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
Professor 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.
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
Professor 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.
