Chapter 10

I PUT A NOTE ON THE CHALKBOARD canceling the day’s classes in light of the memorial service. I would have canceled them anyway, but it was nice to have a reason. With no class, no meeting, and no Trustees’ Office, I walked the tree-lined mile of sidewalk to the corner of Ruffner and Spruce, where the trees gave way to cracked asphalt and failing businesses. I heard my name as I passed the office of the Gray Knight and kept walking.

“Tate, come here,” said Jaysaree. “Sundeep has something for you.”

“I don’t think I need anything.”

Jaysaree grabbed my wrist and pulled me back to the office. Sundeep came around the counter. “Hold out your hand, Tate Cowlishaw.”

My landlord placed a flat object in my hand no heavier than an empty wallet.

“Welcome to the 1990s. Jaysaree and I have added you to our plan. Do not use too many minutes talking to your girlfriend.”

Jaysaree threw her arms around me. “Sundeep says she will come to dinner tonight?”

“I’m not sure that’s been decided,” I said.

Sundeep flipped open the phone. He made me feel the buttons and quizzed me. “You will like it,” Sundeep said.

I disagreed.

“Your shirt will be ready this afternoon,” Jaysaree shouted as I made my way to the door.

I walked through the parking lot behind the cars. There were only two. Much busier were the hours after work when husbands and wives met the wives and husbands to whom they were not married. They rarely left their rooms to take in the majesty of the dry cleaner and the video store that no longer rented videos. The Gogeninis never rented the rooms near mine. For these reasons, among others, I didn’t like the sound of a man’s cough before I turned the corner to my room.

I leaned back against the graffiti. “Revolution is the opiate of the intellectual,” someone had painted in giant blue letters. Beside these words someone had written “Jesus’ dick” with an arrow pointing to an unadorned portion of wall. A light breeze carried cigarette smoke my way. The only person I knew who smoked was Duncan Musgrove, who claimed he had quit two years ago.

Another cough came with a tail of a high, nasal voice. Duncan spoke through his nose, but his coughs were heavy with decades of disappointment and phlegm.

I could think of no positive scenarios involving strangers waiting by my door. I took a casual step around the corner, followed by a pair of less casual ones. My visitor wore a red shirt and khakis. He was several inches shorter than me. I noticed all this as I wrapped an arm around his narrow waist and pushed him face-first into my door.

I pulled out my new phone whose rounded corner must not have felt much like a gun because my visitor grabbed my wrist and spun around. Cell phones make a bleak sound when they hit concrete, a sound made bleaker when it precedes a set of knuckles striking one’s jaw.

I made my own fist. I was a little behind in this game. He moved from side to side. I took a swing. He took two. Mine found air. His found both sides of my jaw. Something too dark and large to be his fist moved swiftly into my blind spot, my head twisting further past my shoulder than it ever had any desire to go, giving me a helpful view of the car on which I was about to land.

“I’m not Cowlishaw,” said the visitor to whom I had spoken only on the phone.

“That makes one of us, Hoopel.”

“How do you know my name?” His wide, youthful cheeks got bigger in my peripheral field.

“How do you know where I live?”

“Mr. Cowlishaw? Why did you attack me?”

“Technically,” I said, “you threw the first punch. If you’re eager to write my obituary, you might not want to be the cause of death. Conflict of interest, I would think.”

Hoopel helped me to my feet. Blood rushed to my face, reminding me which parts hurt.

“Are you going to tell me why you’re here, Hoopel?”

“I’ve found some information. About the Trustees’ Office.”

“I didn’t know obituary writers made house calls.”

“I don’t want to be an obituary writer, okay?” He raised his hand—to hit me, I assumed, until I saw he was handing me my cell phone. He puffed out his little boy cheeks with a big, calming sigh. “You were right, okay? My ex-girlfriend said the same thing. I’m never going to be a reporter if I don’t take initiative.”

I unlocked my door and invited him in. Edward hopped down from the window sill. He ran to his dish and let out a full-throated meow.

“I’m okay, Edward. Thank you for asking.” I felt guilty for leaving him alone all night and opened a can of the good stuff. “Where did you learn to fight, Hoopel?”

“I kickbox. I’ve never been in a fight out of the ring, though. That was pretty cool.”

“Congratulations.” The loss dropped my record to one and one on the morning. In hindsight, my win over Duncan felt less impressive.

I offered my guest some of the rum I had bought for eggnog last Christmas.

“It’s eleven in the morning, Mr. Cowlishaw.”

“Don’t be rude, Hoopel.” I unwrapped one of my daily plastic cups by the sink and poured him two fingers. For myself I ran some tap water. It was eleven in the morning.

I sat across from him at the small table I used for stacking mail and entertaining aspiring reporters. The rum made him cough worse than his cigarettes, which he probably smoked to add years to his voice.

“Let’s hear this information, Hoopel. People are dying for you to get back to work.”

He set his drink on the window sill. “You might be interested to know,” he said, “that your college does not have a trustees’ office.” He savored these words more than he had my rum.

“That doesn’t surprise me, Hoopel. Possibly because I told you that about an hour ago.”

“But I confirmed it.”

“Now you’re a fact checker, Hoopel. That sounds like a demotion.”

“You’re not very nice.”

“Says the man who kicks me in the face outside my own home.”

Edward returned to the window and sniffed the rum. Hoopel stood up and fished in his pocket. He handed me a sheet of paper from a spiral note pad. I handed it back to him after a cursory glance.

Hoopel sat back down. “Well?”

“Well what?” Sooner or later he’d let me know what the note said.

“Trusteesoffice123@hotmail.com? I don’t think this e-mail account is even affiliated with the college.” He sounded hurt that I hadn’t drawn the same conclusion.

“Let me see that again.” I gave it another glance and slid it into my pocket.

Hoopel handed me another sheet of paper. “Trying to find a list of trustees, I came across an obituary for Marlon Letrobe. He’s dead, of course, but his great-great-grandson was the only surviving relative. Maybe he took over as a trustee? I found a phone number with a Massachusetts area code.”

I stored the second sheet beside the first. I might have a pocketful of nothing, but it was more than I had five minutes ago. “Anything else, Hoopel?”

Silence lasted long enough that I assumed he had shaken his head. I went over to the metal rod I called a closet and selected a white dress shirt.

“Where are you going?”

“Never used to question anything, Hoopel, and now you can’t stop asking questions.” I got down my wingtips and one of my two ties, the one with stripes. “I need to see our interim dean, make sure she’s aware of that memorial service you wrote about so eloquently.”