Craig Smith - Cold Rain

We got Lucy off to school the next morning and settled ourselves down so we could go through the tragedy of Walt and Barbara. The Sunday and Monday papers filled in some of the gaps, but I had found no one who knew more than Randy Winston. The paper was now calling it a murder-suicide, but that was all we knew. There was a nice summation of Walt’s early career, however. It mentioned both of his books, The Origins of Chivalry and On Courtly Love, calling Courtly Love the definitive text in the field, even thirty years after its initial publication. There were several quotes included from various colleagues. The irony was even his most vitriolic detractors had sweet words for the man now. There were hints of course among these same people that the whole thing made sense. Words appeared in their remarks like stress, counselling, separation, difficulties. With a bit of imagination a reader could understand that Walt was a raging alcoholic with a bad marriage and troubles at work. Other than that it was a tasteful enough send off.

None of it, though, made sense to Molly or me. I suppose we knew Walt too well. Walt wasn’t a violent drunk. Walt could be a laughing drunk or a sad drunk, even a bashful drunk, but never a violent one. The closest I had ever seen him to rage was the time another scholar quoted him out of context. Walt had slapped his hand on the table, rattling his bottles, and announced that the Inquisition had not been an entirely bad idea.

Pick up a knife? The man couldn’t even carve a Thanksgiving turkey. I went through the last talk Walt and I had. Optimistic, I told Molly. ‘He told me Barbara had agreed to talk about reconciliation.’

‘That was it, then,’ Molly answered simply. ‘After they talked, she decided against it and Walt couldn’t handle it.’

I didn’t believe it, and told her so. It wasn’t in his character to do something like that.

‘I don’t think any of us knows anyone else the way we think we do,’ Molly answered. There was a note of bitterness in this, and I knew we weren’t talking about Walt anymore.

I was already prepping the largest room for paint in Lucy’s apartment when Molly joined me.

We had always worked without talking very much.

When we needed to say something, we spoke in a kind of shorthand. We had been doing things like this our entire marriage, and that morning was no different.

Over lunch, we talked about our other properties.

The apartment buildings were getting no lookers, I said. A couple of the renters had agreed to buy but wanted rent-to-own contracts. Molly swore sourly. If we wanted to wait thirty years we were better off keeping the property. I thought about making a pitch for keeping everything, including our marriage, but in the wastelands I had discovered the worst thing you can do is to try to close too soon, so I simply grumbled my agreement. To hell with them. If they wanted the property they could go to the bank. While we were on the subject of real estate I asked about Florida. Not as good as Doc had said, she answered, but there was money to be made, and Doc was ready to finance the venture if and when they found the right property. She was planning to stay in Florida then? I asked.

Still thinking about it. And me? I told her I had a decent chance of keeping my job if we could start deposing the university’s witnesses, but Gail needed five thousand before she went any further. ‘I told her I would ask you about signing off on that amount.’

‘I’ll drive into town this afternoon and take care of it,’ Molly said. ‘You can pay me back after the settlement.’

Molly’s aunt had left her a fairly substantial pool of cash. It would be easier, Molly said, for her to write Gail a check. If she needed more, she could contact Molly directly. ‘We can settle the debt later.’

‘If you stay in Florida, what about Lucy? Senior year and all.’

‘I told her she can move down with me in January and finish school in Ft. Meyers or stay with the Sloans and graduate here. It’s up to her.’

‘What do you think she’ll do?’

Molly smiled. ‘We drove out to a stable where she can keep Jezebel and Ahab. It was nice. The owner talked to her like he might be able to give her some work training a couple of racetrack Quarter horses for barrels, maybe teaching a class or two to kids. I think she was excited.’

I told Molly that was great. My tone said otherwise.

We had talked to Lucy about attending the funeral Tuesday, but it was scheduled for mid-after-noon. She had already missed three days of class the week before. She said if we didn’t mind she would go to the visitation and miss the funeral.

After a spiritless dinner hour Monday evening, the three of us headed into town in Molly’s rental. Walt and Barbara had made their arrangements a few years before, never dreaming they would be here together.

Certainly Roger was not capable of handling something of this magnitude. He was twenty-five years old with the emotional maturity of an adolescent. There were no brothers or sisters on either side of the marriage, though quite a few cousins on Barbara’s side showed up. It was apparently a tremendous imposi-tion for them that Walt should end up at the same funeral as Barbara, but that much was Roger’s call. I expect, as the lone beneficiary, Roger was counting his pennies. Five-point-five million, after all, just didn’t go as far as it used to. One ceremony, one hall, one preacher: murderer and victim side-by-side. What was the problem?

The funeral home was divided into two distinct camps since Barbara had long ago broken ties with the faculty. A few too many secrets kept from her, I believe. The result was members of our department pitched in on one side with Randy Winston in the lead, and Barbara’s clan, such as it was, on the other.

It was like a wedding where the ushers ask, ‘Bride or groom?’ and seat you accordingly.

I had volunteered to do whatever was needed, hoping at least I would be one of the pallbearers. Because Randy had not responded to my offer, I found him the moment we entered the funeral home. What did he want me to do? Randy told me it might be better for everyone concerned if I didn’t participate. I was irritated naturally, but I said I understood.

When Johnna Masterson walked in, I thought about pointing her out to Molly, but decided there was no advantage in showing her the department’s centrefold.

I did, however, try to approach her. I was anxious to know what Buddy Elder had told her and just why she had ended up making her complaint with Denise instead of separately. When Johnna saw me moving toward her, she walked over to Randy Winston.

Touching his arm, she whispered something. Randy’s eyes locked on me at once.

I made no second attempt.

A while later I engaged in a clammy handshake with Roger Beery. He offered a few incoherent grunts when I talked about his parents, but that was the extent of our conversation. I could not decide if he was in shock or just didn’t care. I didn’t want to judge the kid on the basis of tears or a lack of them. I had not cried at Tubs’s funeral. I recalled even that I had managed to laugh a few times with old friends. Lots of stories at that funeral, I can tell you. But Roger neither laughed nor wept. Someone quoted the newspaper to me. Roger had found the bodies. Could I imagine? I shook my head. No, I couldn’t, I said. I swallowed my impulse to observe that in my researches about murder I had learned the killer was often the person who discovered the murder victim.

After a while I gravitated toward people I didn’t know. I did quite well with these folks, especially when I got to talk about how Walt and Barbara had extended their friendship to Molly and me when I had first joined the faculty. I knew Barbara? That was always the question. My answer was always the same. A wonderful woman. This inspired remarks about Barbara’s sainthood. Having never cared for any of the saints other than Jude, I agreed heartily. She sure as hell was.