Fox Tracks (24 page)

Sister puttered around as Tootie devoured real oatmeal: steel cut oats, the kind that takes forty minutes to make. The dogs, bored that no bacon was frying, slept at her feet. At the window, Golly hungrily eyed the birds outside at the feeder. Every now and then, the big cat emitted a kitty cackle.

“Dream on, Golly,”
taunted Raleigh.

“You just wait until spring,”
mused Golly.
“It will be a feathery mass murder.”
She sighed in contentment at the thought.

Sister sat back down with her second cup of coffee, black, her broken black hair dryer on the table before her.

Tootie stared at the hair dryer for a moment saying nothing. She returned to her oatmeal.

“I’m thinking about opening a hair salon,” said Sister, patting her impressive head of hair.

Spoon poised midair above her oatmeal, Tootie asked, “With one hair dryer?”

Sister smiled. “It’s broken. Circumstantial evidence suggests Golly had something to do with it.”

“I didn’t know Golly’s fur needed styling.”

“Thank you,”
Golly called from the window.

“The last two weeks she has been on a tear,” said Sister. “She’s a one-cat terrorist operation.” Sister unscrewed the side of the handheld dryer, poked at the wires. “It’s easier to buy a new one. I will lose my temper trying to fix this thing. If I put it on the front seat of the truck, I’ll remember to get one and get the same brand. It was a good dryer.”

“Did I ever tell you about the time my mother took me to the most expensive place in Chicago for cornrows?”

“You did not.”

“The weight of it. All those beads.”

“I bet you looked so pretty.”

“I guess, but I don’t want to spend my life doing my hair. All I have to do now is take a shower, dry off.”

“You’re lucky. Now may I ask why you brought your laptop to the kitchen? You can work in the den.”

“I want to show you some handmade cards from a hand press in Washington. This lady is making money.”

“Really?” Sister shoved the broken hair dryer to one side.

On the kitchen counter, a small TV had its sound turned low. After the weather report came local headlines. Tootie happened to look up and see a familiar face on screen.

“It’s Mrs. Norton!”

Sister turned around and saw the headmistress of Custis Hall in front of a microphone, crowded by reporters. Sister turned up the sound.

“Custis Hall is not in the habit of hiring enemies of the United States,” said Charlotte Norton. “We are not amused by these allegations.”

A young female reporter, asked, “Will you take legal action?”

“First, we need an emergency board meeting, but if the board approves it, yes, we will.” Charlotte Norton looked utterly displeased by the prospect.

The TV journalist turned back to the camera, and then the report played video of yet another allegation by Congressman Dave Rickman.

Standing in front of the national Capitol building in the cold, he warmed to his subject. “We have been attacked by terrorists. Just because this happened in 2001 doesn’t mean we can let down our guard. They are here. They are undercover and I want a full investigation of Tariq Al McMillan of Custis Hall. I am convinced he is, shall I say, ‘a person of interest.’ ”

“Why is that?” a male interviewer asked, tone flat.

“He is an Arab. They all hate us.”

“Congressman Rickman, are you saying that all Muslims hate us?”

“Haven’t they proven that?” Behind him, the top of the Capitol dome shone rosy as the sunlight just touched it. Rickman had perfectly staged this moment.

“Congressman Rickman, Mr. Al McMillan is a Coptic Christian,” the interviewer stated.

The well-groomed Rickman paused, gathering his thoughts as it were. “I don’t believe any Arab is a Christian. I will root out every enemy of this country. Every single one.”

The station then cut to Tariq in his campus office, sitting at his
beautiful new desk. Composed and handsome, he quietly countered the congressman’s spurious allegations, also remarking that he had been in close contact with the Egyptian embassy and he sincerely hoped this would not be blown out of proportion.

“Is he out of his mind?” shouted Tootie. “That congressman?”

“No, Tootie, though Rickman appears to have studied a long-dead and very notorious senator from Wisconsin, a mean drunk who upended this country for a while, accusing everybody and his brother of being communists.”

“How can he get away with this?” cried Tootie. “I took Mr. McMillan’s class. He’s a good teacher.”

“You didn’t call him Al McMillan?”

“He told us McMillan was fine. I learned so much in his class. Like I didn’t know that places like Iran and Iraq were created after World War One. Or how the British divided up territory with no regard to the different peoples, and the big split between Sufi and Sunis. He’s a really good teacher. He’s not some terrorist.”

“For some people, anyone with dark skin is suspect.”

“But he’s a Christian.”

“Rickman isn’t,” said Sister, “though I bet he parks his sorry ass in a pew every Sunday with wife and children, and then makes sure we all know about it.” Sister had witnessed enough hypocrisy in her life and was no longer shocked by it. If anything, it was amusing—until it hurt others.

“Can’t we do something?” asked Tootie.

“I’m sure before the day is over I’ll have both a call and an email about that emergency board meeting,” said Sister. “All I can do at this point is to go to the meeting, if it’s called. Apart from Tariq himself, accusations like this open the door for all manner of miseries inflicted upon schools. That Custis Hall is private and exclusive ups the ante. Rickman gets to kill two birds with one stone.
He looks like he’s putting America’s national security first, but it’s also a sly attack on the so-called elites.”

“Because they hired Tariq?”

“Because they experience more freedom than the state schools, even though they adhere to state regulations. What I have learned about education sitting on your alma mater’s board has been eye-opening. You know, I don’t know if I could teach today even at the college level. I don’t think I could swallow the bullshit.”

Tootie, rarely hearing Sister swear, just looked at her.

At seven-thirty that morning, Tariq phoned Crawford at home.

“Mr. Howard, did you see the news this morning?” The young professor’s voice trembled.

“I did.” By contrast, Crawford’s voice was strong and confident.

A brief silence followed. “Do I no longer have your support?” asked Tariq.

“You will have my support when you show up in my hunt field.”

“H
ow can we be sure?” asked Lucas Diamond, hands folded on the glossy long table. In an elegant room off the campus president’s office, the eight board members gathered at the mahogany table, none looking happy to be there.

“Our procedures for hiring are rigorous.” The head of personnel, Isadore Rosen, felt hot under the collar since he and the department were both under fire.

Setting aside ego, President Charlotte Norton stepped in. “Luke, the process takes time and starts with a curriculum vitae. Once we’ve sifted through that, we narrow the field down to usually four candidates whom we interview. But even before that, we call for references and of course, one’s friends can be helpful.”

For the sheer joy of tormenting him, Sister sat right next to Crawford at the table. Neither had spoken so far. With the exception of board members Lucas Diamond and Nancy Hightower, none of the others present took Congressman Rickman’s charges against Tariq seriously.

Isadore took his cue from the headmistress.

He breathed deeply and calmed down before speaking. “We called the Egyptian attaché in New York City, an associate of our mayor. He knew Tariq’s parents. The report was good so we pursued more conventional lines: former employers, one private school, and one small museum in London. Again, exemplary reports. Then we checked into those three people he cited as references. Excellent. By the way, one of those references was the Bishop of Winchester.”

Charlotte again stepped in. “You all are aware that Professor Al McMillan is a Coptic Christian? As an undergraduate, he was part of a group at Oxford who worked in the summers at various churches—Anglican, of course.”

Nancy Hightower blurted out, “Then why on earth is he accused of belonging to a terrorist Muslim group?”

Crawford finally said something: “Because Rickman is a jerk who wants publicity. The Muslim Brotherhood is not a terrorist organization. That’s like calling Baptists terrorists. The organization is strict concerning religion, basically they want to turn back the hands of time, but many of its members are well-educated professionals.”

“Doesn’t Rickman know Tariq is a Christian?” Lucas, who should have been a bit more worldly, was surprised at the congressman.

“Even if he knew what a Coptic Christian was, he would go on the attack,” said Crawford. “He’s looking for people who can’t fight back. Anything to keep his name in the media. He’ll keep beating the drums because he thinks its a ticket to higher office.”

“We can fight back,” Charlotte firmly stated. “We are one of the few schools who have a Middle Eastern Studies Department and it is second to none. Furthermore, we have a summer program abroad and this year ten of our students will study in Oman.”

Lucas was not one to give up his position easily. “Wouldn’t it be easier to let Al McMillan go at the end of the school year, with a bonus and a good recommendation, and then hire someone, uh, American?”

All eyes stared at the sandy-haired man.

Finally, Sister quietly replied, “Lucas, we need people from that part of the world. At some later date, I think we should discuss expanding the department and perhaps hiring gifted people living in dangerous countries like Syria, for example.”

“We’re not an asylum,” Lucas shot back.

“No, we are not.” Crawford found Lucas tedious beyond belief. “But many brilliant young people around the world have no future in their homeland, especially women. Mrs. Arnold happens to be right. Custis Hall should lead the way on this issue and we need to study and better understand the Middle East, free of media hysteria or government policy.”

Sister smiled a bit at Crawford. He could see the big picture. It was the big ego that was the problem.

“Lucas and Nancy, I’m sure that Isadore would allow you to see Tariq’s curriculum vitae as well as the recommendations,” said Charlotte. “He was hired before you came to the board. I assure you we were very thorough. We always are because as a private school, we come under a fair share of scrutiny. Many parents are, shall we say, especially vigilant about their children’s education. And well they should be.” Charlotte privately thought all helicopter parents should be shot down, but it was one more thing she and her staff had to deal with.

And they did.

“Of course.” Isadore nodded to the two nervous board members.

“First, let me say that Sister Jane and Crawford have expressed an interesting initiative we should entertain another time,” said the
dean of students, George Jacobs. “If you don’t mind, Frances, what do you suggest regarding the media?”

Frances Newcombe was the six o’clock news anchor at a big network station in Richmond and also a Custis Hall graduate. She clearly spelled it out. “Give as many interviews as you can. Contact the stations in Washington, Richmond, Lynchburg, Roanoke, Charlottesville. Try to get the reporter here because a shot of Charlotte—and it should be you, Charlotte—in front of the old administration building or out on the main drive, will generate more interest than a talking head. Hit hard that the accused is a Christian, and that this is still the land where one is innocent until proven guilty as well.”

“I don’t know if stations from D.C. will send reporters but it’s worth a try,” said Charlotte. “Frances, what about radio?”

“Any way you can get the word out, do. Custis Hall should go on the attack.”

Crawford, who certainly liked the way Frances looked, tempered this plan. “That sounds like a great deal of work. Of course, local radio and TV are good. Big cities would be a boon. But if the board and our headmistress will allow me, let me see if I can fix the problem. Give me one week.”

No one moved a muscle.

Finally, Charlotte asked, “Is there anything we can do to help you, or is there anything we need to know?”

Crawford smiled. “If Rickman has not publicly recanted within one week, then I believe Custis Hall should follow Frances’ wonderful suggestions.”

Sister drove to the old brick dorm behind the administration building, the prized dorm in which to spend one’s senior year. She beeped the horn and Tootie soon trotted out, jumping into the truck.

“And?” Sister raised an eyebrow.

“Everyone is great. And there are so many people coming to hunt on Saturday that they need two trailers. Actually, Leslie said they might have to call around for help.”

“That is good news.” Sister smiled: the more, the merrier.

“It’s a great fixture.”

“Tattenhall Station really is, and Kasmir always opens it up for us to have a breakfast.” Sister pulled out of the campus drive, and headed toward Roughneck Farm.

“I love having a breakfast in the old railway station,” said Tootie. “Don’t you wish it was used again?”

“Yes, I do, but I think it will be a cold day in hell before passenger service really comes back. Solve a lot of problems, though.”

“How was the board meeting? I know you can’t really tell.”

“Pretty interesting,” said Sister. “Everything may yet turn out all right for your former professor. We’ll see.”

The truck lights illuminated the curving main drive, the huge cast iron lampposts throwing halos of yellow light against the February darkness.

Coming from the opposite direction, Sister could just make out an old Saab thanks to the lamppost light, which showed the car’s outline. She flicked her lights and slowed down.

Tariq stopped, rolling down his window as Sister rolled down hers.

“Master,” he greeted.

“Hang in there, buddy,” Sister encouraged him.