Zion (10 page)

Sara was at her desk in the campus library. It was time for the pre-Memorial Day convocation at the Wilcox Hall auditorium. This was also the annual picnic held on the Friday before the holiday. The library director had asked all of his staff to attend the event to make a good showing for their department. Classes were not yet in session, though summer school was soon to be underway. Thelma Doolittle Memorial Library was going to be operated by several student workers and Miss Lemuria Lund, a woman whose age, poor eyesight, and inability to walk kept her stationed at her desk in the back of the library where she catalogued books. All of the rest of the fulltime employees were required to attend the convocation. Sara left the building a few minutes after most of her colleagues. She had been preparing a large fiscal year-end book order and could not easily leave the work. The time got away from her, and she feared she’d arrive late.

This was the first major campus ceremony hosted by Dr. Myles Polk, a long-time dean who had risen up through the ranks to become the new president of the junior college. Dr. Polk was a local man who had gone to the laboratory high school in Wilcox Hall, and he was the grandson of a founding professor of rhetoric and logic. He was a natural comic, his humorous speeches much anticipated at gatherings where he was scheduled to speak. He was always a hit because of the otherwise seriousness of the stiff-shirt administrators on campus, a school largely run by accountants and schoolmarms.

Sara followed the crowd of people into the end of the building where the assembly was to be held. A man spoke to her, Dr. Harper Nelson, the head of the Agriculture Department. He had been summarily fired but recently rehired after he took the junior college leaders to court. He held the glass door open for her, and she walked through to the hall of the old laboratory school where children used to study in the heart of the college back in the days before parish desegregation killed it, shutting it down in 1969. It was by far the best school in the parish but all white. Oftentimes the graduates went to Yale and other Ivy League schools. The Baxter State Lab School had boasted one of the highest college placement rates of any Louisiana public school. The political elite refused to integrate. A red-hot controversy exploded over white high school girls dating black boys. This led to a complete meltdown of common sense. Instead of doing what the federal law required, the junior college shut down the only college preparatory school in the parish. Families with money sent their children to the local “academy,” a segregated private school on the edge of town called Southern Pines Christian Academy. The best high school in Baxter Parish and one of the finest in the state died. Close it rather than integrate it seemed to be the sentiment of the elite.

“How was your morning?” Tom asked his wife. He was waiting for her near the stairwell.

“Just fine,” she said.

Tom took her hand, and they walked into the crowded auditorium. He was dressed in a white shirt and black trousers, which were clean and pressed. He wore a bolo tie with a sterling silver keeper. Sara was conservatively dressed, her hem two inches below the knee.

The auditorium seats were tight with narrow aisles. Tom and Sara saw Wesley near the front where he had saved two seats at the right side of the stage, and they joined him there.

The program began with President Polk welcoming dignitaries, the mayor, city councilmen, three state legislators, and several wealthy patrons of the college, big donors and money people. Some had given tens of thousands of dollars in donations over the years. A few of the men were members of the Sicilian mafia, so-called business owners who could hardly read their own names but bought and paid for attorneys, judges, and college officials to do their reading for them. These illiterate mobsters were sons of strawberry and pepper farmers, and their children would go to Baxter State for free on scholarships before transferring to Loyola in New Orleans or Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge to complete their college degrees.

One donor was acknowledged for his recent endowment gift. Darfield Blahunt, a Hungarian businessman, was running a Ponzi scheme unbeknownst to Dr. Polk and many of his investors present. Blahunt stood to be acknowledged. He didn’t know that he was the target of a federal corruption probe and would soon find himself held without bail to face charges of securities fraud among numerous other crimes.

After recognizing Blahunt and his wife as true “Baxter State Bobcats,” Dr. Polk said, “Ladies and gentleman, the only thing short about my talk today is my punch line: we need your money, and we’ll be passing the hat before we’re done.” From behind the lectern, Polk pulled out a “hat” made from a five-gallon bucket with a wooden hat brim and decorated in Baxter State green and gold. Tom had made it for Dr. Polk earlier in the week and the campus painters had painted it. The crowd roared when Dr. Polk ceremoniously and begrudgingly dropped in a dollar bill out of his own wallet, the billfold wrapped in a red bandana like a hobo’s stash.

The Hardins sat together as a family. They watched the convocation festivities. Tom was stone-faced during the whole proceeding, finding very little of it funny.

President Polk called Dr. Claiborne and Charity to the stage to bestow upon him an emeritus title. Dr. Claiborne was dressed in a lime green jacket with a gold “BS” logo on front, and Charity wore high heels and a dress that gave plenty for public view.

The former junior college president accepted the wooden plaque. He asked his wife to hold it for him. Smiling wide, he grasped the edges of the lectern. “Now, I’m not going to teach today, because Mrs. Claiborne said we’ll be eating barbeque shortly, and it would take me at least three hours to get through the first half of my lecture on Louisiana’s contemporary political traditions and their origins in eighteenth-century France.”

One unruly student in the back hollered, “Bring out the guillotine!” The crowd of college teachers and staff cackled like crows.

“All scholarly lectures aside, I should say how much this fine institution means to us and how much this president emeritus title means to me personally. I’ll be here to teach a course as a scholar-in-residence this fall, and each of you have made a lasting contribution to my professional success for thirty-one and a half years. We thank you from the depths of our hearts,” he said, eyes misty, his voice strained with deep emotion.

The room broke into applause. Then came a standing ovation. Sara stood, followed by Wesley and then Tom.

Charity waved her hand as she stood on stage next to Dr. Claiborne, the diminutive festival queen hand wave. She still looked like a pageant winner, one who’d long lost her innocence—if she ever had any to begin with. She was the same age as her husband’s daughter who lived in Tallahassee, Florida. The father and daughter were estranged and no longer spoke to each other. Dr. Claiborne and his wife held hands as the crowd continued to clap for ten seconds.

When Dr. Polk returned to the lectern, the applause stopped. “We honor this great man’s faithful service. We are certainly thankful and appreciative of his hard work, and he shall be sorely missed in his capacity as president by every faculty, staff, and student affiliated with this grand institution. He shall not fade away. On the contrary, we believe Mrs. Charity will make him live forever and ever,” he said, a brief pause and a rueful grin on his face. A few people murmured, and others gouged their neighbors’ ribs at the backhanded compliment.

One professor shouted, “I’d sure live forever.” It was loud enough to be heard across the auditorium, and the place erupted in more hissing and chortling.

Dr. Polk went on unflappably. “And we welcome you back to teach history as long as you both shall live,” he said deadpan to a few chuckles. Then he offered gushing praise for the faculty and staff, and he welcomed one and all to the Civil War Memorial Park behind the auditorium where a country band was soon to start playing music and barbecued chicken would be served free of charge, compliments of the Alumni Club.

The campus chaplain at the Baptist Student Union, Reverend T.B. Owings, climbed the stairs to the stage and requested everyone to bow in prayer. He asked the Lord’s blessing on the food, on Dr. Claiborne and in his future journey through life, and a special blessing on his new wife, as well as the upcoming summer term of study. When he said “Amen,” the attendees left the auditorium in a congenial rush.

Outside, Sara took a picnic table underneath a tall loblolly pine, a tree that would have made a sturdy electric pole. Tom and Wesley stood in a long line holding paper plates. It was hot, eighty-seven degrees, with little breeze. The school band played the Baxter Parish fight song, and the cheerleaders held their pom-poms at the ready. Under the shade of an aged live oak tree, a country band tuned their instruments.

Local politicians and dignitaries milled around the crowd. One octogenarian tax assessor had been elected to office for nine consecutive terms, the longest-running assessor in Louisiana history. He glad-handed everyone and walked up to Sara. “Hello, I’m Martin Wayne Chester and how beautiful you are today, ma’am. Surely this day is not nearly as pretty as you,” he said, never slowing his step to greet yet another potential voter.

Out across the grassy student union park, Sara could see that her husband had gotten two plates and was walking toward their table, Wesley following. Tom balanced two cups of sweet tea against his chest. He said little as he handed her the tea. She could tell he was fuming about something but couldn’t figure out what had happened.

Wesley didn’t say anything at all, just looked down at his chicken and coleslaw, baked beans with bacon. He appeared sullen.

“The chicken looks tasty,” Sara said.

“It’ll do under the circumstances,” Tom said.

As the Hardins ate their meals, Sara saw Dr. Claiborne and Charity moving toward their general direction. She did not know anything about the rupture between Tom and Wesley, or the conflict over the Claiborne project.

The Claibornes were visiting tables, shaking hands, hugging necks, and talking. The president sidled up to the Hardin table, which was covered in a red and white checkerboard table cloth.

Sara could hear the country band. It played “You are My Sunshine,” a song brought to worldwide fame by Louisiana Governor Jimmie Davis. There had been a discussion in recent years of changing the name of the school from Baxter State to Jimmie Davis State Junior College, but the state legislature was uninterested in allowing the change. It could let loose a torrent of college name changes throughout the state, many of them bought through cash bribes.

“How are the Hardins?” Dr. Claiborne said. He reached out to shake Tom’s hand.

Tom stood, quickly wiping his hand on a napkin, and he shook Dr. Claiborne’s hand, which was cushy-soft, the skin unmarred by calluses like Tom’s hands. “We’re all right. Congratulations on the retirement,” Tom said. He sat back down again at the table.

“Thank you,” Dr. Claiborne said.

“How’s the good librarian Mrs. Sara and how’s Mr. Wesley?”

“We’re fine, President Claiborne,” Sara said. She noticed that Charity had split up with her husband and was across the little park a few tables over, speaking with a faculty wife, her palm on the woman’s shoulder, strutting around as if she were outfitted in a pageant sash and a tiara.

“Hope you enjoy your new title,” Sara said smiling.

Wesley nodded sheepishly.

Dr. Claiborne tried to downplay the honorific. “Truth is, emeritus is Latin for ‘he’s served his time and now he’s all washed up.’” He laughed. “Thank you for sharing your husband’s fine craftsmanship in renovating our home study,” Dr. Claiborne said.

Tom’s brow furrowed. Wesley squirmed, turning red, putting down his piece of chicken on the plate. Sara sat with an uncertain look on her face, knowing immediately that there was some kind of trouble.

Tom spoke up. “We did go out to your house last week, but we’re unable to work on the project at this time.” He was stiff-looking, his palms flat on the table cloth.

“I do believe my wife said you and Mr. Wesley were moving forward and were bringing back a price by early next week, as well as a rendering of the plans. There must have been a miscommunication of some sort. I’ll go get Mrs. Charity to straighten this out.” The old college president marched two tables down the row where his wife was chatting with some women.

“What is Mr. Hardin speaking about related to them not doing our little project, honey?” Dr. Claiborne asked his wife.

Sara could hear them talking above the band. President Claiborne was almost shouting.

“Tom, what happened?” she asked.

“We went over to look at the job, but I decided against doing it,” Tom said, not whispering, but speaking in a calm voice. “Isn’t that right, Wesley?”

Wesley stared down at his plate just as silent as a deaf mute.

There was a dark quiet for a few seconds. Dr. Claiborne brought Charity to the table leading her by the hand. Lateral lines pronounced on the old man’s forehead, and a bead of sweat popped up on Charity’s brow.

Sara felt ill all of a sudden.

“Now I have Mrs. Charity here to clear all this up. Isn’t Mr. Hardin preparing a bid for our new study? You said it would come with a draftsman’s likeness of the work?” Dr. Claiborne gazed at his wife.

 “Why, yes, dear,” Charity said, her eyes gone steely, a tried and true poker visage across her face. This was the fulfillment of years living by deception at every turn. She was able to confidently defend herself no matter the scandal or accusation.

Sara wanted to leave, to go back to her familiar spot in the library where her comfortable sweater was draped over the back of the wooden swivel chair at her desk. She wished she’d never come to the barbeque. She knew she was stuck, and the tension was gaining depth and breadth like an expanse of kinetic energy, a social force that causes lasting cracks in human relations.

“No,” Tom said. “I’m not sure that we do. We’ve decided against the job and wish you the very best in finding a carpenter to do the work, but I’m afraid it won’t be us.”