Dark Mural Read online

  “It’s not encouraging in modern languages either.” He sipped some wine. “Also, for what it’s worth, you’re doing a better job with your first semester than I did with mine.”

  “I can’t imagine how.”

  “With your Rabbit Hutch, for one thing,” he said, as his eyes swept the room. “It would seem you have a sense of humor about your situation.”

  “Well, yes, the artificial grass was a whim, but after losing Kate I’m not sure how many creative solutions I have left in me.”

  “I’ve never lost a student that way,” said Lionel. “I can’t imagine what it’s like.”

  “She was extraordinary. When I was a teaching assistant, I saw hundreds of undergraduates during office hours and helped them write their papers and prepare for their exams. Most of them just wanted to know what they had to do to get a grade. Only a few of them showed curiosity about the subject and an eagerness to look further.” As I spoke I felt my spirits sink. “I’ve already beat the odds by getting one like that in my first semester of full-time teaching. What are the odds of getting another one anytime soon?”

  “Maybe better than you think. Good teachers attract good students, whatever the subject.”

  “Thank you. I hope you’re right. I just noticed how selfish I sound. Kate lost her life. Her parents lost a daughter. Compared to that, losing my star pupil is a minor disappointment.”

  “Would you feel the same if you had just found out she was transferring to another school?”

  Good question. “I’d still be disappointed, but I’d be happy for her if she had a better opportunity.”

  “So you’re not being selfish. You’re feeling both her loss and your own disappointment.”

  Everything about this conversation made me want to spend more time with Lionel.

  He drank the last of his wine. “Please call on me if you need to. Will you be alright?”

  “Thank you, I’ll be fine. I’ll probably call home tomorrow. Talking to Mom and Dad helps me see the big picture. And there’s Abbie. Do you know her? Abbie Krauss?”

  Lionel nodded. “Yes. I got to know her when I lived in the Rabbit Hutches. I like Abbie.”

  “She’s been a real friend from day one. I don’t know how I would have gotten started here without her.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” said Lionel as he stood up.

  I stood up too and had to hold on for a second. The wine had gone to my head.

  Lionel plucked his jacket from the hook by the door and folded it over his arm. “This has been delightful. We’ll have to do it again.”

  “Yes. Again, soon,”

  He left.

  As I got ready for bed, I was glad he let me know he was “remaining aware of other possibilities,” job-wise. Obviously that meant we weren’t starting a serious relationship. If he hadn’t been clear about that, I might have found it easy to get attached to a guy who took good care of himself, appreciated the finer things in life, listened carefully to what I had to say, and looked upon his fellow human beings with kindness and generosity.

  On Sunday morning I called Mom and Dad as I had every Sunday morning since moving to Ohio.

  “Hi Nicole,” said Mom. “Wait a minute. I’ll get your father. Terry! Nicole’s on the phone.”

  I waited, listening to footsteps and chairs being pulled out at the kitchen table.

  “Okay, honey, I’m going to put you on speakerphone now.”

  All my phone calls with them started this way.

  “How’d your classes go this week, darlin’?” asked Dad.

  “Much better, Dad. The students really liked the mural. It got them thinking. And it got me thinking too. I might write an article on it.”

  “Now, you see, Linda?” I could tell Dad had turned away from the phone to speak to Mom. “I told you. The girl’s a genius. By this time next year she’ll be in charge of the art department.”

  Although I couldn’t hear it, I knew that Mom was patting Dad’s hand to make him settle down. “Nicole, Honey, how are you? You sound a little down.”

  “Well . . .” I choked up and cleared my throat. “I am pretty upset. Yesterday morning I found out one of my students was killed Friday night.”

  After a few seconds of silence, Mom asked, “Do they know how it happened?”

  “Not yet. She was walking back to campus at night. Students go into town on the weekends. She might have been hit by a car. She was found lying by the road yesterday morning.”

  “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.”

  Dad said, “I don’t see how the college can allow students to be out walking along a road at night.”

  Mom replied for me. “Terry, they can’t lock them up.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying,” he said, “but there has to be a way.”

  “Actually, Dad, sometimes the students drive into Blanton. In fact I heard another student offer her a ride, and she turned him down.”

  “Well, there you are. You make a rule: No walking into town. Go by car only.”

  Now I actually could hear Mom patting Dad’s hand. “Honey,” she said to me, “Don’t try to handle this all by yourself. Have you talked to your friend about this? What’s her name?”

  “Abbie. She’s in Pittsburgh this weekend, but I’ve already talked about it with Lionel.”

  The silence this time was longer than when I told them my student was killed.

  “I’m sorry, honey, with whom?”

  “Lionel Bell. We drove up to Columbus yesterday and visited the art museum and did a little shopping.”

  “Is this someone you met on campus?”

  “Yes. He’s a professor too. He teaches French.”

  “That’s wonderful, darlin’,” said Dad. “I’m glad you’re dating again.”

  “It wasn’t really a date.” I decided not to mention we had dinner.

  Mom said, “He sounds very nice.”

  “Mom, all I said was he’s a French professor. You don’t know anything about him.”

  “I meant it was nice of him to go up to the museum with you. Are you seeing him again?”

  “We haven’t made plans yet. I’ll let you know.”

  “How’s your car running?” asked Dad.

  When I got the job at Fuchs, Dad went online and bought me a used car from a dealer in Columbus so I could take a cab from the airport and pick it up. He insisted it was a present for finishing my PhD. I insisted I would pay them back once I was earning a regular salary, but, unless I learned to stretch my paycheck further, it was going to be a gift.

  “It’s running great, Dad, but I do have one problem. Monday morning, as I was leaving for class, I noticed somebody used black spray paint on the hood.”

  “That’s terrible,” said Mom.

  “That’s too bad,” said Dad. “I wouldn’t have thought there’d be much of that living way out in the country like you are.”

  “No,” I said. “In fact, Lionel said he’d never heard of it happening on campus, and he’s been here three years.”

  “Alright then, I’ll tell you what to do.” At moments like this, Dad sounded like a coach rallying the team. “Take your car to a place that does auto detailing and get it buffed out properly. You have to protect the finish. Get an estimate and I’ll send you a check.”

  “That’s not necessary, Dad.”

  “No arguments. In fact, I’ll call a shop here in town and get an idea of what it costs. I’ll send a check today. If it’s not enough, you let me know.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “Nicole, honey,” said Mom, “I don’t understand. Were other cars vandalized?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “So just yours? Why would someone pick your car?”

  After hesitating, I decided it was best to get it over with. I held the phone away from my ear and said, “Well, I’m the only Asian on campus, and whoever did it used the spray paint to write ‘JAP OUT.’”

  Chapter 8

  Mom’s voice shifte
d into operatic mode. Even through my phone’s tiny speaker, it was deafening. “Oh, my god, Nicole! Have you called the police?”

  “Campus security. Yes.”

  “They’re not real police.”

  “Yes, they are mom, and they’re right here on campus.”

  “What are they doing about it?”

  “They’re patrolling the area and checking for reports of other incidents.”

  “I mean, what are they doing to protect you?”

  “That’s all they can do, Mom.”

  “That’s not good enough. You’re not safe there, Nicole. If somebody wants you out of there, who knows how far they’ll go?”

  Dad’s baritone voice came through the phone, sounding especially mellow. “What’s the name of the head of security there, darlin’?”

  “Why? What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to call your Uncle Pat.”

  “Dad! No!” Dad’s brother, Pat, was a twenty-year veteran of the San Francisco Police Department.

  “He can talk to your man there on campus. He’ll know what to say.”

  I stifled my panic and did my best to sound reasonable. “No, Dad, I don’t think that’s appropriate.”

  “It’s just a professional courtesy. They do it all the time.”

  “No, they don’t, Dad. I’m pretty sure no cop in San Francisco has ever called a campus security officer in Ohio to tell him how to do his job.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying, darlin’.”

  Mom came back on the line. “Nicole, honey, you can’t expect us to do nothing. We have to know your safe.”

  “I’m safe.”

  There was a pause, during which, I knew, Mom and Dad were looking at each other silently deciding who would make the next move. Mom won the toss.

  “Nicole, you know your father and I have supported you in studying art history.”

  “We just want you to do whatever makes you happy, darlin’.”

  I leaned back in my chair, resigned to what was coming. “Yes, I know.”

  “We even supported you moving to Ohio for this job, even though it means we hardly ever see you.”

  “I know, Mom. You two have been really great about it.”

  “But now, I think, we need a different plan.”

  I knew exactly what the different plan was, but there was no point in saying so, because I was going to hear about it again no matter what I said.

  “Honey, you could come back here and go to SF State. With all the education you already have you could probably get a degree in computer science or something in two years, and there are jobs all over the Bay Area begging for someone bright and creative like you.”

  “I know, Mom. We’ve had this conversation. I like art history. Since I’m just starting out, this was the only academic job I could get. I won’t be here forever, but it’s a start.”

  “But you could do your art history here. There are the museums and the galleries downtown. You could work part time while you’re going to school.”

  “Mom, I like research. And that means an academic job. At least for now.”

  “Honey, just promise me you’ll think about it. You could have the in-law suite downstairs. That way you’d be independent. We wouldn’t bother you.”

  Maybe there would come a day when Mom and I would compare notes on the meaning of the word “independent,” but this was not that day. “I promise I’ll think about it. I have to go now.”

  “Alright, but don’t wait until next Sunday to call.”

  “I won’t, Mom.”

  “Your mother’s right, darlin’. We have to know you’re safe.”

  “I’ll call and let you know I’m safe.”

  After several more rounds of reassurance, we all got off the phone.

  Although that blew up in my face, I was glad I’d told them. Deep down, I’d known they would overreact, but that was okay. It felt good to know they cared so much. And they weren’t wrong. I couldn’t let myself be a sitting duck.

  To stop thinking about it, I gave myself something to do. I wrote a letter to Kate’s parents, introducing myself, saying she was a brilliant student and a delightful young woman, and expressing gratitude for knowing her if only for such a short time. I told them that, though I couldn’t imagine the depth of their grief, I was grieving her loss as well. Like all such notes, it seemed inadequate. I hoped it would bring them more comfort than pain.

  Class on Monday morning was tough. With Kate gone, there were ten students left in my art history class, and only nine showed up. Devon wasn’t there. I didn’t recall anything from my graduate seminars about what to say when one of your students has died, especially when the class is small enough for everyone to notice.

  I began by saying, “By now you have all heard of the death of Kate Conrad.” I saw a range of reactions on their faces. Some looked sad and glanced toward the chair where Kate had sat. Others were curious about where I was going with this. When I said, “We will miss her contributions to our discussions,” one of them gasped. Apparently, she had just figured out that the student named in the dean’s email was one of the two absent from class. Ursula Wilmot sat ready as always to take notes, her eyes focused on something outside the window. She seemed to be waiting for me to get through this and get to work.

  I fell back on the old chronological survey method. We talked about the Greeks and Romans, I showed some slides, and pointed out some important passages in the textbook (hint: this will be on the test). Ursula Wilmot was smiling by the end of class.

  As I packed up after class, Byron Hawley approached, his t-shirt decorated with fresh evidence of his labors in the painting studio, and said, “I heard your car got spray-painted.”

  I wondered if gossip really did travel faster on a small campus than it did at a large university, or if it only seemed that way because it had less distance to travel. “Yes,” I replied. “Do you know anything about that?”

  “No. I just heard about it from some people in the department.”

  “I see. And why are you bringing this up?”

  “I can help you with that,” he said.

  “Do you know of a place where I can have it removed?”

  “I can remove it for you.”

  I stopped packing and took a fresh look at him. “Have you done this before?”

  “Yeah, a couple of times. I’ve done some street art. Some guys accused me of painting over their mural, which wasn’t true. Well, actually one time I did. Anyway, they tagged my car, and I got it off with acetone.”

  “Does that damage the car’s finish?’

  “No. It’s basically nail polish remover. You have to be careful not to go too far, but it’s really not a problem.”

  When he said, “really not a problem,” I heard “might be a problem.” “Thank you,” I replied, “but I think I should have this done professionally.”

  He shook his head. “They’re going to charge you an arm and a leg.”

  “I’d rather not risk it.”

  “Really, there’s no risk. You can look at my car. It’s in the student lot. The finish is fine.”

  If that was true, this was worth considering “How much would you charge?”

  “I wouldn’t charge you anything. I don’t know how much spray paint you have on there, but I’m sure it would take less than an hour.”

  “Byron, it’s very nice of you to offer, but I can’t let you work for me for free.”

  He looked away for a moment as if deciding whether to go on. “I want to do it for free because I heard what they wrote on your car, and that’s not right. You’re new here, and I don’t want you to think we’re that kind of school.”

  This attitude was refreshing, but I didn’t want to take advantage of him. “I’m not sure it was a student that did it. In fact, I doubt it.”

  “It doesn’t matter who did it. We have to stand up to it as a community.”

  I certainly didn’t want to discourage that kind of thinking,
and I hated the thought of paying an arm and a leg. “Are you sure you can do this without damaging the car’s finish?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Thank you, Byron, that would be great.” I felt as if a weight was lifted from my shoulders.

  I told him where my Rabbit Hutch was, and he said he would come by the next afternoon.

  I dragged myself back to my office and called the shop in Chillicothe to cancel the appointment I had made to have them restore my car’s finish.

  I’d just hung up the phone when Devon appeared in the doorway. He was transformed. His face was slack and he looked off balance. “Can I talk to you, Dr. Noonan?”

  Chapter 9

  “Of course.” I said to Devon and pointed to the chair by my desk.

  He closed the door, sat, and rested his gaze on the treetops below the window of my office. For a minute or so he said nothing. “I . . . um . . . you know about Kate?”

  I nodded. “I am sorry, Devon. I know you were close with her.”

  His face collapsed, and I thought he might cry, but he took a deep breath and steadied himself. “I’m sorry I wasn’t in class this morning.”

  “That’s all right. Take care of yourself first. You can get notes from someone, and we can talk later in the week.”

  He nodded and picked at the cuticle on his thumbnail. When he looked out the window again, there was a flash of anger in his eyes. The fire went out, and his look of sadness returned. “The sheriff talked to me on Saturday,” he said.

  I waited.

  His eyes locked onto me like a cat stalking its prey. “Did you tell him I was Kate’s boyfriend?”

  “I did. It wasn’t a secret.”

  He looked away and relaxed a bit. “He wanted to know how we were getting along, and what time I saw her Friday night.”

  I waited.

  He continued. “So, it’s okay for now, but I have a problem.”

  “Devon, before you go any further, think about whether it’s a problem I can help you with. You can speak to a counselor here on campus. Anything you say to her is confidential. You’re not as protected when you talk to me.”

  “But you knew Kate.”

  “It might be better to talk to someone who can be objective.”