regions. The other, whom Steve introduced as Officer Trent, went with us up to my office.
It was even worse to see it a second time.
Steve whistled at the destruction.
“We haven’t moved or touched a thing,” Denise offered from behind.
Steve gave her a grim smile. “Thanks, that’s something. Once we dust a few surfaces, do you think you’d be able to tell us if anything is missing?”
“Do you keep anything of value in your office?” This was from Officer Trent.
I tried to think. “Nothing like money or first editions, if that’s what you mean. My mark book is in here, and my class notes, and, oh lord, my mid-term exam!”
“Give us a minute, Randy.” Steve grabbed me before I could complete my spring forward. “The guy probably wore gloves, any movie would teach him that, but we want to check it anyway. Trent will take some pictures, and Michaels will be up soon with the fingerprint kit. Might as well get everything messy before you start redecorating.”
Denise and Leo gave statements to Steve and hugs to me before they left. I went down to the front door with them, and then, for something to do, put on another pot of coffee. I washed out some cups and handed one to Officer Michaels on his way through the kitchen. I called upstairs to see how Officer Trent liked his coffee and then slopped three cups up to the landing. Steve and I sat on the stairs while the crime scene boys made my door, desk, bookcases and filing cabinet even grubbier than before.
Who cleans up after the police? I wondered.
I must have spoken out loud, because Steve laughed.
“Be thankful it’s just fingerprint powder, and not a corpse. We hunt down bad guys; we definitely don’t do windows.”
“I suppose I’d better bring in some cleaning supplies tomorrow; I can’t imagine the cleaning staff touching this.”
“Let them handle the basement. Don’t worry, they won’t be spraying the books on the floor. If there’s anything to find, it’ll be clearer on a hard surface.”
Small comfort. I slurped my coffee and then yawned. The whole evening was catching up with me.
“I know it’s getting late, but I’d appreciate it if you could look through for a few things. One, your mid-term. How many students would be sitting it?”
“About seventy-five. I made only one for both classes. I was going to haul in the exam sheets after the first sitting.”
“Well, it’s a possibility. How much is it worth?”
“Twenty-five percent of the full year mark. But it’s mostly essay questions. Even a sneak preview would only let you in on about forty percent.”
“Well, who knows, it might not be what’s missing. There’s something else I want you to look for.”
I looked up at him. I’d been sitting one step down from him, using his legs as a side support. He looked grim, a look I’d only seen once before. Last night, when I’d told him about the … my jaw dropped along with the penny.
“Gwen’s journal?” I squeaked.
Steve nodded.
“Oh, you don’t think …”
“Randy, I hate to disillusion you, but I doubt if I could justify two crime scene guys for my girlfriend’s tossed office. On the other hand, when there could be a tie-in to an unresolved homicide, the overtime comes cheap.”
It was a good thing Officer Trent appeared in the hallway just then, because I could feel myself starting to shake. Words like “unresolved homicide” tend to do that to me. Words like “girlfriend” have the same effect.
“We’re done here.”
Steve stood up and helped me to my feet.
“Okay, it’s showtime.”
22
OFFICERS TRENT AND MICHAELS EXCUSED themselves, and Steve made arrangements to see them the following day. I braced myself in the doorway and then moved forward into the mess. Aside from the silvery powder smeared about in places, nothing had changed since Denise and Leo and I had first peered in. I waded through the detritus on the floor, and was halfway round my desk, when I stopped with a cry.
“Randy? What is it?” Steve was in the doorway.
I bent down to retrieve my autographed copy of Medicine River, which someone had trodden on open, and mashed open.
“Is nothing sacred?” I muttered, then almost immediately began to question my bitterness. Of course it felt real, but wasn’t I somehow devaluing and dismissing the horror of events like what had happened to Gwen? Here there was no blood; this scene could be repaired and life could go on, even if I would never feel quite the same about this little sanctuary. Was I too cut off from reality?
Steve seemed to intuit what I was going through. He moved towards me.
“This isn’t going to be easy, and yes, you have a right to grieve for your loss of safety. Don’t feel guilty that you aren’t the thing ripped apart on the floor tonight.”
“How did you know?”
“I could pass it off as superior policing skills, or amazing sensitivity, but hasn’t anyone warned you off playing poker before now?” He hugged my shoulders, and then got businesslike. “How’s about if I sort through what’s on the floor and pile it up into salvageable, important but ruined, and don’t even bother? You tackle the desk.”
We worked in silence for about half an hour. After clearing the surface of the desk with paper towels from the upstairs bathroom and trying to make sense of the confetti that had been my fall class notes, I started on my upper drawer. I piled up a batch of cue cards to take home to dry. They contained my jottings for the entire year’s syllabus, and the coffee had drained through them. I could decipher some of it, and was glad I’d never had the urge to use a fountain pen.
Once I could close the first drawer, I was able to untangle the files sprouting out of the second. To my dismay, even the notes for my mid-term were missing. I had told Steve what the file would look like, and so far he hadn’t turned up anything remotely like it on the floor. He was downstairs for a moment, getting the last of the coffee. It was heading on one-thirty.
It wasn’t the fact that the mid-term was gone that caused me such problems. I could write another in the time I had before the exam date. Even the thought that one of my students was a thief wasn’t too much to bear. I have a friend in Ontario who teaches English at the Kingston Penitentiary, and if she could handle it, so could I.
What worried me was the thought that Steve had brought out the big hitters for something that, in the big scheme of things, was so paltry. How the heck was he going to justify this to his bosses?
He returned just then, and I must have telegraphed my feelings again, because he tilted his head to one side and raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t tell me you had an autographed Chaucer, too?”
I snorted, a truly attractive quality, which I list among my better features, and told him about the missing exam file.
“And this means a ton of repeat work for you?”
“No, not that much,” and I explained my worries as I slid drawer number two back into its casement.
“Randy, if it makes you feel any better, I’d rather we found the journal and I faced the music about hauling out the scene team than losing Gwen’s journal as well.”
I looked up from rummaging through the final drawer. “Well, it actually makes me feel worse, because Gwen’s journal is g
one too.”
23
Are you sure?” he asked.
“Of course I’m sure. Believe it or not, there used to be some organization in this room. I put the journal in this drawer under last year’s campus directory and the city phone books. They’re still here.”
Steve turned businesslike almost immediately. I was inclined to think brusque, but that could have been the hour talking.
“Well, now we know it’s connected. Do you have much more to do? I want to get you home.”
I looked ruefully around my office. It was still in a state of chaos, but resembled the middle of marking three sets of essays more than the effects of abject vandalism. Steve had made two piles of papers on the floor, and placed a large green garbage bag, almost full, by the door. What books he could rescue were piled neatly on the floor in front of the bookcase. He handed me a list of titles he had been unable to salvage. I put it on the now cleared-off desk, unable to focus on what I might have to replace. I was hoping that most of them would be complimentary volumes from sales reps, things I’d welcomed but not really wanted.
I scribbled a quick list of what I’d need to bring in tomorrow to clean the place and locked the door. Steve was standing halfway down the stairs, looking too distant for my mind.
We rode to my place in silence. He pulled in the back alley, and I turned to him as I opened the door, not wanting to wait to see if he wasn’t going to kiss me goodnight.
“Steve,” I started, hoping my voice wasn’t going to break, “I’m really sorry. You’ve got to believe I wasn’t holding out on you. I meant to give it to you …” My voice drifted away.
“I know, Randy.” He gave me a ghost of a half-smile. “Anyhow, you’re not the one who should be apologizing. You’ve been through a heck of a lot tonight. Do you want me to see you in?”
“And check under the bed for bogeymen? No, I think I can manage.”
I swung my legs out the door, and the cold air hit me fully awake.
“Will I be seeing you soon?” I hated myself for asking, and prayed it didn’t sound too pleading.
“Tomorrow, I figure.”
“Oh?” Maybe it was the lateness of the night playing tricks on me after all. My heart leaped up a bit.
“We’ll need you to come in and sign a statement as soon as you can. Take care.”
It wasn’t what I’d been hoping to hear, and the cold air felt good against my cheeks as I watched the car disappear around a curve in the alley. That’s the trouble with opening up emotionally. It makes you so darned vulnerable. I closed the door quietly against the night and moved down the carpeted hall to my apartment, which seemed a lot less charming and a lot more insecure than it had twenty-four hours ago.
24
I SLEPT TILL NOON THE NEXT DAY AND WAS AWAKENED by the telephone. I stumbled into the dining alcove to answer the call, pushing matted hair back from my forehead. It was Denise, reporting on what was happening in the department. Apparently I was awaited by Dr. McNeely, and she thought I should get in there as soon as I could.
I was getting tired of being summoned in on my off days. I decided they could wait until I’d showered.
I braided my still damp hair and jammed a woolly toque over it, knowing I’d be sporting icicles if I tried to walk in without it. I had a turtleneck on under a cheerfully bright orange sweatshirt, and worn brown corduroys. My comfort clothes. Let McNeely realize I was coming in under duress.
The walk brightened my spirits, and I dumped my bag of cleaning supplies inside the door of my office, which looked a lot better than I remembered it from the night before. Sunshine will do that. I figured I had about two hours cleaning time to put in before it would be completely in order, but that would have to wait until my visit with the department chairman. I left my coat on, but threw my toque on the desk. My hair would have to hold its breath on the walk to the Humanities Building.
Marjorie, the chairman’s secretary, smiled at me as I leaned in the open doorway and knocked on the jamb. She crooked her finger at me and spoke into the telephone, announcing my arrival.
“Dr. McNeely has been hoping to see you today,” she said.
“So I hear.”
She seemed about to say something more, which was unusual, since Marjorie is discretion itself. I’m sure she knows everything that goes on in the department, but she never gossips. Maybe that’s why people tell her things. Anyhow, before she could break her code of silence, the inner door opened and there McNeely stood, ushering me in to the inner sanctum.
I’d never been inside the chairman’s office before. It overlooked the river valley and thus had probably the best view on campus, although you used to be able to simulate it from the cafeteria on the fifth floor until they’d closed it as a cost-cutting measure. There was room for a huge desk, with a couple of nice chairs in front, and a couch and coffee table grouping as well. Low bookshelves stood at attention under the windows, with highboys on the opposite walls. Some nice art, which I assumed must belong to the university, hung on the walls, and various catalogues and brochures were on the coffee table, making me think that McNeely was aware that the trappings were a ruse to get people to stand for the job. I mean, who in their right mind would opt for bureaucracy after spending most of their life trying to get beyond it?
Not that McNeely wasn’t suited to the job. Things ran smoothly and there was little dissent over the way the department was being run, from what I’d heard. In these days of cutbacks, most people saw any form of maintaining the status quo as a victory. McNeely was hot on status quo.
And it seemed I was not. After a few pleasantries and some tut-tutting about the desecration of my office, McNeely got down to business. As news leaked out about last night’s business (Leo and his fat mouth, I assumed), the powers that be were outraged that procedure had not been followed. Had I memorized my policy manual when hired, I should have known enough to call Campus Security first, before the Edmonton city police.
I apologized, and explained the circumstances. I guess Denise had already covered this ground, because McNeely waved off my excuses.
“What I’m really concerned with is the detrimental value this sort of thing will have if the press makes a field day out of the tribulations of the English Department. I’ve already fielded several calls from this Mark Paulson, who wants to tie everything to the murder just because the young woman concerned took an English course. For heaven’s sake, everyone has to take English, I told him. The trouble is, she did take English, you were her teacher, and now you seem to be involved even more. I want to stress to you the importance of retaining at least an outward calm in the face of all these events. The bottom line here is reputation, and if we can’t hold on to that, our funding and our enrollment will suffer.”
I hate people who say “bottom line.” What was I supposed to do, stay in the basement bathroom? I took a deep breath and tried to reassure Dr. McNeely that I hadn’t sold my story to the National Enquirer.
“Just as long as we have an understanding, Miranda.” He smiled and stood up, letting me know the inquisition was at an end. I wasn’t sure if he was using my given name because he had channeled my mother, who used it only when I’d broken something (a window, a vase, a moral imperative), or if he’d just looked at my file prior to my entry to make sure who I really was. Either way, I felt put in my place, as nothing like hearing that name can do.
Anyone considering dumping a Shakespearean name on their offspring should try something strong like Rosalind or Portia. We Ophelias and Mirandas are here to testify that the naïf label just doesn’t cut it. That is, unless you want us living in your attic until we’re sixty, wearing gauzy outfits while writing poetry and collecting cats. I’ve been Randy ever since I hit grade school and it suits me. I like the feeling it gives me of setting my own pace rather than having to live up to an image that can only be defined in sepia and lace.
I refused to let McNeely see he’d managed to get a rise out of me, and backed my way out
of the office, doing the contemporary version of bowing and scraping. I’m not sure why I was apologizing for being victimized and vandalized, but needing a job will do that to you. If I didn’t need the work, I probably would have considered suing the university. Unfortunately, it takes money to make money.
25
IN THE NEXT FEW DAYS I WENT DOWN TO THE police station, signed my statement, was interviewed by one of Steve’s henchmen about what I could remember of the contents of the journal, tried to patch together a new mid-term, alerted Campus Security and the Faculty of Arts that my exam had been stolen, and tried to recall various questions I’d put on it. All this recall was lousy on the spirit; I felt as if everything I was doing was mired in the past.
Even working with Denise on the plans for the vigil wasn’t helping much. It didn’t take much to jump back to the days after the Montreal Massacre in 1989, when all of us were reeling from the news. Perfectly respectable men were trying to argue that it wasn’t a misogynistic stand; it was the senseless act of one specific madman. While I could see what they were saying, I could only shake my head and move away from such conversations. If they couldn’t understand how that specific act had made women feel, they never would.
Part of me was a little worried about what McNeely would think about my involvement with the vigil, but there were lots of others involved as well. The two leaders of course were Denise and Grace Tarrant, the editor of HYSTERICAL. She had taken the defacement of her door rather well, I’d thought, but then there’s such a backlash stereotype of the pro-active feminist, that I suppose even I’d bought in to it a bit. Grace lived up to her name, shrugged it off with a toss-off line about “considering the source,” and got on with things.
Julian and Leo were helping a bit with the fetching and carrying. Arno had managed to find a wholesaler willing to sell us candles and the foil tart cups that we were going to use as wax catchers around the candle bases. I hadn’t been surprised to see Julian, since he was eager to be part of anything that would keep him from having to write his dissertation; and Leo was always where any action was. Arno’s involvement surprised me a bit, especially when he refused acknowledgment in the list Grace was writing up for the program. I mused to Denise that maybe Arno was a little sweet on Grace.
Sticks and Stones Page 9
