Six Years (7 page)

Ch
apter 10

T
he e-mail wasn’t signed.
Didn’t matter.

I quickly hit the reply button and typed:

Natalie? Are you okay? Please just let me know that.

I hit send.

I would explain to you how time slowed to a crawl as I waited for her next e-mail, but that wasn’t really what happened. There was no time for it, I guess. Three seconds later, my new-e-mail-ding sounded. My heart raced until I saw the sender’s name:

MAILDAEMON

I clicked open but I already knew what I would find:

This e-mail address doesn’t exist . . .

I almost smacked the computer in frustration, as if it were a candy machine that wouldn’t dispense the Milky Way. I actually shouted “No way!” out loud. I didn’t know what to do. I sat there and I started drowning. I felt as though I were sinking and couldn’t even flail my way back to the surface.

I went back to googling. I tried the e-mail and different variations, but it was just a waste of time. I read her e-mail again:

You made a promise.

I had, hadn’t I? And when you stopped and thought about it, why did I break that promise? A man had died. Maybe it was her husband. Maybe it wasn’t. Still, was that a reason to go back on my promise to her? Maybe. Maybe it was at first. But now she had made it clear. That was the purpose of the e-mail. Natalie was calling me on it. She was reminding me of the promise because she knew that I don’t make promises idly.

It was why she had made me promise to stay away in the first place.

I thought about that now. I thought about the funeral and the visit to Vermont and this student file. What did it all add up to? I don’t know. If it had originally warranted going back on my word, I now had proof that I could no longer justify it. Natalie’s message couldn’t have been clearer.

You made a promise.

With a tentative finger, I touched the words on the screen. My heart crumbled anew. Too bad, tough guy. So okay, heartbreak notwithstanding, I would let it go. I would back off. I would keep my word.

I headed to bed and fell asleep almost immediately. I know. I was surprised by that too, but I think all the blows since reading that obituary, the swirl of memory and emotion, of heartbreak and confusion, wore me down like a boxer taking body shots for twelve solid rounds. Eventually, I just folded.

Unlike Benedict, I often forget to turn my cell phone off. His call at 8:00
A.M.
woke me up.

“Eban has reluctantly agreed to meet with you.”

“Did you tell him what it’s about?”

“You didn’t tell me what it’s about.”

“Oh. Right.”

“You got a nine
A.M.
class. He’ll be waiting for you at his house when you’re done.”

I felt the pang deep in my chest. “His house?”

“Yeah, I didn’t think you’d like that. He insisted.”

“Douchebag move.”

“He isn’t so bad.”

“He’s a lecherous creep.”

“And that’s bad because?”

“You don’t do what he does.”

“You don’t know what he does. Go. Be nice. Get what you need.”

Benedict hung up. I checked my e-mail and texts. Nothing. This whole strange episode in my life had taken on a surreal, dream-like quality. I worked hard to dismiss it. I did indeed have a 9:00
A.M.
class on Law and the Constitution. That was my priority again. Yep, I’d put it behind me. I actually sang in the shower. I dressed and walked across campus with my smile wide and my head high. There was a little hop in my step. The sun bathed the campus in a warm, celestial beacon. I kept smiling. I smiled at the brick buildings longing for ivy. I smiled at the trees, at the lush grass, at the statues of famous alumni, at the view of the athletic fields down the hill. When students said hello to me, I greeted them with a level of enthusiasm that made one fear I was suddenly into religious conversion.

When class started, I stood in the front of the room and shouted “Good morning, everyone!” like a born-again cheerleader on too much Red Bull. The students gave me curious looks. I was starting to scare myself, so I tried to dial it back.

You made a promise.

And what about you, Natalie? Wasn’t there at least an implied promise to me in your words and actions? How do you just capture a heart and crush it like that? Yes, I’m a big boy. I get the risks of falling in love. But we said things. We felt things. They weren’t lies. And yet. You dumped me. You invited me to your wedding. Why? Why would anyone be that cruel, or were you trying to hammer home the fact that it was time for me to move on?

I did move on. You reached into my chest, plucked out my heart, tore it up, and walked away, but I picked up the shreds and moved on.

I shook my head. Picked up the shreds? Sheesh, that was horrible. That’s the problem with falling in love. It makes you start talking like a bad country song.

Natalie had e-mailed me. Or at least, I thought it was Natalie. Who else could it be? But either way, even though she was telling me to stay away, it was communication. It was her reaching out to me. Reaching? Sure. But she had used that e-mail address. RSbyJA. She had remembered it. It had meant something to her, something that still resonated, and that gave me—I don’t know—hope. Hope is cruel. Hope reminds me of what almost was. Hope makes the physical ache return.

I called on Eileen Sinagra, one of my brightest students. She began to explain one of the finer points of Madison and
The Federalist Papers
. I nodded, encouraging her to continue, when I saw something out of the corner of my eye. I moved closer to the window for a better look. I stopped.

“Professor Fisher?”

In the parking lot was a gray Chevy van. I checked the license plates. I couldn’t make out the numbers from here, but I could see the color and pattern.

Vermont plates.

I didn’t think twice. I didn’t consider that it probably meant absolutely nothing, that gray Chevy vans are hardly rare, that there are plenty of Vermont license plates in western Massachusetts. None of that made any difference.

I was already sprinting toward the door when I shouted, “I’ll be right back, stay here.” I started down the corridor. The floor had just been mopped. I skidded around the
WET
sign and slammed open the door. The parking lot was across the commons. I hurdled a bush and ran full speed across the grass. My students must have thought that I’d gone off the deep end. I didn’t really care.

“Go, Professor Fisher! I’ll hit you!”

A student, mistaking my running for desire to participate, actually threw me a Frisbee. I let it land and kept running.

“Dude, you gotta work on your catches.”

I ignored the voice. I was getting closer to the Chevy van when I saw its lights go on.

The driver had started up the van.

I ran even faster. That bright beacon of sun shone off the front windshield, blocking my view of the driver. I lowered my head and pumped my legs, but the Chevy van was backing out of the space now. I was too far away. I wasn’t going to make it.

The van shifted into drive.

I pulled up and tried to get a look at the driver. No go. Too much glare, but I thought I saw . . .

A maroon baseball cap?

There was no way to be sure. I did, however, memorize the license plate—like that would help, like that would do any good—and then I stood, panting, as the van sped away.

Chapter 11

P
rofessor Eban Trainor
sat on the lemonade porch in front of a gorgeous Second-Empire Victorian. I knew the house well. For half a century it had been home to Professor Malcolm Hume, my mentor. A lot of good times had been had in this house. Poly-sci wine tastings, staff parties, late-night cognac, philosophical arguments, literary discussions—all things academia. But, alas, God has an interesting sense of humor. Professor Hume’s wife passed away after forty-eight years of marriage, and his health followed. Eventually he could not take care of this great old house by himself. He now resided in a gated community in Vero Beach, Florida, while Professor Eban Trainor, the closest thing I had to an enemy on campus, had purchased this beloved dwelling, making himself the new lord of the manor.

I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. It was a text from Shanta:

JUDIE’S. 1:00
P.M
.

Quite the wordsmith, but I knew what she meant. We should meet at Judie’s Restaurant on Main Avenue at 1:00
P.M.
Okay, fine. I put the phone away and started up the porch steps.

Eban rose and offered me a condescending smile. “Jacob. So good to see you.”

His handshake felt greasy. His fingernails were manicured. Women found him handsome in an aging-playboy sort of way, what with the long unruly hair and big green eyes. His skin was waxy, as though his face were either melting or still recovering from some kind of skin treatment. I suspected Botox. He wore slacks a size too tight and a dress shirt that could have used one more closed button. His cologne smelled like too many European businessmen jammed into a morning elevator.

“Do you mind sitting on the porch?” he asked. “It’s so beautiful out.”

I readily agreed. I didn’t want to go inside and see what he’d done with the place. I knew the work had been extensive. Gone, I was sure, were the dark woods, the cognac and cigar feel, traded in for blond wood and couches in colors like “eggshell” and “churned butter” and gatherings that only served white wine and Sprite because they wouldn’t stain the upholstery.

On cue, he offered me white wine. I politely declined. He had his in hand. It wasn’t even noon. We both sat on wicker chairs with big pillows.

“So what can I do for you, Jacob?” he asked.

I had taken a class with him sophomore year on Mid-Twentieth-Century Drama. He wasn’t a bad teacher. He was both effective and affected, the kind of teacher who loves nothing more than the sound of his voice and while he is rarely boring—the kiss of death in any class—the lessons are all a tad professor-centric. He spent one week reading Genet’s
The Maids
in its entirety out loud, taking on each character, reveling in his own performance, not to mention the S&M scenes. The performance was good, no doubt, but, alas, it was all him.

“I wanted to ask you about a student,” I said

Eban raised both eyebrows as though my words were both intriguing and surprising. “Oh?”

“Todd Sanderson.”

“Oh?”

I saw him stiffen. He didn’t want me to see it. But I did. He looked off and stroked his chin.

“You remember him,” I said.

Eban Trainor stroked his chin some more. “The name rings a bell, but . . .” A few more strokes and then Eban shrugged in surrender. “I’m sorry. So many years, so many students.”

Why didn’t I believe him?

“You didn’t have him in class,” I said.

“Oh?”

Again with the oh.

“He came up before the discipline committee when you were in charge. This would have been about twenty years ago.”

“And you expect me to still remember?”

“You helped keep him on campus after an altercation. Here, let me show you.” I pulled out my laptop and brought up the scan of his handwritten decision. I held out the laptop. Eban hesitated as though it might contain explosives. He took out his reading glasses and examined the letter.

“Wait, where did you get this?”

“It’s important, Eban.”

“This is from a student’s confidential file.” A small smile crossed his lips. “Isn’t reading this file breaking the rules, Jacob? Wouldn’t you say you were crossing boundaries?”

So there it was. Six years ago, just a scant few weeks before I headed up to that retreat in Vermont, Professor Eban Trainor hosted a graduation party at his then-house. Trainor frequently hosted parties at his house. In fact, he was somewhat legendary for both throwing and attending them. When I was a sophomore, there had been a rather famous incident at Jones College, the nearby all-women institution, during which a fire alarm went off at three in the morning, forcing a dorm to evacuate, and there stood Professor Trainor, half-dressed. True, the coed he’d been seeing that particular night was of legal age and not one of his students. But this was typical Trainor. He was a letch and a drunk, and I didn’t like him.

The graduation party six years ago was mostly attended by students, many of whom were underclassmen and thus underage. Alcohol had been served. A lot of it. Campus police were called. Two students were taken to the hospital for alcohol poisoning, something that happens with increasing frequency on college campuses. Or maybe that’s what I tell myself because I like to think that it was not as bad in “my day.”

Professor Trainor was brought up before the administration for his actions. There were calls for his resignation. He refused. He claimed that, yes, he had offered alcohol to the attendees but only seniors who were over twenty-one years old were invited. If underclassmen crashed the party, he should not be held responsible. He also suggested that much of the alcohol had been consumed before his party began, at a nearby fraternity kegger.

The professors on campus govern themselves. We rarely do more than slap one another on the wrist. Like with the student discipline committee, professors rotate through. As luck would have it, I was on the committee when this incident occurred. Trainor had tenure and couldn’t be fired, but I firmly believed that he deserved some sort of disciplinary action. We took a vote to have Trainor removed as chairman of the English department. I argued in favor of the punishment. There were simply too many incidents of this kind of behavior in his past. Interestingly enough, my beloved mentor, Malcolm Hume, did not agree.

“Are you really going to blame Eban for students drinking too much?” he had asked me.

“There are reasons why we have rules about fraternizing with students when alcohol is served.”

“The extenuating circumstances don’t mean anything to you?”

They might have, I guessed, if I hadn’t already seen Eban’s pattern of obvious bad behavior and poor choices. This wasn’t a court of law or a question of rights; this was a great job and a privilege. In my view, his actions warranted termination—we expel students for far less and with far less evidence—but at the very least, he deserved a demotion. Despite my mentor’s urging, I voted in favor of taking away his chairmanship, but I was outvoted by a wide margin.

Those hearings might be long over, but the resentment lasts. I had used those exact terms—“broken rules,” “crossed boundaries”—during the supposedly closed debates. Nice to have my own words thrown back at my face, but maybe that was fair.

“This particular student,” I said, “is dead.”

“So his confidential file is now fair game?”

“I’m not here to argue legal minutiae with you.”

“No, no, Jacob, you’re a big-picture guy, aren’t you?”

This was a waste of time. “I don’t really understand your reticence.”

“That surprises me, Jacob. You’re usually such a rules follower. The information you’re asking for is confidential. I’m protecting Mr. Sanderson’s privacy.”

“But again,” I said, “he’s dead.”

I did not want to sit here, on this lemonade porch where my beloved mentor spent so many wonderful hours, another moment. I rose and reached for my laptop. He did not hand it back to me. He started doing the chin rub again.

“Sit,” he said.

I did.

“Would you tell me why a case this old would have relevance to you now?”

“It would be very hard to explain,” I said.

“But it is clearly very important to you.”

“Yes.”

“How did Todd Sanderson die?”

“He was murdered.”

Eban closed his eyes as though that revelation made it all so much worse. “By whom?”

“The police don’t know yet.”

“Ironic,” he said.

“How so?”

“That he would die by violence. I remember the case. Todd Sanderson injured a fellow student in a violent altercation. Well, that’s not really an adequate way of stating it. In truth, Todd Sanderson nearly killed a fellow student.”

Eban Trainor looked off again and took a gulp of wine. I waited for him to say more. It took some time, but eventually he continued. “It happened at a Thursday night kegger at Chi Psi.”

Chi Psi sponsored a kegger every Thursday night for as long as anyone could remember. The powers that be tried to stop it twelve years ago, but a wealthy alum simply bought a house off campus specifically for their use. He could have donated the money to a worthy cause. Instead he bought a party house for his younger frat brothers to imbibe in. Go figure.

“Naturally both participants were drunk,” Eban said. “Words were exchanged, but there was little doubt that Todd Sanderson turned this verbal altercation into something horribly physical. When all is said, the other student—I’m sorry, I don’t remember his name, it may have been McCarthy or McCaffrey, something like that—had to be hospitalized. He had a broken nose and a crushed cheekbone. But that wasn’t the worst part.”

He stopped again. I picked up the hint.

“What was the worst part?” I asked.

“Todd Sanderson nearly choked the other student to death. It took five people to pull him off. The other student was unconscious. He had to be resuscitated.”

“Wow,” I said.

Eban Trainor shut his eyes for a moment. “I can’t see how this matters anymore. We should let him rest in peace.”

“I’m not asking out of some kind of prurient interest.”

The thin smile crossed his lips again. “Oh, I know, Jacob. You are, if nothing else, a righteous man. I’m sure your interest here is nothing but the healthiest and most well-meaning.”

I let that pass.

“So why was Sanderson let off?” I asked.

“You read my decision.”

“I did,” I said. “Something about ‘highly unusual extenuating circumstances.’”

“That’s correct.”

I waited again, figuring my follow-up question was obvious. When Trainor didn’t say anything, I gave the proper prompt: “What were the extenuating circumstances?”

“The other student—McCarthy. That was his name. I remember now.” Trainor took a deep breath. “Mr. McCarthy made derogatory comments about a certain incident. When Sanderson heard the comments, he more or less—yet understandably—lost control.” Eban held a hand up in my face as though I were about to object, which I wasn’t about to do at all. “Yes, Jacob, I know that we do not excuse violence under any circumstances. That would be your stand, I am certain. But we looked at this unusual case from every level. We heard from several Todd Sanderson supporters. One, in particular, defended him with great gusto.”

I met his eyes and saw something mocking in them. “Who would that be, Eban?”

“Hint: He used to own this house.”

That surprised me. “Professor Hume defended Todd Sanderson?”

“What’s the word attorneys always use?” He rubbed his chin again. “
Vigorously
. He even helped him set up a charity when the case was over.”

I tried to put it together. Hume detested violence in all forms. He was one of those people who felt too much. Cruelty on any level made him cringe. If you hurt, he hurt.

“I confess,” Eban continued, “that I was surprised too, but your mentor has always understood extenuating circumstances, hasn’t he?”

We weren’t talking about Todd Sanderson anymore, so I brought the topic back to him.

“And what were the extenuating circumstances in this case?”

“Well, for one thing, Todd Sanderson had just come back from a long leave. He had missed the prior semester for personal reasons.”

I had just about had enough. “Eban?”

“Yes?”

“Could we stop dancing around here? What happened to Todd Sanderson? Why did he leave campus? What were the extenuating circumstances that would cause a man as anti-violence as Malcolm Hume to defend such an extreme assault?”

“It’s not in the file?”

“You know it’s not. Everything but the decision was kept off the record. So what happened to him?”

“Not to him,” Trainor said. “To his father.”

He reached behind him for a glass and handed it to me. He didn’t ask; he just handed me the glass. I took it and let him pour the wine into it. It was still not yet noon, but I figured that this would be the wrong time to comment on morning drinking. I accepted it and hoped that it would loosen his tongue.

Eban Trainor sat back and crossed his legs. He stared into his wineglass as though it were a crystal ball. “Do you remember the Martindale Little League incident?”

Now it was my turn to look at the wine. I took a sip. “The pedophilia scandal?”

“Yes.”

It had to be fifteen, maybe even twenty years ago, but I remembered because it was one of the first cases that received a lot of press. “The coach or head of a Little League was raping young boys, right?”

“That was the accusation, yes.”

“It wasn’t true?”

“No,” Eban said slowly, taking yet another deep sip. “It wasn’t true.”

We just sat there.

“So what does that have to do with Todd Sanderson?”

“Not him.” There was a slur now in Eban’s voice. “But the coach or head of the Little League, as you just described him.”

I saw it now. “It was his father?”

Eban pointed at me. “Bingo.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

“Todd Sanderson skipped that semester to help his father,” Eban said. “He supported his family financially—his father was fired as a schoolteacher, of course—offered moral support, did whatever he could.”

I was surprised and confused, but it all just raised the central question in this whole line of questioning: What could any of this possibly have to do with my Natalie?