What he said to her was more like a nuzzle than a real attempt to communicate; his words were muffled, and he could feel them nudging against her, sound rather than content — because what to make of the chaos of Cheryl and Livan and McCallum, where to begin even if Evie were well and able to take it all in? “Sonja told me to get you round-the-clock nurses,” he said. “I hope they make things a little easier. You always …” She always what? Who, or what, always did anything? “You did everything you could, you know. I don’t think boys express themselves as easily as girls. When Gordon and I were young, I mean. I mean, we trusted you. That’s a form of appreciation in boys, I think, but you probably wish we’d just thanked you more often. I forget to thank Sonja. I … Jesus, it sounds like I’m accepting an Academy Award and coming apart, dying to tell everyone about the person behind the scenes who made it all possible. It was you. I called … You know what I mean. We loved you, but we weren’t very effective about communicating it. I don’t seem to have gotten better at it with age. We love you, I mean. I didn’t mean to say loved.”
“Hello,” the nurse said. “She’s put the telephone on the pillow. I think she’s a little tired. She’s whispering that she loves you.”
“I wasn’t very good about communicating,” he said.
“You have a nice day,” the nurse said.
“Cheryl Lanier, Livan Baker, Jack McCallum,” he said, testing to see if the nurse was listening at all.
“I’ll give her everyone’s good wishes,” the nurse said. “I can see your call really cheered her up.”
When he hung up, he thought: I’m laughing because I’m nervous. What the nurse said was not really funny. What’s happened to Evie is so awful I can’t focus on it. What did I say to her? What did I say?
Cheryl Lanier was not in class. A girl named Sophia, twirling the end of her cellophane-pink braid, was sitting in the seat Cheryl usually occupied, her tongue working a Chiclet into a pearl she would probe with mounting irritation as the hour wore on. The package of Chiclets lay on her table, along with a package of Marlboro Lights. As he looked at her, she moved her fingers toward the cigarette pack and immediately withdrew them — the tentative gesture he remembered Sonja sometimes making a few seconds after plugging in an iron. In spite of her slatternly appearance — bleached denim overalls covering an enormous striped shirt wadded under her armpits, Doc Martens worn with no socks, one shoe laced, the other unlaced, a wrist full of silver bracelets, a red handkerchief tied in the middle of her bangles, a stud piercing her nose — Sophia Androcelli was not unalert or unintelligent. Her papers had been excellent — late, but excellent — and on the rare occasions he bothered to read the campus newspaper, he had seen several stingingly accurate letters to the editor signed with Sophia’s name, protesting wasteful monetary extravagances by the administration and questioning the value of legislating political correctness. She usually sat in the last seat in the last row, to the far left — she had become one of his markers, he now realized; he had gotten into the habit of seeing who was bracketing the corners of the first and last rows, eyeballing the class quickly, as if he were registering the correct positioning of the bases at a baseball game — but today she was slumped in Cheryl Lanier’s seat, and in the last row her own chair sat empty. The chair to the far right of the row was, as usual, occupied by Judith Levine, a woman in her forties who had returned to college to finish the degree she’d failed to get when she dropped out to become a flight attendant. Front row left was Dominic Ruiz, an ass-kisser of the first order, and front row right Bill Snyder, a round-faced boy with a peculiar, dog-ear hairstyle that made him look like Lucy in “Peanuts.”
Marshall had nodded to the class, then set his books and his clipboard with the typed lecture notes he probably would not consult on the lectern, also placing a stack of papers to be returned on the desk he never sat behind, preferring to stand as he spoke — when Ashton Freer opened the door, beckoned for Marshall to come outside, then closed the door again with a delicate click Marshall felt sure would be the last bit of delicacy of the day. Freer was of medium height, but disturbingly thin. As usual, he was dressed in creased trousers, a white shirt, and a cardigan sweater, with a rolled tie, instead of a handkerchief, forming a small lump in his shirt pocket. On his wrist was a medical bracelet. Peering into Freer’s shirt pocket, Marshall saw that the color of today’s tie was navy blue. Before Freer spoke, Marshall said, “This is about McCallum.”
“Forgive my naïveté,” Freer said. “I only began to receive information this morning on what is apparently to you a very well-understood situation. Forgive me also if I wonder aloud whether it might not have been better if you consulted with me, as department chair, assuming that you realized there was some probability this situation might be made public?” Freer fingered the tie’s point, as if testing the sharpness of a needle. “Marshall — McCallum was at your home last night? Was I wrong in thinking there was not much love lost between you and McCallum?”
“Why do you automatically believe Livan Baker?” Marshall said.
Once again, Freer opened his mouth, then closed it without speaking. After a pause, he said, “Marshall, have you spoken to your wife?”
Instantly, the hallway began to waver out of focus. What was Freer talking about? Where was Freer going? Why were the students clearing such a large path around them in the hallway, he having been about to teach “The Gulf” by Derek Walcott, Freer with his sneering attitude and his steam-pressed creases and his tie folded queerly in his pocket. The question was, had he spoken to his wife. He had not, but wouldn’t she have called if something had happened to Evie? If something was wrong?
“You don’t know what happened when you left your house,” Freer said. It was a statement, not a question.
“What happened?” Marshall said. He tried to catch up with Freer, but his legs were heavy. Something terrible had happened. Something terrible had happened to Sonja. Two policemen were walking toward them in the hallway.
“Is Sonja all right?” Marshall said.
“She is,” Freer said.
“Who are they?” Marshall asked, staring at the approaching policemen.
“Who do you think they are?”
“What’s happened?” Marshall said.
To the policemen, Freer said, “You doubted I could locate my colleague?”
“We’re new to the force. Rookies are known to be antsy,” the blond cop said. He had a gold incisor and an acne-spattered chin. He looked to Marshall the same age as most of his students. The other policeman was handsome, except for green eyes that narrowed to slits as he looked at Marshall. “How ya doin’?” he said, extending his hand.
“He doesn’t know what happened,” the blond cop said to his partner.
“You haven’t spoken to your wife?” the other cop said. His eyes were gone. The green all but disappeared. Marshall wanted to ask if Sonja was all right — or had he asked that before, had somebody said yes? — but he could only echo, “My wife.”