Four Years from Home Page 10

  An ivy-covered church on the left stood silently in the snow, a testament to the architecture of some other time. It had weathered many storms worse than this. They didn’t build ‘em like that anymore. I, of course, could tell, being an expert on such things as structural fatigue and just how much stress you could apply to instill the maximum amount of fear in your siblings with the just mere threat of breaking their G.I. Joe action figure or Barbie doll without actually destroying it. No breakage, no evidence. Sam and Mary lost that argument in front of Mom and Dad many times. How could it have gone otherwise? Funny, Harry could somehow always make them believe that something had happened worthy of punishment despite the lack of tangible evidence. He was definitely not stupid.

  It was then I stopped. The quiet world became the more silent, allowing voices carried on the wind to become audible. I hadn’t been paying attention — not a good thing for a sergeant to do with his platoon depending on him.

  “Stop, you’re being silly.”

  “Come on, you’ll have to finish it. I can’t do this alone. I can only get the snow packed around me so far. I can’t do my arms. Here sit on my chest and cover the rest of me up.”

  “Oh, all right, but you are really being such a silly ass.”

  The thump of sitting on packed snow… a grunt and a screech of surprise as the snow exploded… “And now, my dear, I am going to kiss you for trying to bury me.”

  “You cad, you bounder, you tricked me!” A shared laugh… silence.

  I turned to face the direction of the voices. They had been coming from the side of the church, but there was no one there now, only a small clump of snow-covered trees. No tracks in or out. A diversion? A Trap? I was startled from behind.

  “Can I help you?”

  It was a trap! I turned back to the path expecting a fight only to face a large bear of a man bundled up against the cold. He said again through a thick, bearded smile, “Can I help you? You look like you’re lost.”

  I could hear voices again and looked back toward the trees. Two students were walking along a path on the other side of the church, holding hands. Obviously they preferred the privacy of Left-of-Middle Path, so named by me. I decided that the bear was a friendly. “I’m not lost. I’m heading to Ransom Hall,” I said absently. Being back on a college campus reminded me of Kelly Erickson for some reason. I wondered how she was doing. She was probably okay and probably still hated me.

  “Well, isn’t that a coincidence. I happen to be going that way myself. I’ll walk there with you.”

  He grabbed my arm and dragged me along with him. Bears are pretty strong. I didn’t remember inviting him but maybe being pushy was the Ohio way, or the Kenyon way, or perhaps just a bear’s own way of being obnoxious.

  The bitter wind had picked up and shifted and was now blowing directly at us, hurling powdered snow in our faces, trying to convince us that we were going the wrong way. I would have gladly taken its advice and bagged the whole thing, but John Kodiac wasn’t having any of it.

  “Get in behind me. It’ll break the wind a bit. Sometimes being an overgrown lummox has its advantages.” How about that? Not only was he pushy, he was perceptive, although I still think he was more of a bear than a lummox.

  Ransom Hall was a dark silhouette on our left behind the opaque shower curtain of snow, lit only by eerie lights coming from its stained glass windows. It reminded me of the man I was hunched behind. The similarities were remarkable — both were big and dumb looking, dark and foreboding. Maybe he was the spirit of Ransom Hall come to gather me safely into its mysterious college abode. Or more likely, he was Long John Brown Bear, the infamous pirate. He was going to keelhaul me and send me away to a life of slavery. Once he realized who I was he would undoubtedly hold me hostage for the amazing ransom that would be paid for my release. That had to be why they called it Ransom Hall. As we climbed the few steps to the front door, I was disappointed to see that he had no peg leg. Too bad I didn’t have the time to arrange the accident that really would have improved his image. I’m sure he would have thanked me for that.

  Inside it was nothing like I had imagined. It looked more like the inside of some Tudor mansion than the deck of the Bounty. As I shook off the snow, I saw hanging on the wall by the door the mural of John Crowe Ransom, poet, teacher, and founder of the Kenyon Review, or so it said. The building had been named after him, but he was nothing like what I had imagined him to be. He should have had a bushy beard, a patch over one eye, and a parrot sitting on his shoulder. And he was way too skinny. I penciled in the appointment on my calendar to have the required changes to his portrait made ASAP. The bear man removed his overcoat, revealing himself to be a truly enormous man dressed in a gray flannel jacket with unmatched pants and plaid suspenders. Wardrobe furnished by Professor Marvel, hairstyling by Fess Parker and Grizzly Adams. Clearly he had never been to a dentist for a teeth whitening and he smelled of stale tobacco. I liked his style.

  He extended his hand. “Welcome, young man. Hayward’s the name. I’m Provost. I oversee all the academics here at the college.”

  He paused. I flipped back through my copy of Etiquette 101 and found the correct response on page ten: What to say when someone only gives you his last name. Removing my gloves, I shook his hand, trying not to wince under his crushing grip. “Ryan, Sir.” I pulled back the hood of my jacket and he got his first look at his Highness, Tom Ryan. I must say his response was unexpected. I was looking for awe and reverence, but got shock and amazement instead. He looked like he had seen a ghost.

  “Ryan? Is that you?” he said slowly, shaking my outstretched hand first tenuously, then exuberantly. “Thank God, you’re… Dean Edwards will be... We’re all…” The puzzling old bear was either the master of the incomplete sentence or at a loss for words. I hoped that didn’t mean he was going to eat me. His fat wagging finger gave me no clue. “Could you excuse me for a moment? Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  That was an unexpected welcome. We purposely hadn’t called ahead to let them know I was coming. I had convinced the others that it would be better if I just showed up. That way, they wouldn’t have time to make up any cock and bull stories or hide any of the facts. They all knew that’s how I work best — the element of surprise, shock and awe, and all that. But, apparently, one of my siblings had broken ranks and let them know. Traitor! It wouldn’t take me long to find out which one it was and pound him. I didn’t care if he was bigger than me. Sam was going to get it. Hayward backed toward an office door, almost tripping over the one step up, before entering the office marked with a sign: “Dean Edwards.”

  Portraits lined the wainscoted walls — past dignitaries no doubt. Not a pirate among them. They looked more like bankers and business types. So this was a school founded by bankers and businessmen? That would soon change. History would show that this was a school started by pirates and scoundrels, and this room would be hereafter known as the Poop Deck. I was scanning the room for other ways in and out. This would be a difficult mission. There was only one other obvious way out — a door with an exit sign over it, and the windows were mostly stained glass. I’d have to return with my camera and take a few photos to complete the planning — difficult but doable.

  An older woman came out of Dean Edwards’ office and over to me. “Mr. Ryan, would you come with me, please?” she asked, beaming so broadly I could see her gum line. So many happy people here — there had to be something wrong with that, something I could take advantage of. They must have put two and two together and concluded that I was the official representative of the Ryan family come to the scene of their crime, and that they would now have to treat me with the deference and respect I deserved. This would be fun and I was certainly going to make the most of it. Miss Old Lady Blue Suit led me through her modest office (a continuation of the portrait gallery) into the inner sanctum of Dean Edwards. Nice room, but it needed something to break the monotony of the wainscoting, coats of arms, and apparently endless array of portraits in th
is building that encircled every room like a force field of stuffed shirts. Dean Edwards’ office needed something — maybe an Andy Warhol, that one of the can of tomato soup. Nice touch.

  Edwards, a short, thick man whose hair had departed for greener pastures some time ago and whose chin was now in its replicating phase, stood up when I entered. His face went as white as his shirt. “What in the…?” His surprise turned to anger, either that or his high blood pressure was about to make his head explode, because his face became as red as the tomato soup cans that I was planning on adding to his wall. A little coaxing and he’d do the decorating for me. So many possibilities here...

  “Sit down, sit down, you two,” Hayward coaxed. “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for all this. Eh?”

  Logical? When did that ever enter into this stupid trip to Loserburg, Ohio? “That’s why I’m here.” I reached forward and shook Dean Edwards’ hand, smiled briefly, and sat in the overstuffed leather chair across the desk from him. “How’s it going?” He, too, sat down, regaining his composure slowly, staring me down as only an authority figure can do. I looked away and feigned indifference to his hollow victory. Live to fight another day… Along with the painting of the tomato soup can, would now be real tomatoes everywhere.

  Hayward started, “You can well imagine our shock having you literally show up on our doorstep today, Mr. Ryan.”

  I wasn’t quite following him. Sam had ratted me out. They knew I was coming. I guessed I should have made an appointment and now they were taking out their righteous indignation on me. That rarely worked. “Really? Well, here I am.”

  “Don’t be so smug.” Edwards was up again and shouting. “How could you do this? After all you have done here, all you have accomplished, how could you stoop to this? To what end? What possible good could come from this? You have really let us down. You’ve let Kenyon down and you are in serious trouble, my boy.”

  “Campbell, please… Sit down.” Hayward, I guessed, was either somewhat higher on the food chain here than Dean Edwards or was the one in charge of the tranquilizers. Campbell sat down. Ironic — that he should be named after the very thing I was planning on doing to his office. The students would forever call him “Soup Edwards” after I was done with him.

  Edwards muttered something. I rolled my eyes. This was turning into a good cop, bad cop, B movie and I’ve never liked them. It might have helped had I understood what the big deal was. I was just here because my stupid siblings had coerced me into it, but these two were acting like I had done something wrong. Did they have some sort of new fangled school administrator radar that foresaw what I was planning on doing to their precious Ransom Hall? If they did, the technology could only have derived from parental radar.

  Not likely — that was Mom and Dad’s best-kept secret. Had I violated some obscure code of conduct that forbade anyone from walking on Middle Path in a snowstorm? Had I forgotten to tip the waiter? There was that little gift I left under the seat in the dining room of the Alumni House, but they couldn’t have known about that yet. Mashed potatoes will hold a glass in place much longer than a few hours.

  There was a student directory on Dean Edwards’ desk that I hadn’t noticed before. It was open to a page of snapshots and, on first glance and upside down, I could have sworn I was looking at a photo of me. But it was more like me in an oxford shirt and tie. It was Harry. Weird, seeing him after four years like that… It finally dawned on me. They thought I was Harry Ryan, perfect student, and they couldn’t believe that their wonder boy had done such an awful thing as to embarrass the school of bankers and businessmen by faking his own death and then brazenly coming back to the scene of the crime as if nothing had happened. They wouldn’t have been so shocked had this really been a school of pirates. Then it would have been just another scurvy knave doing his scurvy deeds. I added that to my list of justifications that I might need if caught redecorating Ransom Hall.

  The only decision left unmade was whether to turn this case of mistaken identity against them or Harry, and that was an easy. I broke in on Dean Edwards’ ranting, “I didn’t do anything.” A great line… It rarely worked on Mom and Dad, but it stopped the dean in his verbal tracks. I guessed he didn’t have any children of his own. I had the initiative and, in combat, that is often the most important thing. Move over, Vic. I’m taking Point. “I don’t remember much of what happened, but I do remember being hurt,” I paused reflectively. “But not much else; I might have had amnesia. Or maybe I was drugged and kidnapped. The first thing I do remember is waking up in a Pancake House off Route 70 down near West Virginia.” Give them plenty of options and let them choose the most logical. Then run with it.

  “Who could have done this to you?” Hayward asked earnestly.

  The obvious answer, of course, was me. I could easily see myself doing that to Frankie Marx to get back at him.

  “Who hates you that much?”

  He was actually concerned for my, well Harry’s, well-being. I tore out the page from my notebook that contained preliminary plans to trash his office, too. His would not be touched. That might create the impression with the police that he was behind the attack, but he was a big boy and that was his problem. Collateral damage is inevitable in war.

  I tried to look a little confused, but not too confused. “I’m not sure. I can’t remember much about that night.”

  Behind that flabby, bald, deanish exterior lay a deadly, bald, deanish tiger that saw an opening and pounced on its prey. “The police say the accident happened in the afternoon. You just said “that night.” How do you explain that?”

  Unfortunately for him, the tiger was an old, balding, flabby one. He was so inept. I didn’t even need my big guns to fend off his pitiful attacks. “I’m confused. What happened? I don’t remember.”

  “You faked your own death at the railroad bridge over the Kokosing. That’s what happened. You’ve been missing for two weeks. We all thought you were dead. President Caplets even drove to Pittsburgh to inform your family.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The truth was so easy to relate and even easier to remember. None of the intricacies of trying to remember what web of lies you had woven to cover up a crime. And the beauty of it was that it allowed them to come to their own conclusions about what had really happened. All I had to do was agree with whatever they thought seemed logical to their pea-brained minds. And if it were proven wrong later, hey, they said it, not me.

  “So…” Hayward began, plodding through the events in his mind, “Some person or persons unknown faked your death or tried to kill you that afternoon and then possibly drugged you and kidnapped you and left you at a restaurant for reasons unknown? Why would anyone do that?”

  “Unknown,” I shrugged, repressing a laugh. Hayward sounded like an actor who had tried out for the part of Perry Mason but was turned down. He was struggling with the why and needed a little help. “Considering your reaction here, I’d say they got what they were looking for — whoever they are — embarrass the school and make you all look like silly asses when I show up again. Maybe a frat you’ve recently disciplined that is bent on revenge? Maybe the SDS? Who knows, maybe it was the Young Republicans.” Okay, maybe that was going a bit too far.

  Hayward nodded thoughtfully but Edwards wasn’t buying it. “You don’t remember anything? Anything at all?”

  “There was a waitress at the Pancake House who took me in and was kind enough to let me stay with her until I came to my senses. Amy was her name. Amy something… Ask her if you don’t believe me.” I had this weird feeling about my encounter with Amy that led me to believe she would say anything for me, well Harry, that is.

  “Could you tell me anything that happened that might help me remember?” This was absolutely perfect. I could tool them around and find out everything I needed to know about Harry’s death to satisfy my pest siblings. Well, maybe not perfect. What would I do when they actually discovered what had happened to Harry? They still had not foun
d the body but it was only a matter of time. I would have time to work on that one.

  I had faded out of the conversation, working through the permutations of how this scenario would play out. It would have probably been best to have allowed Harry die in peace and not resurrect him in what would turn out to be a cruel joke in the end. I was having trouble focusing on what exactly my goals were in this campaign. What were my objectives anyway? My strategy? Their mention of potential trouble brought me back.

  “We should bring the police in on this,” Edwards replied calmly.

  He didn’t like me. I could tell. I didn’t really care, but if he didn’t like me, did he also dislike Harry? That would have been odd. There wasn’t anybody I could think of who knew Harry that didn’t like him. Maybe Edwards didn’t really know Harry.

  Hayward agreed with him, “I think you’re absolutely right, Campbell. They will want to question Harry, and we shouldn’t color that by telling him things he does not remember.” Hayward turned to me smiling. He must have really been a fan of Harry’s. “You’ll be needing these, son. They found them in the river.”

  He handed me a set of keys and a thin wallet. There were three keys. One, the largest, was probably Harry’s room key. It was stamped “Farr 208.” The second was a small key with A-2 on it. It looked like a trunk or suitcase key. The last was a skeleton key and had no markings. I remembered passing by “Farr Hall” in town on my first drive through and decided to head there after these bozos dismissed me, which is undoubtedly how they got rid of students when they were quite done with them. Screw it — they had no idea who they were dealing with here.

  I stood up and dropped a potato masher in their laps. “Okay, then. Thanks for this and I’ll guess I’ll go back to my dorm and get cleaned up. Let me know when you want me to talk to the cops.” I regretted saying, “cops” but hid my wince by turning and letting myself out. I should have said “policemen.” Harry would have said “policemen.” Oh well.