Robert Stone - Death of the Black-Haired Girl

Dean Spofford looked up from the pile of college-printed documents he had been signing. Handouts. Condolences. The kinds of palliative statements he was so good at. He stared at Brookman.

“I know what you’re going through,” the dean said, touching Brookman’s knee. “I know that sounds stupid,” he added.

Brookman, humiliated at the sound of the words, closed his eyes and shook his head.

The dean straightened himself in his chair. “Sorry, Steve. Really.”

“It’s all right, man. What is there to say? It’s hard to imagine.”

For a moment Brookman thought he might really go to pieces, cry on the bastard’s shoulder. A practiced shoulder, no doubt, often cried on by innocence, misfortune, bereavement, remorse. It made him, on second consideration, regret that Mary Spofford had espied him there. He liked and admired her so much and dreaded what she must have been thinking. For a moment he silently observed the dean’s discomfort. Would he let me cry on his wife’s shoulder? He would have loved to cry there.

“So I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours wondering what our reaction should be,” Spofford said.

There were limits. Brookman brought himself under control.

“Whose reaction? Reaction to what? To my killing Maud Stack?”

“Nobody thinks you killed Maud Stack, Steve, but I can tell you what they do think. They think you encouraged and seduced her, taking advantage of your age, experience and position at the college. Abused your responsibility to her and your duty as her professor.”

“Give me a break. You never slept with a student? You didn’t know about me and Maud Stack? You don’t know, as we speak, about other liaisons in this place?”

“Caused in her as a result of that exploitation an emotional state that led to her involvement in a fatal accident. And that your encouragement and seduction was widely known in spite of your being a parent in this community and long married to our friend and colleague Ellie. And people think that those in a position to intervene, to say a word, lay a hand on your cuff and advise you — nay, tell you — to cut it out, did nothing. Knew and did nothing. That’s what people think.”

Brookman said nothing.

“Your request for a leave is denied. Nor will your contract be renewed. As for your questions: I have never slept with one of my students. I emphasize that this speaks only for my discretion. I did know about you and the late Maud Stack. I know about the liaisons of which you speak. I know and the trustees know and even His Dimness the President knows, and I’m going to pay for it. He’s going to pay for it too.”

“Sorry,” Brookman said.

“It’s all right, Steve. I should have seen it coming. It’s an age of transition, isn’t it? The old arrangements fall before the new arrangements. That which was unspeakable may thrive and is blessed. That which was tolerated is an abomination. We’ve been living it. The fine old shit don’t float. Now me — I’ll never get a billet like this — that I enjoy so much — again.”

The front door opened and closed, and the dean looked through the curtained window to see his wife greeting two young women on the street outside.

“Will they really sack you, John? Over this?”

“Yeah. Not just this, I suppose. But yes, they really will.”

“I really am sorry,” Brookman said.

“Sure. But enough about me — let’s talk about you. You have a month to quietly vacate. If you want to haggle over details, get a lawyer.”

Brookman started to stand up.

“Hear me out. Will Ellie leave if you do? Because naturally she can stay, no problem.”

“I’m pretty sure she’ll go with me. I hope she does.”

“Too bad, because it’s unlikely she’ll find a setup like this anytime soon either. I’ll do what I can to see that the college gives her all the recommendations she needs. People may not be as helpful to you because they see you as an outdoors writer. Rather than an educator.”

“Yes,” Brookman said. It was awful about Spofford and even more awful about Mary Pick because of the horrors that had occurred in her life and the comfort she had found at the college. He appreciated Spofford’s not mentioning it. It was all he could do not to apologize again.

On his way to the department office to give notice that he would not be conducting his class next semester, he passed her, chatting with her two companions. He felt as if there on the street he might actually lose his composure.

AFTER THE WEEKEND Stack decided it was time to lay Maud beside her mother. Another spell of warm winter weather had settled on the region. Monday was the warmest December day in seventy years. He took the train out to Nassau County, to the Church of the Holy Redeemer, where his wife’s ashes reposed. He had left a voicemail message with McCallum and Jenkins the day before, letting them know about his intention. He called McCallum again before setting out and this time reached the man himself.

“We may have run into a snag,” McCallum said.

“What snag? You have everything ready, don’t you?”

“We have everything ready on our side. I expected to hear from the bishop’s office, but judging from their call today I don’t know if they’ve made a decision.”

“I want to do this today. If I don’t get it done…” He left the statement unfinished. “I want to get it done.”

“I’d wait until we heard from them.”

“Are you in today?”

“Yeah, I’m in,” McCallum said. “But I’d wait.”

“I’ll be over,” Stack told him.

He took a taxi from the station to the funeral parlor. At the front entrance he found he had to ring for admittance. There was no one inside except James McCallum, funereally dapper, at his desk in the front office. The lingering scent of lilies, he supposed, must be constant. He sat down in one of the chairs intended for mourning clients and took out his checkbook. The undertaker had an itemized bill ready for him, and Stack wrote the check for the full amount.

“So,” Stack said, “do we take it over?”

“Well, the thing is,” McCallum said, “I haven’t got their consent quite yet.”

“Fuck their consent.”

“I don’t know if that’s the attitude. Look,” he said before Stack could answer, “let me show you.”

When he came back he had a rectangular box that looked as though it might be made of slate. It was slate-colored, very dark gray and marked with a dark green cross like the ones that illuminated medieval Celtic manuscripts.

“You didn’t tell us, Mr. Stack. We had to hope it was satisfactory.”

“You mean it’s done?”

“That was how we interpreted your instructions. We had to take the risk it would be all right.”

McCallum held the box toward him in a way that presented him with the option of taking it or not.

Stack put his hands out stiffly and took hold of it. It was cool and smooth, considerably bigger and heavier than he had expected. McCallum rose and quickly took it from him and laid it in front of a gray curtain behind his desk.

“I very much hope it’s all right. Mrs. McCallum and I…”

“It’ll be fine,” Stack said. He had resolved to make them put Maud with Barbara.

“You look angry.”

“I’m not angry at you.”

He was surprised to hear mention of Mrs. McCallum because he had taken James McCallum for gay. In fact, the Mrs. McCallum referred to was McCallum’s mother.

“So I should take it now,” Stack said. “Let’s take it over.”

“Well, they haven’t made the call. I talked to them and I thought I had arranged it but they haven’t made the call.”

“That’s OK,” Stack said. “We’ll just take it there.”