By Kirk Ellway
Award-winning scribe Jorge Castro, author of such novels as Catalepsy and The Forgotten City, has suddenly and unexpectedly decamped from his position as writer-in-residence at the world-famous Bell College fiction workshop. He was two months into his fourth semester at Bell, and a great favorite of his students.
“I just don’t know what I’m going to do without him,” said Brittany Angleton, who has just sold her first fantasy novel (werewolves!) to Crofter’s Press. She added that he had promised to line-edit her work in progress. Jeremy Brock said, “He was the best writing teacher I ever had.” Other students talked about his kindness and sense of humor. One member of the program who did not wish to be named agreed with that, but added, “If your work was bad, he’d put it out of its misery.”
Fred Martin, who lived with Castro, said the two of them had had several discussions lately about their future, but added, “They weren’t arguments. I would never call them that. I had too much love and respect for Jorge and he for me for us to ever argue. They were discussions about the future, a full and frank exchange of views. I wanted to leave at the end of the fall semester. Jorge wanted to stay until the end of the year, perhaps even join the faculty.”
However, the discussions may have been closer to arguments than Mr. Martin is willing to admit. A source in the police department told the Ringer that Castro left a note saying “I’ve had all I can take.” When asked about that, Mr. Martin said, “It’s ridiculous! If he felt that way, why would he have wanted to stay? And where did he go? I’ve heard nothing. I was the one who wanted to leave. I got very tired of the midwestern homophobia.”
In the spring semester Castro was part of an effort to save the Poetry Workshop, an effort that eventually failed. One English Department faculty member who wishes not to be named said, “Jorge was very eloquent, but he accepted the final decision with good grace. Had he stayed and joined the faculty, I think he would have reintroduced the issue. He said noted poet (and retired faculty member) Olivia Kingsbury was on his side, and would be happy to speak to the department faculty if the subject could be raised again.”
When asked exactly when Castro left, Mr. Martin admitted he didn’t know, because he had moved out.
There’s more, including a photo of Jorge Castro teaching and another that must be an author photo from the back jacket of one of his books. Holly thinks he’s quite handsome. Not quite as good-looking as Antonio Banderas (a personal favorite), but in the same neighborhood.
She doesn’t believe the article she’s just read would come close to passing muster on a big city newspaper, even with the dire straits the print media has fallen into; it has a kind of undergraduate nudge-nudge, wink-wink feel that makes her think of Inside View or one of the New York Post gossip columns. But it’s informative. Oh yes. That heat is going up her spine again. She thinks it’s no wonder that Barbara added Castro to Jerome’s map.
Olivia Kingsbury must have told her about him. And it fits, doesn’t it? Even the notes fit. Castro: “I’ve had all I can take.” Bonnie Dahclass="underline" “I’ve had enough.” If those two disappearances weren’t nine years apart…
Yes, and if the police weren’t short-staffed because of Covid; if they weren’t afraid that one of the current Black Lives Matter protests might spiral into violence; if there had ever been a single body, something besides a moped and a bike and a skateboard…
“And if pigs could fly, poop would rain all around us,” Holly mutters.
Jorge Castro in 2012, Cary Dressler in 2015, Ellen Craslow and Peter Steinman in 2018, Bonnie Dahl in 2021. All three years apart, give or take, except for Ellen and Peter. Maybe one of those two had authentically run away, but wasn’t it also possible that something had gone wrong with one of them? Wasn’t what the Predator wanted? But what did he want? Serial killers who had a sexual motive usually stuck to either men (Gacy, Dahmer) or women (Bundy, Rader, et al.). The Red Bank Predator took both… including one male child.
Why?
Holly thinks there’s someone who can give her the answer: Professor Rodney Harris, aka Small Ball and Mr. Meat. That nickname makes her think of Jeffrey Dahmer again, but that’s too ridiculous to believe.
Holly tosses her half-eaten burger in the trash, takes her soda, and leaves.
It’s Barbara’s idea, and Marie agrees instantly. If, that is, they can get Rosalyn Burkhart on board. She’s the head of the English Department.
The two women are out back on Olivia’s patio, drinking sodas and waiting for the Crossman Funeral Home hack to come and take away the old poet’s earthly remains. There is no question about any of the arrangements; Olivia left complete instructions with Marie after her last bout of a-fib, right down to the music she wanted played (Flogging Molly’s “If Ever I Leave This World Alive” at the start; “Spirit in the Sky,” by Norman Greenbaum, at the end). What she didn’t specify was a memorial reading on the Bell College quad, and that’s what Barbara suggested.
When Rosalyn hears that Olivia has passed, she bursts into tears. They have Marie’s phone on speaker, and that makes them both cry. When the tears end, Barbara tells Professor Burkhart her idea, and the department head gets on board immediately.
“If it’s outdoors we can gather,” she says. “We can even make masks optional if people agree to stand six feet apart. We’ll read her poems, is that the idea?”
“Yes,” Marie says. “She has plenty of author copies. I’ll bring them and we can hand them out.”
“Sunset’s around quarter of nine this time of year,” Rosalyn says. “We can gather on the quad at say… eight?”
Barbara and Marie share a glance and say yes together.
“I’ll start making calls,” Rosalyn says. “Will you do the same, Ms. Duchamp?”
“Absolutely. We may duplicate a few, but that’s okay.”
Barbara says, “I’m going to the funeral home when Olivia goes. I want to spend some time in their chapel, just to think.” A new idea strikes her. “And maybe I can get candles? We could light them at the reading?”
“Wonderful idea,” Rosalyn says. “Are you the promising young poet Olivia talked about? You are, aren’t you?”
“I guess I am,” Barbara says, “but all I can think about now is her. I loved her so much.”
“We all did,” Rosalyn says, then gives a teary laugh. “With the possible exception of Emmy Harris, that is. Join us when you can, Barbara. My office is in Terrell Hall. I assume we’re all vaccinated?”
Barbara follows the hearse to the funeral home. She sits in the chapel, thinking about Olivia. She thinks this is the way birds stitch the sky closed at sunset and that makes her cry again. She asks Mr. Greer, the funeral director, about candles. He gives her two boxes of them. She says they’ll take up a collection at Olivia’s memorial to pay for them. Mr. Greer says that will not be necessary. She drives to the Bell campus and joins Rosalyn and Marie. Others come. They go outside, where there are tears and laughter and stories. The names of favorite poems are exchanged. More calls are made and more people join. Boxed wine makes an appearance. Toasts are given. Barbara feels the almost indescribable comfort of like minds and wishes she were one of these people who think stories and poems are as important as stocks and bonds. Then she thinks, But I am. She thinks, Thank God for you, Olivia.