October (15 page)

"May I ask whom to thank for this?" Kevin said, keeping his tone light, but authoritative.

A hand went up from the back of the class.

"Nick
Backman
, sir." Clean-cut,
sweatered
, a touch of arrogance.
Backman
smiled. "I thought you might appreciate it."

"Well, Mr.
Backman
, I do. Especially—"

"May I ask a question, sir?"

"Of course, Mr.
Backman
."

Backman
held up a copy of Eileen Connel's
Season of Witches
. "I've read this, and I just wanted to know if all that devil mumbo jumbo in it is real."

The class laughed. Kevin grinned and said, "Well, Mr.
Backman
, I can't say it's real, but Eileen
Connel
does use it for thematic effect. We'll be discussing that, shortly."

Kevin blew out the candle in the jack-o'-lantern and propped his own copy of Season of Witches in front of it so that it was clearly visible. He turned to the blackboard, finding a piece of white chalk.

"I'm glad some of you have already bought and read
Season of Witches
in anticipation of my arrival," he said as he sketched. "The rest of you should do so immediately. I'm sorry you were kept waiting. I understand that Mr. Steadman was discussing William Faulkner, and I promise to return to that worthy gentleman later in the semester. But for now . . ."

He finished at the blackboard, turned, and said, "What you see behind me looks as if it belongs at a football rally or a wienie roast. It's a Druidic bonfire. For my money, it should have been on the cover of
Season of Witches
. But, such is life, you see a picture of what the publisher thought, without reading the book, was inside. It's a detail of a painting lifted from the Illustrated Shakespeare Library, the three hags from the play
Macbeth
. It has nothing to do with
Season of Witches
." He turned, tapped the sketch of the bonfire with his chalk. "This, however, does.

"
Season of Witches
deals with the Celtic festival of
Saman
, the Celtic Lord of Death. Each October thirty-first, the evening before the Celtic New Year, the Druids, who were Celtic priests, honored
Saman
by building a huge bonfire from sacred oak branches, and by sacrificing animals, crops, and probably, humans. The book concerns a young Druid, eventually sacrificed to
Saman
, who comes to doubt and then fight
Saman's
domination of the Celts.

"If you haven't figured it out by now, the festival of
Saman
, after some Roman and Christian tampering, eventually became what we call Halloween. And
Saman
became, of course—"

Nick
Backman
had raised his hand. "Satan?" he said eagerly.

"Correct, Mr.
Backman
. I see that you have read the book. But you must remember that in
Season of Witches
, Satan is not a supernatural being, but ultimately, a rather banal creature."

Kevin lifted the copy of
Season of Witches
from his desk, held it up. "That, in sketchiest detail, is what this book, Eileen Connel's best, is about.

"But that's not what makes it great.

"Eileen
Connel
is, as you have discovered if you have read this novel, a great
metaphorist
. For what seems on cursory examination to be a straightforward story, is, in fact, a symbol for the battle of the human soul against loss of self-identity."

Kevin pointed to the blackboard drawing. "The festival of
Saman
came in autumn, on the eve of winter. Winter was, for the Celts, the season of death—death of warmth, of sunlight, of crops. Days became cold, nights long, fields fallow. In Season of Witches, there is a concurrent bleak season of the human soul. To Eileen
Connel
, loss of self-identity is death. This is a recurring theme in Connel's work. Life is, to her, a search for self; and to her, the workings of the human heart and soul reflect this condition.

"To Eileen Connel's Celts, on the festival of the Lord of Death, on the eve of the Season of Death, the world is a frightening place. So, too, is the inner world. Connel's work is a triumphant attempt to illuminate search for self-identity. Her heroic young Druid priest, in his battle with
Saman
—who, in the end, is exposed as little more but a thief—may, ultimately, lose his life, but gains his self. I think you will find Eileen
Connel
an acute commentator on the human condition."

Forty minutes later, as Kevin was ending his lecture, as if by choreography, the class bell rang.

"By the way," Kevin added, amidst the rustling of papers as his students prepared to leave, "Eileen
Connel
has lived not ten minutes from this campus for the last fifty years. She's been nearly ignored. You and I are going to do something about that."

As his students filed out, Kevin thought,
That's redemption
.

But with a sinking heart, he realized that both his guilt, and his obsessive need to know Eileen Connel's secret, were still firmly in place.

As Kevin closed the door to his office, someone knocked on it. He opened it to find Henry
Beardman
.

"May I speak with you, dear boy?"
Beardman
said. "Of course."

Kevin knew that
Beardman
was through for the day; his Monday schedule contained a single Shakespeare lecture at nine. Here, at eleven,
Beardman's
breath gave off the sweet-sour odor of scotch.

Beardman
paused, poked a finger at the book Kevin held in his hand to better see the cover.

"My God, Shakespeare pictures on
Connel
," he said. "Don't these publishers have any scruples?"

"Apparently not."

Beardman
walked to Kevin's desk, sat in Kevin's chair, and swiveled it so that he faced Kevin squarely. "We must talk."

"You sound like Sidney Weiss," Kevin said. "The last time I heard those words, I was nearly booted out of here."

Beardman
waved a hand. "Sidney is gone," he said. "And I am here. And Raymond Fillet still wants your butt."

Is he the only one?
Kevin thought, staring blankly at
Beardman
.

"So . . ."
Beardman
said, rising, placing a soft hand on Kevin's shoulder, "I want you to know I will be your ally. And, I pray, your dear friend."

"Henry—"

Beardman
held up his hand, turned his head, looked away with false drama. "Oh, tell me not that I am rejected!"

"Henry," Kevin began, but when
Beardman
turned to look at him, the pain in his eyes was evident. Kevin was overwhelmed with pity.
Beardman
obviously understood what was happening to him. His power at the university, whatever it had been, was gone.

Kevin remembered the
Beardman
who had taught him at New Polk eight years before—flamboyant, youthfully aging, energetic, brilliant.

He softened his toneless voice and said gently, putting his own hand on
Beardman's
shoulder, "Henry, I'm sorry. I do want your friendship, though . . ."

Beardman
quickly recovered, put the remains of a smile on his face, waved his hand cavalierly.

"Dear boy, we can be that." He patted Kevin on the arm and left Kevin's office, closing the door behind him. Kevin heard him close the door to his own office.

Kevin went to his desk, turned the Brahms tape over in the cassette player, and sat staring at the Shakespearean cover of Eileen Connel's
Season of Witches
.

No redemption, yet.

There was a bottle of scotch in Henry
Beardman's
desk, and he poured himself a drink from it. No one drank scotch anymore. No one did anything anymore. There had been a time, he thought, when he had been perfectly acceptable, perfectly current. He had rather come to terms with himself, and, if he remembered correctly, he had even been happy. He must have been nearly fifty, then. And Jeffrey had been his, too. Established, respected, known, in all ways. The village queen, but every village needed one, didn't it? Just like it needed an idiot. And he had his literature, which gave him stature. Dammit, he was good with his Bard.

The old bastard.

Maybe Shakespeare was Christopher Marlowe after all? He laughed grimly.

There was a time when even a thought like this would have sent him into a fury of denunciation. He had seen a messianic English critic go into apoplectic fits at the mere mention of heresy in regard to Shakespeare, and for a time,
Beardman's
entire first lecture of each semester had been nothing more than a hellfire speech reinforcing William Shakespeare's identity, as well as the authorship of his plays.

But he had grown tired, especially after Jeffrey had died of that disease, in his arms, poor boy, begging Henry to forgive him, which he had not. Now he knew he could not get through that pulpit speech—its worn pages somewhere in the back of that drawer with the scotch—without laughing, or weeping, or possibly just going to sleep.

He used to enjoy scotch, too, a Sunday afternoon out in the Hamptons, at Jeffrey's mother's place, that beautiful deck overlooking the salted, lapping ocean, a grayish day with mist coming, the sun very orange as it lazily sank, the Sunday papers scattered around their wicker chairs, and Jeffrey handing him a second scotch sour, just right with sugar, leaning over him, kissing his forehead gently, whispering, "Isn't this wonderful?"

Yes, it had been.

He drank again from the scotch, hated the petrol taste now, but it made him swim in memories without drowning. "Ah, well," he said.

He capped the scotch bottle, put it back in its berth. He stood. His old Irish cap was hanging on the coatrack; he put it on, and his lined raincoat. Cold today, if he remembered. Monday. His early day. A day to play at the past. At least to try.

That Michaels boy reminded him of the past. Of Jeffrey, a little? Around the eyes, and a certain slimness to him that was similar.

"Ah, well."

He left his office. He walked slowly, purposefully, step in front of step. An old professor lost in thought. There were thoughts, all right. No one bothered him, asked to smell his breath. Thinking of Shakespeare? Turning the phrases of an old lecture to recapture their freshness? Perhaps another time.

He kept his head bowed, walked.

Off the campus, onto the main street of New Polk. A good half mile. A healthy walk, good for the circulation.
Like scotch
. He laughed a little. That was good. He was drunker than normal today, that Kevin Michaels, he thought there might have been something there, a sensitivity.

Walking. He knew where he was going. They all did, the village queens. The place was respectable enough. Some days it was even half and half now. Hetero college seniors had taken the place over in the afternoon because it was nearly empty. There had been no discouragement. That disease. Business was business.

Henry walked out of cool sunlight, the name Swan Inn scripted in white on the front of the green awning, picture of a swan on a wooden plaque next to the door, one little window with thick glass to the right.

He pushed through the oak door.

It was nearly empty. Two at the bar, in the far corner, turned face-to-face. Empty tables. My God, what time was it? He checked his watch against the clock behind the bar, a painted swan behind a plastic lens, quartz run, maybe the battery was going? Half past eleven. That Michaels boy. Usually he waited until three, had lunch, made it seem leisurely.

The bartender whose name he could never remember was on. Surly, ingrown. Bob?

"A scotch, please, Bob. Straight up. No ice." Perhaps later a sour?

As he sat, the bartender looked at him with a miffed expression. Not Bob? He thought of asking, decided not to.

The door behind him opened, light flashed in, then darkness returned. The two at the end of the bar were joined by two more—a party that moved to a table. He had a second scotch. A television was on in Bob's sight, soap operas. Shakespeare made into soda water. The same plots. Again he thought of ingrown.

He was getting very drunk. A dangerous time. He remembered now why Bob looked at him, miffed. It was Bob. But Bob hadn't been there long, and Peter at night knew him better. He had been in last week, hadn't he? How could he forget? After many scotches, he had asked Bob The Question. Bob had finally made him leave.

Perhaps he would leave Bob a tip.

That young man Michaels—ah well,
ah
well.

He was very drunk.

There was another scotch in front of him. He tasted it, found to his astonishment that it was a scotch sour. Had he ordered it? If he had, he must have passed the dangerous time. He did not remember. He tasted the sour. Good.

He looked up.