But mostly it was because I was lazy and couldn't be bothered.
We both stood from the big oak table and shook hands. She held mine a second longer than she had to so I disengaged intentionally fast. No, this doesn't happen all the time. But it does happen. I'm thirty-five now, but when I first started here--the young professor in his twenties--it happened more often. Do you remember that scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark where one student wrote "LOVE YOU" on her eyelids? Something like that happened to me in my first semester. Except the first word wasn't "LOVE" and the second word had been switched from "YOU" to "ME." I don't flatter myself about it. We professors are in a position of fairly immense power. The men who fall for this or believe that they are somehow worthy of such attention (not to be sexist, but it was almost always men) are usually more insecure and needy than any daddy-issued coed one might happen upon.
As I sat down and waited for the next student to arrive, I glanced at the computer on the right side of the table. The college's home screen was up. The page was typically collegiate, I guess. On the left, there was a slideshow of college life, students of all races, creeds, religions, and genders having a studiously good time, interacting with one another, with professors, extracurricular activities, you get the idea. The banner on the top featured the school's logo and most recognizable buildings, including prestigious Johnson Chapel, a large-scale version of the chapel where I had watched Natalie get married.
On the right part of the screen, there was a college newsfeed and now, as Barry Watkins, the next student on the sign-up sheet, entered the room and said, "Yo, Prof, how's it hanging?" I spotted an obituary in the feed that made me pause.
"Hey, Barry," I said, eyes still on the screen. "Take a seat."
He did so, throwing his feet up on the table. He knew that I didn't care. Barry came every week. We talked about everything and nothing. His visits were more watered-down therapy than anything in the realm of academia, but again that was perfectly okay with me.
I took a closer look at the monitor. What had made me pause was the stamp-size photograph of the deceased. I didn't recognize him--not at that distance--but he looked young. In a way, that was not unusual for the obituaries. Many times the college, rather than securing a more recent photograph, would scan in the deceased's yearbook photograph, but here, even at a quick glance, I could see that this was not the case. The hairstyle wasn't something from, say, the sixties or seventies. The photograph wasn't in black-and-white either, something the yearbook had been up until 1989.
Still we are a small college, four hundred or so students per class. Death was not uncommon, but maybe because of the size of the school or my close affiliation as both a student and member of the faculty I always felt somewhat personally involved when someone from here died.
"Yo, Teach?"
"One second, Barry."
I was now infringing on his clock time. I use a portable scoreboard timer, the kind you see in basketball gyms all over this country, with giant red digital numbers. A friend had given it to me as a gift, assuming because of my size that I must have played hoops. I hadn't, but I loved the clock. Since it was set to automatically count down from nine minutes, I could see now that we were on 8:49.
I clicked on the small photograph. When the larger one came up, I managed to hold back the gasp.
The name of the deceased was Todd Sanderson.
I had blocked Todd's last name from my memory--the wedding invite had just said "Todd and Natalie's Nuptials!"--but, man, I knew the face. Gone was the hip stubble. He was clean-shaven here, his hair closer to a buzz cut. I wondered whether that was Natalie's influence--she had always complained that my stubble irritated her skin--and then I wondered why I would be thinking about something so asinine.
"The clock is ticking, Teach."
"One second, Barry. And don't call me Teach."
Todd's age was listed as forty-two. That was a little older than I expected. Natalie was thirty-four, just a year younger than me. I had figured that Todd would be closer to our age. According to the obituary, Todd had been an all-league tight end on the football team and a Rhodes Scholar finalist. Impressive. He had graduated summa cum laude from the history department, had founded a charity called Fresh Start, and during his senior year, he had been president of Psi U, my fraternity.
Todd was not only an alumnus of my school but we had both pledged the same fraternity. How had I not known any of that?
There was more, a lot more, but I skipped down to the last line: Funeral services are Sunday in Palmetto Bluff, South Carolina, near Savannah, Georgia. Mr. Sanderson is survived by his wife and two children.
Two children?
"Professor Fisher?"
There was something funny in Barry's voice. "Sorry, I was just--"
"No, man, don't be. You okay though?"
"Yes, I'm fine."
"You sure? You look pale, man." Barry dropped his sneakers to the floor and put his hands on the desk. "Look, I can come back another time."
"No," I said.
I turned away from the monitor. It would have to wait. Natalie's husband had died young. That was sad, yes, tragic even, but it had nothing to do with me. It was not a reason to cancel work or inconvenience my students. It had thrown me for a loop, of course-- not only Todd dying but the fact that he had gone to my alma mater. That was a somewhat bizarre coincidence, I guess, but not exactly an earth-shattering revelation.
Maybe Natalie simply liked Lanford men.
"So what's up?" I asked Barry.
"Do you know Professor Byrner?"
"Sure."
"He's a total tool."
He was, but I wouldn't say that. "What seems to be the issue?"
I hadn't seen a cause of death in the obituary. The campus ones often didn't have one. I would look again later. If it wasn't in there, maybe I could find a more complete obituary online.
Then again, why would I want to learn more? What difference did it make?
Best to stay away from this.
Either way it would have to wait for office hours to end. I finished up with Barry and kept going. I tried to push thoughts of the obituary aside and focus on my remaining students. I was off my game, but the students were oblivious. Students cannot imagine that professors have real lives in the same way they can't imagine their parents having sex. On one level, that was fine. On another, I constantly remind them to look past themselves. Part of the human condition is that we all think that we are uniquely complex while everyone else is somewhat simpler to read. That is not true, of course. We all have our own dreams and hopes and wants and lust and heartaches. We all have our own brand of crazy.
My mind drifted. I watched the clock trudge slowly forward as if I were the most bored student in the most boring class. When five o'clock came I headed back to the computer monitor. I brought up Todd Sanderson's obituary in full.
Nope, no cause of death was given.
Curious. Sometimes there was a hint in the suggested donation area. It will say in lieu of flowers please make a donation to the American Cancer Society or something like that. But nothing was listed. There was also no mention of Todd's occupation, but again, so what?
My office door flew open, and Benedict Edwards, a professor in the humanities department and my closest friend, entered. He didn't bother knocking, but he never had or felt the need to. We often met on Fridays at five o'clock and visited a bar where as a student I worked as a bouncer. Back then it was new and shiny and hip and trendy. Now it was old and broken-down and about as hip and trendy as Betamax.
Benedict was pretty much my physical opposite--tiny, small-boned, and African American. His eyes were magnified by giant Ant-Man glasses that looked like the safety goggles in the chemistry department. Apollo Creed had to be the inspiration behind his too big mustache and too poufy Afro. He had the slender fingers of a female pianist, feet that a ballerina would envy, and he wouldn't be mistaken for a lumberjack by a blind man.
Despite this--or maybe
because of it--Benedict was also a total "playah" and picked up more women than a rapper with a radio hit.
"What's wrong?" Benedict asked.
I skipped the "Nothing" or "How do you know something's wrong?" and went straight to it: "Have you ever heard of a guy named Todd Sanderson?"
"Don't think so. Who is he?"
"An alum. His obituary is online."
I turned the screen toward him. Benedict adjusted the goggle-glasses. "Don't recognize him. Why?"
"Remember Natalie?"
A shadow crossed his face. "I haven't heard you say her name in--"
"Yeah, yeah. Anyway, this is--or was--her husband."
"The guy she dumped you for?"
"Yes."
"And now he's dead."
"Apparently."
"So," Benedict said, arching an eyebrow, "she's single again."
"Sensitive."
"I'm worried. You're my best wingman. I have the rap the ladies love, sure, but you have the good looks. I don't want to lose you."
"Sensitive," I said again.
"You going to call her?"
"Who?" I asked.
"Condoleezza Rice. Who do you think I mean? Natalie."
"Yeah, sure. Say something like 'Hey, the guy you dumped me for is dead. Want to catch a movie?'"
Benedict was reading the obituary. "Wait."
"What?"
"Says here she has two kids."
"So?"
"That makes it more complicated."
"Will you stop?"
"I mean two kids. She could be fat now." Benedict looked over at me with his magnified eyes. "So what does Natalie look like now? I mean, two kids. She's probably chunky, right?"
"How would I know?"
"Uh, the same way everyone would--Google, Facebook, that kinda thing."
I shook my head. "Haven't done that."
"What? Everyone does that. Heck, I do that with all my former loves."
"And the Internet can handle that kind of traffic?"
Benedict grinned. "I do need my own server."
"Man, I hope that's not a euphemism."
But I saw something sad behind his grin. I remembered one time at a bar when Benedict had gotten particularly wasted, I caught him staring at a well-worn photograph he kept hidden in his wallet. I asked him who it was. "The only girl I'll ever love," he told me in a slurry voice. Then Benedict tucked the photograph back behind his credit card and despite hints from me, he has never said another word about it.
He'd had that same sad grin on then.
"I promised Natalie," I said.
"Promised her what?"
"That I'd leave them alone. That I'd never look them up or bother them."
Benedict considered that. "It seems you kept that promise, Jake."
I said nothing. Benedict had lied earlier. He didn't check the Facebook page of old girlfriends or if he did, he didn't do it with much enthusiasm. But once when I burst into his office--like him, I never knocked--I saw him using Facebook. I caught a quick glance and saw that the page he had up belonged to that same woman whose picture he carried in his wallet. Benedict quickly shut the browser down, but I bet that he checked that page a lot. Every day, even. I bet that he looked at every new photograph of the only woman he ever loved. I bet that he looked at her life now, her family maybe, the man who shared her bed, and that he stared at them the same way he stared at the photograph in his wallet. I don't have proof of any of this, just a feeling, but I don't think I'm too far off.
Like I said before, we all have our own brand of crazy.
"What are you trying to say?" I asked him.
"I'm just telling you that that whole 'them' stuff is over now."
"Natalie hasn't been a part of my life in a long time."
"You really believe that?" Benedict asked. "Did she make you promise to forget how you felt too?"
"I thought you were afraid of losing your best wingman."
"You're not that good-looking."
"Cruel bastard."
He rose. "We humanities professors know all."
Benedict left me alone then. I stood and walked over to the window. I looked out on the commons. I watched the students walk by and, as I often did when confronted with a life situation, I wondered what I'd advise one of them if they were in my shoes. Suddenly, without warning, it all came rushing in at once--that white chapel, the way she wore her hair, the way she held up her ring finger, all the pain, the want, the emotions, the love, the hurt. My knees buckled. I thought that I had stopped carrying a torch for her. She had crushed me, but I had picked up the pieces, put myself back together, and moved on with my life.
How stupid to have such thoughts now. How selfish. How inappropriate. The woman had just lost her husband, and prick that I am, I was worried about the ramifications for me. Let it go, I told myself. Forget it and her. Move on.
But I couldn't. I was simply not built that way.
I had last seen Natalie at a wedding. Now I would see her at a funeral. Some people would find irony in that--I was not one of them.
I headed back to the computer and booked a flight to Savannah.
Chapter 3
The first sign something was off occurred during the eulogy.
Palmetto Bluff was not so much a town as a gigantic gated community. The newly built "village" was beautiful, clean, nicely maintained, historically accurate--all of which gave the place a sterile, Disney-Epcot faux feel. Everything seemed a little too perfect. The sparkly white chapel--yep, another one--sat on a bluff so picturesque it appeared to be, well, a picture. The heat, however, was all too real--a living, breathing thing with humidity thick enough to double as a beaded curtain.
Another fleeting moment of reason questioned why I had come down here, but I swatted it away. I was here now, thus making the question moot. The Inn at Palmetto Bluff looked like a movie facade. I stepped into its cute bar and ordered a scotch straight up from a cute barmaid.
"You here for the funeral?" she asked me.
"Yep."
"Tragic."
I nodded and stared down at my drink. The cute barmaid picked up the hint and said no more.
I pride myself on being an enlightened man. I do not believe in fate or destiny or any of that superstitious nonsense, yet here I was, justifying my impulsive behavior in just such a manner. I am supposed to be here, I told myself. Compelled to board that flight. I didn't know why. I had seen with my own two eyes Natalie marry another man, and yet even now, I still couldn't quite accept it. There was still an innate need for closure. Six years ago, Natalie had dumped me with a note telling me she was marrying her old beau. The next day, I got an invitation to their wedding. No wonder it all still felt . . . incomplete. Now I was here in the hopes of finding, if not closure, completion.
Amazing what we can self-rationalize when we really want something.
But what exactly did I want here?
I finished my drink, thanked the cute barmaid, and carefully started toward the chapel. I kept my distance, of course. I might be horrible and callous and self-involved, but not so much as to intrude on a widow burying her husband. I stayed behind a large tree--a palmetto, what else?--not daring to so much as sneak a look at the mourners.
When I heard the opening hymn, I figured that the coast was as clear as it was going to be. A quick glance confirmed it. Everyone was inside the chapel now. I started toward it. I could hear a gospel choir singing. They were, in a word, magnificent. Not sure what exactly to do, I tried the chapel door, found it unlocked (well, duh), and pushed inside. I lowered my head as I entered, putting a hand to my face as though scratching an itch.
Talk about a poor man's disguise.
There was no need. The chapel was packed. I stood in the back with other late-arriving mourners who couldn't find a seat. The choir finished the spirited hymn, and a man--I don't know if he was a minister or priest or what--took to the pulpit. He began to talk about Todd as a "caring physician, good neighbor, generous fri
end, and wonderful family man." Physician. I hadn't known that. The man waxed eloquent on Todd's strengths--his charity work, his winning personality, his generosity of spirit, his ability to make every person feel special, his willingness to roll up his sleeves and pitch in whenever anyone, stranger or friend, needed a hand. I naturally wrote this off as familiar funeral narrative--we have a natural habit of overpraising the deceased--but I could see the tears in the eyes of the mourners, the way they nodded along with the words, as though it was a song only they could hear.
From my perch in the back I tried to glance up front for a glimpse of Natalie, but there were too many heads in the way. I didn't want to make myself conspicuous, so I stopped. Besides, I had come into the chapel and looked around and even listened to words of praise for the deceased. Wasn't that enough? What else was there to do here?
It was time to leave.
"Our first eulogy," the man at the pulpit said, "comes from Eric Sanderson."
A pale teen--I would guess that he was around sixteen--rose and moved to the pulpit. My first thought was that Eric must be Todd Sanderson's (and by extension, Natalie's) nephew, but that thought was quickly shot down by the boy's opening sentence.
"My father was my hero . . ."
Father?
It took me a few seconds. Minds have a habit of going on certain tracks and not being able to hop off. When I was a child, my father told me an old riddle that he thought would fool me. "A father and son get in a car accident. The father dies. The boy is rushed to the hospital. The surgeon says, 'I can't operate on this boy. He's my son.' How can that be?" This was what I mean about tracks. For my father's generation, this riddle was, I guess, mildly difficult to figure, but for people my age, the answer--the surgeon was his mother--was so obvious, I remember laughing out loud. "What next, Dad? Are you going to start using your eight-track player?"