Braided Gold

by Glen Roylance

As Claire collected her things and began to move towards the door, Leo was on his feet moving in her direction. “Claire,” he said, obviously playing the peacemaker’s role, “we really need to talk further about your concerns.”

  “Call me,” she said coldly, and without further conversation she was on her way.

  As the door closed Leo slumped back onto the sofa, obviously irritated at the way the meeting had ended. He said nothing for a few moments, and then looked at Paul whose gaze was fixed on him. Paul’s face was expressionless and his jaw was set in defiance. “I won’t work with that woman, Leo. Just get rid of her. Tell the Administration we want someone else assigned to the project.”

  “I can’t do that, Paul. She’s right about a few things, and her access to the President’s Office is one of them. She’s also right about this being a University project rather than something we are cooking up in our own shop. I don’t have the authority to get rid of her and I would just as soon not test her ability to make that an issue with the Administration. If I try to get her removed, that’s exactly what will happen.”

  Leo waited for Paul to respond, but he remained silent, his sullen aspect communicating far more than anything he might have said. “You are going to have to deal with her, Paul. You’ve charmed snakes before and … well, I think you’d better pull some tricks out of your hat if we’re going to avoid a shipwreck here.” Leo paused again, but Paul still said nothing.

  “Look Paul, the University’s involved with this thing in a big way. There’s a lot of money riding on it. I’m not asking you to compromise your views on issues that are important to you. I’m just asking you to get along with her. You can do that; I know you can. You may be justified in having strong feelings against Claire Duncan, but just decide to live with them. It’s always been my philosophy to pick my battles carefully. In my life there have been very few hills I was willing to die on just to have my own way or to prove that I was right.”

  Paul sat at his desk, thinking. He was angry at Leo, angry at Claire Duncan, and angry with himself. This woman with her self-bestowed importance had simply gotten under his skin and now, the prospect of having to work with her – to cope with her judgmental attitudes – was just an unwelcome complication in his life. Why was Leo so determined to accommodate her? She was more than a mere bump in the road so far as Paul’s management of the Shelter Island Conference was concerned. Working with her self-righteous perceptions would require the kind of patience and self-restraint that were really not part of his “on board” equipment.

  But there was something else that troubled him. He found Claire attractive and appealing. Why couldn’t she have been homely and bespectacled with horn-rimmed glasses, devoid of feminine charm? There was a feeling stirring within him he hadn’t known for ten long years. He hadn’t allowed it, making himself something of an ascetic when it came to women. Perhaps it was to protect himself, but more likely it was to punish himself. It was the ever-present specter of Cathy that required him to deny himself certain kinds of feelings.

  It would have to happen sooner or later. He would have to make peace with Cathy – with his memories of her. There was a gravesite in Ann Arbor, Michigan, he needed to visit. He had refused to search it out after Cathy’s death. In fact he had lacked the emotional fortitude to attend her funeral. And still the battle between guilt and self-justification raged within him.

  In his mind he returned to that day some fourteen years earlier when, as an undergraduate student, he had first met Cathy. It was in the Cal Book Store on the southeast edge of campus – the store of preference for students looking for reasonably-priced used textbooks. It was here that Cathy Stevens had found work during her freshman year at San Diego State. It was, likewise, the place Paul had come this day to locate a 700-page tome on abnormal psychology.

  After rummaging through the stacks of books he found what he was looking for and moved towards the checkout counter. It was then that he saw Cathy, with her long golden hair and striking blue eyes. She wore a dark skirt and a red turtleneck sweater. Her manner was gracious despite the long line of waiting students. Semester beginnings were always hectic at the bookstore. When the two finally stood fact to face there was a brief moment of mutual interest, a stirring of sensitivities only perceptible to the two of them.

  “Will that be all?” she said, taking the text from Paul.

  “All I can afford,” Paul replied with an appealing smile.

  Cathy rang the price into the register, adding the tax, and Paul removed a checkbook from his back pocket.

  “Be sure your address and phone number are on your check,” Cathy said in a practiced way.

  “It’s there,” said Paul. Then, tearing a deposit slip from his checkbook, he placed it face-down on top of the text. “And if you’d put your name and phone number right there, I’d be much obliged,” he said with that same smile.

  Grinning with the realization of what was happening, Cathy looked briefly at Paul and then wrote her phone number. “My name is Cathy,” she said.

  That evening there was a phone call and a magic relationship began to unfold in clockwork fashion.

  These were bitter-sweet memories for Paul – part of a chapter in his life he had closed and sealed off from the “here and now” of daily living.

  Claire lived in a modern apartment complex not far from San Diego State. In fact, her living room window, together with its adjoining balcony, afforded a panoramic view of the campus from the north. Despite this proximity to the University, getting to work each morning was still a little tricky. She was situated on the north side of Interstate 8. The freeway ran along the northern perimeter of the campus and joined Mission Valley with the La Mesa area, then continued on to El Cajon further to the east. On busy mornings this short travel distance involving a freeway overpass could become hopelessly clogged with traffic.

  On warm San Diego evenings, Claire frequently moved to her living room balcony for relaxation following a hectic day at the office. Her view of the campus at this time of the day was always breathtaking. The cluster of light-colored University buildings bathed in nighttime illumination made her workplace seem almost surreal – an artist’s picture of gracefully designed structures surrounding the prominent Administration Building with its mission-style bell tower. It was here on her patio across from the University that Claire found herself in deep thought this evening.

  Within the hour she had hung up the phone following an unsettling conversation with Leo Dykeman. Undoubtedly he had called her at home with hopes for a more personal conversation than would have been possible if she were still in the middle of a busy workday. Leo’s tone had been conciliatory and gracious. He had a gift when it came to matters of delicate communication. At the outset he told her that the purpose of his call was to calm troubled waters. “If I ever have to do real battle,” he teased, “I’d like to have you on my side.”

  “What happened today is not the way I usually operate,” responded Claire. “I’ll acknowledge that I came to the meeting with a chip on my shoulder. That business at the ROTC building yesterday really upset me.”

  “I can appreciate your feelings, Claire, but when it comes to Paul, I must tell you that neither you nor I will have an easy time changing what he believes or what he does – especially if there is an ultimatum involved. We’re talking about a man with a very complex personality. He is both brilliant and talented. When he’s given assignments or responsibilities, the results are never lackluster. What he does, he does better than most people have ever done before. The downside to all of this is that he also has a few weaknesses that offset his strengths. I’m not sure that the two aren’t connected in some way like the ‘head and tail’ of a coin, if you know what I mean.

  “I made the decision a long time ago to work around his weaknesses rather than lose the benefits of his enormous strengths. One of those weaknesses is his combative nature. He can be a bitter, perhaps even a vicious adversary. The tendency to defend himself and win is so d
eeply ingrained in his nature that he is somewhat unpredictable and capable of being a little unorthodox in managing a confrontation. That’s why I’m calling you, Claire. You and he have differences in outlook that put you on opposite ends of the spectrum. Without some mutual effort at compromise, this project will go up in blazes and that would be a great loss to the University, also to you and me, personally.”

  “I understand what you’re saying, Leo, but there’s one question that troubles me. When you talk about mutual compromise, do you really mean ‘mutual’ or are you asking me to fawn all over him like everyone else does? You need to know that I’m not capable of massaging his ego nor am I willing to side with him on issues where we are in complete disagreement. I’m sure he has no idea how deep those differences go, but I do. And for me, Leo, this is non-negotiable territory.”

  “I’m not asking you to compromise yourself, Claire. I’m just asking you to be a little more engaging in your relationship with him. Leave some things unsaid. Be a little more patient, perhaps even a little more forgiving. Not all differences are worth a battle. Please don’t be offended when I say this; I’m merely asking you to be a little more professional and a little less defensive.”

  The conversation had continued for some time, Leo encouraging Claire to fully discuss her concerns but gently returning to the purpose of his call several times. His was a mission of persuasion – a request for a favor. Their conversation ended cordially as it had begun, with Claire promising to seriously consider Leo’s suggestions.

  As she sat in the quiet of the night on her balcony, Claire now contemplated a meeting she had scheduled on Shelter Island with restaurateurs and hotel managers for the following week. The purpose of the session was to address many of the loose ends in conference planning before contracts were drawn up and finalized. She knew that Paul Kirkham would be present at this meeting and that they would be expected to work in a cooperative way to represent the interests of the University with the business people involved. Whatever adjustments she needed to make in her feelings towards Dr. Kirkham would have to be behind her by then.

  She drank in the gentle ocean breeze and allowed one of Leo’s observations to reverberate through her mind. It had to do with her professional obligation towards Paul Kirkham. Claire was competent in what she did and she knew it. She had taken great pride in being professional in her management of a very important University service agency. It had not occurred to her that her obligation as a professional woman could legitimately necessitate her being less vocal about what she believed and how she felt about volatile issues. She wondered if she was capable of compartmentalizing herself to that extent.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Rolfe Mortimer had been the editor of the San Diego Tribune for twelve years. He was a competent manager and a skillful businessman. The fact that he was both tough and shrewd had much to do with the increase in circulation and profits since he had replaced a cautious and somewhat timid predecessor. He had a feel for news and knew how to parlay controversy into the kind of news stories that kept people reading the Tribune. Being an objective voice in a very conservative community demanded that he perform a constant juggling act. It was a matter of wooing readers and periodically offending them just enough to keep them agitated about the Tribune but not sufficiently irritated to cancel their subscriptions or for advertisers to boycott the paper.

  Rolfe had discovered early on that it was good business to curry the favor of the Fairclough family even though they did not hold stock in the San Diego Tribune nor make any effort to influence its editorial policy. This was in contrast to the Fairclough’s heavy-handed approach to California papers they owned or controlled. Rolfe regarded the family as a dynasty of financial and political influence which made it wise to be cautious about the way their interests and enterprises were described in print. He had been sitting on a story for a couple of days that would have tantalizing interest for readers in San Diego. The wire services didn’t have the story yet, but if he were to break it, the details would go like wildfire up and down the California coast.

  The matter involved the recent death of Julian Fairclough’s daughter, who apparently had been a coed at San Diego State. Other than the prominence of the family, this misfortune would hardly have justified much attention. But recent developments changed all of that. From the outset the girl’s death appeared to be a suicide, which was later confirmed by the medical examiner – death had come in consequence of a sleeping pill overdose. There was, however, a startling revelation in the medical examiner’s report: The Fairclough girl had undergone a very recent abortion!

  And now the irony of the circumstances gave the story a human-interest twist that would justify a place for it on the front page. In the midst of Rolfe’s rumination on how best to handle this information there was a phone call from none other than Julian Fairclough, respectfully requesting that the story be handled with kid gloves.

  “You know, Rolfe, this thing is a real tragedy for our family. It would mean a lot to us if you could hold back a little on your coverage of these ugly developments. Know what I mean?”

  The implications were clear without being specifically addressed. Julian’s vigorous opposition to a liberalization of California abortion laws, together with the notoriety he had achieved in civil suits against physicians and clinics involved with illegal abortions, would cause tongues to wag if it were known that his daughter had taken her own life following an abortion.

  “I can just imagine that these are difficult days for all of you,” said Rolfe. “Please know that you have my personal sympathy.”

  “Well, I’m grateful for that. I assume you have all the details?”

  “I think so, Julian. One of our stringers does some work for the Daily Aztec and seems to have a pretty good handle on things. Then, of course, the medical examiner’s report is a matter of public record. But Julian, I think this story has a life of its own. I’m not sure I can sideline it.”

  “No, I’m not asking you to ignore something that is newsworthy. I understand the way the newspaper business works. I was just hoping that you’d go lightly in laying out the sordid details. It would be unfortunate if some overzealous reporter were to get carried away in providing fodder for community gossip.”

  The journalist in Rolfe came to the fore. “Julian, please don’t ask me to obscure the facts in this story.”

  “You’re reading me wrong, Rolfe. There’s another angle to this thing you need to understand. It would be easy to assume that this is solely a Fairclough story, especially when it comes to the blame game for a young woman’s bad choices. You see there is something far more newsworthy here.”

  Julian’s words had their desired effect on Rolfe. “Go ahead,” he said, after a brief pause.

  “Jill was a victim in all of this – that psychology professor on campus – the one that’s making such a big name for himself – he’s the one you’ll be wanting to write about.”

  “You’re losing me,” said Rolfe, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. “What does Paul Kirkham have to do with your daughter’s death?”

  “Everything! Someone took advantage of her and left her with a basket-full of problems to solve. That’s when she went to Kirkham for advice. Here’s your story Rolfe: A freshman coed seeks help from a university professor who’s playing the role of a counselor and talks her into having an abortion – even arranges it and sets her up for a guilt trip that costs her her life.”

  “Do you have hard evidence of all this, Julian?”

  “You’ll have all the evidence you need if you’ll just go lightly with the story until you get the facts you’ll need to paint an accurate picture.”

  “You’re certain about all of this?”

  “I’m absolutely certain and, for starters, I’ll give you the name of a sorority girl who is in the know. A good reporter could probably get her to ‘tell all.’ But more importantly there is a storm brewing at San Diego State and significant things are happening beh
ind closed doors. Mark my word, it won’t be long before heads begin to roll on campus. Just hang with me and I’ll see that you have all the juicy details.”

  Rolfe understood all that Julian had said, but he also understood those things that had only been suggested in a tantalizing way. For the time being, he would play ball with Julian Fairclough.

  Leo Dykeman’s style of administration de-emphasized formal meetings. He felt that most issues could be resolved through private meetings with the parties involved without opening every problem to a faculty debate. He perceived his role to be that of an expediter and an arbiter, and in this, his style, he was remarkably effective. All faculty members knew they had complete access to Leo. Furthermore, they knew that once convinced that a course of action was correct, Leo would act accordingly. He used power differently from many who were committed to a bureaucratic style of administration. He wore his authority lightly and consciously worked at being “personal” rather than “official.” He had been known to implement many policies not to his own liking in an effort to maintain the spirit of consensus and camaraderie within his staff.

  When it came to major issues, however, Leo could be stubborn, in a gracious sort of way. He would give full credence to opposing points of view, carefully explain his own position without dogmatism, then plead for support and good will. Darcy Nichols, who had been in the Psychology Department almost as long as Leo, referred to him as the Benevolent Dictator when it came to those issues where he felt compelled to be obdurate.

  There was, however, one enduring element of dissension in the faculty, that being the controversy involving Rex Hale and Paul Kirkham. Many issues were involved, some professional, some political, and many of a personal nature. During the last couple of years a noticeable polarization had taken place in the faculty with people lining up as sympathizers with Rex or as Paul’s devotees. Although Paul had never consciously sought to antagonize any of the faculty members, his highly vocal position on contemporary issues, together with his prominence on campus, had turned Rex and others into reactionaries. Owing to the clear demarcation in the breach between the two men, Rex had gradually stopped trying to dignify his dislike and disapproval of Paul, displaying open, and in some cases, contagious hostility. The resultant faculty factionalism had proven to be a significant test of Leo’s abilities as an administrator.