Skizzen would soon see the tops of the taller buildings. He took time to flick some lint from his coat. He brushed a shoulder. He brushed another a bit more fiercely. It was as if he had never seen the coat, its shoulder, its collar, before. Not like a friend lost sight of, but familiar beyond recognition. So he sighed. It allowed him to cease flicking. They were just fixtures, too, these dear reassuring associates of habit and silence, who tracked his steps for him, and were normally smartly met like that robin to which he spoke kindly, the way he would to a comrade, or that neighbor whose name after years he still didn’t know but whose nightshirt was as familiar as the mail it appeared for, as he made his progress up this small-town hill where nothing changed much — night and day, all seasons the same — except the color of the leaves and the state of the lawns; past the fronts of houses whose drapes were always drawn as if darkness made every interior more visible; and past porches where the daily paper usually came to rest or the gutter where one issue lodged after an errant toss, to dry in the sun then sog in the rain before drying in the sun again; or the persistent shadow of a holly tree, its red seed quarreled over by the birds, that now he addressed quite crossly as if the tree were she: no need to follow me anymore, to see if I’ll be safe, remember, Mother, when you first walked me to school in grade school days — oh yes, it was another street — yes, ma’am — below High, downhill, on the other side of town, where we had a cottage cut into small rooms like a quartered orange. The things that stayed were things that didn’t matter except they stayed, night and day, all seasons the same, and were peaceful to a fault and boded no ill but thought well enough of themselves to repeat their presences. Right now, Joey disliked everything that asserted its existence. He longed for only those pieces of the world’s furniture that weren’t flattered by attention or fearful of attack, just were, without guilt or accusation; that was what he wanted now; how he felt, seeming to slow his walk, yet increasing its speed. No need to tag along, Mom, my God, we’re almost there.
At least I have no father who will blame me. Buck up. He would approve me anyway, for acting bravely in support of his fears. Put yourself in Carfagno’s place, my boy, he’d say … on the day he went to the village doctor, whom you and Mort maintained was either a man half taught by a Guernsey, or a Guernsey half taught by a man, to be told he was dying of cerebral tumors. Remember what you said to yourself, and almost said to others: that they had to be the first ideas his head had held; remember that unkindness, and the pain of the doctor’s announcement, and how we all tried to buck him up by putting the doctor down: Oh get another opinion, go to someone in Columbus, what does a Woodbine doctor know? It is just a stubborn headache. Remember how much worse that was for him than anything that can happen to you today, even if you think you’d rather die, because I know you wouldn’t rather die. You would rather get off scot-free.
Now to cross the quad. Not too slow. Not too fast. Easy as whistling. But not whistling. Nice little breeze. It blew Joey to a halt. Joseph surveyed the scene. Professor Skizzen remembered to swing his briefcase slightly next his knee. One of them, they didn’t know which, shoved off. When he first stood at the edge of the green, its diagonal walk was clear and clean; however, now there were three, approaching. Two students were already sitting in the grass. Where was the usual dew? Good morning, Professor. See: he was recognized; he was greeted; he was awarded a wide smile. He belonged. He was accepted. Now he was about to lose everything but recognition. He would become a figure of story if not of song.
Skizzen could still pretend to forget the order he had been given by the High Command. Morning, spoke the person passing. This “morning” was perfunctory and a bit muffled. He could be anybody to be greeted with “morning.” In that spirit he would receive and return the customary acknowledgment. Friendly. But briefly friendly, the length of a flicker. He could still pretend to forget the order he had been given. Joey was all for forgetting. Joseph inclined in that direction. Professor Skizzen, however, insisted on pressing on. Hi, Professor, fine morning isn’t it? What she offered was more like a grin. Her walk was almost a skip. She was gaining on the others and would probably pass them before the quad was crossed. Did that matter? Not a whit. That’s why it was important.
Admin. The dean’s domain. Skizzen pushed his way in. Wait a minute.
Wasn’t Leffingwell the fellow who bought the High Note a while back? Started stocking it with heavy metal? Schafley, too? And living now in that huge house only steps away, having purchased Skizzen’s past, keeping it close, and indisposed in an unattended upper room. Ah, how he would love to get rid of it all, and go to the conference table with a case of amnesia’s euphoria. If you say so sir, I don’t remember. I only remember that my sister showed me how to tie my shoes. Okay, I also remember I asked her twice to show me the inside of her sweater, but she refused to do so, I wasn’t a howling crowd nor did I have some senior’s inquisitive fingers. She is not a generous person, my sister. I remember that much.
The hall to the left, just before the office of the admin is the conference table I shall probably have to sit at. Everyone will sit around. The prisoner will be brought before. A protective smear of glass will cloud the grain. A thin strip of duct tape will no doubt be still holding together a crack sustained quite long ago by Professors Emphasis and Anger. A voice said: Please come in. Joey wasn’t ready yet. Joseph realized that his figure could be seen through the door’s tortured window. Professor Skizzen recognized the voice. A bit stiff, it nevertheless flew through the transom. It was Palfrey’s all right, but not limp or liquid as it usually was. It was in a cast as if protecting something broken.
44
Well now, is everybody here? Dean Funk?
My God, Skizzen thought. He is calling the roll. Professor Carson?
Skizzen had entered the room with a face as frozen as custard, which meant that at any moment his nose might decide to slide toward his chin. The room was somber because the window blinds were half drawn, and shadowy because light was leaking in above the shade rolls.
Miss Hazlet.
Here. Her voice was bright and slightly metallic, as though it had been made by machine. She would be in bliss right now. She never did order that two-volume life of Berlioz. Or the Liszt Letters either.
Professor Rinse? Palfrey looked over the top of his glasses at Rinse who faced him across the table. Mort drew a tiny smile, swiftly erased it.
Professor Skizzen?
Skizzen congratulated himself on managing an almost imperceptible nod. However Palfrey didn’t look in his direction, a bad sign. Skizzen now saw that in front of all the others, who had arrived here before him (another bad sign), stood a Styrofoam cup, a small pad, and a pencil. Skizzen had not been offered either cup or pad or shorty-sized pencil (a bad sign). These utensils all stayed untouched in their place. A bad sign. He entwined his fingers.