Renee’s absence also allowed me to call Meg without worries of being overheard. I hadn’t spoken a word to Meg since our dinner with Dudek because I was still supremely pissed off at her for the shit she pulled with Amy. I was also displeased that my check from her was long overdue. Meg had her own ideas when it came to sending me large sums of money. Apparently, I hadn’t quite erased all her doubts about the reformation of Darth Kipster. In the past, I’d appreciated her attempts to hold back funds so I couldn’t purchase Costco-sized bags of cocaine. That was then.
“Kip!”
“Where’s my check?”
“Fine, thank you, and yourself?”
“Sorry, Meg, I’m not in the mood for small talk, especially not after that stunt you pulled with Amy. How could you do that to me?”
“You needed to know there was something to come back to, you idiot.”
“I know this is hard for you to accept, but I’ve finally learned how to tie my own shoes and everything. I can even manage the activities of daily living without adult supervision.”
“Says the man who’s shacked up with a twenty-year-old girl and lets himself get shot with live ammunition. Yes, Kip, I’d say that instills a lot of confidence in me about your recent maturation.”
“Well, try this on for size: I’m moving back up there at least until the end of the summer. You need to find me a one-bedroom apartment close to Manhattan, but not in it. Maybe in Brooklyn or Long Island City somewhere and you need to find it soon.”
“Are you fucking around with me, Weiler? Because if you are, I’m not laughing.”
“No joke, Donovan.”
“Is this with or without … what was it you called her … the St. Pauli Girl?”
“Without. I might have Renee come up for a week. I owe her that, but she won’t be staying, no. And don’t you dare call Amy.”
“You needn’t fret. She’s as angry with me as you are. Angrier, probably. What did you do to her exactly that got her so bent out of shape?”
“It’s what I didn’t do, but that’s not the point.”
“I promise I won’t let her know you’re coming. I’d cross my heart, but I’d have to have one to make it a meaningful gesture.”
We both had a laugh at that. I think I laughed a little too long to suit her, but I didn’t really care.
“You haven’t even cut my check yet, have you, Donovan?”
“Guilty as charged.”
“Well, keep the funds until I get up there and use whatever you need for the apartment. But when I get into town, I expect the check that day. You with me?”
“Like a conjoined twin.”
“There’s an image I could have done without.”
“So when’s the big move?” she asked.
“The middle of January, I think. I can’t be any more specific about it now, but I’ll let you know.”
“Look, Kip, I can’t believe I’m even uttering these words, but do you think you’ll be able to finish the book back here? You’ll be leaving your cradle-robbing and gunplay behind, after all.”
“I’ll finish it.”
“You’re certain?”
“No, not really, but the chances are just as likely I’ll finish in New York as here. Besides, if I feel myself slipping, I can come back to Brixton. I’m taking a sabbatical, not handing in my resignation. Burning this bridge would really be a bridge too far. In any case, I have a lease on this house that I’m responsible for for several more months.”
“Okay, I’ll have my assistant get to it on Monday. Will you need a parking spot for your car? You do still have that Porsche, don’t you?”
“Renting a parking spot in New York would cost more than my rent on this house. It’s moot anyway. The Porsche’s staying here.”
“Suit yourself,” Meg said. “Ta.”
And that was it. I was committed now, sort of. Sort of, because if there was one lesson being the Kipster had taught me, it was that there wasn’t a commitment in the world that couldn’t be broken. Well, I suppose once you’ve jumped out the window or pulled the trigger, there are no U-turns. I wondered if my father had time to wish he hadn’t pulled the trigger. I was on my way to taking one more step away from Brixton and towards New York.
Thirty-Two
The campus of Brixton County Community College was actually quite pretty. Lots of red brick and ivy, big live oaks and maples sprinkled in amongst the predominant pines, and a classic clock tower atop the library. It was easy to understand how some administration types mistook its looks for its quality. The former dickhead president of BCCC was wont to say that Harvard was the Brixton County Community College of the northeast. Was it any wonder he hadn’t lasted very long?
The ever-popular Miss Crouch had prepared all my sabbatical paperwork for me to sign. There were tabs and little yellow Post-it notes with instructions on each of the forms. No wonder she’d survived seven department chairpersons. As warm and friendly as J. J. Beauchamp was, the Engagin’ Cajun was no administrator. Disorganized and drunk a good deal of the time, he had his head stuck so far up his ass that he needed someone like Miss Crouch to steer the ship. Trust me, at BCCC, there was no political intrigue involved in landing the chairman’s job. No one yearned to be English Department chair. It was a short-straw job that people accepted only because it came with a five-thousand-dollar per-term stipend.
The one thing Miss Crouch couldn’t do was to fill in the section of the paperwork that asked for an explanation of the reason for the sabbatical. Not that anyone probably gave a shit, but you were required to fill it out before a sabbatical could be granted. This is where you were supposed to mention some lofty research study or scholarly project you were working on like a Cartesian reinterpretation of the Dead Sea Scrolls. I wrote simply that I was taking the time to finish a book. I didn’t bother mentioning that the book in question was about as scholarly as the back of a baseball card and was sort of a cross between pulp fiction and an idiot’s guide to existentialism.
“You’ll be missed around here, Professor Weiler,” said Miss Crouch as I handed back all the signed and completed forms. This was the most the woman had said to me in seven years.
“Really, why’s that?”
“Because the female adjuncts will have to find a new form of entertainment in your absence.”
I stood there, stunned. I wanted to say something but Miss Crouch had already moved on to other matters, dismissively turning her back to me. And what would I have said? I was just grateful she hadn’t mentioned the co-eds I’d bedded during my tenure at Brixton. Although that particular form of “mentoring” was frowned upon by the current administration, our state university system was one of the last holdouts that hadn’t formalized a ban on such relationships.
With the fall term having ended the previous Friday, the campus was very quiet. There were a few students around. Mostly there were squirrels, crows, and a few other faculty members. I much preferred the squirrels and crows. For the first time since the incident with Frank Vuchovich, I walked over to the southwestern corner of the campus, to the building where it had all taken place. The building had been closed for the term, but was scheduled to reopen for the spring semester. I was glad I wouldn’t be there to see it.
I stood outside Halifax Hall staring up at the windows the police marksmen had shattered with their bullets. I turned to look at where the shots came from, imagining a straight red line drawn across the sky from the roof of the lecture center through the new windows of Room 212. I recalled the confused look on Frank Vuchovich’s face. I wondered now as I wondered then about what the kid had expected to happen. He must have known he wasn’t leaving the police with very many options, yet he seemed almost surprised by the spray of glass and blood, and the burning bits of metal ripping through his body.