Murder in the English Department (11 page)

They found an empty booth in the air-conditioned recesses of the Gourmet Sandwich Bar and began a dozen conversations, none of them about Lisa. Shirley made her usual, discreet inquiries into the state of Nan's life. Any new boyfriends? What classes was she teaching this term? How was the little garden in the back of her little apartment?

Nan understood that Shirley wasn't conscious of saying ‘little'. They found each other's lives confining in different ways, that's all.

As usual, Nan answered her sister's questions within three minutes. There was so much she never confided, even before the ghost of Angus Murchie. Like the tenure decision. She never told Shirley the dozen ways that it frightened her. They spent ninety-five percent of their time together talking about Shirley's life, because ‘the family' was more mutual territory and also, Nan had to admit, because Shirley was more forthcoming.

‘So we thought we'd take a short vacation—just Joe and me—in Reno,' Shirley was saying. ‘Gladys Crosby was telling us about a casino hotel deal where they practically pay you to stay there.'

‘Why don't you go somewhere on the California side of Tahoe,' suggested Nan, in what she tried to make a perfectly reasonable, friendly voice. ‘You know that Nevada hasn't passed the Equal Rights Amendment, and we're trying to boycott the state.'

‘How can you boycott a whole state?' asked Shirley. ‘Really, that seems a bit high horse to me, just because they don't agree with your feminist politics.'

‘It's more than politics,' said Nan, recognizing the pattern in this argument and noticing how they were effectively avoiding the troubled subject of Lisa. ‘It's my life—and
your
life, too,' Nan could not, or would not, stop herself from arguing. ‘It's just like the Civil Rights Bill a few years back, giving equality to blacks and …'

‘Listen,' said Shirley. ‘Shall we agree to disagree? We don't want to get into an argument now.'

Agree to disagree, thought Nan wearily, remembering their mother serving tea and cordiality, suggesting they agree to disagree, reminding them that family ties were stronger than political differences. Mother admonished them that when they went out into society (such a funny phrase, as if she expected her two girls from the Hayward cannery to be invited to debutante cotillions) they must always avoid talking about religion and politics.

Nan and Shirley finished their coffee and paid the bill. As they walked out Shirley asked if Nan would be able to make it out for the Fourth of July this year.

‘Sure, if I'm in town,' said Nan, not explaining her dream of going to India or Japan or somewhere very, very far away this summer. Funny how Shirley, who couldn't organize her life enough to take the secretarial courses she always talked about, was now lining up the holidays on Nan's calendar. But January to July was a big leap, even for Shirley. The holidays meant so much to her. Perhaps they were symbolic of the family closeness for which both women wished. Despite their affection, they each kept many secrets. At least Nan did, because she preferred being anonymous to being misunderstood. Someday she
would
tell Shirley about the tenure struggles, the abortion, the migraine headaches she suffered during the ten years she was married to Charles. Someday. Now they were having trouble just being straight about Lisa.

‘… the sale at Goldman's?' Shirley was saying.

‘What was that?' asked Nan, surfacing back to Southland.

‘Do you want to drop round to the sale at Goldman's?' asked Shirley in a louder voice.

Nan wondered at her sister's relentless cheer.

‘They've got a special on small-size summerwear,' continued Shirley. ‘Didn't you say you needed a new bikini?'

Nan smiled at Shirley's long, practical memory and nodded agreeably because there was still an hour left before they could see Lisa.

Back at the hospital,
the
nurse informed them they would have to wait an additional thirty minutes.

When they were finally admitted to the ward, Lisa was propped up against some pillows, her hair just washed and still wet.

‘You look like you've been through the laundromat,' teased Nan.

Her niece feigned the patience of Elizabeth Barrett after a bad day with father.

‘More like the old-fashioned ringer,' managed Lisa. ‘Don't tell me you two have been hanging around here all evening waiting for me to be liberated from medical technology.'

‘We had a nice little shopping expedition,' said Shirley. ‘And we bought your aunt a very sexy bathing suit. Nan is joining us on the Fourth of July, isn't that nice?'

‘But it's just after New Year's,' Lisa laughed weakly.

‘Don't you remember,' smiled Nan, ‘how your mother made all the Christmas plans on my birthday in August?'

‘Well, I hope that I'm around to celebrate with you,' said Lisa.

‘Oh, sweetheart,' said Shirley. She put her hand on Lisa's cheek. ‘Don't be talking like that. Don't even be thinking like that.'

Lisa pulled away, frowning and silent.

‘Mrs Growsky,' said the nurse, appearing in the doorway. ‘May we speak with you a moment?'

Shirley nodded nervously and then turned to Nan. ‘You give her a good talking to.' She was forcing a smile. ‘You pep her up, will you?'

Once Shirley was out the door, Lisa began to cry.

‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘Sometimes Mom is so awful chirpy.'

Nan sat on the bed and held Lisa's hands. She was washed with fondness for her brave niece and her persevering sister. Lisa had an admirable commitment to candour, a passion for truth which would not allow her mother's compromises for survival. It was as if her honesty had blossomed from the qualities of Shirley's endurance.

‘I don't want to hurt her,' said Lisa. ‘It's just so confusing, so tiring, and she keeps up this happy smile while I
know
she's falling apart inside.'

Now Nan began to weep. They sat for a long time, holding each other and crying. It was a relief for both of them, the first release this terrifying day. Then they rocked silently.

Bells rang. From somewhere.

‘That mean's visiting hours are over,' said Lisa. ‘They told me you couldn't stay after 8.15.'

‘Listen, I've got an idea,' said Nan.

‘What?' Lisa smiled, in spite of herself. ‘I know, you sneak under the bed and then come out in the dark. We can have a slumber party.'

‘Not a bad thought,' said Nan. ‘Actually, my idea was about the summer.'

‘About the Fourth of July?' Lisa was forcing herself to wakefulness above the drugs.

‘Yup,' nodded Nan. ‘How about we skip the Fourth of July and the fourth of August and spend some time wandering around the Himalayas together? Just the two of us, kid, and thousands of sherpas.'

‘Wonderful,' declared Lisa. ‘Oh, I get it,' she smiled. ‘It's a bargain, isn't it? I have to promise to live until the summer.'

‘Much longer than that.'

‘Well, Nan, I'll try. But tell me about you. How are things at school?'

‘No more word on the murder,' Nan said as evenly as possible. Then she added quickly, ‘My classes are good. I really like my graduate students this year. Marjorie Adams's thesis is coming along in strides.' Now why did she mention that? She shouldn't have permitted herself to think about Wheeler Hall. ‘Anyway, this is all pretty boring business compared to the Himalayas. Do we have a date for the summer or do I have to go get myself another niece?'

‘Oh, not that,' Lisa's voice went up in mock alarm. ‘The Himalayas it is.'

The nurse walked in, followed by Shirley.

‘I'm afraid,' the nurse said, ‘that …'

‘That the prison is closing for the night,' interrupted Lisa, with a grin.

Shirley, still standing behind the nurse, nodded approvingly to Nan. ‘Well, Miss Lisa, you seem to be approaching your normal, sassy self.'

Shirley walked over and kissed her daughter goodbye. ‘See you tomorrow then.'

Lisa waved to them and winked at Nan. ‘See you in Kathmandu.'

Shirley's smile did not drop completely until they were safely in the car. And, once she began to let go, she could not stop the loud, rasping sobs.

‘OK, OK, steady there, girl,' Nan comforted her sister. ‘Now tell me just what the doctor said.'

‘Nothing. He said that he couldn't say
anything
for another month. She could be out of the hospital in two days. He might try this drug “prednisone” or something. The sickness could disappear forever or …'

‘Or Lisa might die,' finished Nan, losing her temper for the first time in this insane day. ‘God damn. This makes no sense. It just isn't fair. She's a kid, such a good kid.'

The two women huddled together inside Isadora, Shirley silently weeping and Nan railing.

Finally, Nan calmed down, or perhaps she simply wore out. ‘Look, this isn't doing us any good,' she said, stroking Shirley's hair. ‘I'll have a talk with the doctor tomorrow and then call my friends in Maryland and Chicago. We're not going to sit quietly while Lisa succumbs to, to nothing.'

Shirley looked at Nan hopefully, and Nan looked back with restrained reassurance. She didn't want Shirley to expect miracles. She would just see what she could do.

Nan dropped Shirley at the door. Joe would be inside to take care of her. No, she wouldn't go in. She had had enough family for one day. Besides, she needed to get home, to try once more to sleep.

Jose Feliciano was singing
‘California
Dreaming' on Isadora's radio as Nan pulled on to the freeway, out of Hayward.

‘Hayward is one of those anonymous California way stations that no one sings or writes or dreams about,' she said aloud, reassured by the sound of her own voice. ‘A stage coach stop in the last century. Now a BART station to the plusher suburbs. Hayward has always been the kind of place where losers got waylaid on the road to their ambitions. California nightmare. California madness.'

Perhaps she was hysterical. She must be more than a little crazy to be giving herself a pop sociology lecture, especially tonight in the midst of murder and fatal disease.

She remembered once in the second grade how Sister Maria Goretti had explained that prayer was retroactive. If only Nan still believed in prayer. If only she knew to whom she could pray. Perhaps she would just try her mother's approach to crisis, making it disappear by ignoring it.

‘California dreaming is vineyards,' she continued groggily, ‘orange groves, quaint adobe missions surrounded by bougainvillaea, the Sierras, the Pacific Ocean. California madness is earthquakes, the Donner Party, Zodiac murders, Altamont.'

‘Holy shit,' shouted Nan, as a pickup swerved in front of her, almost amputating Isadora's right fender. She leaned on the horn. The truck driver gave her the finger. His bumper sticker said, ‘I'd rather be swinging'.

More alert now, Nan watched the winding speed of Highway 580 move into the dark, forested Warren Freeway leading to Berkeley. Descending upon her was the now-familiar depression, that profound claustrophobia. And she realized why people went into madness. It was the only safe exit from the freeway.

Chapter Eleven

MARJORIE ARRIVED
for her
appointment spot on time, dressed as, hmmm, perhaps as Katharine Hepburn today.

A pin-striped shirt tucked into baggy linen pants held up by fashionable suspenders. If Nan tried to wear these clothes, she would look ridiculous. Was it the difference between them of six inches or twenty-five years? Neither; it was something to do with class in several connotations. Nan reckoned that Marjorie carried off the role better than Hepburn. She knew that the other side of her disdain for Marjorie's materialism was awe of her panache. Nan was not a little envious of all this classiness.

‘Have a seat, Marjorie,' said Nan.

‘Thank you, Professor Weaver.'

Again Nan was impressed with Marjorie's formality. The demure manner balanced the flamboyant appearance, like diplomat licence plates on a chartreuse Jaguar. Nan tried to understand: visual vs. verbal; action vs. admission; unconscious feeling vs. intellectual rationale. She imagined Marjorie was generated by great imagination and protected by deep discretion.

‘How about a cup of tea, Marjorie? It's only bagged Lipton' (why was she apologizing?), ‘but I suppose anything will do in this chilly weather.'

‘Yes, thanks,' Marjorie accepted, ‘that would be lovely.'

Her eyes, Nan noticed again, were sure and steady. She didn't look like
she
had lost any sleep during the past week, at least nothing compared with Nan's insomnia. Marjorie seemed quite composed for someone who had killed a man with his own letter opener in the room next door.

‘Shocking, isn't it,' said Nan, in spite of herself.

She had intended to let Marjorie raise the issue. She must have noticed Nan's light when she climbed down the scaffolding. Marjorie must know that Nan knew.

Nan thought back to their first interview, the day Marjorie asked her to supervise the thesis. Marjorie had been terse about her life. Only child. Rich parents. Always top of her class. She was so reserved—as if Nan's asking personal questions was as inappropriate as investigating her dental history. But Nan felt more sorry for Marjorie than embarrassed for herself. Somehow the student lacked common sense and basic social skills. As Amy would say, she wasn't ‘streetwise' at all.

‘Shocking,' repeated Marjorie, pulling out her fountain pen and opening her pad. ‘Oh, yes,' she continued almost absently, ‘Professor Murchie's death, shocking.'

Death. Nan noticed she said ‘death', and not ‘murder'.

‘Thank you,' said Marjorie, accepting the mug from Nan. She sat back in the wooden chair, bobbing the tea bag in the steaming water, waiting for Nan to speak.

‘Not that he was everyone's favourite colleague,' Nan continued, thinking the young woman might need some encouragement to talk.

‘Oh, Professor Weaver,' said Marjorie with alarm, ‘You mustn't speak like that.'

Poor Marjorie, thought Nan, she was overcome. She noticed that her student's eyes were slightly bloodshot, that, in fact, she did seem rather tired. How
would
such an experience change you? Was she terrified? Hardened? Still in shock?

Marjorie leaned toward and dropped her tea bag into the grey waste can. ‘With all the suspicion floating around us,' she said confidentially, ‘comments like that could get you in trouble.'

Nan did not know how to respond to such coolness.

‘Of course, I'm not meaning to imply anything,' Marjorie added quickly, almost blushing. ‘It's just that everyone is so paranoid.'

How remarkable for Marjorie to identify with ‘everyone'. Nan realized that she must have been staring because Marjorie asked, ‘Have I upset you?'

For a frozen, horrified moment, Nan wondered if Marjorie was intentionally casting suspicion on her.

Finally, she said, ‘No, you haven't upset me. No, I think I've been upset for most of the last two weeks.'

‘Of course,' Marjorie said gently.

‘Well, then,' said Nan, ‘shall we get down to work? I do think that this last piece you submitted is very fine indeed.'

Was this her own voice? Nan wondered. Her own words? Was she actually behaving as calmly and professionally as Marjorie's deferential attention implied?

The appointment was scheduled for an hour. They became quickly engrossed. In fact, this was turning out to be one of the most satisfying sessions they had had, unscathed by petty jealousies or insecurities. Focussed by such mutual intensity, they shared a curtain against the grim violence of two weeks before. Power and love in the work of Iris Murdoch. Power and hate in the death of Angus Murchie. An appropriate wake, somehow, for the despised professor.

Marjorie's questions barely contained her excitement for their discussion. Nan thought of Lisa's idealism, how alike in tone and how different in aspiration were the two young women. While Lisa was convinced that school would give her tools to change the world Marjorie had faith that school would give her answers to understand it. And today she had a special urgency about her, as if these novels could substitute for the treacherous narrative of her own life.

The Campanile sounded two o'clock, reminding Nan that she had a class to teach in ten minutes. She was surprised when Marjorie made an appointment for the following Monday. Even now, she expected Marjorie to be called off on some emergency. But no, the young woman would stick it out, would stay around. The scene of the crime probably was the wisest sanctuary. A wiser one than Nan would seek.

As Marjorie stood, gathering her papers, Nan noticed a slight shaking in her hands. This silent self-containment was not normal, not human. Marjorie really must speak to someone, to get this gruesome business off her chest. Despite her objections to the sacrament of penance, Nan had to admit the sheer relief of confession. She wasn't sure whether it was for ‘poor Marjorie Adams' or for herself that she made the next step.

Nan reached into her purse and pulled out Marjorie's pink and green scarf from which she had washed Murchie's dark blood. For a moment, Nan was lost, imagining it tied around Marjorie's hair, plaited into the braid which later hung ragged down her back as she fled across the campus.

For the first time in an hour, Marjorie lost her composure. Her blue eyes widened and her cheeks flushed brightly. She
was
human. Nan wondered if her scrutiny was sadistic. No, she needed to know that Marjorie was human. She felt a strong draw toward her now, a rush of all her bottled-up sympathy.

‘Is that my scarf?' asked Marjorie, quavering on the ‘is' but steady by the time she got to ‘scarf'.

‘I guess it must be,' said Nan. ‘I found it …'

Marjorie interrupted her, ‘Yes, I think I do recall wearing it the last time I was here.'

Remembering the black and red Joan Crawford dress Marjorie was wearing during their last appointment, Nan couldn't believe she would make up such an absurdly unstylish alibi. She must know where Nan had found the scarf.
She must know.

‘I did look around for it after that appointment,' Marjorie continued.

And so Nan learned that the younger woman's facility for analysing fiction was well matched by her talent for creating it. Nan
did not understand
the game in which they were both irrevocably caught.

‘Thank you,' said Marjorie. ‘I bought it in Paris several years ago. I'm so grateful to have it back.'

Now Nan couldn't imagine Hepburn handling that line with more aplomb. ‘I bought it in Paris,' Nan thought to herself. Imagine that. Imagine anything. Imagine a murder around the corner. Often during the last two weeks, especially during those early morning, insomniac walks around her small flat, Nan did wonder just how much she had imagined. No, no, she was absolutely sure Marjorie hadn't worn this green and purple scarf with her Joan Crawford dress.

Marjorie calmly finished collecting her papers. She turned to Nan as she reached the door. ‘Professor Weaver, there's something I have to tell you.'

‘Yes,' Nan said unsteadily.

‘I want to apologise for my very rigid disapproval of your political activities.'

‘My, my,' stammered Nan, ‘my political activities?'

What
was this woman made of, thought Nan. She surveyed Marjorie's angelic countenance and wondered if the student were crazy. Trauma made some people disassociate from reality.

Nan was sure of only one thing—Marjorie must leave. She must leave before Nan went crazy. Nan must help her to leave.

‘Well, yes, I appreciate your concern, Marjorie. But I do have a class now. Perhaps we can talk about it another time?' Nan heard Marjorie's cool, assured tone coming from her own mouth. Not surprising, since Marjorie had written the entire scene, the whole unlikely plot.

Marjorie nodded cordially and was gone. Gone with the languid grace of someone who had never run across a dark campus, her hair flying, her scarf lost.

Ten minutes later, Nan found herself staring at the wall opposite, at a map of Jane Austen's Winchester. She checked her watch and realized she was going to be late for her modern literature class. She had already missed three appointments this week. She was drinking so much brandy late at night that she wasn't completely present at the appointments she did manage to keep. Maybe, after all, she should tell Matt. Otherwise, she might drink herself to death. Surely the genteel Marjorie Adams did not want two deaths on her kid gloves.

So Nan found herself knocking on Matt's door after class. (A very bad session it was, saved only by the students' blessed obsession with course requirements and grades.) When Matt did not answer, Nan felt grateful. Why, she asked herself as she walked down the corridor, why did she need to keep this terrible secret? Was she being self-destructive? Some kind of martyr? She should talk with someone. Amy? No, Amy would think she was mad, would insist on protecting her from herself. Matt was really the only person who would understand, who would talk out the questions of good and bad, of right and wrong with her, who could keep the silence. On the other hand, the more word got out, the more chance it had of leaking and drowning Marjorie Adams.

As she unlocked her office door, the phone was ringing. Marjorie Adams, maybe, asking if they might meet in some dimly lit bar to discuss the finer points of sexual harassment? Matt, maybe, who would get her to confess to what had been bothering her for two weeks. Sometimes during those sleepless early mornings, she wondered if Matt suspected her, suspected the look in her eyes to be fearful guilt rather than the cold weight of someone else's secret.

‘Nan,' came an excited voice from the other end, Shirley's voice.

‘Nannie, we have some news.'

‘Yes,' said Nan, breathlessly switching from one drama to another. Why was she immersed in these two questions of death now? Is this what Francie called karma? If so, Nan knew why she had always distrusted those eastern religions.

‘Do they know the trouble with Lisa?'

‘No,' said Shirley, almost jubilant, ‘but
none
of the tests are positive.'

‘Oh, Shirl,' said Nan, and then she, herself, could not continue. The relief came in heavy sobs.

‘Oh, now, this is no time for crying.' Shirley had done her weeping at a more appropriate time, earlier during the anxious week. ‘And what's more, Lisa is feeling a little better. She'll be home tomorrow.'

‘May I invite myself to supper?' asked Nan.

‘I was hoping you could make it,' said Shirley. ‘Say, are you OK? Your voice sounds kinda tight.'

‘Fine,' said Nan, briskly. ‘Just fine. And Shirl?'

‘Yes?'

‘Do you think you could spare time for just the two of us? I have something rather difficult to talk about. I mean, could we go off somewhere for a drink after supper?'

‘Sure,' said Shirley with surprise. ‘Just the two of us, honey?'