Dante's Dilemma (10 page)

“Neuschwanstein,” Candace said, pointing out one of them. “And the one next to it could be Xanadu.”

“Perfect,” I said. “Just keep us away from mad kings and Orson Welles impersonators.”

“And lions and tigers and bears. This neighborhood certainly does have an Oz-like quality to it. It's hard to believe we're this close to Woodlawn.”

Woodlawn, and its neighbor, Garfield Park, were some of the poorest urban enclaves in the country. I wondered how the people who lived there felt about the rich man's Disneyland located practically on their doorstep.

“Here we are,” Candace said. “At the end of the yellow brick road.”

The house she escorted me to was apparently more modest than some, a three-story Richardsonian Romanesque set back from the street on a full acre. We went up a walkway covered in yet more salt and rang the bell. From the light and noise spilling out from the windows, it appeared the party was already in full swing.

“I should warn you about our host,” Candace said while we waited for someone to answer. “Dean Oliver Armstrong, usually referred to around campus by the initials DOA. We'll want to avoid getting stuck with him. Simply deadly. And then there's Professor Ziskin, the retired head of the Italian Department. Poor old dear is nearly deaf and refuses to wear a hearing aid.”

Meaning we'd make a fine pair. I suddenly had doubts about what I was getting into, walking into a houseful of tedious academics. As it turned out, I needn't have worried about the party being dull.

Candace proved to be a quick study in blind etiquette, expertly steering me across the spacious front rooms of the Victorian and warning me when we came across hazards in the form of sunken steps, carpet edges, and pedestals bearing hothouse plants, of which there appeared to be quite a few. “My God, it's practically
The Little Shop of Horrors
in here,” she whispered in my ear after we'd dropped off our coats. “Check this one out.” She stopped to guide my hand to a monster that felt like it had been raised on raw steak. “The last thing I would have predicted about our esteemed dean is having a green thumb.” She went on to describe the other rich appointments, which included intricately carved moldings, antique tapestries, and enough pre-Raphaelite paintings to fill a gallery at the British Museum.

I asked how a university administrator could afford all this.

“Dead On Arrival? I think it's his wife's money. I heard she's related to the McCormicks. I should introduce you.”

Candace took me over to meet our hosts, who were standing aside a buffet table sending off odors of smoked fish and various items
en croute
. “Pleasure to, ah, make your, ah, acquaintance,” Dean Armstrong said, offering a small, soft hand. I imagined him as a wizened little figure with owlish features, which Candace later told me wasn't too far off. Before anyone else could get in a word, he launched into a disquisition on the capital fund, punctuated by further “ahs,” “uhs,” and drawn-out pauses that fully explained his reputation. Fortunately, his wife had better social skills. “Ollie, I'm sure our guests have better things to talk about,” she interrupted, just as he was gearing up to tell us about new improvements to the library. “You two must be hungry. Let me offer you something to eat.”

After Candace and I had stuffed ourselves to the gills, we proceeded to make the rounds, circulating among groups engaged in lively debate about such topics as Malthusian economics, the Luo people of Kenya, British attitudes toward slavery in the seventeenth century, literary appropriations of the Faust myth, primate osteology, chaos theory, and the filmography of Miyazaki—to name just a few. With my folding cane tucked into my back trouser pocket, people either didn't notice I was blind or pretended not to, a degree of social anonymity I rarely got to enjoy. By my third drink, I was comfortably ensconced on one of the overstuffed sofas with my arm around Candace's shoulder, listening to half a dozen people whose names and departments I could barely keep straight holding forth on socio-evolutionary theory.

“But Bruce, don't you think it's a stretch to say that people's savage instincts actually contribute to a well-functioning society?”

“Erik, I'm saying that current thinking supports what Nietzsche first proposed—that the urge to punish, which originated in spite, was later converted into a mechanism for achieving fairness through the creation of rules and legal systems to enforce them. Without spite, we'd still be stealing each other's livestock and raping each other's wives.”

“And let's not forget about the paradigms suggested by game theory,” said a third one, producing a spate of groans.

“Hear, hear, people,” Erik crowed. “Can there be one faculty party in which game theory does
not
enter into the discussion?”

“At this university? You're dreaming,” a fourth quipped. “But to continue on the subject of Nietzsche . . .”

Eventually, one of them asked me what I thought. Drawn into the conversation for the first time, I chose my words carefully. “I don't know about spite making right, but there have been some interesting studies using college students as subjects—”

“A spiteful little lot if ever there was one,” interjected a professor whose high, querulous voice I'd come to associate with Charles, an economist.

“Oh, Charles let it go,” said the woman seated next to Candace, introduced to me earlier as Amanda. “We were all parodied in the spring musical. Go on,” she urged me politely.

“Well, I was going to say that the research seems to show a connection between negative emotions and certain fields of study. Economics, for instance, is strongly correlated with lowered generosity and feelings of persecution.”

This met with a round of guffaws, except from Charles, who said petulantly, “Go ahead and laugh. I hardly think I deserve being portrayed as only one step removed from Hitler. There's a reason behind the strict grading curve, after all.”

I quickly pointed out that I was only joking. “But in all seriousness, the work I'm familiar with tends to prove that men are more spiteful than women—”

“What a surprise,” Amanda said.

“—and that circumstances can provoke spiteful outbursts in otherwise agreeable people. Bitter divorce, for example, which prompts some spouses to hide or even dispose of assets just to keep the other from getting their fair share.”

The conversation then turned to gossip about faculty split-ups and eventually—as I'd hoped—to the Westlake-Lazarus affair. My ears pricked up at the first mention:

“And let's not forget about that absolutely horrid incident at Scav in the spring. Completely overshadowed the Nobel Prize nominations.”

“Humph,” Amanda said. “I shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but if Rachel killed him out of spite, he deserved it. The man was a perfect little pig—to Rachel and everyone else who had the misfortune to come in contact with him. Including that poor girl, Olivia.”

“The daughter?”

“Yes, such a sad, awkward thing. In one of my gender-studies classes last spring. Absolutely terrified of speaking in class. When he was killed, I gave her an extension on turning in her final paper until the trial was over. I can't imagine the ordeal she's been through.”

“So you believe he abused her, too?” someone else asked with obvious interest.

Charles sniffed. “Why does everyone assume the man was a wife beater? Always seemed the perfect gentleman to me. It's unfair to libel a chap solely because of his honestly offered opinions.”

“Honestly offered opinions,” Amanda scoffed. “The only thing that interested Gunther was getting himself on Fox News. I doubt he truly believed in anything he said. It was only the notoriety—and the money it brought in—that he cared about. And yes, I think he abused them both.”

“Didn't know Westlake all that well, but his speaking engagements were rumored to be bringing in seven figures annually,” Bruce offered, as though bothered by the distasteful direction in which the conversation was headed.

“If you ask my opinion,” Erik said, drowning him out, “Charles is right. There wasn't any abuse. It's just a fiction dreamed up by the attorneys.”

“Why do you say that?” Amanda demanded.

“Just that I saw the two of them quite a bit socially because of my position as chair of the department. Rachel always struck me as a highly intelligent woman. You know she was getting her PhD just before they were married? It makes no sense that she would have stayed with Gunther all those years if she was truly being mistreated.”

Amanda snorted. “That's the theory they trot out in all these cases—she couldn't have been abused because otherwise she would have left him. Whereas all the studies show that it's far more complicated than that. Battered women who don't leave their abusers often love their spouses and harbor the hope—however unrealistic—that they can become normal husbands and fathers. That's why they stay.”

“Careful now, Amanda,” another person laughed. “Someone might begin to think you're a feminist. Are you sure one of your protégés in the Women's Alliance didn't perform the evil deed?”

“Gunther wouldn't have been worth the effort. Though I did have to remind the young ladies not to make a show of dancing on his grave. Whatever you thought of him, no one deserves ending up like something out of an Orwellian farce.”

Charles piped in then with his two cents: “I'm surprised the police didn't think it was one of his students. I heard he was very hard on his PhD candidates.”

“Did Westlake even have any? I'd be shocked that someone would voluntarily choose to study under the man,” Amanda said. “Erik, what do you know about that?”

“Well, there were only two in the last ten years. The first one had a nervous breakdown last winter and transferred to USC. The second is still here, though I believe there was some friction. Fellow's due to defend his dissertation next quarter. I'm one of the reviewers. Quite a nice piece of work, by the way. Which reminds me, has anyone here heard about the commencement schedule . . .”

Which unfortunately put an end to the subject.

Candace leaned over and whispered in my ear, “I need to go off to use the washroom. Is it OK if I leave you alone for a few minutes? I'll get us fresh drinks on the way back.”

I told her I'd be fine.

Moments later, the space she left was taken by someone who sat down clumsily, nearly upsetting the drink I was balancing on my knee. From the way the seat cushions deflated, I gathered the newcomer was large.

“Peter Crow, mind your manners,” Amanda said from the other side of him. “That seat's taken and you almost crushed me on the way down.”

“Who's sitting here?” he said, slurring his words.

“Candace McIntyre. She just went off for a moment. Isn't that right, Mark?”

Before I could reply, the man said, “Well, I'm staying until she's back. Need some rest.” He pushed himself even farther into the sofa, practically forcing me onto the armrest with his bulk.

I thought that was rude but didn't want to seem impolite myself, so I gave him my name.

He seemed not to notice, exhaling loudly as though from the exertion of getting himself settled.

I tried again, saying my name a little louder this time.

Still nothing but labored breathing.

“Peter, what's wrong with you?” Amanda asked. “Mark is trying to introduce himself.”

“Who?” Peter asked dully.

His behavior was starting to worry me.

“Are you feeling all right?” I asked, nodding meaningfully in Amanda's direction and putting my drink down. I thought to take his pulse and felt for his hand, which I judged to be somewhere to the left of my knee. I was right about him being huge. The thigh I encountered on my first pass felt like a tree trunk. His hand was equally plus-size, and nearly as big as a Ping-Pong paddle. But muscular, not fat, and oddly shaped on the metacarpal side.

That was as far as I got when Peter exited his stupor. “Wha . . . what are you doing?” he said, tearing the hand away as if in panic.

I put on my bedside manner. “It's OK. I'm a doctor. I thought you were acting a little funny so I—”

“Funny, huh? Yeah, I'm hysterical, all right. But I don't need any doctors.”

“Are you sure? Your skin felt a little clammy to me.”

“Maybe had a few too many,” he admitted.

“Are you light-headed?” I asked. “Maybe you should have some water.”

Amanda, meanwhile, had risen to her feet. “I can get him some.”

“No, s'all right. I can do it myself,” Peter said, his speech growing sloppier by the minute. He made motions to push himself up.

I shook my head at Amanda. In the shape he was in, I didn't think our friend could walk two steps.

“Peter, dear,” Amanda said, “Why don't you just stay put while I fetch you a glass. It will only take a minute. Stay here and talk to Mark. He's very nice and won't bite.”

“Noooooooo, I don't like doctors,” Peter said, attempting to rise once more.

Others around us had now caught on to the drama taking place and ceased talking.

Peter tried once more to get up. Halfway to his feet, he spun on his heel, groaning.

And without further ceremony, vomited all over me.