C
hapter 4
I
headed back to the airport
and took the next flight home. What else could I do? I guess I could have approached the grieving widow graveside and asked her why her dearly departed husband married the love of my life six years ago, but just then, that felt somewhat inappropriate. I’m sensitive like that.
So with a nonrefundable ticket on a professor’s salary, plus classes tomorrow and students to see, I reluctantly ducked into one of those “express” jets that are too small for guys my size, folding my legs up so that my knees felt as though they were under my chin, and flew back to Lanford. I live in personality-imperiled campus housing made of washed-out brick. The décor might generously be dubbed “functional.” It was clean and comfortable, I guess, with one of those couch-loveseat combos you see advertised in highway stores for $699. The overall effect is, I think, more apathetic than downright bad, but that also may just be what I tell myself. The small kitchen had a microwave and toaster oven—it had a real oven too, but I don’t think I’ve ever used it—and the dishwasher breaks a lot. As you may have guessed, I don’t entertain here too often.
This is not to say that I don’t date or even have meaningful relationships. I do, though most of these relationships carry a three-month expiration date. Some might find insight in the fact that Natalie and I lasted a little over three months, but I wouldn’t be one of them. No, I don’t live in heartache. I don’t cry myself to sleep or any of that. I am, I tell myself, over it. But I do feel a void, icky as that sounds. And—like it or not—I still think about her every single day.
Now what?
The man who had married the woman of my dreams was, it seemed, married to another woman—not to mention that he was, well, deceased. To put it another way, Natalie was not at the funeral of her husband. That seemed to warrant some kind of response on my part, didn’t it?
I remembered my six-year-old promise. Natalie had said, “Promise me you’ll leave us alone.” Us. Not him or her. Us. At the risk of sounding cold and perhaps overly literal, there was no “us” anymore. Todd was dead. That meant, I firmly believed, that the promise, if it even could still exist because the “us” no longer existed, should be declared null and void.
I booted up the computer—yes, it was old—and typed Natalie Avery into the search engine. A list of links came up. I started going through them, but quickly got discouraged. Her old gallery page still had some of her paintings up. Nothing had been added in, well, six years. I found a few articles on art openings and the like, but again all of them were old. I clicked the button for more current links. There were two hits on white pages, but one woman named Natalie Avery was seventy-nine years old and married to a man named Harrison. The other was sixty-six and married to a Thomas. There were the other routine mentions you would find for pretty much any name—genealogy sites, high school and college alumni pages, that kind of thing.
But really, in the end, nothing appeared relevant.
So what happened to my Natalie?
I decided to try googling Todd Sanderson, see what I could find there. He was indeed a physician—more specifically, a surgeon. Impressive. His office was in Savannah, Georgia, and he was affiliated with Memorial University Medical Center. His specialty was cosmetic surgery. I didn’t know if that meant serious cleft palates or boob jobs. I didn’t know how that could possibly be relevant either. Dr. Sanderson was not big on social networking. He had no Facebook account or LinkedIn or Twitter, none of that.
There were a few mentions of Todd Sanderson and his wife, Delia, at various functions for a charity called Fresh Start, but for the most part there was very little to learn here. I tried throwing in his name with Natalie’s. I got bupkis. I sat back and thought a moment. Then I leaned forward and tried their son, Eric Sanderson. He was only a kid, so I didn’t think there’d be much, but I figured that he’d probably have a Facebook profile. I started there. Parents often choose not to have a Facebook page, but I’ve yet to meet a student who didn’t have one.
A few minutes later, I hit bingo. Eric Sanderson, Savannah, Georgia.
The profile picture was, poignantly enough, a photograph of Eric and his late father, Todd. They both had wide smiles, trying to hold up a big fish of some kind, happily struggling with the weight. A father-son fishing trip, I figured with the pang of a man who wants to be a father. The sun was setting behind them, their faces in shadow, but you could feel the contentment radiate through my computer monitor. I was struck by a strange thought.
Todd Sanderson was a good man.
Yes, it was only a photograph and, yes, I was aware of how people could fake smiles or entire life scenarios, but I sensed goodness here.
I checked out the rest of Eric’s photographs. Most were of Eric and his friends—hey, he was a teenager—at school, at parties, at sporting events, you know the drill. Why does everyone make pouty lips or hand gestures in photographs nowadays? What’s up with that? Dumb thought but the mind goes where it goes.
There was an album simply titled FAMILY. The photos ran through a gamut of years. Eric was a baby in some. Then his sister joined. Then there was the trip to Disney World, other fishing vacations, family dinners, church confirmation, soccer games. I checked them all.
Todd never had long hair—not in any of them. He was never anything but clean-shaven.
So what did that mean?
Not a clue.
I clicked on Eric’s wall or whatever you call that opening page. There were dozens of condolence messages.
“Your dad was the best, I’m so sorry.”
“If there is anything I can do.”
“RIP, Dr. S. You rocked.”
“I’ll never forget the time your dad helped out with my sister.”
Then I saw one that made me pause:
“Such a senseless tragedy. I will never understand the cruelty of human beings.”
I clicked for “older posts” to come up. There, six more down, I found another that caught my eye:
“I hope they catch the a&&hole who did this and fry him.”
I brought up a news search engine and tried to find out more. It didn’t take long to stumble across an article:
HOMICIDE IN SAVANNAH
Local Surgeon Murdered
Popular local surgeon and humanitarian Dr. Todd Sanderson was killed in his home last night in what police believe may have been a robbery gone wrong.
Someone tried my front door, but it was locked. I heard the rustling of the doormat—in a fit of originality, I hide my spare key beneath it—and then the key was in the lock and the door opened. Benedict came in.
“Hey,” he said. “Surfing porn?”
I frowned. “No one uses the term ‘surfing’ anymore.”
“I’m old-school.” Benedict headed to the fridge and grabbed a beer. “How was your trip?”
“Surprising,” I said.
“Do tell.”
I did. Benedict was a great listener. He was one of those guys who actually listened to every single word and remained focused on you and only you and didn’t talk over you. This isn’t faked either, and he doesn’t just save this for his closest friends. People fascinate him. I would list that as Benedict’s greatest strength as a teacher but it would probably be more apropos to list it as his greatest strength as a Don Juan. Single women can fight off a lot of pickup routines, but a guy who genuinely cares about what they say? Gigolo wannabes, take note.
When I finished, Benedict took a swig of his beer. “Wow. I mean . . . wow. That’s all I can say.”
“Wow?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you sure you’re not an English professor?”
“You do know,” he said slowly, “that there is probably a logical explanation for all this, right?”
“Such as?”
He rubbed his chin. “Maybe Todd is one of those guys with several families, but they don’t know about each other.”
“Huh?”
“Lotharios who have lots of wives and kids and one lives in, say, Denver, and the other lives in Seattle, and he divides his time between them and they don’t know. You see it on
Dateline
all the time. They’re bigamists. Or polygamists. And they can get away with it for years.”
I made a face. “If that’s your logical explanation, I’d love to hear your far-fetched one.”
“Fair point. So how about I give you the most obvious one?”
“The most obvious explanation?”
“Yes.”
“Go for it.”
Benedict spread his hands. “It’s not the same Todd.”
I said nothing.
“You don’t remember the guy’s last name, right?”
“Right.”
“So are you sure that it’s the same guy? Todd isn’t the most uncommon name in the world. Think about it, Jake. You see a picture six years later, your mind plays a few tricks with you, and voilà, you think it’s your archenemy.”
“He isn’t my archenemy.”
“
Wasn’t
your archenemy. Dead, remember? That puts him in the past tense. But seriously, you want the most obvious explanation?” He leaned forward. “It’s all a simple case of mistaken identity.”
I had, of course, already considered this. I had even considered Benedict’s conning bigamist explanation. Both made more sense than . . . than what? What else was there, really? What other possible—obvious, logical, far-fetched—explanation was there?
“Well?” Benedict said.
“It makes sense.”
“See?”
“This Todd—Todd Sanderson, MD—looked different from Natalie’s Todd. His hair is shorter. His face is freshly shaven.”
“So there you go.”
I glanced away.
“What?”
“I’m not sure I buy it.”
“Why not?”
“For one thing, the man was murdered.”
“So? If anything, that backs my polygamist theory. He crossed the wrong gal and kapow.”
“Come on, you don’t really think that’s the answer.”
Benedict sat back. He started plucking at his lower lip with two fingers. “She left you for another man.”
I waited for him to say more. When he didn’t, I said, “Uh, yeah, Captain Obvious, I know.”
“That was hard for you.” He sounded sad now, wistful. “I get it. I get it more than you know.” I thought now about the photograph, about the love he lost, about how many of us go around with some kind of heartache and never show it. “You two were in love. So you can’t accept it—how could she dump you for another man?”
I frowned again, but I could feel the twang in my chest. “Are you sure you’re not a psychology professor?”
“You want this so badly—this second chance, this chance at real redemption—that you can’t see the truth.”
“What truth is that, Benedict?”
“She’s gone,” he said, simple as that. “She dumped you. None of this changes that.”
I swallowed, tried to swim through that crystal-clear reality. “I think there is more to it.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
Benedict considered that for a moment. “But you won’t stop trying to find out, will you?”
“I will,” I said. “But not today. And probably not tomorrow.”
Benedict shrugged, rose, grabbed another beer. “So let’s have it. What’s our next step?”
Chapter 5
I
had no answer to that one,
and it was getting late. Benedict suggested a bar and some late-night carousing. I thought that it might be an excellent distraction but I had essays to grade, so I begged off. I managed to get through about three of them before realizing that my mind wasn’t there and grading papers now wouldn’t be fair to my students.
I made a sandwich and tried looking up Natalie’s name again, this time doing an “image” search. I saw an old bio picture of her. The image struck me hard in the chest so I clicked it off. I found some of her old paintings. Several of them were of my hands and torso. Painful memories didn’t just ease back in—they shoved the door open hard, all of them and all at once. The way she tilted her head, the way the sunlight burst through the skylight of her studio, that look of concentration on her face, the playful smile when she took a break. The memories almost made me double over in pain. I missed her that much. I missed her with an ache that was physical and something beyond. I had blocked it on and off for six years, but suddenly the longing had flooded back, as strong as the day we last made love in that cabin at the retreat.
Screw it.
I wanted to see her and be damned the consequences. If Natalie could look me in the eye a second time and dismiss me, well, I would deal with it then. But not now. Not tonight. Right now, I simply needed to find her.
Okay, slow down. Let me think this through. What do I need to do here? First, I have to figure out if Todd Sanderson is Natalie’s Todd. There was plenty of evidence to suggest, as Benedict had clearly explained, that this was simply a case of mistaken identity.
How should I go about proving it one way or the other?
I needed to know more about him. For example, what would Dr. Todd Sanderson, happily married father of two living in Savannah, be doing at an artist retreat in Vermont six years earlier? I needed to see more pictures of him. I needed to do more background, starting . . .
Starting here. At Lanford.
That was it. The school still maintains every student file, though they can only be viewed by the student or with the student’s permission. I looked at my own a few years back. For the most part, there was nothing remarkable, but my professor in freshman year Spanish, a class I ended up dropping, suspected that I had “adjustment” problems and perhaps could benefit from seeing the school psychologist. That was crap, of course. I was terrible at Spanish—foreign languages are my academic Achilles’ heel—and you’re allowed a freshman drop to maintain your GPA. The note had been in the professor’s own handwriting, and that somehow made it worse.
The point?
There could be something in Todd’s file, if I could figure a way to finagle it, that would tell me something about him. You might ask, “Like what?” I might reply, “I have no friggin’ idea.” It still felt like a place to start.
So what else?
The obvious: Check in on Natalie. If I found her still happily married to her Todd, I would be able to drop this immediately. That was the most direct route here, wasn’t it? The question was, how?
I continued an online search, hoping to stumble across an address or a clue, but there was absolutely nothing. I know that we supposedly live our entire lives online nowadays, but I have found this not to be the case. If a person wanted to stay in the shadows, they could. It took effort, but you really could remain off the grid.
The question might be, why would you expend the effort?
I debated calling her sister, if I could find the number, but what exactly would I say? “Hi, uh, this is Jake Fisher, your sister’s old, uh, fling. Um, did Natalie’s husband die?”
That might be a tough approach.
I remembered listening to a phone conversation between the two sisters where Natalie gushingly told Julie, “Oh man, wait till you meet my wonderful boyfriend . . .” And, yep, we did eventually meet. Sort of. At Natalie’s wedding to another man.
Her father was dead. Her mom, well, that would be the same problem as with the sister. Friends of Natalie’s . . . that was an issue too. Natalie and I had spent our time together in retreats in Kraftboro, Vermont. I was at one to write my political science dissertation, Natalie was doing her art at the neighboring farm-cum-retreat. I was supposed to stay six weeks. I stayed double that because, one, I met Natalie, and two, I lost focus on my writing after I met Natalie. I had never visited her hometown in northern New Jersey, and she had only come to campus for one brief visit. Our relationship had stayed in that Vermont bubble.
I can almost see the head nods now. Ah, you think, that explains it. It was a summer romance, built in an unreal world of no responsibilities or reality. Under those conditions, it is easy for love and obsession to bloom without taking root, only to wither and die when the cold of September rolled around. Natalie, being the more insightful of us, saw and accepted that truth. I did not.
I understand that sentiment. I can only say that it is wrong.
Natalie’s sister’s name was Julie Pottham. Six years ago, Julie had been married with an infant son. I looked her up online. This time, it didn’t take long. Julie lived in Ramsey, New Jersey. I wrote down the phone number on a slip of paper—like Benedict, I can be old-school—and stared at it. Outside my window I could hear students laughing. It was midnight. Too late to call. It might be best to sleep on this decision anyway. In the meantime, there were papers I needed to correct. There was a class tomorrow I had to prepare for. There was a life I had to lead.
* * *
There was no point in trying to sleep.
I focused on the student essays. Most were numbingly tedious and expected, written as though to fit a high school teacher’s rote specifications. These were top-level students who knew how to write “A+” high school papers, what with their opening paragraph, introductory sentences, supportive body, all that stuff that makes an essay solid and ridiculously boring. As I mentioned earlier, my job is to get them to think critically. That was always more important to me than having them remember the specific philosophies of, say, Hobbes or Locke. You could always look those up and be reminded of what they were. Rather, what I really hoped was my students would learn to both respect and piss all over Hobbes and Locke. I wanted them to not only think outside the box, but to get to that outside by smashing the box into little pieces.
Some were getting that. Most were not as of yet. But, hey, if they all got it right away, what would be the point of my job?
At around four in the morning I headed to bed to pretend that sleep would find me. It didn’t. By 7:00
A.M.
, I had made up my mind: I would call Natalie’s sister. I remembered the robotic smile in the white chapel, the pale face, the way Julie asked me if I was okay, as if she truly understood. She might be an ally.
Either way, what did I have to lose?
It had been too late to call last night. It was too early now. I showered and got ready for my 8:00
A.M.
Rule of Law class over in Vitale Hall. I would call Natalie’s sister as soon as class ended.
I expected to sleepwalk through the class. I was obviously distracted and, let’s face it, 8:00
A.M.
was too early for most college students. But not today. Today the class was beyond lively, with hands shooting up, points and counterpoints worded strongly but with no animosity. I took no sides, of course. I moderated and marveled. The class was in the zone. Usually with the early class, the clock’s minute hand moved as though bathed in syrup. Today I wanted to reach up and grab that stupid hand and stop it from flying forward. I loved every moment. The ninety minutes passed in a blur, and I realized yet again how lucky I was to have this job.
Lucky in occupation, unlucky in love. Or something like that.
I headed to my office at Clark House to make the phone call. I stopped at Mrs. Dinsmore’s desk and awarded her my best charm-yer-pants-off smile. She frowned and said, “That work with single women nowadays?”
“What, the charming smile?”
“Yeah.”
“Sometimes,” I said.
She shook her head. “And they say not to worry about the future.” Mrs. Dinsmore sighed and straightened out some papers. “Okay, pretend you got me all hot and bothered. What do you want?”
I tried to shake away the hot-and-bothered image. It wasn’t easy. “I need to get ahold of a student file.”
“Do you have the student’s permission?”
“No.”
“Ergo the charming smile.”
“Right.”
“Is this one of your current students?”
I reloaded the smile. “No. He was never a student of mine.”
She arched an eyebrow.
“In fact, he graduated twenty years ago.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?”
“Actually, with that smile, you look kind of constipated. What’s the student’s name?”
“Todd Sanderson.”
She sat back and crossed her arms. “Didn’t I just read his obituary on the alumni page?”
“You did.”
Mrs. Dinsmore studied my face. My smile was gone. A few seconds later, she slipped her reading glasses back on and said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you.”
I headed into my office and closed the door. No more excuses. It was nearly 10:00
A.M.
now. I took out the piece of paper and looked at the number I’d jotted down last night. I picked up the phone, hit the button for an outside line, and dialed.
I had rehearsed what I would say, but nothing had sounded sane, so I figured that I would play it by ear. The phone rang two times, then three. Julie probably wouldn’t answer. No one answered home phones anymore, especially when they came from an unfamiliar number. The caller ID would show Lanford College. I didn’t know if that would encourage or discourage answering.
On the fourth ring, the phone was picked up. I gripped the receiver tighter and waited. A woman said a tentative “Hello?”
“Julie?”
“Who is this please?”
“It’s Jake Fisher.”
Nothing.
“I dated your sister.”
“What’s your name again?”
“Jake Fisher.”
“Have we met?”
“Sort of. I mean, we were both at Natalie’s wedding—”
“I don’t understand. Who are you exactly?”
“Before Natalie married Todd, she and I were, uh, seeing each other.”
Silence.
“Hello?” I said.
“Is this a joke?”
“What? No. In Vermont. Your sister and I—”
“I don’t know who you are.”
“You used to talk to your sister on the phone a lot. I even heard you two talking about me, in fact. After the wedding, you put your hand on my arm and asked me if I was okay.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I was gripping the receiver so tight I feared it might shatter. “Like I said, Natalie and I dated—”
“What do you want? Why are you calling me?”
Wow, that was a good question. “I wanted to talk to Natalie.”
“What?”
“I just wanted to make sure that she was okay. I saw an obituary for Todd, and I thought that maybe I should reach out and just, I don’t know, offer my condolences.”
More silence. I let it last as long as I could.
“Julie?”
“I don’t know who you are or what you’re talking about, but never call here again. Do you understand? Never.”
She hung up the phone.