Sanctuary and a dark cloud
Jim Burns walked across campus hand in hand with Diane.
Her face was raised to the sun. “I’m happy you’re not afraid to display affection for me in public.”
It struck Jim that he’d never thought of the campus as public. The school had always felt like a
bubble to him—a blister on the fickle finger of fate that went largely unnoticed by the world at large. He glanced at Diane. “If we’re going to have a fling, I guess we’ll need witnesses.”
Diane chortled and threw her hair back. “Oh, Jimmy,” she said, noting his uncharacteristic remark. “I think I’ve loosened you up.” She smiled. “Tell me how your book is doing.”
Jim became animated. “Vikram has decided to go ahead with it. In spite of the school’s circumstances.”
“Jimmy! What changed his mind?”
“The new title. I laid the book down in front of him, and that red eye of his began to pulse like a laser. He said even if the school goes under, he had a plan to start a press of his own, and since my book would already be in the pipeline—”
“That’s the ticket. The title must have grabbed him. It will be published, people will buy it, and even if they don’t find it interesting, they’ll just shelve the book rather than trouble themselves to return it. And you’ll profit from the sale. It’s perfect.”
Jim Burns attempted a smile, not sure what to make of the backhanded compliment. “But I’d like people to enjoy it,” he said meekly, searching Diane’s face for affirmation.
“Enjoy schmoy,” she said with a wave of her hand. “You’ll be published. Who cares if anybody reads it?”
Jim peeped, “I do.”
In the meantime, Brisco had made his way with his precious bundle to the Institute for Semi-Tessellated Invariant Mathematics. Huddling against the door, he looked furtively about and gave a stiff rap. After a few moments, he knocked again. “Come on, come on,” he growled as he juggled his clumsy burden. Then he heard the latch, and the door squeaked open. A woman’s face appeared in the crack. “What do you want?” she asked, her voice rife with suspicion.
“Sanctuary,” said Brisco, as if this were the password that assured entry.
The woman seemed to freeze at the door, but after a few moments, she opened it and Brisco stumbled inside.
He glanced about the cluttered room like a frightened bird. Hurrying over to a table, he cleared a space among a mass of papers and set his bundle down.
“Don’t touch a thing!” commanded YaYa, her hands to her face.
“Oops,” said Brisco. “Too late. I just had to put it down.”
He straightened up and continued to look about, noting the instrumentation, papers, books, and a blackboard covered with equations. This was a real working space, and Henny Spox was clearly a very busy man. But who exactly was this attractive woman, her eyes sparkling with self-possession and intelligence?
“I saw you at the talent show,” he finally said. “I like people with conviction. Are you Henny’s daughter?”
YaYa squared her shoulders. “I am his companion.”
Brisco liked the sound of that. He had actually expected her to say girlfriend, which had a fleeting quality about it. But companion spoke of durability, the willingness to stick with someone through thick and thin, like a buddy in a foxhole. For a moment, he considered whether Hattie were companion material. Or did she just want bragging rights to having conquered him?
YaYa stood before him, one hand nesting in the other. “What do you want?” she repeated.
Brisco steeled himself. “I need a place.” YaYa slowly shook her head. “I don’t understand. For what? And why here? Henny does not like to be disturbed.”
“I won’t disturb him. The college is about to die, and nobody cares. It will take a strong hand to turn things around. The president is clearly not up to the task. I need a place to think out my plan.”
YaYa turned her attention to Brisco’s bundle. “What is that?”
Brisco also considered the bundle. “Our only hope.”
YaYa let out a sigh. “We don’t have a lot of food. Food isn’t important here. But I do have pumpkin seeds from the garden and honey that we make from African bees. Sometimes there’s egg salad.”
Brisco was actually a steak-and-potatoes man, but he knew he wasn’t in a position to demand or bargain. “Whatever you have.”
“Sit.”
In the meantime, Hattie stood before Marcus’s desk, slapping a hand on a mess of papers she’d thrown down. “Don’t you see?” she pleaded. “The students have got a whiff of what’s going on. They’re going back to the shelter and the nuthouse. We can’t pay the bills. Oh, yeah, I know there was this blip when those buffaloes showed up, but that’s all over. Got any more tricks up your sleeve?”
Marcus had no choice but to pay attention to Hattie. He sat in his chair, looking up at her, rubbing his chin. Pacer leapt onto the desk, arched his back, and hissed at the secretary, who cast a wary eye at the feline.
“I’m sure something will turn up,” Marcus said. “That endowed chair helped, didn’t it?”
“Yeah. It helped Henny Spox. But what the hell good is it when the school is closed and they put up a Burger King where you’re sitting?”
There had been nothing in The Handbook of College Reorganization about increasing or even sustaining student numbers, so Marcus was at sea on this one. He couldn’t figure it out, though. It didn’t make any sense. Besides the bison, there was Henny’s research, the famous blackfly book, the coming triumph of Jim Burns’s book on mucus, the talent show, the visit of the Hawaiians, the NEA recognition, and the occasional presidential brain. Yet, if Hattie was right, all of this had done nothing to staunch the exodus of the student body and sustain the school’s cash flow. In a very short time, then, the bankers would arrive with their hands out. What on earth would he tell them?
Marcus thought hard for a long moment. Then he focused on his secretary, standing before him expectantly, her arms crossed. “Where do we stand on the vending machine?” he asked as he gathered Pacer to his chest and scratched behind his ears.
Hattie shook her head, sending her broad curls first this way, then that. “It’s going to take more than orange Fanta to turn this place around. If you want my advice, it’s time to man the lifeboats.” Then she stormed out.
Marcus was alone. He swiveled in his chair and looked down on the campus. “Cyrus,” he pled softly, as if he could channel his uncle’s spirit, “what would you do? What should I do?” Of course, Marcus couldn’t imagine what Cyrus might do, because he’d never really known the man. All he knew was that he himself had answered a call to service. But for the first time since arriving at Grover Cleveland, he was laden with doubt about his own abilities. He’d falsely concluded that his experience selling cars would be good preparation for a college presidency.
In the chapter of The Handbook of College Reorganization titled “The Fix is In,” the author divulged that most college presidencies were arranged by a small number of insiders. Yes, there was advertising in national and professional periodicals, a selection committee was convened, and the college community was allowed and even encouraged to cross-examine the candidates, but this was all pro forma. The next president had already been chosen by the powers that be, and all the preliminary theater was designed to dupe the suckers into thinking they actually played some role in the selection process.
Marcus now realized it hadn’t been much different with him. He had gotten the call, responded, traveled to Grover Cleveland, and made that first inaugural grope up the silo’s spiral stairs, past the conga line of mourners waiting to see what was left of Cyrus. If there had been a true selection process and people’s feelings and preferences had been taken into account, would he really have been considered Grover Cleveland material? For the first time since accepting the position, Marcus was forced to face reality: the school was on the brink of collapse—on
his watch.
Next door, Jiminy Schmitz stood before Hattie’s desk, bent and exhausted from the long climb.
Hattie was speechless. Jiminy had never been to the top of the silo before. “You . . . you want to see him?”
“See who?”
“Him. President Marcus. That’s why you’re here, right?”
“The president’s name is Marcus?”
Hattie squinted. “Which president are we talking about?”
Jiminy reached into the pocket of his careworn sport coat and pulled Onan out. He stroked the parakeet’s head with a bony finger, and the bird trilled. “I’m actually here for my pension,” he said without removing his focus from the budgie. Then he carefully repocketed his pet.
Hattie stared at him, bereft of emotion. During her tenure at Grover Cleveland, no one had ever asked about his pension. The faculty had been static for years, except for the occasional death. She sighed. “Why?”
“Sea level is rising,” the provost said, “and I might as well have my life jacket.”
Hattie smacked the table and cackled. “Finally, someone who sees reality and knows what he wants! Provost, if I had your pension in my purse, I’d give it to you right now. The truth is, the school has not paid into your pension fund for years. There’s not much more than the little you’ve contributed from your own pay.”
Jiminy nibbled on the tuft of beard bordering his lower lip. “Hmm…” he pondered. “What does that come to?”
Hattie stood up, scanned a high shelf, and removed an old ledger lying on its side. She took a Kleenex and wiped the dust from the cover before opening it. “Here,” she said as she jabbed a page. “Five hundred and sixty-two dollars and seventy-three cents.” She looked up at Jiminy and laughed as if she’d just read the punch line to a particularly funny joke.
Jiminy rocked on his heels for a few moments before saying, “I’ll take it.”
Hattie had no idea how to disburse the money, but she didn’t want to look incompetent, especially in front of the provost, so she riffled through a few manila folders and pulled out a piece of paper with some lines and boxes on it. “I’ll file this form for you and keep you apprised of its progress as it moves through the system,” she said mechanically, giving the impression she’d done this a hundred times.
“What system?” chirped Jiminy.
“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure it goes through.”
“Well, I guess those are all the apples we’re going to pick today.”
“Do you want to see him while you’re here?”
“See who?”
“Him. President Marcus.”
Jiminy scratched his beard. “Oh, I suppose so,” he said, like a man reluctantly agreeing to view a display of Tupperware.
“Just go in,” said Hattie. “I don’t think he’s all that busy.”
Jiminy gave Hattie a cursory salute.
Jiminy found the president sitting with Pacer on his lap, lost in thought.
When Marcus saw him, his face lit up. “Provost! This is a pleasure. Long time no see. Did you enjoy the talent show?”
Jiminy actually recalled the show. “I was like a kid at the circus. I thought it was great fun. And I didn’t hear a harsh word from anybody. It was a real crowd-pleaser.”
Marcus beamed.
Pacer leapt from his lap and onto the desk, where he began to prowl.
“Yes,” Marcus said. “I only wish more people had contributed to the donation bucket.”
“Sad. Very sad,” said Jiminy, who hadn’t thrown in a nickel himself. “I’ve come to say good-bye.”
Marcus’s face dropped. “Good-bye? Are you going somewhere?”
“It’s my time.”
Marcus became disconsolate. He leaned forward and whispered, “You’re dying?”
Jiminy thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. Not yet.”
“Well, that’s the bright side, then.”
“The truth is, I think I’ve done all I can for the school. It’s time for someone else to fill my shoes.” Even as he said this, Jiminy searched his recollection for something he might have accomplished. Some small contribution. He decided it would come to him if he stopped thinking about it so hard.
Pacer arched his back and hissed at Jiminy.
“There now, Pacer,” admonished Marcus. “That’s no way to treat an administrator. Show some respect.”
But the cat continued to bare its teeth in a grotesque smile.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into him,” said Marcus. “He’s usually very gentle.”
“Maybe it’s this,” said Jiminy as he pulled Onan from his pocket and perched him on his forefinger. Like a sprung trap, Pacer leapt, seizing the bird in his teeth and continuing out the door in a smooth arc of mammalian prowess.
All Marcus could manage was a blunt “Hupp!” while Jiminy stood there, frozen, his finger in the air, as if
expecting the bird to re-alight.
“I-I’m so sorry,” blurted Marcus. “How unfortunate! I will reprimand Pacer severely,” he said, making a chopping motion with his hand.
Jiminy thawed and reanimated. “Such is the way of the world.” He sniffed, wiping a tear from his eye. “Life is short; death is certain.” And then, after a pause, “I’ll say good-bye now.”
Marcus watched as the provost shuffled toward the door. “I’ll recommend you for emeritus!” he called after his colleague.
A minute later, Hattie came in. “I just saw the saddest man in the world,” she said, shaking her head. “Poor man.” She handed Marcus a sheet of paper with crude lettering. “Not to change the subject, but we’ve got a situation on our hands.”
Marcus took the leaf and examined it. Aloud, he read, “I have The Brain. Unless a vending machine appears on campus in three days, I will destroy it. Believe me.”
“The gall!” exclaimed Hattie. “Who would steal the brain of a president?”
“There, there,” Marcus counseled as he patted the air. “Look at the bright side. At least we know what happened to it.”
Hattie threw her hands up. “Well, Captain, what now?”
Marcus’s eyes flew between the paper and Hattie. “Please forward this to the Vending Committee. They’ll see the urgency and act accordingly, I’m sure.”
Hattie took the note and shook her head. “You dream. But sure, I’ll give it to the committee. Why not? It’ll give them something to do,” she said and left the office.
“Ah, Pacer,” Marcus said as the cat leapt onto his desk. “We were all alone when the call came to serve. I fear we will soon be alone again. Perhaps that’s the way things are supposed to be for us. At least you won’t have to pack a bag.”
The feline meowed, and as he did, a small, blue feather flew from his mouth and floated gently to the floor.