Jan Burke - Remember Me, Irene

“I don’t know if I’ve ever thought-”

“It’s okay. How could you know anything about me? Naturally, his former girlfriends would assume that-what’s the old saying?-‘The apple never falls too far from the tree,’ right? And what a tree! When I was younger, I used to fantasize that he’d get back together with my mother. By the time I was in high school, I was grateful he left her alone.”

“Even though you were away at college when I was dating him, my impression was that Andre adored you.”

He shrugged. “He did. Still does, I suppose, but that isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It meant that the only sibling I’ll ever have-Lisa-grew up hating me. And no one thinks of me as Jerry Selman, an individual in his own right. I’m always Andre Selman’s son.” He laughed. “ His reputation precedes me.”

“Academically, that can’t be bad.”

“Unless you are expected to exceed your sire’s abilities. I never will. I’m a better teacher, frankly. But I’m no good as a researcher. Sometimes I think his frustration over my lack of scholarly ability must have given Dad that first heart attack.”

“You don’t seriously believe that?”

He hesitated only slightly before saying, “No, of course not.”

I felt off-balance. I had expected Jerry Selman to be a smug, spoiled little bastard, not this vulnerable creature. Trying to regain my footing, I asked, “Do you know why I wanted to talk to you today?”

This time he turned a furious red. “Not to hear my tale of woe, I’m sure.”

“Listen, don’t misunderstand me. I’m glad you’ve talked to me about all of this. You’re right-I’ve never tried to get to know you before now. My former relationship with your father isn’t a source of great pride for me, and for obvious reasons you are someone I associate with him. But I’m sure I’ll think of you differently after today.”

“Thanks,” he said. He finished off his coffee and tossed the paper cup into the trash. “But then, I don’t suppose you came here for my thanks. All the same, I do wish there was some way I could show you my appreciation.” He frowned, then said, “While I was waiting at the hospital this morning, I read your article in today’s paper-the one about Allan Moffett’s resignation-and then I realized that you weren’t at the Terrace by coincidence. I take it you’re here in connection with that dinner for Allan.”

So, Lisa’s brother wasn’t nearly as thickheaded as she imagined him to be. I began to wonder if he wasn’t often underestimated. “Yes,” I said, “I thought your father might have talked to you about it.”

“I’m not going to be of much help to you, I’m afraid. I wasn’t invited to it. Dad had mentioned that he was going to be there, but just said that Allan was going to get some of his friends together. I didn’t think anything of it.”

OUTSIDE THE BUILDINGthat housed his office, I stopped at a concrete bench and took a moment to collect my thoughts. Chill air frosted my breath. I was near a big tree full of noisy blackbirds, but otherwise the campus was quiet. It was that time of day when morning classes were over and evening classes had not yet begun. A few students drifted by on their way to the library. I looked around me. Thomas Wolfe was right, except that home isn’t the only place you can’t go back to.

I pulled my coat collar up around my ears and headed down the sloping walkways toward what a friend of mine used to call “the lower kingdom”-the administration building, nestled into the bottom of the hill. It was my fervent wish that Booter Hodges would find my visit there an unpleasant surprise.

HELLO, IRENE!How nice to see you!” Booter wore a big grin as he welcomed me from his office door. “Pammy,” he called to his secretary, who was standing a few feet away, posed in the ready mode, “take this girl’s coat from her, would you?”

Grateful that I had taken it off and draped it over to my arm before Booter could help me out of it, I handed it to Pamela and thanked her.

“Would you like a cappuccino or an espresso?” Booter asked.

“This won’t be from one of the vending machines, I take it?”

He laughed as hard as if it had been one of his boss’s jokes. I looked at the long-suffering Pamela, who stood waiting for the next command. “No need to bring me anything,” I said. “I’m fine.”

“Come on in, come on in,” Booter said.

The enthusiasm didn’t fool me. Booter is paid to be enthusiastic. He was once an economics professor. He received lousy student evaluations, but he got along well with his colleagues-a gift in an academic setting-and was made department chair. What he lacked in teaching ability he made up for in administrative skill. He continued to rise quickly through the ranks, from department chair to dean and on to his current vice presidency. His ability to raise money from alumni and other sources had kept him there for many years.

His real name was Lynn. He hated it. He was fond of telling male companions that he earned the nickname “Booter” by kicking ass in his college days. I knew better. An old chum of his gave me quite a history of the alias. Said Booter used to get drunk at frat parties, and then suffer a side effect of drinking, the one dry cleaners and cabbies hate. At his college, this charming act was referred to as “booting.”

He motioned me to a plush white leather seat. Booter was slender and tanning-salon brown. His gray hair was styled perfectly, his hands were manicured. He was wearing an expensive dark blue suit and a dark red tie. As he sat at his big cherrywood desk, he moved a wide gold band with a diamond in it up and down his left ring finger like the bead on an abacus. I hoped his wife was saving for a rainy day, because it didn’t look like Booter was sure he wanted to keep that ring on.

“Didn’t get a chance to talk to you at the Terrace last night, Booter,” I said. “You disappeared not long after you saw me come into the dining room.”

“Oh, now, Irene, no need to take offense. I was just shaken up by Andre’s collapse. I’ll tell you a little secret.”

I waited.

“Promise not to tell anyone?”

“Depends on the secret.”

He laughed, a little bass chortle this time. “Spoken like a true journalist! Well, all right. Here it is: I can’t stand the sight of blood. I’m a decorated Korean War veteran, but I am an utter yellow-belly when it comes to anything having to do with doctors or medicine. I can’t even date nurses!”

“Imagine that,” I said.

“Say, was that your husband I saw you with last night?”

“Yes, that’s Frank.”

More movement with the ring. “Now, that man’s a hero. In fact, I’m going to recommend that the president send him a letter of thanks.”

“The president,” in this case, would be the college president.

“Entirely unnecessary, I assure you, Booter.”

“No, no! I’m going to do it. He saved one of our most important faculty members.”

“Jerry Selman did just as much,” I said. “And I don’t think Frank would be comfortable with the attention.”

“Frank? Is that his name?”

I nodded, wishing he would listen to someone besides himself.

“Good-looking man.”

I was trying to figure out if saying “thanks” was the appropriate response when he irritated me by adding, “But then, you’re a good-looking gal, right?”

Trying not to do a little booting of my own, I forged ahead. “What brought the six of you together for dinner last night?”

“You were there, you saw us. Nothing to hide. Allan retired and wanted to thank those of us who stood by him over the years.”

“In what way does the college foundation stand by the city manager?”