Tall Man Down - 7. Chapter 7

Friday evening, as I was stir-frying an assortment of non-Asian vegetables in our wok, Pete read me Catlin’s obituary from the Times. He read while feeding Josh, so it came down to him listing some of Catlin’s achievements, then saying, “Good, Josh,” or “No, Josh,” or just “Josh!”

We were cramming to have something borderline original to say when we saw Sandra at the funeral home. That seemed perverse, but it was life as we knew it. Sandra was behaving as though Catlin had still unquestionably been her husband. When Abby Rodelle came back after the police reached the President’s House, she’d told Rebecca Varner, and the Dean had driven to Sandra’s office to deliver the sad but astonishing news.

As usual, Rebecca must have been knee-jerk perfect about doing things correctly. I’m sure she picked up a black armband along the way or maybe wrapped a black stocking around her sleeve. Though that would take imagination.

I sometimes wondered if, every night, Rebecca wore the prim Victorian nightgowns or delicate floral pajamas I saw advertised in catalogues. And if, on Sunday mornings, she lounged in an embroidered robe and fawn-colored slippers. I had a well-used terry-cloth robe Pete had found for me after discovering I couldn’t remember the last time I’d owned or worn one. Rebecca probably had seasonal robes and seasonal slippers. Everything but a mind capable of seasonal advances.

“From what I hear...” Pete had told me. We’d been driving home from school that afternoon. “...Sandra hung onto Rebecca for ten minutes and cried.”

I’m not sure where Pete got that story, though I’d bet it was only slightly exaggerated. Still, the thought of hanging onto Rebecca Varner – or even looking to her for support – seemed somewhat creepy.

“You’re wrong,” Pete had insisted. “It’s what she’s perfect for. She’d just stand there, smiling that uncomprehending smile. Letting you fall apart.”

“She’d let someone hug her ‘cause she wouldn’t know what else to do.”

“Sometimes, that’s all that’s needed.”

Later, after Pete had finished with the obituary, he added, “I hope Rebecca didn’t take long to tell Sandra. You know how polite she can be when she’s saying something she knows you don’t want to hear.”

“‘I’m sorry, Sandra,’” I said, doing my best fluffy Rebecca imitation. “‘It seems we’ve lost Steve.’”

“Makes it sound like she was playing Poker.”

“That’s hard to imagine.”

“She could be one of those Poker playing dogs.”

We both laughed at that, imagining Rebecca in a green eyeshade and vest. Watching us, Josh might have feared for his gene pool.

“We can’t do this,” Pete insisted. “I can’t see Sandra tonight and giggle.”

But we laughed again, and maybe Josh wanted to join the fun. Banging his spoon on the high chair tray, he gleefully tipped his bowl of muck on the floor.

“He’s getting too excited,” Pete warned. “He’ll never go to sleep.”

“We need a dog,” I said, soon sponging the vinyl.

Once the floor was clean, I looked at Josh, smiling benevolently on his little throne. I tried to imagine him with the future equivalent of a shaved head, tats, piercings, and a holey rock band T-shirt. An aberration.

“What’s wrong?” Pete asked, and I realized I must have stared too long. “Is he all right?”

“He’s fine.” I assured him. “For now. The problem is keeping him that way.”

Soon after Josh went to sleep, Nollie arrived, and just after eight, Pete and I were off to pay our respects. The funeral home was one of the few buildings near the college not owned by the school. When we reached it, cars already filled the small parking lot and both sides of the narrow street. So I simply drove past the crowd to my usual spot in front of the theater.

That made seeing Sandra even more like the required function the brief memorial service had been that afternoon. It was in what had once been the Gothic-inspired school chapel on the second floor of Waldron Hall, which was now mainly used for Music Department concerts. A couple hundred people were there, mostly the expected full-time faculty and staff. But there were very few students and none of Catlin’s family.

Outside the funeral home, Pete said, “Let’s not stay long. It might keep us believable.” I agreed, and we quickly joined the line of people stretching to the street and curving along the sidewalk.

They were a combination of faculty, staff, friends, and townspeople, and all of them seemed to make similar chatter. Those who hated Catlin strained for nice things to say. Those who especially hated him looked convincingly sad, since they knew how long it would take the Board to appoint a new president. That meant another year to live with Catlin’s decisions, since Rebecca wouldn’t change them.

“Maybe we’re wrong,” Elena Pascal said as we waited. Beyond my hearing, her husband seemed to be resuming a conversation he’d been having with Pete four nights earlier at the party.

“We’re all so fatalistic,” Elena went on. “So sure the Board feels Steven’s been a success and will just hire his clone. Maybe they really know what so many of us are feeling – and what we’re trying to do. Teach kids perspective and discipline and not simply lose them on the Internet.”

“Droids might be an improvement over some of them,” Casey Leconte put in. Elena and I had laughed and then gone back to what we were saying.

“We may only be disappointed,” I told her, “expecting the Board to change. I think the best we can do is go on as we have. Teach the kids and politely negotiate with the business and tech folks.”

“But they don’t understand a general education. It’s all product to them.”

“They have a point – training people for jobs.”

“That’s not what college is for. In fact, I was talking with a corporate VP this summer – someone Russell and I met on the Cape. It’s what we’ve always said. ‘The first thing we do,’ she told me, ‘is make everyone forget what they learned in college.’”

“No one needs help doing that,” Casey said. “Though personally, I don’t care if my students memorize facts. I just want them to be able to think.”

“That’s all business people want,” I said.

“They want more than that,” Elena insisted. “It’s like law and med schools now – they’re looking for people who are well-rounded.”

“As long as they know their science...” Casey went on – he was a Chem teacher – “...for medicine. Or their logic, for law.”

“Which brings us back to a general ed,” Elena finished.

“Just when I think I’m the biggest cynic,” I said, laughing.

“Don’t believe it,” Pete cut in. At some point, he and Russ must have started listening in. “Gil’s a total idealist. Who else would try to teach carpentry to children?”

“While my husband teaches knitting.”

“At least, you do something practical,” Russ allowed. “I analyze.”

We all laughed – as quietly as we could, considering the occasion.

When we did finally see Sandra, she looked as I might have expected – sad, but crisp and stylish. And though she must have said the same, “Thank you for thinking of Steve,” a hundred times that evening, it still seemed fresh.

“She should be president,” I whispered to Pete. Who gently kicked me for my thought.

Wearing a dark suit, Sandra Catlin sat in a formal armchair some distance from the alcove containing Catlin’s coffin. Their daughter Lisa sat beside her, in a dark silk dress with long sleeves and a high collar. Behind them, standing formally in a pin-striped suit, was Ted Catlin, looking much like his father might have at eighteen.

Pete softly told Sandra a few things I really didn’t hear. Mainly, I nodded to Ted and smiled, supportively, at Lisa. That was an easy thing to do. She had the clean lines of her parents and their overriding look of intelligence. Ted had these, too. But offset by a young man’s swagger.

“...if you could,” I suddenly heard Sandra say. I hadn’t seen her turn from Pete, but she was clearly looking at me. “I’d appreciate it.”

“Of course, we’ll come,” Pete told her.

I’d had no chance to reply but wouldn’t have said differently.

“We won’t be home before ten,” Sandra went on. “Is that too late?”

“We have no plans.”

“Anything we can bring?” I asked automatically.

“No. Really. We’re fine.”

Pete quickly led me off before I somehow said something embarrassing. “What was that about?” I questioned softly. We weren’t quite outside.

“I don’t know,” Pete explained. “I was saying the usual things, when Sandra suddenly asked if we could help – specifically if you could. Then you came out of your nodding Marine act with Ted.”

“Help how?” I asked. “I barely know her. And I probably wouldn’t’ve recognized the kids if they hadn’t been there.”

“You wouldn’t have missed Ted.”

It was the slightest jab.

“I might’ve missed the connection.”

“Maybe.”

“Still, what does Sandra want?”

Pete wasn’t sure. “Something to do with your work, I think.”

“Designing?”

“Your old work.”

I looked at Pete, hoping he was wrong.

“It’ll always be with you,” he insisted.

“Why? Walking into a room with six other teachers, no one’d pick me as the ex-cop.”

“You’d be the first to throw yourself on a grenade.”

“Should one suddenly appear.”

“You would.”

“I would have at twelve – well before I ever thought of being a cop. It’s simply good manners.”

Pete smiled, indicating that not everyone thought that way. “Then figure it out,” he continued. “In some way, Sandra feels you can help. And what probably separates you from the other people she knows is your police background.”

“At least, you didn’t say ‘criminal past.’”

“You will try to help?” His concern cut through my joshing.

“Of course. But I would have anyway. Why do you think I became a cop?”

“Because you couldn’t be Superman.”