Murder in the English Department (6 page)

‘Let me, Mom,' a small voice came from the distance. Then a more gentle tone. ‘It's all right. You sit down now, Mom.'

‘Nan,' she heard Lisa calling her from the other end of the phone. ‘Oh …'

‘Yes, love,' Nan said. What tone should she assume? The words came tense and staccato-like, before she could decide. ‘What was it the doctor told you?'

‘Nothing conclusive,' said the younger woman with careful detachment. Nan could barely believe that this steady, brave voice was only nineteen years old. ‘But it could be bad. It could be Lupus.'

‘What's that?' asked Nan, afraid to hear the answer.

‘A kind of arthritis that attacks the heart and connective tissues,' said Lisa, who was making As in both biology and journalism. ‘It can last for a long time, completely remit or … kill you in a few months.'

‘Oh no, no,' Nan exploded. ‘I mean it couldn't be. How do they know? We'll get another opinion; try another doctor.'

‘Well, we don't know anything definite,' said Lisa patiently. ‘The tests were mostly negative, but that doesn't mean anything. I have the weakness, the spiking fever, the weight loss, but the freakiest thing of all,' her voice seemed to crack and then recover, ‘is that funny butterfly mark on my face that I thought was from strawberries.'

Nan nodded. Then remembering she was on the phone, said, ‘Yes, what about it?'

‘They say it's an erythematous rash and it's symptomatic of Lupus.'

‘But when will you know?'

‘Well, this thing comes and goes. The tests don't always show. But they're going to take another one next month.'

‘Have you considered that it might be emotional, I mean part of it. You don't have to take one opinion do you?' Nan stopped as she noticed the hysteria in her voice.

‘Oh, Lisa honey, how do you feel?'

‘Pretty depressed,' she said simply. ‘But physically, physically I do feel better today.'

‘Maybe that means some kind of remission.' Nan knew she sounded wildly optimistic.

‘I doubt it,' said Lisa. ‘It's supposed to be really erratic. Not much I can do about it anyway. “Rest,” Dr Bonelli said. But I've been resting in this damn house for a week and I'm ready to tear out my hair.'

‘Listen, you do what the doctor says,' reprimanded Nan. Then, in a lighter voice, she teased, ‘And if you tear out your hair, I'll buy you a wig. Remember we always wondered what you'd look like as a brunette.'

‘Oh, Nan,' laughed Lisa.

Nan listened to her niece's clear, young laugh and could think of nothing to say. Tests, butterflies, arthritis, heart, kill, remit, wig, Lisa. Desperately she tried to fit it all together.

‘Nan?'

Someone was calling her name.

‘Yes?' she answered foggily.

‘We still have New Year's Day together, don't we?' asked Lisa.

‘Well, love, I don't know about that,' said Nan. ‘I think we should listen to the doctor's …'

‘The damn doctor has no idea what it's like in this house on New Year's.' Lisa lowered her voice, ‘with the Rose Bowl Parade and the game and the after-game replays and the boys and Daddy hollering and Debbie and Lynda yammering on about their macramé and …'

‘Enough said,' Nan answered, pleased at the energy in Lisa's fury. ‘We'll have our day.'

Nan said goodbye. She stood up with deliberation, wiping away her selfish tears.

The friendship with Lisa had
begun
only a couple of years ago, when Shirley finally admitted her daughter was old enough to take the BART train out to see her aunt. Berkeley was eleven stops from South Hayward, eleven chances for murder, rape, battery. Crime was getting worse and worse in the Bay Area, despite, or perhaps because of, its Utopian reputation. And Berkeley, for heaven's sake, was the end of the earth.

Lisa had prepared for that trip by reading two Willa Cather novels and buying a funky tie-dyed T-shirt like the ones everyone wore on Telegraph Avenue.

Nan searched now for her books and her ever-lost keys. It would be too simple to cast Shirley as the provincial mother. Nan and Lisa had an unspoken agreement not to scapegoat Shirley. But they would lobby for Lisa's freedom.

Nan had started the lobby years ago. Lisa was just a little girl. With postcards from Holland and Morocco and the Soviet Union after she left Charles. With that birthday present atlas. With fantasies about hiking through Alaska together. Nan was conscious of being the Exotic Aunt, a strange and benevolent lady who travelled in faraway places and spoke grand ideas. She enjoyed this image, as if she were showing little Nan Weaver herself that indeed you could grow up and out of Hayward. And how she loved Lisa, more than any other person in her life.

Sometimes they would go for walks together, just the two of them. There wasn't anywhere to walk really, except the little park down by the reservoir where the Chicano boys hung out, playing their transistors and smoking thin black cigars. But Liberty Park—for all the dreams hatched there—could have been the Tuilleries or Tivoli Gardens. Perhaps they would go farther afield on New Year's, to Joaquin Miller Park or Crow Canyon. Yes, the two of them would go somewhere marvellous on New Year's Day.

Chapter Five

NEW YEAR'S EVE ARRIVED
with the kind of weather that would freeze your bones—black, windy and wet, dead cold. Nan was glad she had driven to campus rather than cycled. She locked up her snug little car and walked briskly to Wheeler Hall. Would Mr Johnson be on duty this evening? For his sake, she hoped not. But if he were, perhaps they could share a toast at midnight.

No, she wasn't going to get sentimental. This was just another night. The Chinese didn't celebrate new year until February for god's sake and the Jews did it in the fall. The commercial New Year's Eve televised from Times Square was a perfect load of rubbish. Nan always had a terrible time on New Year's. First, the obligatory examination of conscience, then the list of resolutions to salve the conscience, then the drinking to swallow the resolutions. The next morning always dragged with guilt for undone deeds and hangover for done ones. Nothing could ruin a good party like New Year's.

The fourth floor was shadowy under dim corridor lights. Each wooden door was closed on a silent room. Frighteningly still. Nan remembered one night long ago when she had to stay over at the Maryknoll Retreat House, a scared child alone with the mute nuns until the next bus arrived in the morning. The convent corridor was dark and wooden like this. And she remembered walking carefully, stealthily, in search of the bathroom, willing her bladder to hold her pee so she might return to the relative anonymity of her spare cell. The convent smelled of furniture polish and stale holy water. Nan felt an inexplicable sadness for the nuns who slept alone on meticulously ironed sheets. The bathroom, she finally discovered, was at the very end of fifteen doors. The toiler paper was that cheap kind which felt more like wax paper than tissue. All the way back down the corridor, Nan prayed that she wouldn't wake any of the good sisters with the squeaking of her crepe rubber soles.

Tonight Wheeler Hall was darker than usual. Even Mr Johnson's door was shut. Just as well the old man wasn't around. He might feel embarrassed if she offered a toast for the New Year. She might feel embarrassed. As Nan turned the corner, she was startled by light streaming through the frosted glass of Angus Murchie's door.

The old coot probably didn't have anywhere to go. (No, that wasn't true. Like everyone else in the department, he had been invited to Matt's fandango. And he was quite likely to show up since Mrs Murchie was confined to the Health Spa—or upper-class detoxification centre—for the holidays. In fact, Murchie's probable presence was one of the excuses Nan had given Matt for not attending his annual party.) Nan could hear Murchie's laughter oozing from under the door sill. He wasn't alone. And Nan was almost in her office when she heard the other voice, a woman's voice. Tiptoeing back over the polished floor, Nan thought she could distinguish the dulcet tones of Marjorie Adams.

Oh Jesus, thought Nan, what had the kid got herself into? Didn't Marjorie understand that Murchie was the biggest lech west of the Rockies? Didn't she know that he had sent three of his advisees to Student Psychiatric last quarter?

But Marjorie seemed so guileless, as if her family had padded her against all misfortune. And her trust in Murchie was not so different from Nan's own respect for Professor Eastman years ago. What kind of woman works with a male professor at night? A serious woman, a scholarly woman, a woman who, perhaps naively, has come to regard herself as a student rather than a prey. Perhaps Angus did have a legitimate reason to work tonight? Nan couldn't believe he was completely evil, although he was brusque, unpleasant and selfish. What did his behaviour camouflage? Fear? He was an ageing man whose private life had been unhappy and whose career was ending. Where were his tender feelings? Could Marjorie with her quiet enthusiasm move him to humanity? Did he see through her Hollywood chic?

No use speculating. ‘Guesses can be dangerous when there's no way to know,' Nan's mother would say, did say, over and over. Of course Mom wasn't talking about anything as seedy as this. Mom would never imagine such dangers at The University. Seedy—of course Nan was exaggerating. How melodramatic. Probably poor Marjorie had been lured here for a drink before Matt's party, on the pretext of recovering some urgent bibliographic reference to ‘Il Penseroso'. They would be off soon, Marjorie driving because Murchie sounded absolutely pickled. Nan would not bother about them. She sneaked down the hall and into her own mausoleum. Going directly to her desk, she turned on the tensor lamp. She would not risk the bright overhead light spilling under the door into the hallway, as an invitation to the likes of Angus Murchie.

Tonight she would finish reading all the journal pieces and perhaps review the rest of her research. Deliberately setting aside Marjorie Adams's dissertation, Nan kicked off her shoes and began to read over the outline for her article. She was finding some fascinating stuff about Lessing's use of African landscape. Now wasn't this much more satisfying than getting drunk at Matt's? Think of all the cocktail parties you'd have to attend to find someone as interesting as Doris Lessing. Nan hadn't sat down for two minutes before she was up, fiddling with the radio to find some classical Muzak. Then she realized that Murchie and Marjorie might hear her, so she switched it off. Too much static anyway, she really had to get a better aerial. Returning to her desk, she came across a small cache of bubble gum. She unwrapped two pieces at once. This had been Lisa's package, Nan remembered. She had left it on the last visit, after they had joked about its carcinogenic, deadly additives.

God damn it, this Lupus thing wasn't possible. Not Lisa, thought Nan, crumbling the gum wrapper and flinging it into the wastecan. Not this kid with all the energy and hope in the world. Not this remarkable young woman who was going to be the orator of her generation. Just look at the way she was reacting to the diagnosis—trying to cheer up her mother. No, it couldn't happen to bright, determined Lisa. She would be a community organizer in a few years. The kid had already worked three summers in housing services and play schemes. She was remarkably socially conscious for her age, a good feminist, an altruist at heart.

An image of Lisa, withered and pale against the hospital sheets, dropped over Nan's mind. She started to cry and abruptly sniffed away the tears. Lisa would not die, Nan resolved. Guesses
were
dangerous when there was no way to know.

The Lupus had to be a false alarm. Maybe it was Lisa's hormones settling. Or maybe it was someone else's test results. As simple as that. Scandalous the way they were always mixing up other people's results. Hospitals nowadays were as unreliable as automobile factories.

Nan stared out the window at the blackness, remembering there had been a red sky tonight—sailor's delight. Warm and sunny tomorrow. Everything would be dissolved in the morning warm. She and Lisa would go somewhere extravagant tomorrow to celebrate the New Year. They would ferry to Sausalito or go counting cows up by Santa Rosa or perhaps drive to the wine tasting country.

Nan could still hear Murchie's laughter and Marjorie's softer voice. They would be leaving for Matt's party soon, she told herself and settled into work. She was contentedly absorbed in Lessing's landscapes by the time she noticed them again. (Her father used to smile ruefully and say, ‘Amazing the way our Nan reads a book—like she's swimming underwater. Never hears a thing.') She tried to concentrate. But the voice of Marjorie Adams was no longer so dulcet.

‘No, no,' the young woman was almost shouting. It was Marjorie Adams, wasn't it? The voice sounded strained. Hard to place.

Nan got up and walked over to her wall. She stood stiffly, as if the tension might help her hear. Their voices were quieter now. Anxiously, Nan stayed at the wall, holding her arms tight across her chest. When she did not hear anything for a minute or two, she returned, uneasily, to her desk.

‘You bastard. You dirty bastard,' she heard distinctly.

Shocked at the language—so unlike Marjorie—she knew something terrible was happening. Nan imagined her being attacked. Marjorie writhing on the blue Persian rug, Murchie on top of her, like an elephant mauling a flamingo. Nan could hear Marjorie punching him and his corresponding laughter.

No more guesses tonight. Nan knew she had to intervene. Kneeling on the floor, she scrambled for her shoes. Propriety, even in disaster. What the hell was she doing? She ran out into the hall with one shoe on. By the time she reached Murchie's door, all was silent. She knocked, but heard no answer. Eerie. Nan would rather hear anything than this silence. Nervously, she rattled the door. Then she heard something. Something low. Murchie's voice. Groaning or gasping. Then the slamming open of a window. How did she know? How much was she imagining? How much had she imagined all night? Nan rattled the handle again. No sound. Bewildered, petrified, she found herself turning back around the corner. What was she doing? Oh, yes, automatic pilot. Panic always brought out the best in her. She ran back to her office and rooted around in her purse for a credit card. Joe had showed her this trick. Confidently now, she stuck the plastic card in the lock. Calmly, as if she moonlighted as a cat burglar, she released the lock. Finally Nan flung open the door to the brightly lit office.

The window was wide open. The first thing she saw was the yellow blind flapping wildly against the cold wind. Beneath the window, lying on the floor, was the enormous carcass of Angus Murchie, gushing quantities of a maroon substance that she presumed to be human blood. She saw three deep gashes in his stomach. Oh, god, she thought, tell me it isn't true. She spun around as if looking for help. Noticing his cashmere sweater on the chair, she pulled it down and tried to stop the bleeding. Oh god. Oh god. His eyes were glazed as though he were focussing on some long and winding eternity. Never had anything terrified or repulsed her so. Behind him a wave of cold night air roared through the window. She shivered and rose as if in a trance.

Nan carefully stepped over the body and looked out the window. Down below, she saw a woman with a long blonde braid down her back running toward the Northside of the campus. She must have climbed down the scaffolding being used by the masonry workers, thought Nan. What
was
she doing? This man was dying here in the room with her. She pulled down the big window and returned to Murchie.

A small, pathetic rasping came from his throat.

‘It's going to be all right,' she heard herself reassure him.

More rasping.

She wiped his forehead with her hand. She wanted to call for help. Yet Murchie seemed to need her here, now, beside him. He looked more peaceful at her touch, at her reassurance. Jesus, Nan realized, if she was scared he must be terrified.

With considerable calm, Nan studied Murchie's eyes and felt his pulse, the way Dr Charles Woodward practised on her for his first-term exams. He was breathing faintly. Every second counted. No time for outside help. She would have to try to save him herself. Overcoming nausea at Murchie's alcoholic breath, she gave him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Eventually she recognized it was useless. Murchie was not responding. Oh god. O god, say it isn't true. Nan drew away, noticing a stain of blood on her dress. Minimal compared to the large and peculiar patterns his dark blood had made on the teal Persian carpet. She sat back, telling herself that Murchie was dead. She could feel nothing for him. But she felt a great fear for Marjorie.

Marjorie. Poor, innocent Marjorie. Stupid, careless Marjorie. Here was the letter opener lying next to Murchie's right hand. Underneath it was Marjorie's batik silk scarf. Nan folded the scarf, amazed to discover how profound was her instinct to protect this other woman. Nan wondered if she herself might be accused of the murder. Then she was filled with nausea from the smell of Murchie's sweat and sex. For the first time, she noticed that his pants were down around his thighs. His penis looked like a purple magic marker. She closed her eyes which were heavy and sore. Momentarily, she contemplated whether murder would be the perfect climax to every rape.

Appalled at such cool detachment, Nan forced herself to consider Marjorie Adams again. She unfolded the scarf and wiped Marjorie's fingerprints off the ugly Moccasin handle of the letter opener. Then she wiped her own prints off the window and the door knob. Again, she marvelled at her logic and dispatch. Why wasn't she shrieking? Falling apart? ‘The Weavers don't behave that way,' Mom would say. ‘You're holding in your feelings,' Francie would say. Amy would see it as ‘working-class common sense.' Nan tuned out the voices.

She considered calling the police. But ambulances would be too late and the cops were needed for live revellers tonight. Besides, her instinctive desire was to get away, to wake from this horror. Quickly, she checked around the room for other relics of her student and, finding none, left immediately. The corridor seemed brighter now, but this was a ridiculous psychological reaction, because Nan knew there were only two lights on in the whole building—hers and Murchie's. She returned to her room, stuffed Marjorie's scarf into her purse. Calmly (where did all this calm come from?) she gathered together her books, turned off the tensor lamp and headed out toward Isadora.

But she couldn't just hop in the car and go home to a stiff glass of brandy as if the murder movie had ended. She must try to find Marjorie Adams, to
help
her. Nan turned around and rushed toward the Northside of campus. She walked past Doe Library, down by the temporary buildings, up the hill to the geography hall where she had learned about the similarity in segregation patterns between Berkeley and Kenya (blacks in the flatlands and whites in the hills). What a strange memory to fill her head now. It was such a weird, silent night, and Nan longed for the more manageable terror of the Maryknoll Retreat House. Reaching the edge of campus, Nan knew the search was useless. What had she expected? To find little Miss Muffet sitting on a bench weeping? Marjorie Adams was a woman of resources; she might well have booked a flight to Kabul by now. Nan turned back and walked tensely through the dark campus, as anger mingled with her fear. Damn, god damn, she was outraged with Angus Murchie for causing this catastrophe. He was a selfish and destructive man, who, even in his death, brought trouble. Should she phone Amy and ask her to report the death? No, she did not want to be implicated. She did not want to testify against Marjorie Adams. Some things were very certain for Nan, despite this fear which knotted her stomach and buckled her knees.