Cross of Ivy

by Roxi Bahar Hewertson

  In her weak, soft voice she whispered, “I’d like that; yes, I’d like that very much.”

  Wills’ eyes filled with tears, and a huge smile spread over his face. He leaned over to kiss her. “God, Abby, I love you so much!” And he kissed her again. “Lady of mine, you were worth the wait, but I gotta tell you, I’m not gonna rest until you’re home safe and sound.”

  “Wills, listen to me, now.” Abby rasped as she struggled to sit up. “I have to get well, I have to plan this right, or something terrible could happen. The night I crashed, oh, God, Wills, it was so terrible!”

  “I know, I know,” he said. “Don’t try so hard to talk. We have the rest of our lives.”

  “No, you don’t know. Somebody has to know what’s happened.”

  “Don’t tire yourself, Abby. I can see already that you’re sweatin’ and getting upset.”

  “I’m fine.” Abby settled back down on her pillow. “Please listen.”

  “Okay, just go slow; there’s no rush now.”

  Abby took in as deep a breath as her lungs would allow. “That night, a lot happened. I went to New York to find Zach and bring him home because I found out he has a half-sister and a son named David. The boy will die soon without a bone marrow transplant. You see, Zach is his last chance. I went to make him agree to be tested. I got there and he was...he was with Stuart Leer, the man who got Zach the job, and they were...they had naked women in a bedroom and...well, they saw me and I ran away and got home and had the accident in the storm.”

  “That bastard! I’ll kill him!”

  “No, Wills, please, it doesn’t matter anymore. But Zach doesn’t know what I’m going to do, and that’s the way it has to be for now. Listen. Will you do something for me?” Her eyes were intense.

  “What is it you want me to do, Abby? I’ll do anything for you; you know I will.”

  “All right.” Abby coughed and seemed to be having trouble breathing.

  “Abby, please,” Wills pleaded.

  “I want you to go home.”

  “What! And leave you here at the mercy of that son-of-a-bitch! Abby, I can’t do that—I won’t.”

  “You must. I’ve been thinking. Lying here gives me lots of time to think. I want Zach to think I don’t remember anything about that whole day. I want him to believe that things are normal. I need time to recover from this, and then I’ll do what needs to be done.”

  “This is crazy. You are at risk, you know too much. Who’s going to take care of you until you’re completely healed?”

  “Mama will stay; I know she will. But you must go, or there’ll be more trouble.”

  Wills was silent. His face clouded over the way it had the last time she turned him down. He walked over to the window.

  “Wills?” Abby squeaked. He turned to look at her. “It’s only for a few weeks this time, I promise.”

  He walked over to her bed and picked up her hand. “I just can’t stand the idea of leaving you here, do you understand that?”

  “I don’t want you to go. I don’t want to spend another day without you. But don’t you see, I have to do this my way?”

  “I don’t like this one bit, but I’ll try it your way. I want to hear your voice every day at least once, ya hear? If it doesn’t work though, I’m coming to get you even if I have to charter another plane. I’ll do it. I swear, I’ll do it.” Wills’ jaw tightened, and he pounded the bedrail.

  “I promise I’ll call every day. Now, please, you must go.” Abby was visibly weaker, and her eyes had closed.

  “Abby? Are you all right?”

  She opened her eyes. “Kiss me once more, and I’ll be fine.”

  He kissed her hand, he kissed her forehead, and he kissed her dry, cracked lips. “I love you, more than life, more than I can say in words. Come home to me.”

  Abby smiled and closed her eyes once more.

  CHAPTER 40

  Ric Houston looked troubled. He issued uncharacteristic staccato orders to his secretary whose initial greeting attempts were cut short.

  “Jeanne, I want no interruptions, no calls, no visitors. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Houston.” Jeanne never called Ric Mr. Houston, but he didn’t even notice. He slammed his heavy office door with a thud and disappeared behind it.

  He stared intently out his windows at the snow-covered practice fields, trying to make some sense out of the morning, looking but seeing nothing. Disbelief and anger filled him. It was just two months since the Trudeau’s game-day party. What he had hoped was an isolated incident had turned to chaos. The situation was getting out of control. He needed advice. He needed a clear, unbiased opinion, someone who had seen grizzly situations before.

  Ric flipped through his black leather address book looking for the name of the one man he could trust completely, Russell Napp. He’d met Russ under much more fortunate circumstances at a conference in San Francisco slightly over a year ago. They hit it off immediately. Russ’s purpose for going was to observe several meetings and offer organizational tips about how leaders like Ric and his colleagues could lead their own groups more effectively. His wisdom made sense at the time, and Ric sought him out. They played golf and discussed the challenges of operating a sane organization in the midst of all the competing priorities in an Ivy League setting.

  “The mission must be clear to everyone and everyone must own it like it was their own, even the gatekeeper or janitor. Responsibility and authority must be balanced. Too much of one without the other creates a vacuum of leadership when you need it the most,” Russ told him. “I learned the hard way to always carry your resume in your pocket so you sense the freedom to stand on your own ethics and abide by your standards of behavior and excellence.”

  Russ looked like a self-satisfied, born-again hippy. He was late fortyish, possibly even fifty, with threads of grey hair peppering the dark brown mass on top of his head, even beyond where it curled around the collar of his plaid shirt. His beard was not quite neat and not quite unruly, wiry white clumps of growth mixing harmoniously on his chin with the nearly black softer growth. His grey-brown eyes reminded Ric of his grandfather, as did his wisdom.

  The two of them, about the same generation, yet Ric’s crisp, barber-cut sandy hair, clean-shaven face, and his conservative golf shirt showed no similarity until you looked below the surface. Both were self-made men; neither had a silver spoon upbringing, and they cherished their families and friends.

  Ric lifted the phone off its cradle and dialed. “Hello, Russ. Glad you’re there. This is Ric Houston. I need your help. I have a potential disaster on my hands, and I may be one of the casualties if it gets any worse, and it probably will.”

  He replaced the phone on the cradle and leaned back as far as his high back executive chair would allow. He scanned the room, glimpsing at the wall of pictures and plaques he had so carefully collected over the years, each one holding special memories. His eyes riveted on one, his most recent addition. There he was in his dark blue suit, standing next to Zach, surrounded by the sweaty team captains and the coaches right after the Dartmouth game. Stuart Leer was in front, with his fingers forming a V. The game that made Cross history – the game they won, and for their efforts, they would get a ring and a party and glory for years to come. The players’ smiles were pasted so innocently on their dripping faces, so unknowing, so thrilled with the victory at the time. Their admiration for their coach was palpable even in a two-dimensional eight-by-ten glossy.

  “Shit,” Ric said. He spun back around and tried to sort through the mail that had piled up over the last two days. He looked at his watch. It was time to act like he was going to an early lunch.

  “Jeanne, clear my calendar for today. I am going out for lunch, and I don’t know when I’ll be back.” Thinking about the next day, but not wanting her to get too nosey, he said, “I need a clear calendar tomorrow, too. Lots of work to do and no time.”

  Jeanne was mostly a competent secretary. She answered the phone well, rem
embered names, typed professional letters, and organized Ric’s calendar with the care of an ancient Monk translating the Bible. She wore handknit sweaters and wool skirts that were always one size too small. She was a busybody, finding it an essential part of her life to be in the know about everything and everybody.

  She knew something was up; Zach Trudeau had been in his office five times in the last three days and neither he nor her boss were smiling before or after the meetings. He’d shoved everybody off for Zach, which Jeanne didn’t mind.

  Jeanne loved seeing Zach. He reminded her of a lover she’d once had when having a lover wasn’t spoken about. Zach always flashed Jeanne a big smile and treated her like a lady. Yeah, Zach was a looker all right, and maybe that had gotten him in trouble. The thought of it sent a warning jolt through her. A scandal wouldn’t do. She knew only too well how a scandal could rock the foundation of the carefully laid stones that held up the ivy walls around her.

  Thirty years in the department had provided Jeanne with plenty of grist. Houston was her sixth Athletic Director – before him, two former AD’s had been in and out in three horrible years. She had a near miss once herself, which she buried long ago with other transgressions she denied even to herself. She could smell one coming, and it infuriated her to be in the dark.

  “Well, I’ll do the best I can, but you’ve had a meeting with Dave Streeter rescheduled four times, and what about your doctor appointment?” Jeanne’s tone was clearly annoyed.

  Ric stiffened. He rarely spoke harshly to anyone, learning long ago that much more was gained by pulling others diplomatically to your camp than by forcing the issue. Today, he didn’t have any tolerance for Jeanne’s interference and slightly superior tone.

  “Cancel. With regret. Here’s my mail.” Seeing the look of defeat on her face softened him slightly. “Thanks, Jeanne. Sorry to cause you all this work. It can’t be helped.”

  She responded immediately. “If there’s anything I can do...”

  “Just do this; that’s what I need right now.”

  “If Zach wants to see you?”

  Ric’s face darkened and clouded over. “Let me know if he does. I’ll call in later.”

  That was all the proof she needed. It was Zach, and it was bad news. She smiled. After all, it wouldn’t do for her to be the last to know.

  The drive out to the airport required weaving through town and out Route 4. It took about twenty minutes, just long enough to flick a Neil Diamond tape into the deck and lose himself in the melancholy songs he knew word for word. Sometimes, it just felt good to sing along and blast out the words as he drove down long stretches of road alone. He didn’t feel much like singing today.

  The airport was in the middle of what used to be a big cow field. There was only one runway and about ten flights in and out a day, mostly to New York. There was one driveway in and a few scattered parking meters that ate quarters like candy when they worked. Only last year they installed doors that opened by themselves so that passengers didn’t have to fight with their luggage to get in and out. There was a flying club – Ric had always wanted to take lessons, but he’d never found the time. And there was a little snack and paper counter, with bright pink letters painted above the cement wall – WANDA’S. The floor was muddy from the dozens of feet that dragged in slush from the parking lot.

  Russ was walking across the tarmac with a ragged green gym bag dangling from his hand. His steps were long, deliberate, and relaxed. His lanky, six-foot frame made the trip in less than three minutes.

  He pushed the runway door open and smiled at his friend.

  “Good timing,” he said as he switched his bag to his left hand and shook Houston’s. Ric was still wearing his Ivy League grey suit, white shirt, and black and gold tie. Russ arrived in jeans and a flannel shirt.

  “How was the wind?” Ric asked him.

  “Not bad, it’s worth it to fly over these mountains. What a spiritual experience! Makes you realize how immense these hunks of rock are and how small we are in comparison.”

  “I’m going to learn to do that someday.”

  “Don’t wait too long. You never know what’s around the corner. I like to get the most out of life one day at a time. Then I have no regrets.”

  “Good advice, but today I’m up to my shorts in caca, and I may be buried in it if I can’t figure out what the hell to do.” They got into Ric’s Cross-issued shiny black car.

  Russ tossed his bag into the back seat and put on his seat belt.

  “So let’s cut to the chase, Ric. What kind of problem is it that you can’t tell me over the phone and that makes you steal away from the office?”

  “Zachary Trudeau is the problem. Shit, Russ. I can’t believe it, and I can’t stop kicking myself for not seeing it sooner. Even when I did, I was stupid enough to think he wasn’t so stupid.”

  “Good. Now I completely understand the problem.”

  “Sorry, I’m up to here with this, and I don’t quite know where to start, but it’s a goddam mess, that’s for sure.” Ric headed the opposite way from town to his house.

  “How ‘bout you start at the beginning?”

  “Okay, here it is in a nutshell. Zach wins a piece of the championship, and he’s a hero. His best friend Stuart Leer is richer than God and the slimiest alum on my list of who’s who at Cross. Then at the postseason bash at Zach’s house, something fishy looks like it’s going on with Bobbie Jansen, his secretary. This is after I’ve gotten an anonymous phone call that warns me about Trudeau skeletons. Then, slime starts coming to my door, and it starts to look like Zach’s been getting around town, and maybe even a cheerleader’s involved and who knows what other shit. The place is buzzing. Then, after a sudden trip to New York and Stuart Leer’s penthouse, Zach’s wife is in a near fatal car accident.”

  “But it’s still all Jello, right? Nothing to hang your hat on?” Russ asked.

  “Yeah. Until today.”

  As he turned onto Peregrine Lane, the troubled athletic director took in a deep breath. All the houses were slightly different, circa 1960s and ‘70s, some two-story raised ranches, Cape Cods, some stretched out ranches, an A frame. He continued, needing to finish round one before he got home to Ginny. Russ let him talk without interruption, partly to let Ric vent and partly because he needed to digest the incredible soap opera unfolding as his friend spoke.

  “After Abby’s accident, I started wondering things, like why did she fly to New York that day to see Zach and Stuart, and how did she get back, and why was she scared to be in her house alone, like Noah Thompson – he’s the one who found her – tells me?”

  “Good questions. Go on.”

  “I thought so, too, and I asked Zach all those questions out of genuine concern. The next thing I know, Leer is on the horn screaming at me, and I quote, ‘for harassing Zach while his wife is barely alive in the hospital, for God’s sake.’ He uses the word harassing when it was clearly nothing of the kind. But still I’m fishing around in the dark, just hoping the rumors aren’t true, knowing in my gut that they are.”

  “So, you trust your gut?”

  “Yeah, these days; I’ve got nothing else to trust. Then this morning Sam Jansen, husband of Bobbie Jansen, calls me at home, at six for chrissake, and says he has to see me but not in the office, so we meet for coffee off campus.” Ric took in a deep breath and let it out.

  Russ finally spoke. “The secretary at the party?”

  “Yeah. I couldn’t prove it then, but too many arrows kept pointing in her direction. Anyhow, Sam says he caught them at the office two nights ago, and he would have killed Zach if he’d had a gun. He tells me I better fire Zach, or he’ll take it to the papers. He blames Zach completely for stealing his wife. You’d have thought she’d been kidnapped or something. Anyway, I tell him I don’t respond well to threats, and I need time to think about what he’s told me. He says he’ll wait until Abby’s out of the hospital, because he doesn’t want to be blamed for her having a bad time of it. The
n, he says as he’s wagging his finger in my face, Zach better be gone, or he sings to anybody who will listen. Got nothing to lose, he says. Generous son-of-a-bitch.”

  Ric’s voice shook slightly as he continued. “I hightail it to my office and call the Chancellor to update him. Shit, it’s his problem too, right?” He looked briefly in Russ’s direction.

  “Of course, it is,” said Russ.

  “Well, I go over to the sixth floor of Knight Hall, and he asks me what I think we should do. I tell him more dirty laundry hits the wind every day, and if it all gets out, we’re going to have hell to pay in this town. I say we have to fire Zach for gross misconduct, but let him resign for personal reasons or some shit like that. I tell him I think there’s more under the rock yet to come. And you know what he says? He’ll have to think about it, for chrissake. He sees my point, but we have to make sure we’re not legislating morality. He says we’d have to fire half the faculty if we fired everybody who slept with someone other than his wife. I wanted to puke.”

  “Jesus,” Russ said as they pulled into the driveway of the perfectly manicured home.

  “Yeah, you can say that again,” Ric said.

  “I thought this was a quiet little town where the most exciting things that ever happen are cows giving birth and snowstorms.” Russ looked at Ric Houston with mixed emotions. At the same time, he felt sorry for him and respected him, a strange combination.

  “Well, we’ve had our share of troubles in the past, but I’ll tell you, nothing holds a candle to this one. It’s one thing to fire a coach for a recruiting violation or incompetence, bad yes, but this is manure of a different stench.”

  Ric stopped the car in front of his two-car beige garage that matched his mid-sized Cape Cod. The entry to the front door was decorated with fan-shaped white lattice for the climbing roses that would bloom in the summer, replacing the dead-looking vines that hung there now. The doormat had white geese on it with the word Welcome woven into the fabric. The bushes that hugged the porch were draped in burlap bags secured to the ground with twine and stakes. Painted to match the rest of the red-rust trim, the front door opened to them. Ginny stood there, one hand on the door, one ushering them in, dressed casually in her wine tweed pants and coordinated sweater.