Four Years from Home Read online

  As they closed the door behind me I heard Dean Edwards say tersely, “He’s lying.”

  Perceptive. I wondered if he realized I had taken the pen from his desk stand while he was ranting. Sometimes people who figure out the most incomprehensible of things miss seeing the totally obvious ones.

  The weather had cleared and the sun was pushing through some residual clouds, reflecting off the untouched, pristine snow, making me wish for my sunglasses. It was beautiful in a stark way but beyond my appreciating it. I was too busy cursing the blinding brightness to care, and trudging through the snow seemed too much like work. I redoubled my efforts to get back inside and warm up over a cup of coffee in the Alumni House, stopping only to catch my breath at the main road. The town was coming to life — a car was parked in front of the grocery store, a couple students were throwing snowballs at each other in front of the post office, a woman was shoveling the walk in front of the bank. I guess this was the bustling metropolis of Nowheresville, Ohio. I didn’t even bother to look both ways — sorry, Mom — crossed the road and went into the Alumni House. There were two older couples seated together at one end of the dining room. I took off my coat and sat as far away from them as possible. Coffee, scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast — I actually had to tell the waitress, who was not a mind reader like Amy from the Pancake House. It wasn’t warm enough for my liking and their coffee was terrible. Could it be that they had stolen Dad’s recipe for lousy coffee? I switched to tea out of desperation and laced it with a couple bags of sugar. The one redeeming thing about it all was that they were able to bring a phone to my table. Fancy.

  The voice bubbling “hello” at the other end could only be Kate’s. “Hi, kid. It’s me.”

  “Tom!” Her loud excitement oozed through the phone line invading my ear. I had to hold the receiver away a few inches. It didn’t seem like the people at the other end of the room could hear her, at least they weren’t acting like they could, but I put the phone back to my ear anyway.

  “I can hear you. It’s not like I’m in another country, you know.”

  She replied more softly, “Sorry. I’m just so glad you called. Have you found out anything yet? Have you met with the school people? Is there any word of Harry?”

  Naturally, there were many more questions and of course I answered them all. No, I hadn’t found out anything specific yet. Yes, I met with them. No, there was no word on Harry. No, they pretty much had no clue what happened. No, I had no specific details yet. No, they haven’t found him yet. Didn’t I already answer that? Yes, I would be meeting with the police soon. She was like that quiz show host, spouting out questions until the contestant either couldn’t answer them anymore or gave up trying. But then they had never had the pleasure of quizzing me. I was a difficult interrogation.

  Bob Barker: “Tom Ryan, for twenty thousand dollars, what will it be? Truth or Consequences?”

  Tom Ryan: “Gee, I don’t know, Bob. I’m kind of at a loss here. What do you think I should pick? I mean neither one seems very appealing at the moment. Which would you choose? The truth is, I really don’t like the consequences.”

  Bob Barker (after a blank, expressionless pause): “And we’ll be right back after a word from our sponsors.”

  I would have had a field day with him, and on national TV.

  “Oh, your mystery caller called back,” Kate said.

  “What? What are you talking about?” Playing Dumb 101 — almost as good as Playing Deaf 101, and usually more effective with siblings. Kate was not amused.

  “Mr. I know what you did? Don’t act like you don’t remember.”

  “Oh right. What did he say this time?” I actually was curious; maybe he knew something.

  “He asked for you and I recognized his voice, so he never got a chance to say anything. I laid into him and told him about Harry and all. He apologized.”

  “Let me guess. Was it Frankie Marx?”

  “Yes, how did you know?”

  “Oh, just a hunch.” That and the fact that he was a sniveling little weasel who still had it in his mind that he could get back at me after all those years of losing, but who would naturally cave at the least little pressure — and from a girl no less.

  “How are Mom and Dad?” I thought I could almost hear Kate’s silence but it was phone static.

  “They’re okay. I know they’re happy you went to Kenyon to figure this all out. Father Meyers said they need closure.”

  I was always so good at closing things — doors, windows, books. “Well tell them I said “hi” and give them a kiss for me.”

  I could tell she was laughing. “A kiss?”

  “Yeah, well. You know what I mean. Just tell them I’m here and that I’ll figure this out.”

  Chapter 7

  After at best a mediocre breakfast, I hung around the Alumni House sitting room, catching up on my Kenyon-related reading. It seemed some English guy named Philander Chase had made his way to Ohio in 1824, no small feat before Interstate 70 was built, and, under specific instructions from God, had founded the town of Gambier and the college called Kenyon, each named after some obscure British Lord who must have agreed to fork over cash and land. Chase was the hill-climbing, prayer-saying guy in the drawing. “He climbed a hill and said a prayer and found a wad of money there.” That’s how the song should go.

  Among the piles of other useless historical information, though, were a couple of real gems. During World War II the military had used a cross on top of a dorm called Old Kenyon as a practice bombing target for training missions. There were many complaints from the students and administrators but the Army Air Corps had denied everything. The other gem was that Old Kenyon had burned and been rebuilt twice in its glorious history as the oldest dorm on campus. Now that was interesting. Sergeant Saunders would have been proud of them.

  I got tired of reading and checked out of the Alumni House, leaving the Pontiac tucked away behind the building in their parking lot. It seemed like a fairly innocuous place where cars came and went all day, where no one would notice a car sitting for hours. After all, I didn’t want to draw attention to my getaway car. And the Pontiac deserved a rest. It had done a respectable job on those winding roads and it really did have some nice power to it. I suddenly felt like a cowboy bonding with his horse. “Old Pete and me? Why we’ve been through a hell of a lot together.” (This is where the chewing tobacco comes out, is wadded into the corner of the mouth, chewed, and then spat onto the ground in a gross, brown puddle.) I made a note to drive the car into the river after I got home and claim it had been stolen.

  I wasn’t looking forward to trudging around in the snow, but colleges don’t just let people park anywhere on campus, even in a legal spot, without a college parking sticker. I hadn’t noticed any Permit Parking Only signs at the Ransom Hall lot, but I had no reason to believe Kenyon would be any different from any other college I had been to. They had the monopoly on parking and it was a simple matter of the exertion of authority and the generation of income — business concepts even I understood and would be implementing in my kingdom. I personally called it the “First, let them know who’s boss, then make money off it” rule. I guess I could have stolen someone else’s sticker but wasn’t in the mood to further complicate an already complicated day.

  A few more people, mostly students by the look of them, were out and about, probably because, as the clock in the pit of my stomach was telling me, it was lunchtime. I figured I would find Farr 208, drop my things in Harry’s room with as little fanfare as possible and follow the lemmings to wherever the food was. My plans, no matter how ill-conceived or poorly thought out, always involved a few basic principles — where to strike for maximum effect; where to hide the evidence if caught; and where to get a good shake, burger, and fries.

  The main drag through town was actually two parallel main drags, separated by a tree-lined island protecting a continuation of the hallowed Middle Path. The drag twins started at the edge of campus and ran the two blocks
that comprised the entire town. From there, they headed north in parallel into the unknown farmlands of Ohio. Something fishy about that — why the parallel roads? It was a straight run from Old Kenyon at the south end of campus, along Middle Path, and north through the town. Was it a guide for the bombers making their runs, leading them to a high value target to the north? I would need the full squad with me, a battle plan and direct orders from Command before I took any recon patrol into that occupied territory. Sergeant Saunders was no chicken, but he wasn’t stupid, and he had read the situation reports about Knox County, Ohio. Mount Vernon was its county seat, Kenyon was its only college, and the county’s only notable statistic was that it was home to the largest per capita pig population in the state. Only in Ohioland, U.S.A.

  I wondered as I approached the first street sign if it would say “Big Drag” and the other “Little Drag,” a more appropriate choice for a town that should have been named Dragburg, but which, through some accident of history, had gotten stuck with the name Gambier. What kind of name was Gambier anyway? Sounded like something you’d order in a bar, “I’ll have a Gambier for myself and a white wine for the lady, please.” Disappointingly, the streets were named Chase and Gaskin Avenues. Chase, the philanderer, must have had a secret mistress named Gaskin and the two of them were together forever, holding hands across their beloved Middle Path in Dragburg, Ohio. I didn’t feel like going back to the Alumni House to confirm this; I knew it was true.

  Farr Hall, as I had discovered from my first drive through town, was a second floor of dorm rooms sitting on top of the town’s thriving retail center — the college bookstore, a pizza place, and a grocery store. It made sense that these three strategic industries would do well in a college town. Students love pizza, need books, and crave munchies. The pirate businessmen of Kenyon had made a good choice in dorm placement. All the students had to do was fall down the stairs and hand their money over. The one thing I would have changed was the location of the bank. It was across the drags and a good three minutes from Farr. Why not put the money where their mouths were?

  The outside door of Farr wasn’t locked so I went in and headed upstairs. I was more used to the security paranoia of a city school and had expected otherwise. This place was a pushover. The Redecorating of Ransom Hall became a more coalesced and viable plan in my mind. The stairwell smelled of stale mozzarella and sausage, and the pizza place was deserted, not surprising for Christmas break. Once on the second floor, I found room 208, unlocked the door and let myself in. My first impression? I was in the wrong room. There wasn’t anything about that room that made me think of Harry. For one thing, the bed was unmade, the covers pushed down to the foot. Harry always made his bed.

  “I’ll give you a dollar if you don’t make your bed today.”

  “But I like making my bed; Mom likes it. It helps her.”

  “Don’t you want to be different just this once?”

  “Not really.”

  “How about I punch your face if you make your bed today?”

  “I guess if that’s what you want, Tom, I can’t stop you.”

  Even at ten, an angry kid can pack a wallop. I had almost broken his nose. There was blood everywhere. I hated the little freak. Unfortunately for me, Dad packed an even bigger wallop and I couldn’t sit without squirming in pain for the rest of that day. And that made me hate Harry even more.

  There were no books to speak of on the bookshelf above the desk, no papers, no typewriter. This was definitely not Harry. This had to be the wrong Farr 208. The white painted block walls were totally bare — no posters, no photos, no art, not even a nail hole, nothing. Where were Harry’s drawings? He used to plaster his stupid room at home with them, to the point where I had to step in and do some interior decorating of my own. I remember that plan having only one flaw — disposal of the evidence. Oh well, I was young and the laundry chute seemed so inviting. Mom and Dad didn’t think so. But war is fluid and the battle plan ever changing. A new plan was formed and carried out; my only regret being my having to use up valuable yard space.

  I would have thought Harry would have rejoiced in his newfound Tom-free gallery and continued the idiotic displaying of his current drawing over his desk, the piling up the old ones on his shelves, and the hanging the ones he treasured most on the walls. Maybe he had finally seen what a colossal waste that was. He wasn’t much of an artist — so I had determined early on — but for some stupid reason he kept at it, as if his persistence would somehow overcome an innate lack of real talent. I guess I should give him credit for that. But you want to talk about talent? Take the Father Harkins Sucks black, spray-painted logo that someone had christened the west wall of the new school at Saint Catherine’s with, stylized to look like the Monkees’ guitar logo. You know what I’m talking about. That was real art born of real talent.

  Other than the bed, the desk, a chair by the window, and a set of drawers, there was no furniture in the room. I walked into the bathroom. Farr 208 was, as I found out, a suite, sharing a bathroom with the adjoining room. I wondered who the suite mate might be, but not enough to do any more than jiggle the handle on their bathroom door to determine that it was locked from the other side. Well, there was some paranoia in Dragburg.

  The dresser drawers were empty, as was the desk. It was as if Harry had moved out leaving nothing but an unmade bed. The sun was shining through the window, adding warm incandescence to the stark scene. The windowsill glistened and I touched it. The cops had been here — the telltale residue of black graphite powder came off on my finger. Whoever had done the cleanup hadn’t been very thorough. Fingerprint powder is incredibly hard to get up without leaving some trace behind. I would know, having vast experience in the art of fingerprinting my siblings and friends, well actually I did nose printing, face printing, and ear printing too. That powder simply does not come off things easily. It made me wonder why the Catholic Church didn’t use fingerprint powder instead of ashes on Ash Wednesday. At least that way, the sinners couldn’t wash the cross on their foreheads off as easily as they like to think they can wash their sins away. Or, as I like to say, you can’t take a bike through a carwash unless it’s at gunpoint.

  I didn’t like it, but there wasn’t much I could do about the unwanted intrusion by the police. Sam especially wouldn’t like it, being an insane advocate of a person’s right to privacy — as if my using a periscope from the side yard extended up to his second floor window to see into his room was any of his damn business. I had my rights, too, didn’t I? The cops had probably cleaned out all of Harry’s stuff; after all it was evidence and all that crap, and there was probably some Ohio law that granted them the right to search the room, loot the goodies and stop at the Dunkin’ Donuts on the way back to the station. And complaining about it wouldn’t help anyway. It would only draw attention to myself, and I always try to keep a low profile where crimes are concerned, even on those rare occasions when I’m not the guilty party. Too many skeletons in my closet… This was definitely going in my notebook under Things to figure out. I made the entry How to get back at the Ohio cops just after How to get out of a mess you really didn’t mean to get into and How to shrink someone’s laundry to midget size and make sure you’re around when they try on their underwear. I’d work out the details later.

  I was cold and clammy for some reason — a feeling usually reserved for times when my trial was about to begin and my parents were delaying the proceedings to make me sweat, or as they called it, “Giving me time to think about what I had done.” I needed food. I definitely needed food. I hit the bathroom, washed my face and dried off using a towel that smelled of obnoxious men’s cologne. A mental picture was forming of Harry’s suite mate and the picture included my fist in his face. People who use cologne are stupid and make easy targets on the field of battle. You can smell them a mile away. It wouldn’t do to leave my bag in Harry’s under-investigation room, so I picked up my things and left.

  It was actually pleasant outside now that th
e wind had died down and the sun was out. And Gambier had almost scored enough grace points to make my list of quaint little towns that might survive the purge. So the day was looking up. I headed back toward campus, having studied the map on the hallway wall in Farr beforehand, memorizing the terrain for vantage points and probable spots where the enemy could lay a trap. I knew where Pierce Hall, the dining hall, was and took a left at Wiggin, the road separating the college from the town, to avoid Middle Path and come at Pierce from a side street. Middle Path was probably the worst way to take your squad. It offered too little cover and there were many places of possible ambush. The few students out and about were blindly taking that unfortunate route, but I was not about to warn them. I wasn’t all that sure where their allegiance was anyway.

  An old, gray-haired lady was walking slowly toward me. She limped a little, supported in part by a metal cane. She was blocking my way and coming right at me. I saw no weapons, but I instinctively mistrusted that cane. It could be hiding a sword or more likely a dagger for close-quarters combat. Two feet in front of me, she stopped. I tensed up; ready to take her down if she made one false move.

  She smiled, “Harry! Why, wherever have you been? We’ve been worried sick about you.”

  She gave me a hug and almost fell down in the process. I braced her and looked her in the eye. A smile forced its way to the surface, but I stopped it before it turned into a silly, toothy grin. She was old enough to be my grandmother. In fact, she reminded me of my grandmother, though my visual image of Grandma Ryan at this point was pretty vague. I remembered her more for her chicken dinners and the crazy Irish conversations that I understood so little of.