Big Boned (17 page)

That he was a fair boss? I mean, I guess that’s true. He certainly didn’t play favorites. Maybe if he had, he might not have ended up with a bullet in his brain.

Man, this is really hard. I can’t think of anything good to say about this guy.

Wait—he was nice to cats! And Jamie! He was nice to cats and big-boned girls. That’s something, right?

I can’t stand up in front of the entire college community and go, “He was nice to cats and big-boned girls.”

Okay, that’s it. I need some protein. I’ve had way too much cherry crumble. I need a bagel or maybe a DoveBar or something, to calm my nerves.

I tell Tom I’ll be right back and head to the caf. It’s closed because it’s that weird period between lunch and dinner, but I know Magda will let me in. She does…but I’m surprised to see she’s not alone in there. Besides the regular staff, there are four small, dark-haired heads bent over what appears to be homework—of the first, third, sixth, and eighth grade variety.

I recognize Pete’s kids, in their blue and white school uniforms, right away.

“Hel
lo
,” I say, darting an incredulous look in Magda’s direction. She’s sitting at her cash register, filing her nails. Today, they’re lemon yellow.

“Hi, Heather,” Pete’s kids chime, in various levels of enthusiasm (the girls more so than the boys).

“Hi,” I say. “What are you guys doing here?”

“Waiting for our dad,” the eldest, Nancy, says. “He’s going to take us home when he gets done protesting.”

“No,” her sister corrects us. “He’s taking us out for
pizza
, then home.”

“We’re all going out for pizza,” Magda says. “The best pizza in the world, which happens to be in my neighborhood.”

“I don’t know,” Nancy says, looking dubious. “We have good pizza in my neighborhood.”

Magda makes a face. “These kids think Pizza Hut is real pizza,” Magda says to me. “Tell them.”

“Pizza Hut isn’t real pizza,” I tell them. “The way that balloon of Big Bird they fly in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade isn’t the real Big Bird.”

“But the Santa at the end of the parade is the real Santa,” Pete’s youngest informs me, gravely.

“Well, of course,” I say. To Magda, I whisper, out of the corner of my mouth, “Okay, Mother Teresa. What gives?”

“Nothing,” she says innocently. “I’m just watching them for a little while. You know Pete can’t take them home yet, because he’s still on the picket line, protesting.”

“Right,” I whisper back. “You just happened to volunteer to babysit. With no ulterior motives.”

Magda shrugs. “I was thinking about what you said yesterday,” she says, not making eye contact. “There might be a slight possibility I wasn’t exactly clear enough with my intentions. I intend to rectify that. And see what happens.”

I nod in the direction of the kids, who’ve turned back toward their homework. “And what if you end up mother of the year? I thought you were too young for that.”

“I’m too young to have my
own
,” Magda says, her heavily lined eyes widening. “But I’ll take someone else’s. No problem. Besides, these are already potty trained.”

Shaking my head, I grab a DoveBar and head back to my office. Is it my imagination, or is everyone around me seeming to pair up all of a sudden? I know it’s spring, and all, but really…this is getting ridiculous. Everyone…everyone but me.

Oh, wait. I have a boyfriend, too. God, why can’t I seem to remember that? A boyfriend who has a question to ask
me, when the timing is right. That’s not a very good sign, is it? I mean, that I can’t seem to remember Tad when he’s not around. That doesn’t bode particularly well for the future of our relationship.

Nor does the fact that I can’t get some other guy’s smile—and, let’s be frank, hands—out of my head.

What is
wrong
with me?

My phone is ringing its head off by the time I get to my desk. The caller ID says it’s the head of the Housing Department, Dr. Stanley Jessup.

“Hi, Dr. Jessup,” I say when I pick up. “What can I do for you?”

“You can tell me why you just PNG’d Mark Halstead,” Stan says.

“Oh,” I say. “Because he regularly feels up one of my residents. It’s kind of a funny story, actually. She had a meeting with Dr. Veatch to write up a formal complaint about it the morning he was shot.”

“Are you sure this girl is telling the truth?”

“Um…yeah,” I say, in some surprise. “Why?”

“Because if there’s some way you can retract that PNG, you might want to do it. Reverend Mark is the one running Owen’s memorial service, at which you are speaking. So the next couple hours of your life are about to get very, very uncomfortable.”

“Who was Dr. Owen Veatch?”

This is the question, ostensibly rhetorical, with which Reverend Mark Halstead opens his eulogy.

I glance around to see if anyone in the folding chairs on either side of me seems to have an answer…but no one does. Everyone’s head is bent…but not in prayer. My colleagues are all studying the faces of their cell phones or BlackBerrys.

Nice.

“I’ll tell you who Dr. Owen Veatch was,” Reverend Mark
goes on. “Dr. Owen Veatch was a man of conviction. Strong conviction. Owen Veatch was a man who had the courage to stand up and say
no
.”

Reverend Mark spreads his arms out very wide on the word
no
, and the long sleeves of his robe fly out like a white cape. “That’s right. Owen Veatch said
no
to this college campus becoming a place of divisiveness. Owen Veatch said
no
to New York College being held hostage by any one group who maintained their beliefs were more correct than any other’s. Owen Veatch just said
no
…”

Muffy Fowler uncrosses her long, black-hosed legs (
why
didn’t I think of going home to change before coming here? I’m still in jeans. I’m wearing jeans to my boss’s memorial service. I have to be the worst employee ever. No
way
am I getting a Pansy this year), leans over, and whispers in my ear, “Don’t you think he’s cuter than Jake Gyllenhaal?”

Tom, fanning himself with a copy of
Us Weekly
he’d snagged from the reception desk on our way out, and brought with him for moral support, looks shocked.

“Bite your tongue, woman,” he whispers back.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Muffy says. We have to be careful whispering, because we’re in the second-to-the-front row of folding chairs—though considerably off to one side of the wooden podium upon which Reverend Mark is currently hammering his fist. We’ve already been caught whispering once before, and Reverend Mark had given us a dirty look that I’m sure everybody in the gym, even in the very last row, had seen.

In the row in front of us, Pam Don’t-Call-Me-Mrs. Veatch sits sandwiched between Mrs. Allington, the president’s
wife, and a woman who can only be Owen’s mother, Mrs. Veatch Senior, who, at eighty-something, looks as if she might drop dead herself at any moment, no bullets necessary. All three women are staring up at Reverend Mark, tears streaming down their faces. Only Mrs. Allington’s tears are due to the flask I know she keeps in her Prada bag, and nips from regularly, when she thinks no one is looking. Every time she takes a nip, Tom makes a note in his BlackBerry. He’s brought it along because it’s more expedient for note taking, he believes, than his Day Runner.

“And this man, this professional educator, who believed so strongly in his convictions, who strived to make this campus a safe, fair, learning environment for everyone,” Reverend Mark goes on, “this man lost his life for his job—a job he dedicated more than half his years to—to the young people of this country. He was there for our children, for over twenty years.”

Reverend Mark seems to be warming up to his subject. The youth choir, in risers to one side of his podium, are gazing at him rapturously…almost as rapturously as Muffy and Tom are. Not surprisingly, Jamie is not there. No one in the choir appears to be missing her too much. Or at all. In their gold and white robes, the student singers look youthful and angelic and quite unlike their normal selves, a few of whom I recognize as Fischer Hall residents I’ve busted for smuggling kegs into the building under their coats.

“Revered and admired for his gift of communicating with the youths of today, Dr. Veatch will be sorely missed and his passing deeply mourned,” Reverend Mark informs us. “However, take comfort in the words of our Lord Jesus, as
written in John, chapter three, verse fifteen, that whosoever believeth in Him shall not perish, but have eternal life.”

I glance over at the Mrs. Veatches to see if they are taking comfort from the reverend’s words. Mrs. Veatch Senior appears to have fallen asleep. Pam and Mrs. Allington are staring up at the Reverend Mark, their mouths open. Apparently it hadn’t occurred to either of them that Owen might have attained eternal life in the kingdom of the Lord. I have to admit the possibility never occurred to me, either. But then I have only a passing familiarity with the Bible.

Next to Mrs. Allington, her husband, President Allington, is deeply entranced in his BlackBerry. Except when I look closer, I see he’s not checking his e-mail or surfing the Web. He’s playing Fantasy Football.

“Fellow Pansies,” Reverend Mark goes on, in his deep, melodic voice, “I call upon you not to grieve for Dr. Veatch, nor mourn his passing, but to celebrate his entrance into the kingdom of the Lord.”

Reverend Mark seems to be winding down. I can see that the choir is getting ready to launch into their next number. We’ve already been treated to “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” I wonder, as I flip through my note cards to review what I’m going to say about Owen, what our next musical treat will be. I have no idea what kind of music Owen liked. I recall he once mentioned Michael Bolton, and shudder involuntarily. Tom glances over at me and says, knowingly, “I know. If she keeps up at this rate, they’re going to have to carry her out,” and nods meaningfully at Mrs. Allington.

With a few final assurances that Dr. Veatch is currently dwelling in the house of the Lord—a far better abode than
the one-bedroom apartment he’d formerly dwelt in—Reverend Mark leaves the podium, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief, the long robes of his surplice fluttering behind him. Muffy smiles her big, toothy Miss America smile at him as he passes by. Reverend Mark smiles back, but not as big—

Then his gaze falls on me, seated next to Muffy, and the smile crumbles, then disappears completely. In fact, you might even say the look he gives me is…well, deadly.

Yeah. Reverend Mark doesn’t like me too much.

He’s so busy giving me the death stare that the Reverend Mark almost smacks into Dr. Jessup, who is making his way up to the podium next. Dr. Jessup shakes the minister’s hand, and Reverend Mark utters a few words and places a comforting hand on the Housing Department head’s shoulder.

The brief lull gives me an opportunity to look around the newly renamed (for reasons best left unmentioned) New York College Sports Center gymnasium. Every folding chair and most of the bleachers are filled with people. People who didn’t know Owen. People who have just come to gawk at the memorial service of a murdered man. The gym floor is filled with flowers…and film crews from the local news channels. Except for the youth choir and the Fischer Hall resident assistants (whose attendance Tom made mandatory, informing them they’d be assigned extra hours at the reception desk if they didn’t show up), I see almost no students.

Except one. Make that two. There, high up in the bleachers, I see them. Jamie and Gavin. Holding hands. And, yeah, okay, right at that particularly moment, making out.

But they’re there, and not because someone threatened
them, but to show their respect. My eyes fill with tears. God, what’s happening to me? I’ve never been this emotional over a murder victim in my building. It’s not like there haven’t been plenty. And I didn’t even
like
this one.

Dr. Jessup coughs into the microphone, and I turn back to face the podium. The head of housing thanks Reverend Mark for that fine eulogy, then announces that from now on, the Fischer Hall library will be known as the Owen Leonard Veatch Library. A plaque is being engraved, and there will be a hanging ceremony as soon as it’s finished.

This announcement is met with applause, after which Dr. Jessup asks that donations for the Owen Leonard Veatch Library be sent to the administrative offices of Fischer Hall.

Oh, so great. Now I’ll be keeping track of checks all day, on top of everything else. Dr. Jessup adds that for those who wish to attend, there’ll be refreshments served on the main floor of the sports center (in front of the fitness office) from six o’clock this evening until six-thirty.

The youth choir startles just about everybody then by suddenly bursting into a particularly spirited rendition of a song from the musical
Hair
. It isn’t just that “Good Morning Starshine” is the type of song you’d never expect to hear at a memorial service. It’s that “Good Morning Starshine” is a song you’d never expect to hear
anywhere
. The Mrs. Veatches, though, appear to be enjoying themselves, along with Mrs. Allington. Every single one of them is holding a tissue to the corner of one eye. Even Mrs. Veatch Senior has woken up a little, and is asking, in a loud voice, “Is it over yet? Is it over?”

Sadly, the song ends way too soon, and Dr. Jessup returns
to the microphone to say, “And now, the person with whom Dr. Veatch worked most closely while he was here on campus, the assistant director of Fisher Hall, our own Heather Wells, will say a few words. Heather?”

My heart, which had seemed to return to normal since Cooper drove off, does this weird swoopy thing inside my chest. I’ve never had a problem with stage fright when it comes to singing. You can, after all, hide behind the song. But when it comes to public speaking—forget about it. I’d seriously rather be hanging by an elevator cable or be roofied by a psychotic frat president than have to get up and speak in front of all these people.

I clutch my notes and try to swallow my fear, taking no comfort at all in Tom’s whispered “You can do it!” and Muffy’s “Just picture ’em all in their boxers and panties!” That kind of thing works great on
The Brady Bunch
, but in real life? Not so much.

I make my way to the podium, wishing more than ever I’d thought to stop home first to change. I’m dressed, I realize, no differently than any of the students.

Convinced I’m going to hurl, I turn to address the sea of faces I see before me—and only then realize I recognize more of them than I’d previously realized. Like, sitting directly in the middle of the folding chairs before me, Tad, who raises a hand and smiles encouragingly. I manage a queasy grin back…

…which fades as soon as I realize that seated not four rows behind him is Cooper, who raises a hand as well, thinking I’m smiling at
him.

Oh God. I’m going to hurl. I just know it.

Glancing down at the note cards I’ve stacked on the podium, I shake my head. I can’t do this. I can’t. Why can’t I just chase down Reverend Mark and kick him in the back a few times? It would be so much easier.

“Hi,” I say, into the microphone. My voice echoes disconcertingly throughout the gym. Hi…hi…hi. “Um…The day I met Dr. Owen Veatch, the first thing he unpacked in his new office at Fischer Hall was a Garfield Month-at-a-Glance calendar.”

I look out at the audience to see how they’re receiving this information. They all look back at me stonily. Except Tom. He’s buried his face in his hands. And Tad. He’s smiling encouragingly. Cooper just looks confused.

That’s when I notice my dad, in a chair next to Cooper’s. Oh God. My
dad
is here, too? Seriously, this is proof there is no God.

“Dr. Veatch,” I go on, “loved Garfield—more, it turned out, than I ever knew. So much, in fact, that he adopted a big orange cat that looked just like him, and named him Garfield. And when that cat developed thyroid disease, what did Dr. Veatch do? He didn’t worry about the expense of caring for a sick animal, or put him down. He gave Garfield pills for it. That’s the kind of man Dr. Veatch was. The kind who loved his cat, Garfield.”

I glance at Pam Don’t-Call-Me-Mrs. Veatch. She’s crying, and gazing up at me happily. Well, good. That’s who this is for, after all. The people who’d really cared about Dr. Veatch. And Garfield. I’m doing the right thing. I know it.

Even if I can see that Tom is currently sticking his finger down his throat and making gagging motions.

“The last time I saw Owen,” I go on, “he was sitting at his desk, writing the speech he was going to give the senior RAs at their graduation dinner at the end of the month. Commencement was Owen’s favorite school function, he told me, because it was a celebration, he said, of accomplishment. Not just the accomplishments of the students, but the accomplishments of the staff of New York College. Commencement was one of the few concrete proofs Owen had that our efforts were a success. Every senior who graduated from New York College was a personal victory not just for us administrators, but all of the staff of the college.” I look directly at President Allington as I say this. “Everyone who pulled together to help the students pass their classes and get their degrees, from the teaching assistants who graded their exams to the custodians who kept their classrooms clean.”

I’d like to say that at this moment, President Allington stood up, said he realized I was right, and declared that he was ending the strike and capitulating to all the demands of the GSC.

But he just keeps his head down, obviously still playing Fantasy Football.

“I don’t know much,” I go on, “about what happens to us when we die. I don’t know anything about the afterlife. But I do know this. And that’s this year, Owen will be sorely missed at New York College’s commencement ceremony. But I can’t help feeling that he’ll be there in spirit…just as he’ll always be here, in our hearts.”

There is a moment of total silence following this last part of my speech. Then there is some applause, polite at first. Then, thanks to Cooper standing up and thundering,
“YEAH!” and making very loud noises with his palms, followed very shortly by Tad, after first throwing a startled look over his shoulder, then leaping to his feet and doing the same thing, the applause becomes more heartfelt, until soon the entire audience is on its feet, everyone applauding warmly.

A few seconds later, Brian—the same Brian who’d shown up earlier that morning with Mr. Rosetti at Fischer Hall—hurries up to replace me at the microphone, murmuring nervously, “Uh, thank you? Thank you, Heather. Uh, thank you, everyone. Like, Dr., uh, Jessup said, if you want, there will be refreshments in front of the fitness office upstairs. So. That’s all. Good-bye.”