When the Day of Evil Comes (10 page)

“So there’s not an answer.”

“No. There isn’t. I’m really sorry.”

There was an awkward moment of silence.

“You’re not going to sue me are you?” he said, only half joking.

This time I was the one that laughed. “No. Definitely not. I’m not the litigious type. Besides, what would be the point? I have the ring.”

“Would you like us to reinter?”

“You mean bury it again?”

He nodded. “I thought I’d offer.”

“No. I think this ring wants to be with me. Maybe I’ll fill you in on the rest of the story sometime.”

“I’ve got time now. Want to go get a cherry soda?”

“You’re kidding. A cherry soda?”

“At the drug store. They have a real pharmacy soda fountain there. Make a mean cherry soda. It’s too early for beer or I’d take you dancing.”

“How old are you?” I asked. We’d just looked at pictures of my dead mother together. Some sort of intimacy had been established. Directness seemed appropriate.

“Thirty You?”

“Thirty-three.”

“You look younger,” he said.

“So do you.”

“It’s the embalming fluid.”

So I went to the Hillsboro Main Street Drug Store with David Shykovsky, owner of Sutter Funeral Home, and had myself a genuine soda fountain cherry soda with a genuine small town guy.

At least it was a step up from John Mulvaney.

T
HE CHERRY SODA DATE
turned out to be a pleasant surprise. I liked David Shykovsky. Though I kept picturing myself giving the “owns a funeral home in Hillsboro” answer at parties.

Interestingly, he’d seemed unfazed by the bizarre nature of my story. I didn’t tell him everything. (I left out the teeny detail that I was being investigated for inappropriate sexual conduct with a client who had later committed suicide. That completely outdid “owns a funeral home in Hillsboro” as an automatic disqualifier for date consideration.)

He had my phone number. I suspected he would call me again.

David favored a spiritual explanation for this whole situation. He might have just said that to avoid liability on the part of the funeral home, but I didn’t get the impression he was that sort of guy. He actually seemed to believe that an intrusive spiritual dimension was a plausible explanation for what I’d experienced. That made him a little more attractive in my mind. At least he didn’t think I was a loony bird.

Driving home, I felt dissatisfied with the answers I’d gotten about the ring. It was too ambiguous. My gut feeling was that
it hadn’t been stolen. That it had been buried with my mother. I would have felt more at ease about this conclusion if there hadn’t been some holes—one or two unlikely but possible opportunities for theft. I’d rather have had an airtight “no way.” It seemed that certainty was not one of the things God was going to supply at this point. I was irritated about this to no end.

The drive seemed longer on the way back. Probably because my mind was still reeling and it was late afternoon now. Hot. Hotter than the eyes of hell, in fact. And all I’d ingested that day were about two gallons of tea, a Dr. Pepper, and a cherry soda with a side car of vanilla ice cream. Not exactly a strict observance of the FDA’s food pyramid.

When I finally arrived home, I was beat. Just absolutely worn-out on every level. So I was even more annoyed than usual to find several messages on my answering machine, the red light blinking expectantly at me, a little scarlet strobe of obligation.

I hit the play button and fast-forwarded through two rambling and angry messages from my father. Apparently my abrupt conversation with him about mom’s funeral had gotten under his skin. Which was fine with me. Let Kellee deal with him. She’d signed up for that, as far as I was concerned.

There was one message from Helene. She’d spoken with Erik Zocci’s father this time and wanted me to call her back as soon as I had a minute to talk. And the last message was from my student, Gavin. Odd that he would call me at home. I wondered how he’d gotten my home number. Usually I make a point to be thoroughly unlisted. With the Damoclean sword of ethical allegations dangling over my head, I didn’t need any suggestions of impropriety I decided I’d just see him in class on Monday. I didn’t return his call.

I did fix myself a large glass of ice water and sat down to call.
Helene. She picked up on the first ring. Thank goodness for caller ID.

“Hi, Dylan,” she said. “You ready for this?”

“Probably not. But go ahead. Is it bad news?”

“I can’t tell yet.” I heard her cover the phone and say something to someone else.

“Is someone there with you?” I asked.

“My son. He’s just here to mow the lawn. He just stepped outside.”

“Okay. What did you find out?”

“He mentioned you in the suicide note.”

“What? Did he blame me for the suicide? What did he say? Why didn’t his parents get in touch with me? Why haven’t we heard from them?” Questions were whipping out of my mouth before I could stop them.

“Settle down. Do you want to hear this or not?”

“I’m listening.”

“You don’t sound like you’re listening. You sound like you’re arguing.”

“I’m listening. Go ahead.”

“I don’t have it verbatim. But the note specifically said that you were right. That he wasn’t the man he should be. Something to that effect.”

“I never said that!”

“Shut up,” Helene said. She’d never spoken to me so harshly before. “Just shut up and listen. I’m not going to debate this with you.”

“Okay.” I clamped my lips together and silently vowed to keep them there.

“According to the father, the kid had started having trouble at SMU his freshman year. Bad dreams. Insomnia. Same symptoms you saw. The father claims he went downhill while he
was seeing you, and that your treatment was inadequate in some sort of catastrophically damaging way.” She paused. “He also said Erik had told him about your improper behavior advances.”

Silence.

“Well?” she said.

“You told me not to say anything.”

“Now it’s time to say something. What do you think?”

“I think I missed some paranoid psychosis in this kid.”

“That’s what I think.”

“What else did he say?”

“He’s contacted a lawyer, Dylan.”

I closed my eyes. “They’re suing me.”

“And the university. The good news is that, in my opinion, your records completely dispute their claims. They haven’t seen the files, obviously. But I can’t see how they could possibly win that claim. Your professional credibility alone would stand against that sort of accusation. The bad news is you probably missed the diagnosis.”

“That would come out at trial,” I said, my heart sinking.

“If there is a trial. SMU’s attorneys will defend this one aggressively. It will probably settle out of court with no admission of liability. That’s how these things go.”

“And what will happen to me?”

“Depends. You could lose your job.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No, it isn’t.”

I listened to my kitchen wall clock tick seconds away.

“What’s next?”

“I’m meeting with the attorney on Monday. He’ll probably want you at the meeting. I’ll let you know when we confirm the time. It’ll probably be after your afternoon class.”

“And until then?”

“If I were you?”

“Yes.”

“Pray.”

I took her advice and spent some time, literally, on my knees before I went to bed. Peace continued to elude me, though, and another sleepless night of deviled-egg smells had me wandering through the house at 3:00 a.m. looking for sources of the odor. I never could place it. I emptied every garbage pail in the house and garage, scrubbed out my garbage disposal, and ground up a fresh lemon in it. Still the smell remained. Every time I closed my eyes it would come again.

At least there were no flies.

The next day was Sunday, and I was relieved to step into the auditorium at my church. Something about the daylight, the familiar faces, the music—it all felt safe, familiar, insulated. Surely God would show up and comfort me. Maybe He would give me a hint or two about what to do.

I go to sort of a hippie church, so it’s not terribly churchy looking. It looks more like an office building, with an atrium and an auditorium instead of a lobby or sanctuary I greeted some friends and found myself a seat alone, hoping no lurking single male predators would home in on me that day. My church has a large single population, and any time I sit alone, I’m apt to have the seat next to me filled by some extremely awkward man desperate to make conversation for the sole purpose of scoring a date for the following weekend. No thanks.

So when someone took the seat directly next to me, though several around me were empty, I stiffened. I resolved not to turn and acknowledge his presence.

“Dr. Foster?”

Rats. It was someone who knew me.

I turned and saw Gavin sitting there.

“Good morning, Gavin,” I said. I smiled, trying to be friendly. But in point of fact, I was feeling unfriendly, paranoid, and downright hostile that day. Great way to start out a Sunday, with a complete dearth of Christian charity.

“You didn’t return my call.” His tone wasn’t accusatory. It was just a simple statement of fact.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Do you mind if I sit here?”

“Nope.” Do lies in church count double? “I didn’t know you went to church here.”

“It’s my first time. I don’t really know what to expect.”

His rookie status appealed to my helping instincts. I felt my attitude soften.

“Very few rituals here,” I said. “I think you’ll find it’s an easy place to fit in.”

The band started playing and we stood up with the rest of the crowd. I sang, feeling my attitude shift from horizontal hostility to vertical need and gratitude. I love that about worship. It applies appropriate perspective to my life. I felt some of my tension slip away.

Gavin didn’t know any of the songs, of course. He just stood there with his mouth closed and his hands jammed in his pockets. But I wasn’t going to allow my experience to be influenced by his. I have a terrible voice, but sang with abandon anyway, glad to get out of my head for a while and lift my mind and heart where they belonged. I felt much better by the time the sermon started.

Gavin took in the entire experience exactly the way he sat in my class. Attentive without being eager, critical without being cynical. He was a smart kid with a good mind. I liked him.

After the service was over, we walked out into the heat of the courtyard. I felt good for the first time in days.

“Do you want to know why I called?” he asked.

“I’d rather talk about it tomorrow at school.”

“I think you’d rather know today.”

Something in his tone stopped me.

“Okay. I’m listening.”

“I found something yesterday”

I waited.

“A journal,” he said.

“Whose journal?”

“Some kid named Erik Zocci.”

I froze. “Where did you find it?”

“On the floor. Behind my desk.”

“Your desk. In my classroom?”

“No. In my dorm room.”

“Which dorm?”

“Morrison.”

I was pretty sure it was the same dorm. “Room?”

“105.”

I’d have to find out what Zocci’s room number was.

“What did it say?”

“See for yourself.”

He handed me a thin notebook, little wads of dust still clinging to the edges of the pages. I looked inside the cover and saw that Erik had written his name there.

“Who is Erik Zocci?” Gavin asked.

I could barely speak. My heart was in my throat.

“I can’t say.”

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it? Really wrong?”

“I can’t talk about this with you, Gavin. You’re a student of mine. The things that are happening don’t involve you.”

“The white guy showed up in my dream again last night.” He met my gaze with steady brown eyes.

“And?”

“He told me to look behind my desk.”

I
SAID MY GOOD-BYES TO
G
AVIN
, raced home, and cracked the pages of that journal.

There were dozens of entries, made between January and May of last-year. His words were vague, as though he were hiding even from himself. His handwriting was erratic, an indication to me of his fluctuating state of mind.