The Further Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn (38 page)

When the seminar was over, I handed back the essays I’d graded, and as always when papers were returned, I was soon surrounded by a knot of students with questions or complaints. Linda Van Sickle waited till the room had cleared before she came up to me. She was a sweet-faced young woman with honey hair and the glowing good looks that
some women are blessed with in the last weeks of pregnancy. In her Birkenstocks, Levi’s, and oversized
GAP
T-shirt, she was the symbol of hip fertility, a Demeter for the nineties.

I smiled at her. “If you’re here to complain about your grade, you’re out of luck,” I said. “I think that’s the highest mark I’ve ever given.”

She blushed. “No, I’m very pleased with the mark. I just wanted to ask you about Kellee. I know I should have done something about this sooner, but I did try to call her a couple of times, and I was sure by now I would have run into her.”

“Back up,” I said. “You’ve lost me.”

Linda shook her head in annoyance. “Sorry. I’m not usually this scattered.” She smoothed her shirt over the curve of her stomach. “I’m a little distracted. This morning my doctor told me it’s possible I’m carrying twins.”

“Twins!” I repeated. “That would distract anybody.”

She shrugged. “When we get used to the idea, we’ll be cool with it, but the doctor wants me to have an ultrasound Friday, so I’m going to miss your class, which means it’ll be another week before I can get Kellee’s tape-recorder to her. She left it in the bar Friday night. I picked it up after she left. She was pretty … upset.”

“I know she was in rough shape,” I said. “She phoned me. Linda, I’m aware that Kellee was drinking pretty heavily that night.”

“Then you know why she hasn’t been coming to class or answering her phone.”

“You think she’s ashamed of her behaviour,” I said.

“Yes, and she should be,” Linda said flatly. “I like Kellee, but she wasn’t just blitzed that night at the Owl; she was mean. She was sitting next to me, and I thought if I let her ramble on, she’d give it up after a while, but she never stopped. The worst thing was that the person she was accusing wasn’t there to defend himself.”

“Val Massey,” I said.

“She told you!” Linda’s normally melodic voice was sharp with exasperation. “That really was irresponsible. It’s totally ludicrous, of course. Val could have any woman he wanted on this campus. He’s not only terrific-looking; he’s bright, and he’s sensitive, and he’s kind. There’d be no reason in the world for him to come on to Kellee Savage.”

“That was pretty much my feeling too,” I said. “When Kellee talked to me, I tried not to leap to Val’s defence, but she knew I didn’t believe her.”

Linda looked at me levelly. “No rational person would believe her.”

“That night at the Owl – didn’t anybody realize Kellee needed help?”

“At first we all just thought it was sort of funny. That was the first time any of us ever remembered seeing her in the bar, and there she was, sucking back the Scotch.” Linda wrinkled her nose in distaste. “I don’t know anybody under the age of forty who drinks Scotch, but Kellee said she was drinking it because Professor Gallagher told her that once you acquire a taste for Scotch, you’ll never want anything else. I don’t know whether she acquired the taste that night, but she sure got hammered.”

“Why didn’t somebody take her home?”

“As a matter of fact, I’d just about talked her into letting me drive her back to her place, when Val walked in. That’s when everything went nuts. Kellee ran over to him and started pounding him on the chest and saying these crazy things; then Meaghan Andrechuk discovered Kellee’s tape-recorder whirring away on the seat in the booth where we’d been sitting. Can you believe it? Kellee had been recording the private conversations of people she was in class with the whole evening …”

“Did Kellee ever explain what she was doing?” I asked.

“She didn’t get a chance.” Linda gnawed her lip. “Did you ever read a story called ‘The Lottery’?”

I nodded. “In school. As I remember, it’s pretty chilling.”

“Especially the ending,” Linda agreed, “when everybody in town starts throwing stones at the woman who is the scapegoat. There were no stones Friday night, but there might as well have been. Everybody had had too much to drink, and Kellee didn’t help matters. Instead of apologizing, she started shouting that she was the only one of us who was doing real journalism, and she was going to show us all. She was so loud the manager came over and threatened to throw her out.”

I closed my eyes, trying to shut out the image. “It must have been awful.”

Linda’s gaze was steady. “It got worse. Kellee started arguing with the manager. He was really patient, but she kept pushing it. Finally, he gave up and asked one of the women who worked in the bar to help him get Kellee into a cab. They were trying to put Kellee’s coat on her when Meaghan came back from the bathroom and said there’d been a bulletin on
TV
: Professor Gallagher was dead. Kellee went white and ran out of the bar. She left this.” Linda opened her knapsack and took out the tape-recorder that I recognized from class as Kellee’s. “You’ll make sure she gets it, won’t you?”

“Of course,” I said. “And thanks for bringing it in. It’ll give me an excuse to call her. I know Kellee’s behaviour was pretty rotten, but it’s so close to the end of term. I’d hate to see her lose her year.”

“So would I,” Linda said. “But, Professor Kilbourn, when you talk to Kellee, make sure she understands that she has to stop hounding Val. You saw what he was like in class today. That was Kellee’s doing. I’m sorry that she’s disturbed, but that doesn’t give her licence to ruin Val Massey’s life.”

I thought of Val’s face, pale and expressionless, and the words seemed to form themselves. “You’re right,” I said. “She has to be stopped.”

On my way back to the department, I made a quick trip to Physical Plant and picked up the extra key I needed for Ed Mariani. The woman who handed it to me was friendly and obliging, and I wondered, not for the first time, whether Rosalie Norman would take it amiss if I suggested her life would be smoother if she weren’t so prickly.

When I got back to my office, Val Massey was waiting outside. I was relieved to see him there. I unlocked my door and Val followed me inside. I was grateful that he was giving me a chance to confront the Kellee Savage quandary head on.

“I was just about to make coffee,” I said. “Would you like some?”

“No, thanks,” he murmured.

“Well, at least sit down,” I said, gesturing to the chair across from mine.

He didn’t seem to hear me. He walked over to the window and stood there, wordless and remote, until the silence between us grew awkward.

“You have to be department head before they give you a view of anything other than the parking lot,” I said.

Val turned and looked at me uncomprehendingly.

“That was a joke,” I said.

He smiled and moved towards my bulletin board. I’d filled it with campaign buttons from long-ago elections and with pictures of my kids.

“How many children do you have?” he asked.

“Four,” I said. “The two you met when we came out to Regina Beach, a daughter who’s married and running a catering business in Saskatoon, and a son who’s at the vet college.”

“Have any of your children ever got themselves into a real mess?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said. “I’ve got into a few real messes myself. It seems to come with living a life.”

He looked so miserable that I wanted to put my arms around him, but I knew that the most prudent course was simply to give him an opening. “Val, you don’t need to be oblique with me,” I said. “I know about Kellee Savage.”

At the sound of her name he recoiled as if he’d taken a blow.

“It’s all right,” I said quickly. “I don’t believe what she’s saying about you. In fact, I’ve decided to talk to her about the damage she’s doing, not just to you but to everybody, including herself.”

“Don’t!” he shouted. The word seemed to explode in the quiet room. Val winced with embarrassment. When he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper. “Don’t talk to her … please. Don’t get involved.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he said. Then he ran out of the room.

I went after him, but by the time I got to the door, he was already out of sight. The hall was empty. I was furious: furious at myself for handling the situation badly and furious at Kellee Savage for creating it in the first place.

Ten minutes later, when Ed Mariani stuck his head in, I was still upset.

“Ready for an office-mate?” he asked.

“Am I ever,” I said. “Make yourself at home.” I pointed to the bookshelf nearest the window. “There’s the kettle and the Earl Grey, and, as you can see, the cups and saucers are right next to it.”

“Since everything’s so handy, why don’t I make us some tea?” Ed said. He picked up the kettle and padded out of the office. When he came back, he plugged the kettle in and
eased into the student chair across the desk from me. He was such a big man, it was a tight fit.

“Do you want to trade?” I asked.

As he raised himself out of his chair, he smiled at me gratefully. “I’ll try not to be here when you are.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Ed put a bag in each cup, poured in boiling water, then settled happily into my chair.

“So was Kellee Savage in class today?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No.”

Ed raised an eyebrow. “I think I’d better just go ahead and tell the students about their placements. They’ve waited long enough.”

“Yes, they have,” I said, and I was surprised at how acerbic I sounded. “Ed, do you understand why Kellee Savage was the one who got the internship with the
Globe?”

“No,” he said, “I don’t, and believe me, ever since I saw her name heading up that list, I’ve wondered what Reed saw in her that I didn’t.”

“She works hard,” I said.

He laughed. “No disputing that,” he said. “But there’s no imagination in her work, nothing that takes you into any deeper understanding of what she’s writing about.”

“How well do you know her?” I asked.

“The J school is small,” he said, “so we’re a lot tighter with our students than you are in Arts. By the time the kids graduate we’ve usually had them in a couple of classes, we’ve helped them with practical skills like interviewing, we’ve supervised their independent projects, and we’ve spent time with them socially. Not that Kellee has ever been exactly a party girl.” He picked up my mug. “Weak or strong?” he asked.

“Strong.”

“A woman after my own heart,” he said. “What’s that old Irish saying? ‘When I makes tay, I makes tay, and when I makes water, I makes water.’ Anyway, what I remember most about Kellee Savage is the obituary she wrote.”

“Of whom?”

“Of herself. It’s an exercise most J schools assign in Print Journalism I. It’s partly to teach students how to make words count, and partly to help them focus on their goals. Most of the obits the kids write are depressingly Canadian. You know: ‘his accomplishments were few, but he was always decent and caring.’ Kellee’s was different. The writing was predictably pedestrian, but she had such extravagant ambitions, and she did have one glorious line. ‘Kellee Savage was a great journalist, because although no one ever noticed her, she was there.’ ”

I shuddered, “That’s certainly gnomic.”

“Isn’t it?” he said. He put a spoon into my mug, pressed out the last of the tea and fished out the bag. “I believe your tea is ready, Madam.”

After I picked Taylor up from her friend Jess Stephens’s house, we drove to Lakeview Court to feed Julie’s fish. For Taylor, most chores were obstacles to be dispatched speedily, so she could get on with the real business of her life, but Julie’s fish intrigued her, and she gave her full attention to feeding them. She had developed a routine, and I watched as she pulled a needlepoint-covered bench close to the tank, kicked off her shoes, climbed up on the bench, and shook the fish food carefully over the surface of the water. When she was done, she jumped down, pressed her face against the glass, and watched as the minute particles drifted down through the water, driving the fish crazy.

We watched for a few minutes, then I said, “We have to boogie, T. I haven’t even thought about dinner yet.”

“I have,” Taylor said. “Why don’t we have paella?”

“Why don’t we have fish and chips?” I said. “I think there’s a coupon for Captain Jack’s at home.” I looked at my watch. “Angus has a practice at six-thirty, so I might as well call the Captain from here.”

When I went into the kitchen to use the phone, the light from the answering machine on Julie’s desk was blinking. I hit the button, and a woman’s voice, pleasantly contralto, filled the quiet room. “Reed, it’s Annalie. It’s Sunday, ten p.m. my time, so that’s nine yours. My husband and I were at our cabin for the weekend, so I just got your message. It was such a shock to hear your voice after all these years. It’s funny, I thought I’d feel vindicated when you finally figured out the truth, but all I can manage is a sort of dull rage.” She paused. When she spoke again, her voice was tight. “I guess Santayana was right: ‘Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.’ But Reed, remembering isn’t enough. Now that you know what happened, you have an obligation to make sure there are no more repetitions. If you want to talk, my number is area code 416 …,” she laughed. “Of course, you have my number, don’t you?” There was a click and the line went dead.

I rewound the tape and played it again. It still didn’t ring any bells for me, but while Annalie’s message was perplexing, her voice was a pleasure to listen to: musical and theatrically precise in its pronunciations. It was a professionally trained voice, and as I archived her message, I found myself wondering what part the enigmatic Annalie had played in the past that Reed Gallagher had chosen not to remember.

When we got home, Alex was there. I asked him to stay for dinner, but he insisted on paying.

“If I’d known you were picking up the tab,” I said, “I would have ordered Captain Jack’s world-famous paella.”

Taylor was placing knives and forks around the table in a pattern that a generous eye might have seen as a series of place settings. When she heard the word “paella,” she swivelled around to face me. “We could still order some.” She narrowed her eyes. “That was one of your jokes, wasn’t it, Jo?”