The Donor: When Conception Meets Deception (24 page)

“Well, what are you waiting for? Poof! Disappear…playboy,” Chase says.

Chase watches as Man-Man walks, and Eugene staggers, to an idling black BMW X5. Chase breathes a confident and satisfied sigh of relief. The car zooms down Henry Street and turns right at the corner. Chase jogs up the stoop and bounces inside the living room.

"Hey babe," he yells from the bottom step, “about that cardio.” He darts up to the bedroom, two steps at a time, with a sense of power, control and a copious supply of libido.



Three months later…

“Coco, Piña, Cherry…Coco, Piña, Cherry,” sings the stout little woman wearing a rainbow of San Salvadoran neck beads. She cheeses with a bright, rustic smile as Chase bustles past her Italian ice cart. He scampers amongst a stream of Brooklyn commuters, shoppers and college students emerging from the subway below. They fan out in four directions on the busy corner known to the locals as, the Junction.

It takes only a few minutes for Chase to shuffle past the Midwood flower shop, and Gino’s Italian Pizzeria, to reach the black stone steps of Tilden Hall. The hall is home to Brooklyn University’s English Department. He squishes his way through the throngs of undergraduates just getting out of class. “Excuse me Professor Archibald, Sorry Professor Archibald,” they utter, as arms and elbows bump through the nineteenth century archway. Excitement and anxiety fill the air. Classes for the Spring semester have come to a close and finals are set to begin. Chase nudges his way through the rough and tumble of shoulders and backpacks to reach his first floor office. He inserts a key into the brass keyhole and turns, but there is an odd click and it won’t open. He tries again with the same result. Inspecting the key itself and finding nothing different about it, he scans the hallway. As fortune would have it, he notices the chief custodian halfway down the hall.

"Mr. Jenkins. Hey, Mr. Jenkins down here," Chase waves.

A gaunt, stubble faced man in army green coveralls and paint splattered construction boots, signals back. He holds a monkey wrench while crouched by a water fountain; a pile of screws is strewn at his bent knee.

“Hey there, Professor Archibald," Mr. Jenkins says from down the hall.

"Mr. Jenkins, can I get your assistance down here for a moment please?"

Mr. Jenkins rises. He is a slender man with a pronounced hump. He has worked for Brooklyn University for forty three years and spends most of his time plugging, painting, and spit shining the landmark building into twenty-first century shape. His haggard face is offset by an infectious smile and a thick handlebar mustache (dyed in ultra black).

“Good morning professor, well just about afternoon now I suppose. How are you this fine day?” he says as he moseys over.

"You know you can just call me Chase, Mr. Jenkins."

"Oh I know, I know. But it always brings me a small sense of pride calling you professor. You’re too young to remember when nobody looked like you around here.”

"I appreciate that. Listen, Mr. Jenkins the strangest thing…my key won't work," Chase says.

“Hmm. Now that sure is a strange thing indeed, professor. Strange indeed. Might I have a look?"

Chase hands him the keys. The jack-of-all-trades removes a pair of copper rimmed glasses from his breast pocket and places them on the tip of his nose. He examines the key in microscopic detail.

"Uh huh,” Mr. Jenkins grunts.

“What?" Chase replies.

“Uh huh,” he says holding it up to the light.

“What Mr. Jenkins, what?”

"Well of course it don’t work," he says.

"What do you mean of course?"

"This here is your old key, silly. Use the new one."

"Old key? New one? What are you talking about?"

“Professor, your lock was changed this morning. Didn't they give you the new key?"

"Changed? Why and by whom?"

"Dean Ganges had me call the locksmith around…oh lemme see…er…uh… [he flips open an antique watch face attached to a chainlink by his belt loop]…uh 9:30 this morning. Right after your department meeting."

“Department meeting? What department meeting? Our meetings are on Mondays."

"Well I don't know about Mondays, todays or tomorrows, but ya' had a meeting. Must've been important. Don't usually see President Laczko ‘round here."

"President Laczko was here? I'm the incoming chair of the department. How could there be a mee—? You know what? Never mind. Thank you Mr. Jenkins. Is Dean Ganges still in her office?"

"Oh I don't quite know. There was a whole bunch of folks in there. White boys in suits and briefcases and everything."

“Okay thanks,” Chase says as he rushes down the hall.

The questions have begun to percolate in his mind.
What's going on? Why is my door locked? Why didn't Dean Ganges call or text? Okay, maybe this is some initiation ritual for new department heads. Calm down Chase. Just chill. And stop running!
He slows to a spry trot. Dr. Ganges' office is down the corridor and up two flights of steps. He skips the elevator, leaps up the stairs to her floor, and composes himself for a moment before knocking on the dark oak and glass door. Before waiting for an answer he pokes his head inside to find Carol, the Dean’s middle aged secretary, hunched over her desk preoccupied with texting. Chase clears his throat to get her attention.

“Oh,” she says with a pop and a jiggle as if she just got a chill. “Uh, excuse me Doctor Archibald, I mean Professor Archibald I mean, I—so—so um, yeah, uh, hey, how are ya’?" Carol has always been an oddball, even by academia’s standards. She wears pink feather boas, only listens to Prince songs and rarely completes a thought before starting a new one. She talks with a lisp. Chase squints an eye.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

She fumbles with her smartphone and flips it, screen side down, on her desk. Chase finds her behavior peculiar; she’s way too jumpy, even for her.

“Mmmhmm, uh huh, mmmhmm, yup, yup, I’m fine, I’m fine,” she says. She flashes an exaggerated cheesy grin, and freezes her gaping mouth.

Chase peers down the tight hallway behind the secretary’s desk towards Dean Ganges' office. The Dean’s glass door is closed with the privacy curtain drawn over it. Chase hears muffled voices.

“Carol, is she with someone?"

Carol bobs her mouth repeatedly to respond without uttering an actual sound. She raises and drops her index finger at the same time. She looks like a stuttering mime.

“Carol!” Chase says. “It’s kind of a simple question.”

“Yes...see...she...ummm...so what had happened was…uh."

"Okay, okay. Just buzz her for me. Tell her I’m here to see her."

Carol hesitates.

“Carol,” he barks.

"Yes, yes...okay," she says. She presses the speaker button on the dark grey phone and dials *71. After two rings Dean Ganges answers.

“Yes Carol,” Dean Ganges says.

“Uh, Dean Ganges...um...Mister, I mean Doctor, I mean—“

Chase hovers over the speaker.

“Good Afternoon Dean Ganges it's Chase. Sorry to bother you but do you have a second?”

The line goes silent. He looks at Carol. She shrugs. As Chase is about to repeat the question into the phone he hears hushed tones and then a five second pause.

“Okay, send him in Carol," Dean Ganges says. Chase hangs up, takes the short walk to the Dean’s door and taps the window twice.

"Enter," the Dean says.

Chase walks into the spacious office. The light mint and burgundy walls are decorated with oil paintings of Masai warriors and Sudanese seamstresses. The handmade six tier bookshelf is stocked with classic literature and contemporary non-fiction. To Chase’s right is a glass table and three aluminum chairs she uses for private meetings. The table is stacked with five sealed and two open cardboard boxes. Chase recognizes a framed picture of Devantay and himself from last Summer's Long Island fishing trip poking from between one of the open flaps. Perplexed, he stares at Dr. Ganges. She is sitting behind her beechwood desk, arms folded, with her degrees from Spelman College, Columbia and Rutgers Universities on the wall above her head. To her left is a well tailored middle aged man in a pinstriped suit. He sports a thick, slick, salt and pepper haircut and sits on the edge of her desk, hand over wrist.

“Good Afternoon,” Chase says in a sheepish tone. Dr. Ganges doesn’t respond.

The man slides off the Dean Ganges’ desk and extends his right arm to Chase.

"Good afternoon Chase," he says. "My name is Frank LaRocca. I'm an attorney working with the university. You can call me Frank,” he says.

“Attorney? Dean Ganges what’s going on?”

“Why don’t you have a seat Chase,” Frank says.

“I don’t need to have a seat. And no offense Mr. uh…LaRocca is it? But I’m here to speak privately with my Dean.”

“Anything you have to say, you say it in front of him,” Dean Ganges snaps.

Chase is taken aback by her coarse tone. He pauses for a moment before continuing.

“Okay. Look I don’t know what’s going on but my office is locked, there was a staff meeting I knew nothing about, I come here and Carol’s acting nuttier than usual and now it appears as though my desk has been cleaned out? Is this some sort of new department chair hazing ritual?”

“Hah, that’s a laugh,” Dean Ganges says.

“Look—” Chase attempts to say.

“No
you
look,” she jumps up from her seat, her face starting to kindle.

“Okay listen folks, before things get too intense let’s keep cool. We’re all smart, educated people that can—,” Frank says.

“
Some
of us are educated.
Some
,” Dean Ganges interrupts.

“Look Chase,” Frank says. “Some news has been brought to the university’s attention. It’s serious. It’s regarding your background.”

“About you being a goddamn fraud Chase. Or whatever the hell your name is,” Dean Ganges says.

Chase’s heart thuds to the floor like a jilted lover.

“Oooh child,” Carol shouts from her secretary’s desk outside the door. Frank shuts it.

“Chase, Dean Ganges received that envelope right there,” Frank says, pointing to an opened manila pouch. “Inside are some documents, several photos and a letter. I’ll read you what it says.”

“You don’t have to read anything,” Dean Ganges interrupts. “I’ll tell you what it says. It says what you already know, Mr. Tevarus Augustus Huxley,” she says slamming her fist on the desk.

She could have just as well have fired two barrels from a sawed off into his chest. Chase’s soul vibrates. He feels like clutching what seems like a shotgun blast to his sternum.
This can’t be right.
Eugene left three months ago. He apologized. He said he’d never be back. Bam said he would take care of everything.

“Oh you have nothing to say now?” Dean Ganges says. “You see he’s not denying it Frank. You see that right?” she says to the attorney.

“Let’s just talk about this,” Chase says.

“Talk? Let’s talk about how you made a complete ass out of me, this department, and this institution for over seven years. Let’s talk about…let me see that Frank. Give me the letter,” she says snapping her fingers. Frank hands her the paper. “Let’s talk about…where is it?…where is it?…Aaah! This part here. ‘…and in this separate envelope you will find copies of a birth certificate, social security card, and high school photos of Tevarus Huxley who was born to Bernard Huxley and Terry Anne Mason currently residing in Savannah, Georgia,” the Dean looks at Chase. “So your parents died in a car accident huh? It’s a miracle. Jesus done resurrected mama and daddy.”

“Listen, Dean Ganges I can explain,” Chase says.

BUZZZZZ…BUZZZZZ

Chase’s back pocket vibrates. He ignores it.

"Fake transcripts, fraudulent awards, phony letters of recommendation. It’s all in the envelope. Mr. LaRocca called all of those schools this morning. Neither Boston University for your alleged Bachelors degree, nor The Attucks Academy for your prep school diploma, has ever heard of a
Chase Archibald
. They did love the name though. Hooray for being Mr. Creative,” she claps three times.

"Dean Ganges if you would just let me explain. I can—“

“Shhh, I haven’t gotten to the best part,” she says. Dean Ganges grabs, and then shoves, a trembling fist full of documents in his face.

"Go ahead. Read it. Right on top. First page,” her voice cracking. “Now,” she screams.

Chase sighs. He swallows and takes the packet of papers from her hand and skims the top page.
Wait…oh no. No, no, no, no, no, noooo not that,
he screams inside. His eyes bulge, his heart skips. He crushes the bundle. Dean Ganges backs away…shivering.

“N-n-n-now look Dean Ganges. Listen, I can explain what this says. It’s not what it seems.” Dean Ganges refuses to look at Chase. “Octavia please.” Upon hearing Chase speak her name aloud she cries out.

"CHILD MOLESTER! CHILD MOLESTER! It says you’re a convicted child molester.”

“No wait. Please. Octavia let me—“

“It’s right there in black and white. Frank and I searched the Georgia sex offender list online to make sure. And your name is there. Your
real
name. Tevarus Augustus Huxley. You’re a convicted child molester.”