October (5 page)

But now, Weiss was leaving for Northwestern University, and Fillet had been named head of the department.

Which meant, of course, that the battle wasn't over.

He placed
Season of Witches
back carefully in its box, left his office, and walked the short hallway distance to Sidney Weiss's office.

"All hail the young buck!" Henry
Beardman
said, raising his glass as Kevin entered.
Beardman
, a brilliant Shakespeare scholar who knew almost nothing else about literature, was already drunk. A pleasant, sad man when sober, he was an aging homosexual trapped in the mores of a time when the closet was an institution. That attitude, coupled with the curse of ugliness, which he held aloft like a banner, made him nearly intolerable when he drank, which was often. Weiss had told Kevin that in the past year,
Beardman
had begun to show up in class inebriated; and Kevin had chided himself on the evil thought, probably true, that the arc of
Beardman's
career and life had long ago been charted, and now, especially since the homophobe Fillet was about to wear the crown,
Beardman
would end in dismissal, and eventually, dissolution.

Kevin smiled politely at
Beardman
, moving past him to the back of the cramped office. It was neon bright in here, too, but here and there one of the long bulbs had flickered out, never to be replaced. Long ago the college's maintenance man had refused to come near Dr. Weiss's office, declaring it a hopeless firetrap and refusing to be the one to start the fire. A snake of wires, leading to everything from a copy machine to a coffeemaker, an electric pencil sharpener and small television, was hidden somewhere beneath the oak tables, sagging bookshelves, and behind the two desks, one of which contained nothing but stacks of untouched student papers, some of them dating back to 1960. Weiss had never handed a graded paper back to a student, had always graded verbally, and had never given anything below a B minus. Raymond Fillet had once succeeded, after years of trying, in getting John
Groteman
, the university president, to demand to see one of those student papers. Fillet had maintained that Weiss never even looked at them and gave out grades indiscriminately—an outrageous charge, which, if true, would have had dire consequences for Weiss's career.
Grotemen
had finally relented. Weiss, sitting in his squeaky swivel chair in the far corner of the room before his other, workable desk, smoking a pipe, had smiled at Fillet and said, "Pick a card, any card." Fillet had reached deep into one back pile, produced a paper from 1971, and handed it triumphantly to John
Groteman
, who opened the blue cover to find a meticulously corrected discussion of Beowulf by a student named Mason Johnston. Johnston had been back on campus the previous October for a reunion; he was now president of a small computer firm in Connecticut.
Groteman
went through the paper page by page, noted the grade of B plus on the last page, then handed it back to Raymond Fillet.

"This is an excellent and sensitive correction job,"
Groteman
had said, not hiding the testiness in his voice. "I don't appreciate what you've done, Raymond. Put the paper back where you found it, please."

While Fillet was blustering, fumbling to find the spot from which he had drawn the term paper,
Groteman
had turned to Dr. Weiss and said, "Can I ask you a question, Sid?"

Weiss had smiled. "Anything."

"What are you keeping all these papers for?"

Weiss's smile had widened. "That's easy. When I retire, I'm taking them with me to read again. I've found there's more fresh thought in one student paper, borrowed and sloppy and rushed and half-reasoned and even erroneous though it might be, than in all the department staffs in all the universities in America."

Groteman
had left laughing, Fillet trailing behind like an apologetic dog, and that had been the end of the term paper incident.

And here they were now, these same term papers, stacked even higher, waiting for packing and transport to Northwestern, where, no doubt, they would be stacked and forgotten once more.

Kevin moved past the desk to the cleared spot on the windowsill where two tall bottles of white wine stood. There were plastic cups nested between the bottles. Kevin poured himself a glass of wine and turned to see the foppish, myopic, disapproving figure of Charles Steadman, Raymond Fillet's graduate student protégé, regarding him with less than interest.

"May I pour you some wine, Charles?" Kevin offered diplomatically.

Steadman, who modeled himself on T. S. Eliot, down to a three-piece wool suit and watch chain, spectacles, and wry, practiced, composed countenance, glanced around Kevin at the bottles and made a sour face.

"Must they always buy wine by the jug?"

"It's more economical that way," Kevin offered.

"Yes," Steadman said flatly. His hand went to his waist, as if in pose, and he turned to regard Raymond Fillet.

Steadman turned back to Kevin with his expressionless face and flat stare. "I trust we'll be serving better from now on. Unless, of course, the ghost of Theodore Michaels dominates
that
department, also."

Before Kevin could react, Steadman walked away.

"All hail the departing hero!" Henry
Beardman
said, raising his glass as Sidney Weiss entered the room.

In toast, the others holding plastic cups raised them as Weiss blustered in, waving them aside. "Oh, stop!" he said. "I hate good-byes, and you all know that. So you have conspired to say good-bye in a grand way. You! Michaels!" he said, catching Kevin's eye. "Get me some wine!"

To Kevin's surprise, and momentary annoyance, Dr. Weiss waited at the doorway for him to bring the wine. When Kevin reached the door, Weiss took him by the arm and steered him out into the hall. "We have to talk."

They stopped a listening-ear's distance from the party, which continued. Sidney Weiss took the wine from Kevin and drank a finger of it. Then his eyes locked on Kevin's and stayed there.

"You're going to have trouble," Weiss said. "Fillet isn't even going to wait until I'm on the plane."

"But—"

"Please listen." Weiss's voice was stern, but Kevin detected a trace of smile. "This is what Raymond will do. He will try to invalidate your assistant professorship, claiming the appointment was made after I had decided to leave. Which is perfectly true. His contention is that I had no right to appoint you, that the decision should have waited until the new chair—himself, of course—was installed. His argument has weight—and unfortunately, precedent. A similar situation arose in the History Department a few years ago."

"What happened then?"

"The new boy was kicked out, and the new chair put in his own man."

"But—"

"Let me finish, Michaels! We both know Fillet wants Charles Steadman to fill your spot permanently. It's no secret. Another of Fillet's arguments is that it would be unfair to remove Steadman, who has merely been keeping your seat warm during this mess, at this point. If Steadman wasn't such an incompetent
toady
, I might even agree with that. But there are subtle politics at work here. I think you'll be all right if you do what I say."

"Which is?"

"Resign your position."

"
What
!"

Weiss laughed. "I'm glad your reactions aren't dulled by this lousy wine! You have to resign. In fact, we're going to march back into my office in two minutes and announce that unhappy event. Charles Steadman will continue teaching your class. Then, in a week or two, you will be reinstated, in plenty of time to finish your first semester."

Kevin looked perplexed.

"Let me explain," Weiss said. "When you resign, another, older precedent will take place. I found a case in 1958 where an identical situation arose. That time, the president of the university stepped in to make the appointment. That's what John
Groteman
is going to do now. When
Groteman
says something, it usually sticks like glue. The trustees rarely balk at anything he does, because he brings in money."

"Dr. Weiss, thank you."

"For what?" Weiss grinned. "This is what most of my job is, Kevin. I should warn you, though, that Fillet will be out for your blood."

"I can handle Fillet."

"I hope so. You know he's wanted this job of mine for a long time. He gave your father trouble twenty years ago, and he doesn't forget anything. You realize"—Weiss laughed—"you'll be number one on Fillet's list after this!”

“Quite a distinction."

Weiss laughed again, taking Kevin by the arm. "Come on, let's have some more bad white wine and watch the shock on their faces when we announce your decision. The way I figure it, this will give you extra time to get reacquainted with New Polk."

"I'd like that," Kevin said.

They began to walk, then Weiss squeezed Kevin's arm, making him stop.

"There's one thing I want to make sure you know before I leave," Weiss said seriously.

"What's that?"

"Your father's memory didn't get you this job, Kevin. Your talent did. The case you made for teaching Eileen
Connel
proved that to me."

"Thank you."

Weiss's hand continued to hold Kevin's arm. "I'm earnest about this. I don't want you to feel you have something to prove here at New Polk, that you have to clear your father's name. Ted Michaels was a great teacher before . . ." Weiss hesitated. "Before his trouble began. He helped me a lot when I was starting out. At one time, he was the best in his field. He was always haunted, but your mother was a wonderful calming influence on him. After he lost her, all that business from the past just took hold of him completely."

Weiss sighed, as if making a decision. "Look, you don't know this, but your father tried to have Eileen Connel's books added to the syllabus here in the late sixties. He failed, because by then his thinking just wasn't very clear.

"You've succeeded with that, Kevin, and you should consider it an honor to your father's memory. And frankly, I think you should let it stop there. I'm speaking as a friend, now. I'd hate to see you follow your father's path. I see the tendency there, and it bothers me. You're teaching Eileen
Connel
because she's a damned good novelist, not because she's privy to some secret knowledge denied the rest of us. You're going to have trouble enough keeping her books in the curriculum with Fillet fighting you."

Weiss's face softened. "I want you to promise that if it's ever too much, or that working under Raymond Fillet is unbearable, you'll call me at Northwestern. Will you do that?"

"I will."

"Good." Weiss laughed. "And would you tell me one thing? Why do you like Johannes Brahms so much? Why not Beethoven?"

Kevin smiled. "I read somewhere that Beethoven merely took on God, while Brahms took on something much harder, man."

"I like that," Weiss said. "He certainly would have had a tough time with a man like Fillet."

They began to walk, and as they came in sight of the office door, Weiss let Kevin's arm go and leaned close to his ear. "And keep an eye on Henry
Beardman
," he whispered, chuckling. "He may be an old souse—but he can still move pretty quick when he sees something he likes."

Later, after the party in Sidney Weiss's office had ended, the shock of Kevin's announcement superseding Weiss's departure and causing all of the bad wine to be consumed, Kevin stood alone in his darkened office. The weak yellow illumination of the quadrangle lights barely lit the stained-glass window, making the colors glow like ghosts. The room was chillier than when he had left it. In the near dark, he fumbled with the cassette machine, rewound the tape in it, be-
gan
to replay the Fourth Symphony of Johannes Brahms.

He stood at the window. A lone female student—perhaps the same girl he had seen earlier in the evening—made her way across the quadrangle, using the senior walk. Her head was bowed against a cold breeze that had arisen. She held her books tight across her front, hugging herself. She looked cold. A few leaves pirouetted from the oaks, flashing bare red and brown in the lights before settling to the ground. The girl kicked at them unconsciously as she walked.

Kevin suddenly wanted to hold her, to warm her. To warm himself.

Up above, the sky was very black above the lights, very cold.

The second movement of the symphony began, proceeded on its stately course. Kevin's hands, on the sill of the open window, grew coldly numb.

The music reached the point of blossom, opened with aching, sad beauty. This was not false sentiment, but heartbreaking melancholy. Kevin felt an irredeemable sense of emptiness.

Who in hell am I?

Brahms knew autumn, knew of bittersweet inevitability.

Suddenly, Kevin was crying. His body hitched with sobs. He brought his cold hands to his face, covered his eyes. A pain filled him like that Brahms must have known; he felt helpless in this beautiful season.

I don't know who I am. None of us know who we are.

He saw his father, in the end broken by madness and stroke, lost, his skin translucent, yellow-gray, paper thin, his eyes pleading, unable even to lift his head from his pillow.