A Skeleton in the Family (12 page)

L
uckily for me, Dr. Kirkland's memorial service was set for Thursday afternoon at three o'clock, which meant I had plenty of time to get there after class. After much discussion, we decided that my walking around Kirkland's memorial service taking photos might cause a stir, so I made other plans.

I arrived an hour early in order to score a parking place right in front of the door to the JTU chapel, then I put a webcam on the dashboard and aimed it at the door, disguising it with a partially folded map. The plan was for me to record people arriving at and leaving the service and then show the results to Sid so he could see if anybody looked familiar. Meanwhile, I'd put on my interview suit again so I could attend the service and, with luck, get names for anybody Sid recognized.

Though I was there early, I didn't want to actually go inside the chapel until a crowd formed, so I walked around the campus to kill time. JTU was a stereotypical New England college. There was a grassy quad in the middle with aged trees and a fountain that probably hadn't worked properly since the trees were planted; a mixture of stately older buildings and brick monstrosities that probably had superior wiring; and fliers posted everywhere to advertise the weekend movie, available tutors, and pizza delivery joints.

At about twenty minutes before the service was to start, I went back to the chapel—one of the stately structures—so I could mingle with the real mourners.

Fortunately for my goal of finding Dr. Kirkland's family, the university had provided name tags, and I hunted for family members as discreetly as I could.

I spotted two almost stereotypical professorial types who I suspected were Dr. Kirkland's children, and quite likely twins. They both had glasses, tweedy jackets with suede patches on the elbows, and black shoes that were either timeless or hopelessly dated, depending on your point of view. They had the same build, too: slightly sunken chest, skinny arms and legs, and just a hint of potbelly. At first I thought the only real difference in their appearances was that the man was wearing black slacks while the woman was wearing a black skirt, but then I noticed that the man's dirty blond hair was longer.

The next family name tag I spotted was on a man who was the polar opposite. He was tan, fit, and had a full head of artfully dyed chestnut locks. His pinstripe suit was reflected in his gleaming Italian loafers, and the price of his Rolex could have funded a small research project.

There were assorted younger relatives who I guessed were grandchildren, middle-aged ones I thought were nieces and nephews, and one who was elderly enough to be a brother or cousin.

Unfortunately, the vast majority of attendees had last names other than Kirkland, and it was hard to know if they were former students, colleagues, or just friends. And of course I had no way to find out which they were.

I was trying to get the right angle to read the name tag on a carefully coiffed woman who clearly believed in the power of Spanx, when she turned suddenly to look right at me. On the plus side, I could read the name on her tag. On the minus side, I had to pretend I'd meant to speak to her.

“I'm so sorry for the loss of your mother,” I said when I saw her name was Corrina Kirkland.

“She was my mother-in-law, not my mother.” Though she didn't say
thank goodness for that
, the message was clear. She brushed by me, saying, “I think the service is starting.” I wasn't surprised when she went to sit next to the man in pinstripes. They both had that same air of
Get me the hell out of here
.

I took a place near the back of the chapel, which felt marginally less awkward than being up front, and made sure to pick up one of the printed programs to use as a reference. Then I tried not to doze off during the service.

It wasn't just that I hadn't actually known Dr. Kirkland, it was more the fact that I'd attended countless university memorial services and they all blended together after a while. Born scholar and/or researcher, endured hardship to finish degrees, invaluable contributions to science starting with a doctoral dissertation project that set the field on its ear, even greater contributions of teaching and mentoring, incalculable loss to the field and great personal loss to colleagues. An amusing anecdote ended the service.

In Dr. Kirkland's case, her anecdote was about being so caught up in a project that she forgot to eat and had to raid a grad student's stash of granola bars to get through work one night. The academics, including me, chuckled, but I noticed that Italian loafers and the Spanx queen just exchanged disgusted looks.

The only notable thing was that all of the stories and words of admiration were for Dr. Kirkland's professional life. Even the twins–Dr. Donald Kirkland and Dr. Mary Kirkland, who both taught at JTU—paid homage only to her work as a scientist. Either she hadn't had much of a personal life, or it wasn't worth talking about.

I started to feel sorry for the deceased. My parents were pretty eminent in their fields, but when their time came, I was certain there'd be as many stories about their personal lives and family as about their publications.

Once the service ended, Jim Michaels, the chair of JTU's anthropology department, invited everyone to join him out on the chapel green, where refreshments would be served. I was glad for the invite, and not just because I was hungry. The happy-making part was that the buffet table was set up right in front of my van, and therefore in a perfect location for the webcam.

Of course, that meant I was going to have to stay until the bitter end to give Sid the best possible chance to recognize people, so I thought maybe I'd take advantage of the opportunity for some snooping of my own.

My first target was Professor Morgan from the English Department who'd read a poem in Dr. Kirkland's honor. I made eye contact with him over the punch bowl, and said, “That was a lovely choice for a eulogy. I think so many people associate Robert Louis Stevenson with
Treasure Island
and
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
that they forget his other work.”

Morgan smiled. “I've always enjoyed his poetry, particularly the ballads.”

We got our punch and I casually made sure to walk in the same direction that he did.

“Were you one of Dr. Kirkland's students?” he asked me.

“To tell you the truth, I never met her.” Finding her body didn't really count. “I'm here on behalf of my father. He taught at Salem State when she was there. I'm not even in Dr. Kirkland's field—I'm in the English Department at McQuaid.”

“Really? I thought I knew all the professors there.”

“I'm new.”

“An adjunct?” he asked sympathetically, the way one might say,
Have you been reduced to digging ditches for a living
? “Teaching composition?”

“I'm afraid so. My real field is—”

He looked over my shoulder. “I'm sorry, but I really must pay my respects to Dr. Kirkland's family. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

“You, too,” I said to his quickly retreating back.

I finished my punch and went back for a refill and a fresh conversation. This time it was an archaeologist, but before I could ask if he'd known Dr. Kirkland well, he asked what I did. As soon as I uttered the word
adjunct
, he excused himself and walked away.

Were people afraid my adjunct status would rub off on them, or did they think I was trolling for work at a memorial service? The fact that I
was
trolling, only for information, did nothing to cool my indignation.

I thought about trying to speak to JTU's chancellor, but he really was paying his respects to Dr. Kirkland's family, so it didn't seem the thing to do. Besides, I was afraid that if he found out I was an adjunct, he would instruct the caterers to take my punch cup away. Even now, the maintenance people might be preparing nets to capture me before the presence of an adjunct besmirched the ivy-covered walls.

Maybe I was getting a tad sensitive.

It wasn't like I'd planned to spend my career as an adjunct, but when I'd finished up my degree, Madison had still been a toddler and I'd needed my parents and sister to help care for her. That meant that I had to stay in Pennycross. Since there'd been no available tenure-track positions in the area, I'd taken a succession of adjunct jobs, thinking that I'd use them as stepping stones. Instead they became more like millstones tied tightly around my neck.

My parents had never worked as adjuncts and had never realized how pervasive the stigma attached to the position was. By the time Madison was old enough that I felt ready to move out of the area for a more ambitious job, I was no longer considered qualified for anything but adjunct work. Most other adjuncts had similar stories, other than the few like Fletcher who were only working part-time.

Since nobody wanted to talk to me, I decided to exact my petty revenge by blowing through as much of the catering budget as possible. I filled my punch cup again and piled half a dozen cookies and a bunch of grapes onto my plate. I was going to slice some cheese when a hand reached in front of me and grabbed the entire chunk and deposited it onto a paper napkin.

“Excuse me,” a grubby-looking guy said. Then he got most of the grapes, and even more cookies than I'd taken. I stepped back before he could forage from my plate. He was piling on crackers when he saw Michaels, chairman of the Anthropology Department, and scurried away.

Michaels surveyed the wreckage, then signaled to a caterer. “They'll have more refreshments out in a minute,” he told me.

“I've got plenty,” I said. “I'm guessing that was one of your grad students.”

“A very promising one, too, despite appearances. I believe he's scheduled to take his quals in a week.”

“I wish him luck.” I hadn't slept or eaten much in the week before my doctoral qualifying exam, either, though I had taken time for regular bathing.

“Oh those halcyon days of yore.” He offered a hand. “I'm Jim Michaels, chair of Anthropology.” Michaels looked like what I would have imagined a department chairman would look like if I hadn't encountered so many examples to the contrary. He was tall with a face that was attractively craggy, and he had salt-and-pepper hair and a strong nose. His hand was free of calluses, but I was willing to bet that, before he'd hit his fifties, he'd put in his time out in the field.

“Georgia Thackery,” I said. “That was a very nice eulogy you gave for Dr. Kirkland.”

“It was the least I could do. She guided me through my own quals and beyond. Of course, I hated her with a passion when she was my thesis advisor, but afterward I realized how much she'd done for me.”

“After you caught up on sleep, you mean.”

“Exactly. I take it you've been through the academic mill yourself.”

“Yes, but in English. I'm adjunct faculty at McQuaid.” I waited for him to make a break for it.

Instead he said, “How did you know Dr. Kirkland?”

“Actually, I never had the pleasure. I'm here representing my parents—they're on sabbatical.” Before he asked how they'd known her, I said, “From what people were saying, I can tell she was very well respected.”

“Enormously so. I don't think I ever met a more conscientious researcher, and her work was her life. She only retired because we have a mandatory age limit. After this, I really think we should revisit the issue. It would have been better if she'd stayed in harness. Of course, if we did that, we'd run into the problem of not being able to afford to hire new blood.”

“No solution works for everybody.” Goodness knows I was sensitive to the issue of new blood finding positions.

A trio of earnestly talking people approached the table and looked nonplused at the lack of sustenance.

“Excuse me,” Michaels said, “I better go nudge catering. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

“Likewise.” I was pathetically grateful that he hadn't shouted,
Unclean!
when learning I was an adjunct. I was about to start up a conversation with the newcomers at the table when I saw them glaring at the overabundance of food on my plate, and realized that they thought the ravaged refreshment table was my doing. So I smiled vaguely and found a concrete bench off to the side of the chapel where I could sit to gorge on my ill-gotten goods.

I was still at it when Dr. Kirkland's daughter-in-law walked in my direction, talking on a cell phone.

She looked at me suspiciously before sitting down at a bench a few feet farther down the sidewalk, her back turned deliberately to me. Her snub might have meant more if she hadn't been talking loudly enough that I could hear every word she said.

“I'm sorry I haven't called back, but we had a death in the family. . . . No, it was just my mother-in-law. I'm at a memorial service at the college where she used to work right now. . . . No, he's fine. It's not like they were close. I mean, my father was in the Navy and was off on deployment for months, and I think I saw more of him than Rich did of his mother. . . . Devoted? Try obsessed! I've got nothing against education or science, but a woman with kids has no business going out into the field for months at a time. . . . That's it exactly. Rich decided a long time ago to stay as far out of that world as possible. . . . No, the twins are just as bad as she was, though at least they had enough sense not to get married or have kids. Not that there's anything wrong with a working mother, as long as she leaves the work at the office. Mother Kirkland never did—her house was like an auxiliary lab. I honestly don't think she minded when her husband died. It gave her more room for her experiments. . . . It was terrible. The kids could never have friends over. And the summers were worse! Did she put the work away and spend time with her children? No, she kept on working, and while other kids were going to Disney or summer camp, Rich and the twins got to be lab assistants. It was practically child abuse. . . . Didn't you hear? It was really awful. She'd just retired to Pennycross, and they've been having a crime wave down there. You'd think it was New York! Some thugs broke in to rob the house and killed her! Of course, anybody else in the world would have heard the crooks breaking in, but Mother Kirkland was working. So much for being retired . . . She never called anybody unless work was involved, so nobody was expecting to hear from her anytime soon. If it hadn't been for the dog, she probably wouldn't have been found as soon as she was. It just makes me sick to think of it.”