Summer Session (12 page)

Trembling, Harper lowered the poker. ‘Christ.’ It was all she could manage.

‘What the hell?’ He forced a laugh and straightened up. Then he noticed her face. ‘Good God. What happened to you?’

Harper ignored the question. ‘My God, Trent – damn, I could have killed you.’ She yanked Hank’s corduroy blazer off the back of his desk chair and pulled it on, covering herself, awkwardly switching the poker from hand to hand.

‘Seriously, kiddo. You look like a prizefighter.’

‘I got mugged.’

‘Right.’ He chuckled, didn’t believe her.

Harper was in no mood to explain. She stepped over to him, gave him a perfunctory peck on the cheek. ‘Dammit, Trent. You scared me. What the hell are you doing in here?’

‘I didn’t realize I needed permission to come over.’ Trent seemed to think that his presence should be no surprise; after all, until the accident, he’d practically lived with them, coming and going at will. Often, she’d come home to find Trent in the kitchen, reading a journal, scrounging for a beer. Trent and Hank had been inseparable, consulting on projects, teaching together, collaborating on articles. Since Hank’s accident, though, Trent hadn’t been over much. Actually, at all.

‘You should have called first,’ she scolded. ‘I live alone now.’

Trent raised his eyebrows, wounded. ‘Of course. I understand.’ He picked up a glass of Scotch that had been resting on Hank’s desk.

‘Sorry. You’re always welcome, Trent. I just wasn’t expecting you.’ Harper was still shaken by how close she’d come to bashing in his skull.

There was an uncomfortable silence. Trent swallowed Scotch.

‘You saw him tonight?’

‘I see him every night.’

Trent nodded. ‘Any change?’

Harper met Trent’s eyes, saw a shadow of guilty sadness. ‘You wouldn’t need to ask if you’d visit him yourself.’

Trent smirked. ‘I’m not the best company in this situation, Harper.’

‘It wasn’t your fault, Trent. He doesn’t blame you. Nobody does.’

‘Really? Well, then, I’m a lucky guy, don’t you think?’

‘You didn’t make him fall. And he’d like to see you.’

‘Would he?’ Trent considered it. ‘Yes, well, I bet he would.’ His tone was odd.

Harper sighed. ‘So?’

‘So, I’ll go see him.’

‘Good. When?’

‘Soon.’

Harper stared at him.

‘I will. Really.’

The poker was still in her hand. She set it on the side of the desk, but it fell off, clattering to the hardwood floor. ‘So, what were you doing?’

‘Oh. Right. I was, um–looking for Hank’s notes. Printouts. Or his laptop. You know how it is: publish or perish.’

Yes. Harper knew. Both Hank and Trent were up for tenure. With that in mind, Hank had written countless articles for scientific journals, edited chapters for books, co-authored papers with Trent, which they’d presented at academic, geological and ecological conferences. This year, Hank probably would have been granted tenure. A permanent full professorship. Now, of course, his tenure was out of the question. Trent was still in the running, though; she hoped he’d get it.

‘So, do you know where his laptop is?’

Harper didn’t. She hadn’t seen it, hadn’t even thought about it. ‘It’s not here?’

‘I don’t see it. I’m guessing he printed out his notes, though. Mind if I keep looking?’

‘Have at it.’

As Trent rifled through Hank’s filing cabinet, Harper looked around the office. She hadn’t been in there since the accident. The room hadn’t been touched, looked as if Hank might at any second appear to dig into work. Books, papers, maps and folders scattered his desk. Post-it notes clung to every surface; yellow pads were everywhere. The trash can was full, and a dent marked where his fingers had last dipped into his bottomless bowl of M&Ms. In the corner, Hank’s oversized, overused leather easy chair sagged in the middle, defining his shape. The hassock was scuffed where his heels had repeatedly dug in. She wandered over, smelled the worn leather, touched the place where his head had rested. She could see him there, looking up from his book when she came in. His eyes, as always, laughing.

‘Any idea at all? Harper?’

‘What?’ Harper turned to Trent; when she looked back, Hank’s image had vanished.

‘The notes must be in his computer. Are you sure you haven’t seen it?’

She shrugged, staring for a moment at the empty chair. Then, explaining that she needed to get some clothes on, hurried away, leaving Trent alone with ghosts of her husband’s past.

But there were more ghosts upstairs. Hank’s clothes greeted her from the closet, ready for duty. A tweed jacket, a pair of worn jeans. Shirts, slacks, a rack of shoes. A camping vest, drooping from a hook. She remembered Hank wearing it last spring when they’d hiked in the Smokies. Cooking out. Lying together in a tent in the middle of nowhere.

Harper grabbed a robe and closed the closet door. Back downstairs, avoiding Trent, she went to the kitchen for something to eat. But the open bottle of Johnny Walker Black beckoned her. Food could wait. She took out a glass, poured. She shouldn’t drink with a concussion, and booze wasn’t prescribed for flashbacks. But one drink wouldn’t hurt, and, Lord knew, she deserved one after today.

In one swallow, she downed the contents, shut her eyes as the smooth burn flowed to her gut. Sat at the table, poured another. Took a gulp, another. Closed her eyes. And saw Graham, watching her as he fell. Damn. Why had he jumped? She saw him again, doing a back stroke in the air. Hitting the ground. Was Detective Rivers right? Had his death been related to those pills?

Harper’s head ached. She leaned back against the wall, eyes shut. Remembering Ron examining the pill, turning it with long, elegant fingers.

A glass clinked and liquid sloshed. Harper opened an eye, saw Trent refilling his glass.

‘I couldn’t find a damned thing.’ Trent plopped on to a chair. ‘No printouts, no laptop. Nothing.’ He raised his glass. ‘So, what do you say we get hammered?’

Harper managed a smile. She was halfway there and, clearly, Trent was way ahead of her.

Trent slammed down his drink, poured another.

‘If you need his files, why not just ask Hank where they are?’

Trent froze. ‘Seriously? He communicates?’

‘Go see for yourself.’

‘But you’re saying . . . Hank can talk?’

‘Simple sentences.’

‘Really?’ Trent seemed startled. ‘I thought he spoke gibberish.’

‘It’s not gibberish.’ Harper sounded defensive. ‘He can say things like “Go home”.’ She didn’t mention that he could also say he was horny.

Trent studied his fingernails. ‘So. Does he remember . . . does he talk about . . . what happened?’

‘He’s never mentioned it. I don’t know how much he remembers. But he doesn’t blame you.’ She swallowed more Scotch.

Trent nodded, unconvinced. ‘Will he improve?’

‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

Trent nodded again. They sat for a while, each drinking to ease their own pain. Finally, Trent uncrossed his legs and leaned toward Harper. ‘Nothing has been the same since that day. Nothing.’

Harper didn’t answer.

‘I keep reliving it. Over and over, I keep trying to catch him—’

‘Trent. Please.’ Harper saw Hank falling. Graham falling. Marvin blowing up. She clutched the drink in her hand, focused on its icy cold.

‘He was right there. Within my reach. I should have grabbed him.’

‘Look at me.’ Harper waited until he did. She looked into his gray, unsteady gaze and enunciated each word slowly. ‘It. Was. Not. Your. Fault.’ She channeled Leslie’s voice. ‘I mean it, Trent. Guilt is uncalled for. It was an accident. Stop blaming yourself.’

Trent looked away.

Harper put a hand on his arm. But the arm was suddenly not Trent’s; it was Graham’s. Harper pulled her hand away, turned.

Trent poured another finger of Scotch. ‘Have you talked to Vicki lately?’

Harper bit her lip. Shook her head, no.

‘Poor Vicki.’ Trent exhaled Scotch breath. ‘I’m afraid she didn’t marry well.’

Oh Lord. Trent was diving into drunken self-flagellation. Harper was in no mood for it. She was exhausted, more than a little inebriated. Her head throbbed.

‘Fact is, since Hank’s injury, I haven’t been much of a husband.’

‘You’ve been upset. I’m sure she understands.’

‘Well, her head might. But others of her body parts are less inclined to reason.’

What? Time for Trent to stop talking. ‘Speaking of Vicki, she must be wondering—’

‘You know the parts I mean. The parts that don’t do much thinking. But, truth be known, lately my dear wife’s parts haven’t had much interest in mine.’

Trent’s eyes were glazed and he stared at her without seeing. Harper wanted him and his glassy stare to go home. Dear God, she’d been mugged and her student was dead, and now, to cap her day off, she had to listen to Trent whine about his sex life?

‘Trent, Vicki’s probably worried.’ She stood, indicating that he should follow. Trent didn’t move. The walls did, though. They shimmied and swayed; Harper held on to a kitchen chair, steadying herself.

‘Yes,’ Trent said into his glass. ‘My Vicki has begun to set her fires in other hearths, I’m afraid.’

What? Harper sat again, dizzy and dumbfounded. ‘Vicki wouldn’t cheat.’

‘Really? You underestimate our Vicki.’ His smile was bitter. ‘For example, did you know she had a thing for Hank?’

Harper was indignant. How dare he imply such a thing? Even with too much Scotch in him, there was no excuse.

He leaned closer. ‘You’re surprised?’ He grinned morbidly. ‘Hank Jennings, PhD. Mountain climber, spelunker, intellectual, hunk extraordinaire. The perfect male specimen. How can you feign surprise that other women would be drawn to him?’

‘That’s enough, Trent.’ Harper leaned on the table and stood again. ‘Go home.’

Trent stared at her breasts. ‘You know, if two can play, so can four.’ Suddenly, clumsily, he lurched, lips puckered. Harper stepped aside, yanked his shirt collar to break his fall, and, balancing carefully, dragged him out of the room.

Trent opened his mouth, raising a finger as if to spout profundities, but Harper kept moving, pulling him along. At the door, she shoved him on to the porch, turned on the outside lights and, minimally concerned about his lack of sobriety, watched as he staggered to the driveway, climbed on to his bike and pedaled unsteadily away.

Harper went back to the kitchen and downed the rest of her Scotch, washing away her encounter with Trent. Or trying to. She was depleted, needed to eat something. It was almost eleven, and she hadn’t had anything since the pie. She opened the freezer, found half-empty ice cream containers, frozen lima beans and a few Lean Cuisines. Selected some kind of peanut noodle chicken thing. She’d eaten worse. Like cold MREs. Or even hot ones. Plopping the thing into the microwave, she set the timer and began shivering. Suddenly, she was icy cold, despite the warm night air.

Harper went to the hall closet and pulled out Hank’s big down-filled winter jacket. It hung on her, oversized and thick, and she snuggled inside it, trying to stop the shaking. She shouldn’t have had all that Scotch. She recognized the symptoms, had seen them in others: she was in shock.

Keep moving, Harper told herself. Get your blood circulating. She paced the floors, the events of the day pacing with her. Graham’s curls dropping from sight. The flashback of the war. The damned bike rider, the gaping mouth of the gorge. And Trent. Lord. Had Vicki – her best friend – really had a crush on Hank? No, not possible. It had just been Trent’s inebriated insecurity talking. Nothing more.

Back in the kitchen, with cold, unsteady hands, Harper took out a can of soda, a fork and spoon. The spoon reminded her of pie and, unexpectedly, she saw Ron Kendall’s golden eyes.

Ron Kendall. Why was she thinking of him?

She opened the soda can. Actually, it wasn’t a surprise if Vicki had a crush on Hank. Who could blame her? Especially since – let’s be honest – the poor woman was married to a drunken twit. And a crush didn’t mean anything had actually happened between Hank and Vicki. Of course, it hadn’t.

Harper sipped Dr Pepper. She was feeling vulnerable, having just been mugged and witnessed a suicide. But hell, she’d survived a war, wasn’t about to be bothered by something as trivial as a crush. Even so, she wandered the house in Hank’s parka, searching for his face in old photographs, staring at close-ups, wondering whether deceit would show in a person’s eyes.

All she saw were Hank’s familiar rugged features, his hearty, open smile. His laughing eyes held no hint of secrecy. She needed to forget about Trent and go to bed. She needed sleep. She needed this day to end.

But Harper didn’t go up to bed. She stayed in the unfinished family room, studying photograph albums, revisiting the past with Hank. And, some twenty minutes later, that’s what she was still doing when the doorbell rang.

Just before midnight on that hot summer night, Detective Charlene Rivers found Harper Jennings at home, bleary-eyed, wearing a huge down-filled winter jacket and reeking of Scotch.

‘Evening, Mrs Jennings. Can I come in?’

‘Of course.’ Harper stepped aside.

Deep inside the house, something was beeping.

‘What’s that sound?’

‘Sound?’ Harper seemed unaware of it, cocked her head, listening. ‘Oh – damn, I forgot.’

Together, they entered the kitchen, where they rescued an abandoned peanut noodly pre-packaged dinner from the microwave.

Detective Rivers was all business, observant. She scanned the room quickly: a tan corduroy jacket on a chair, a couple of used glasses and a mostly empty bottle of Scotch. She’d been in the room months earlier. It was emptier now, lacked fresh-cut flowers and the clutter of an active kitchen. She saw changes in Harper, too: the fatigue in her eyes, the gauntness of her face, the deep purple tones around the cut on her cheekbone.