But slowly Lee came to realize that the carefully hidden talent, the invaluable talent, was that of the administrator. Haughton was an expert at the imperceptible nudge. Somehow each staff member was assigned to that work he did best and liked most. For some reason his department was free of the cliques and jealousies that hamstrung other departments. Staff members came up with practical ideas which, when they thought back, had started to germinate after some vague comment by Dr. Haughton. The available scholarships seemed to go to the students who most deserved them. The departmental share of the budget seemed to remain high without any special fuss or energy. And when Haughton came out of his half sleep at faculty meetings, his grumbled comments were highly pertinent and, after argument, were usually adopted.
Lee had asked Haughton if he could see him on a personal matter. Ever since the interview with Keefler, he had worried about the harm Keefler could do him. He had decided to lay it in Haughton’s lap, so at least the old man would be forewarned.
The first half hour was given over to a mildly virulent discussion, by Haughton, of a recently published essay on Chaucer written by an instructor at Queen’s College who, Haughton said, “has all the organizational ability of a kitten with dysentery.”
They sat in two deep leather chairs, half facing the small grate where cannel coal glowed. Haughton sighed and said, “World full of fools. What fool thing have you done, Lee?”
It was difficult to start, but as he went along it became more and more easy to tell Haughton the whole story: the past, the present, and his fear of what could happen in the future. Haughton sat, eyes half closed, thick hands crossed over his belly, fire glint on the lenses of his glasses. When Lee had finished, Haughton was silent. He took off his glasses, huffed on them, cleaned them on the lining of his necktie.
“You like what you are doing, Lee?”
“Why... yes. Yes, of course.”
“But there is a thing you would like better.”
“I... I thought so once.”
“I read your novel. It interested me. A man writing before he had enough to say. But saying that little bit well. This place, this... junior college... isn’t that a terrible name for a place, a trivial name?... it is supported by state funds. That is something to be considered always. The rafters over our heads are full of little termite clerks and experts on the state level. We try to ignore them as much as we can. In times of stress they wave a great banner at you. In great crimson letters it says Taxpayers. We do not have the freedoms of an endowed institution. This Keefler person, if he is as you say he is, and I believe I can trust your judgment about people, could make it impossible for your contract to be renewed. But no matter what he does, I will see that you finish out the academic year.”
“Thank you, I...”
“It is not entirely a personal thing. You are very good with the young people. And now please do not think for one little moment that I am talking about this insane preoccupation with throwing balls of various shapes and sizes back and forth. That is merely one of the diseases of the era we must endure.” He tapped his creased forehead. “The mind. The incredible miracles of intelligence and creative imagination. That is the essence, Lee. These days our young instructors are so crammed with curriculum construction, pedagogical phrases, and modern testing methods they have no time for the development of the mind of the individual pupil. I had a plan of giving you a heavier work load next year, so as to make you give up some of this muscle nonsense. Obviously you have come here for advice.”
“Yes.”
“It will be blunt. Your brother, in imposing on you, has forfeited his rights to any protection based on silence and sentimentality. Surely this Keefler is not a great and powerful man. If your brother is being hunted, it is a police matter, not a parole matter any longer. I would take that money and I would go to the police. I would go as high as I could get and make a complete statement, and in that statement I would accuse this Keefler of abusing the privileges of his position. He sounds like the sort one must counterattack briskly.”
“That makes sense.”
“It may be that he will cause trouble anyway. So before he has a chance to cause trouble, I will write to a friend of mine. He has bothered me for years. He thinks I am in this world to be a talent scout for him and for that incredibly dignified institution which employs him. I have sent him two young men in the last ten years. You will definitely receive an offer, written on that superior parchment used for Ivy League communications. Then if it becomes impossible for you here, you can leave gracefully. Even if Keefler can be tamed, perhaps you should leave anyway. Three years here is enough for you, I think. I have one more bit of advice. Also blunt. That pretty little wife of yours might benefit greatly if you were to beat her frequently. I have attempted to converse with her. You would be supplying something her own people obviously neglected. She could have caused you great trouble. She should be made to see the seriousness of that. You have a child wife, and I believe you should face that problem and treat her as a child until she begins to become an adult. If she never changes, you will at least be maintaining control. Now, if you reach far to your right, my young associate, you will find that you can reach the chess set without getting out of your chair. Of the eleven times we have played, you have won three and tied three, and it is your turn to have white, and I consider it highly probable that you will open with that Ruy Lopez again.”
As Lee drove home, he felt renewed and confident. Haughton had lightened the strain of the past four days. Not only that, but he had made the future enormously more promising. It was possible, too, that he was right about Lucille. Perhaps he had been wrong in expecting adult reactions from her, when she was not yet ready to give them. She might be happier and feel more secure in a world where she could expect implacable reward and punishment.
He turned into the drive, seeing that the lights were on in living room and kitchen, and not on in the bedroom. He eased the car into the narrow old garage, turned off the weary motor. Halfway between the garage and the house, he stopped and looked up at the night sky. A sliver of moon sailed rapidly through the clouds, and here and there a patch of stars showed. The air was cool and damp. Haughton was an old fox. He had built up a pawn structure that had severely constricted the movements of
Lee’s pieces. Haughton, grunting with satisfaction, had slowly strangled him to death, and then had slanted in with the two bishops and forced the checkmate. He grinned and shook his head and went lightly up the back steps.
He was halfway through the kitchen when he saw the spilled canisters. He stopped, puzzled. Then he turned slightly and saw her. She lay on the linoleum in front of the sink, half on her side, cheek against the floor, one arm folded under her, one leg sharply bent. The dark puddle of blood under her head had reached to the sleeve of her outflung arm, had soaked into the aqua cordurory. He did not know how long he stood there. He felt as if he stood with heart and breathing stopped. He went to her, went down on one knee, touched her shoulder. There was no warmth. Her resilient flesh was not cold. It just had no temperature. The touch sickened him. He bent down and he could see a portion of the ruin of her face. He stood up quickly and gagged and put his fist to his mouth and bit hard on his knuckle.