Summer Session (35 page)

‘Hairy? How?’

‘I’ll leave the explaining to you, Mrs Jennings – I mean, Harper.’ Detective Rivers stood, mock-saluting a goodbye. ‘It’s been a long shift. I’m heading home before it storms.’

‘Bye.’ Hank turned to Harper. ‘Now. Tell. Hairy.’ He wanted to hear everything.

Harper picked up her cup and took a gulp of cold coffee. ‘First, let’s eat.’ As thunder rumbled outside, she lifted her fork and stuffed her mouth with cold eggs.

That afternoon, thunder kept rolling, but it didn’t rain. The cleaners arrived. Harper spent her time directing their work or on the phone. She answered weeks of email, mostly from Professor Schmerling, who’d sent updates daily from the dig site and worried that she wasn’t responding. She talked with her mother, telling her little more than that Hank was home and doing well. And she arranged for outpatient physical therapy for Hank through his former internist’s office.

For most of the afternoon, Hank wandered around the property or sat peacefully on the newly scrubbed and polished front porch swing, reading the newspaper, watching the dark, cloudy sky. By evening, the house was sparkling, and they were alone at home for the first time in months.

Harper cooked. There wasn’t much in the house, but she fixed tuna salad and a can of vegetable soup. At night, Hank made it up the steps, one at a time. Slowly, carefully, holding the railing. They went to bed, their own bed. Neither could stop smiling as they lay in each other’s arms, listening to the rain on the roof as the thunderstorm finally broke, falling asleep to the music of the pounding rain.

Days streamed along, sun-drenched and warm. Dr Steven Wyatt, fired by the Center, faced a medley of criminal charges, including assault and kidnapping. Dr Ron Kendall avoided significant legal troubles by abruptly resigning his position and, according to one rumor, accepting a position at a teaching hospital in San Salvador.

Summer session ended with fewer than half of Harper’s students finishing the course. Harper’s mother threatened to visit, insisting that Harper couldn’t care for an invalid on her own; Harper assured her that Hank, although still having trouble with his speech, was hardly an invalid.

Determined to pick up where he’d left off with renovations, Hank stained the deck out back, installed the new tub and toilet upstairs, put wallpaper up in the dining room and redid the floors in the nursery, which Harper finally finished painting. With time, the physical labor increased his strength. His limp became less pronounced, and his arms moved more evenly.

There were setbacks, too. With Hank unable to teach for the foreseeable future, the Geology department passed him over for tenure and offered the position to Trent. Their letter to Hank guaranteed him a teaching position when he was ready and promised that when he did return to work, he’d be reconsidered for tenure. Hank seemed indifferent to academics. In fact, he seemed uninterested in life outside their small property, content for now to spend his time with a paintbrush or spackling and putty.

Harper, by contrast, focused much of her attention elsewhere. For weeks, she scoured the Internet, scanning newspapers across New York State and into New England, looking for sudden odd suicides or random murders. Almost every day, she found one or more such incident, wondered if it was related to the missing drugs. Finally, she realized that there was no way to connect any of the crimes to the drugs and abandoned the effort, consoling herself with the knowledge that not all impulsive acts would involve violence or crime. Some might be impulsive acts of kindness or generosity. Either way, the supply of pills was limited and the number of acts they inspired would be finite.

Harper continued to meet with Leslie, but Sameh, the faceless boy and Marvin still showed up, and occasionally she heard explosions or bursts of gunfire. Now, though, she was able to distinguish these intrusions from reality, enduring them without panicking or running for cover.

By August, life for Harper and Hank had become routine and quiet; the drama of early summer faded, seeming almost unreal. Harper resumed preliminary research for her dissertation, met often with Professor Schmerling and assisted him with data analysis from the Peruvian dig, became immersed in her studies.

Hank’s speech improved little by little, and friends began to return from their summer travels. Janet and Dan got back from Italy, Ruth from Martha’s Vineyard. People dropped by to eat burgers and drink beer. And late in the month, an invitation arrived, inviting them to a celebration of Trent’s tenure.

Apparently, Vicki and Trent had not separated. But Harper hadn’t seen or spoken to Vicki since the day she’d punched her in the nose. Harper had let Vicki’s phone calls go unanswered, letting the questions of Vicki and Hank go unanswered, as well. Now, there was this invitation.

They couldn’t go. Why would they? The friendship had disintegrated. Trent and Vicki still hadn’t come to see Hank. And, more important, Harper wasn’t sure Hank was up to seeing his old colleagues yet. Or to having them see him. No, they couldn’t go. She didn’t even mention the possibility, set the invitation aside. But then one afternoon, she saw Hank reading it.

‘Trent’s party.’

‘Yeah. No big deal.’

‘Going.’

‘We don’t have to. Don’t worry about it.’ She had little trouble understanding him anymore.

Hank stared at the calligraphy. ‘Neat ink.’

‘Uh huh.’ She didn’t ask if he wanted to go. It would be painful for him to celebrate Trent’s tenure, the position he should have gotten.

Hank picked up the invitation, turned it over, set it down. Scratched his head. ‘A suit? Wear?’

A suit? ‘Really?’ He wanted to know what people would wear? ‘No, it’s not formal. I think just a sport shirt.’

‘Go. We.’ Hank was insistent. ‘Let’s.’

‘Are you sure?’ Harper knew even as she asked. She could tell by his voice; Hank was determined to be there.

A large white tent covered the yard beside Trent and Vicki’s house. Professors and administrators lolled about, holding cups of punch, chatting, posturing, chuckling at bad puns. When Harper and Hank arrived, heads turned and conversation hushed. Not many had seen Hank since his accident. Now, suntanned and toned, almost steady on his feet, Hank strode across the lawn to the festivities.

Harper spotted Vicki near the tent, standing with Jim Hayden, head of the Geology Department.

‘Hank.’ A colleague – Harper couldn’t remember his name – stretched out his hand, then hesitated, unsure if Hank would be able to shake it with his weakened right arm.

Hank did, though. ‘Ellis.’

Amazing, Harper thought. Except that Hank hadn’t smiled, the interaction had been completely normal; listening, nobody would have guessed that Hank had aphasia.

‘How the hell are you doing?’ The guy named Ellis slapped Hank on the shoulder, glad to see him. The head of the department left Vicki’s side, rushing over.

‘Hank. Great to see you.’

‘Jim.’ Hank glared at the man.

Other people were gathering around them, but Hank continued to glare at Jim. Why was Hank looking at him that way? It was embarrassing. Was he sore about Trent’s tenure?

‘Nice to see you again, Dr Hayden. I’m Harper. Hank’s wife.’ She intervened, shaking Jim’s hand, not sure he remembered her.

‘Of course, Harper. Glad to see you. Call me Jim. We’re all just colleagues here.’ His smile was permanent, his handshake indefinite.

Hank continued to eye Jim oddly, even as the crowd gathered, asking questions. Hank, how are you? When are you coming back to work? How the hell do you manage to look so good? ‘How’s he doing, really?’ a stranger whispered to Harper. ‘It’s such a shame what happened.’

At first, Hank seemed uplifted by the swarm of attention, smiling at one colleague, embracing another. But the questions and comments came too fast for too long, and Harper saw his frustration rise. He simply couldn’t say what he wanted to.

‘I’m fine.’ Hank frowned, concentrating, needing time. ‘How been. You?’

‘What’s that, Hank?’ People quieted, trying to hear him. Jim, the department head, turned his ear toward Hank, as if that would help.

‘You. Good. Fine?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You want something, Hank? A drink?’

Whispers. People buzzed, well-intentioned, trying to be helpful.

‘What did he say?’

‘No clue.’

‘I can.’ Hank shook his head, emphatic. ‘Talk. Now.’

‘He has aphasia,’ Harper explained. ‘He’s getting better, but it takes a while for Hank to get his words out.’

Nods and smiles. Platitudes. Empathy and embarrassment.

‘Well, you sure look good, champ. Doesn’t he? Doesn’t he look great?’

‘Maybe I should drop you on your head, George. Maybe then you’d get into shape like Hank.’

‘Good to see you back, man.’

Harper’s neck heated up, blotchy and mottled. ‘Let’s get some punch.’ She forced a smile and led Hank toward the tent. The little crowd dispersed; the buzz of conversation rose again. And, suddenly, Vicki came at them from nowhere, like a descending hawk, wings spread, flapping, engulfing Hank. Pecking at his face.

‘My God, Hank. Let me look at you.’ She checked him out, hugging him. Her nose was markedly shorter, must have been fixed by a plastic surgeon. ‘I was afraid you two wouldn’t come.’ She turned to Harper. ‘I’ve been trying to reach you for—’

‘Vicki. About my explosion.’ Harper had prepared an explanation. ‘I’m sorry—’

‘No. I understand. Completely. In your shoes, I’d have been mad, too.’

Wait. She’d broken Vicki’s nose, and Vicki wasn’t even mad? Maybe Vicki felt guilty about what she’d done. Well, she should. At least Harper wouldn’t have to explain about eating the drug-filled cake or the side effects of the drugs. At least not here at the party.

‘Well, still. I shouldn’t have hit you.’

Harper had half expected Vicki to have her arrested; instead, she wasn’t even annoyed.

‘I can imagine how you felt when you found out. But think about it. The way things turned out, what happened really didn’t matter. Nothing’s different than it would have been.’

Harper’s face reddened. How could Vicki talk about her affair with Hank right in front of him? Negating its significance. Did she think he was deaf? The woman deserved that punch in the nose, maybe another.

Vicki kept babbling, playing the hostess, fawning over them until, from across the lawn, Trent sauntered toward them. Silently, Hank broke away to meet his friend.

‘Excuse me—’ Harper left Vicki mid-sentence and took off after Hank. He hadn’t seen Trent since the accident, and she wasn’t sure how the reunion would go. Hank might be bitter that his friend hadn’t even once come to see him. Not to mention that Trent had received the tenured position that should have been Hank’s. She doubted that Hank would cause trouble and knew the two men needed time together alone, but her instincts wouldn’t let her. She stayed close, just in case.

‘Hank. It is! It’s really you.’ Trent swayed slightly as he approached, spilling punch on to the grass. ‘Finally. We meet again, old friend. How you doing?’

Hank didn’t even try to speak. He stood silent, facing Trent, eyeball to eyeball.

‘Sorry about the tenure, Hank. Don’t take it to heart,’ Trent rambled. ‘Under normal circumstances, this thing might easily have gone the other way.’

‘Screw.’

Screw? Harper looked at Hank, startled. He was cursing at Trent. Oh Lord.

Trent raised an eyebrow. ‘Sorry?’

‘Vicki. Screwed. Win.’

Wait. Oh God! He wasn’t cursing – Hank was referring to his affair with Vicki! Lord, for some bizarre reason, Hank and Vicki had both decided to air their secret right there at Trent’s party. But why? Coming here had not been a good idea. Harper downed her glass of punch.

Trent smiled stupidly. Mutely.

‘Hank.’ Harper stepped over, taking his arm. ‘I think we should—’

‘Vicki screwed. Won. Not you. She.’

What was Hank’s point? In a twisted way, was he telling Trent that he hadn’t really won? That Trent might have tenure, but Hank had had sex with his wife? How could Hank announce that right in front of everyone? Harper pulled him away.

‘Let’s just go, Hank.’

Hank stood his ground.

‘I’m – I’m not sure what he’s trying to say,’ Trent stammered, grinning. ‘So good to see you, though. Both of you. Let’s get together soon.’ He started to walk away.

‘Roof. Trent.’ Hank declared, too loudly. ‘You. Pushed.’

Trent stopped walking, stopped smiling. Harper froze. Pushed? Trent? Was Hank accusing Trent of pushing him off the roof?

Again, Harper saw Hank falling, sliding, arms askew. She squeezed her drink, counted faces. Fended off flashbacks.

Trent and Hank faced each other mutely.

‘Look. No hard feelings,’ Trent finally offered. ‘It was an act of passion.’

What? He was OK with Hank and Vicki having sex?

Hank didn’t move. ‘Not OK. Pushed. You. Because fucked. Vicki.’

Harper translated: Trent had pushed Hank because of his affair with Vicki. She had trouble breathing. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Why was Hank talking about his affair right in front of her, as if he didn’t care if she heard? She wanted to leave. Pictured herself running for the gate. Speeding home, packing. Leaving.

But Trent was talking again. ‘Hank. I don’t really get what you’re saying, but if it’s what I think, just forget it. It’s in the past. All of it. History. It was the heat of the moment. All is forgiven, pal. You didn’t mean it.’

Wait. Trent was forgiving Hank? For having sex with Vicki?

‘Frankly, if it was the other way around, if Harper had – if she’d done what Vicki did – I might have lost it—’

‘No.’

‘No,’ Trent agreed. ‘You’re right. I wouldn’t have done what you did—’

‘No. Hoppa would. Not. Do. Like Vicki.’