Chapter Eight

All in one place

It’s fascinating, the way rumors spread at a college. They are almost these living, breathing squirrely mammals with dusky colored fur, making their way in short bursts and skitters across campus, blending in almost exactly up against the bricks of a path, the struggling brush in a planter, the stack of old cardboard gathering dust by the water cooler in the back of the library, never completely detectable, but squeaking just enough to be heard. Heard by almost everyone, even, at least to some extent. Maybe it’s the same in the corporate world, but while I wouldn’t know, I suspect the difference is stark. Academics have these little pockets of time each day to while away when we’re not in the classroom and not glued to a desk. It’s essentially part of the job description. There are twenty minutes here, an hour there, a seven-minute walk across campus right when everybody else is doing exactly the same thing. We have copies to be made, book orders to be placed, reports to hand in, grades to change. Certainly more and more of these things can be done digitally each year, even on the most technologically challenged campus, but given a choice, who among us wouldn’t stretch her legs? Who wouldn’t take the chance to gasp at the fresh air and maybe even snag a cup of coffee on the way back? And, naturally, to hear what there is to be heard. It’s a survival strategy, really. People who refuse to gossip in this environment are respected for their morals, I suppose, if grudgingly, but they don’t tend to last long.

And there are so many people to spread a story around. The general perception of a college is a place with professors and students, maybe a librarian or two, or even possibly, for devotees of Animal House, a Dean. But in reality, on any given day, you’ll see janitors, campus police, cafeteria workers, student library interns, counselors, financial aid consultants, the student who works in the copy room and always knows everything, elderly men with giant plastic bags collecting bottles and cans from the trash, the bright-eyed Jehovah’s Witnesses camped out at the leafletting table whom everyone tries to avoid and therefore probably manage to see everything, student clubs hawking donuts and t-shirts to raise a little cash, DJs performing for no specific reason on the main quad, Jess tucked away in her mailroom behind her cubicle walls where people have intimate conversations they don’t think anyone can overhear, the actual USPS mailwoman herself, two or three rotating FedEx guys, male administrators in somber suits, female administrators with flamboyant scarves arranged artistically over their somber suits, PE teachers in compression shorts who look lost on the main campus, away from their weight rooms, chaperoned field trips of fourth and fifth graders in matching t-shirts and coordinating nametags, people with environmental petitions trying to corral the passing crowd for a moment, do you have just a moment, voter registration booths, dog walkers, and, on occasion, the college president, looking just a little frazzled, his tie loose, running his hand through his hair.

Nothing stays secret for long. Everything is, eventually, claimed by rumor. The extent to which the rumor matches the truth, however, varies. We are, after all, only human.

During that particular week, depending on who you listened to, Aurelia may have suffered a stroke (Harvey, cautiously), or it may have simply been a heart attack (Charles). She was poisoned by rancid coffee creamer (junior librarian), or maybe by the sandwiches catering had provided for the committee, most likely the mayonnaise on the turkey, because that’s been coming for years (Cynthia). She was going downhill quickly, saying her final goodbyes to family flown in from Indiana and Florida (nearly-retired senior faculty member whom I overheard in the mailroom), or she was making a remarkable recovery, no thanks to her college-age children, who hadn’t yet taken the time to visit (Sasha). At least it was clear that, if nothing else, she wasn’t dead, at least not yet (Jess). But she also wasn’t actively participating in the work of the hiring committee (Lucy).

The most interesting rumor that I heard, however, came from Andy, the police intern I could never quite shake. After the garage incident, he’d assigned himself the job of walking me from the classroom to the parking garage after any and all subsequent night classes, and informed me of this during our daytime meeting on Wednesday. I tried to wave him off initially, telling him that I wasn’t in the habit of giving my students assignments pertaining to their instructor’s safety. But he shook his head very seriously and swore up and down that he wouldn’t expect anything like favoritism for his extra effort. Besides, it was his pleasure, and if I were to call for an escort—which, he reminded me, I would be well within my rights to do, seeing as class got out so late—I’d end up waiting twice as long for that intern to arrive. He did have a point, at least technically, and so it was settled. I honestly didn’t think that Andy was going to be able to do much if someone really wanted to mess with me, but I also didn’t think he was likely to mess with me himself.

“They’re investigating foul play,” he told me Thursday night, apropos of nothing, as we walked past the theater, half-lit along the building facade. We’d been talking about the reading assignment, and it took me a moment to realize that he wasn’t talking about a particular plot twist.

“Wait, who’s investigating what?” I asked.

“Foul play with that teacher, you know. The one who collapsed in the English department on Monday.”

“Really?” I said.

“Really. I heard the chief talking about it this afternoon.”

“But there were so many people around her.”

“Ms. Thompson, how do you know that?” I could hear his voice shift into what I now recognized as his professional range, just a little lower and more clipped than when he was talking to me like a normal nineteen-year-old.

“Well,” I said carefully, hoping to avoid any semi-official interview he’d feel the need to do if he discovered the fact that I’d been practically on the scene, “That’s what I heard.”

“Eh, you can’t trust what you hear. If there’s one thing you learn in this job—” he paused to step around a puddle, the grommets on his black chucks glinting in the lamplight “it’s that seven out of ten people will tell you they’ve seen more than they really saw.”

“And the other three?”

“Less. Wait, no. I got it wrong. I think it’s more like half, yeah, five out of ten will say they saw more, and they don’t mean to lie, but it’s really easy to get confused. Three out of ten will say they saw less, for whatever reason.”

“That makes eight.”

“Oh, right. So, the other two, they’re the tricky ones.”

“Why’s that?” I asked, just as we stepped into the parking garage and the chill hit me square in the chest. I dug my free hand deeper into my coat pocket.

“Because they’re probably lying. Unlike the others, though, they know they are. So keep that in mind when you hear rumors.”

I wondered whether he’d advise me to believe the rumors that Sasha had said that she heard about Maggie. There had been no further information on that, at least none that she’d passed on to me, and I hadn’t heard anything myself. Aurelia’s “incident” had crowded out Maggie’s in the viral imagination of the campus community.

“This is me,” I said, laying a hand on the door to my car.

“Goodnight then, Professor!” he said, pausing as I fumbled the key into the lock and opened the door. “And remember not to waste your time listening to rumors.”

It wasn’t until he’d walked away, whistling cheerfully to himself, that I realized two things. One, that nobody in his ten-person calculation was actually telling the truth. And two, he had never elaborated on the whole “foul play investigation.” I wondered whether that counted as a rumor, or whether he’d indignantly vouch for his information, given that he’d overheard it with his own ears.

For a second, I thought about calling him back to ask about all of this. “Fuck it,” I whispered to myself, as I turned the key and coaxed the engine through the ignition coughs. I had interview prep to handle. My appointment with Sasha was bright and early, right after my first class, and I wanted to go over my teaching demonstration materials at least one more time before I could even think about sleep. It was Thursday, and my interview was Monday, and there wasn’t any time to waste.

*

The next morning, I woke early and threw myself underneath a tepid shower; the family above me had beat me to our shared hot water heater again (which I strongly suspected wasn’t legal, the whole shared-thing), but this time I suffered through it quietly. I was pretty sure it was their wifi I’d borrowed last night, hacking into their account by using the password “PASSWORD.” Their wifi was worth at least that much, bless their untechnical hearts.

My first class started with student group discussions. After all the prompts were on the board, I wandered among the clumps of desks a little more aimlessly than usual, mentally running through my teaching demonstration instead of listening in as students chatted. I’d been up until two the night before, in the end, tweaking and adjusting and making sure it hit all the right notes. Be the Guide by their Side, they tell us now, in every professional development workshop, not the Sage on the Stage. Facilitate learning by guiding students as they figure things out, rather than just trying to bang it into their brains from a podium. This works well in the classroom, but it’s remarkably difficult to demonstrate in the extremely unusual setting of a panel interview. Panel interviewers so rarely act like believable students, much as they may think otherwise.

Once the students cleared out, I hurried across campus to the room Sasha had chosen. I was ten minutes early. It was quiet and dark, but the door was open, and I flipped on the lights and let the projector warm up as I paced around the front of the room, swinging my arms from front to back.

Forty minutes later, I had run through my slides four times, at double-speed, muttering my lines and improvising what the panel might say. I did one version where they were open and participatory, one where they were hesitant, and one where they were outright hostile. Then one more time, just for good measure, where they sat there and said nothing.

And then I was out of ideas for my imaginary hiring committee. I checked my email; I was in the right place, and it was well past the right time. The classroom wall clock ticked away, echoing in the nearly-empty room, actually telling accurate time for once. And still, no Sasha.

I’d finally sat down and pulled out my phone when the door opened.

“Oh, I’m so glad to see you,” I said, looking up.

Charles stood in the doorway, closing up an umbrella.

“Wait. Not you. I mean, is there anybody behind you?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Nice to see you too.”

“Oh god, I’m sorry,” I said. I hadn’t run into him since finding the note from Maggie on top of the complaint form in his office, and I was suddenly convinced he was going to accuse me of reading it. Or breaking in, even though he’d invited me, and told me where to find the key. “Didn’t mean to be rude. I’m waiting for Sasha, and she’s—” I glanced up at the clock “forty-four minutes late.”

“Huh. Well, you’ve got about ten more minutes before my group starts rushing in with excuses.”

I stood up and started to move my things from the faculty desk. “Essays due today?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even as I closed my slideshow and ejected my thumb drive.

“That they are. And a reading quiz, which I was nice enough to tell them about in advance, so they’re probably all cramming in the parking lot now.”

“Mind if I stick around until you start? I’d hate to miss her completely.”

“No problem,” he said, waving a hand at the classroom. “Grab a seat. You can even stay through class, if you’re really serious. I won’t introduce you and they can all wonder whether they’re being evaluated.” He gave me a wicked grin. “Never tried that technique before.”

I gave him a wan smile. “I’ll be sure to take notes,” I told him, but all I could think about was how I’d been an idiot to not schedule a practice session with somebody else, too, if only as backup. Sasha had seemed so serious, but really. I should have known better. Always have Plans B through Q, Maggie used to tell me, and here I was, doing exactly the opposite.

Until I’d stumbled across the potentially-incriminating documents in his office, I probably would have just asked Charles if he was free for a run-through after class. But now, I wasn’t sure that he was someone I wanted to trust. He benefited too much from Maggie’s sudden death. I wondered if he knew I knew that. I wondered if he had a secret camera in his office and had seen every single move I’d made. In my haste to get out, I hadn’t thought to look.

But that was ridiculous, I told myself, brought up short by my own thoughts. No one here has a secret camera in their office. Because if someone ever did, in this place, they’d never be able to shut up about it. Everyone would know within twenty four hours of installation.

Students began to filter in, noses in their readers, lining up to ask Charles quiet, yet urgent, questions that I couldn’t hear from where I sat, but I was willing to bet I could answer in my sleep. No, no extension. Yes, you need to print it. No, the syllabus date is correct. I could practically see the looks of blank, self-righteous disbelief clear through the backs of their heads.

When Charles cleared his throat and announced two minutes before final collection and the start of class, I reluctantly stood, made for the door, and nearly walked smack into an oncoming student.

“Sorry about that,” I said, looking past her for any trace of Sasha.

“Oh Professor Thompson!” she said. “I’m so glad to see you!”

I refocused on her face. It was the bookstore girl. And I still had no idea what her name was.

“Oh hi,” I said. “I’m sorry I haven’t gotten a chance to take a look at your display, but I did hear someone else talking about it. Turned out okay?”

“Yeah, mostly. But look, there’s something really weird I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Weird?”

“Yeah, weird.” She lowered her voice and pulled me to the side, away from the other last-minute stragglers. “See, I did a lot of research about that project I talked to you about, talked to a lot of different people, and—”

“Class is in session!” Charles said. “Anyone who is not in his or her seat within the next thirty seconds is officially late to the quiz.”

“Okay, whoa, never mind,” she said. “I can’t lose these points. But I really need to talk to you later. Email me?”

“Sure,” I said, as she scrambled into the nearest chair-desk. I didn’t remember her name, certainly didn’t have her email handy. But once things were a little quieter, I told myself, as I rushed off towards my own class, keeping my head down in the light mist that made the concrete slippery, I could just get in touch with Charles. She wasn’t my student this semester. Whatever it was could wait.

*

It was nearly five, dusk creeping over campus through the persistent half-rain, half-fog, when I wrapped up in the afternoon. And I still hadn’t heard from Sasha. Not an email, not a text. From about two to four, I’d been furious with her. From four on, I’d been exasperated with her, and furious with myself for my lack of a backup plan. Now, that fury was tipping over into trepidation. Sasha was flaky sometimes, but I’d never known her to completely vanish without at least a florid apology note or email.

I was off my game, I told myself, as I hurried across campus through the mist to the department office. Last-semester Katie would never have made an amateur mistake like this, relying on one flake for guidance. Last-semester Katie, though, I reminded myself bitterly, as I pushed the door to the office open and exhaled gratefully in the warm, well-lit lobby, would have had Maggie. (And a partner, a home, a smart phone, and a reliable source of adequate income.)

“Hey Cynthia,” I said, poking my head around the cubicle wall to her desk. “I need a favor, if you have a second.”

“Just one moment,” she said, her eyes on her monitor. “Let me finish typing this in…and…there!” She hit return with a flourish, then swiveled to face me. She was in a glittery black evening gown that extended all the way down to gold stiletto heels.

“Fancy! What’s the occasion?”

“I’m here for another five minutes, and then I have symphony tickets in the city and I will not be late for Wagner. What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for Sasha.”

She gave me a wry grin. “Aren’t you on trend. You’re the fourth person this afternoon.”

“She was supposed to meet me hours ago,” I said. “But she never showed up, and I haven’t heard anything.”

She held up three perfectly manicured fingers and began to tick them off. “There have been two students trying to find her for office hours, she missed a lit committee meeting, and, between you and me, she never hit ‘confirm’ on her official roster, so the dean’s chasing her down, too.”

“That’s strange,” I said. “That’s really strange. I don’t like it.”

Cynthia shrugged. “Not much we can do. If it were someone else, I might worry more, but she might have just forgotten to call in sick, or had car trouble, or a doctor’s appointment. I’ve heard it all. But I have to get going.” She stood and threw a bright red wrap over her shoulders.

“Do you know where she lives?” I blurted out.

She raised an eyebrow at me, but continued gathering her things. “Can’t say I do.”

“But you must,” I said. “I mean, I know I’ve had to give you my mailing address before. You have to have hers.”

“That’s not the kind of thing I can usually hand out, not just like that,” she said, leaning back over the keyboard and mouse. “If it were really an emergency, I might be able to give it to security, but for just something like this…”

“We were supposed to run through my demonstration. I know she can be a flake, but this is just so…unprofessional.”

Cynthia paused and looked me full in the face. “Are you thinking of patrolling the parking garages?”

I sighed. “You know, I wasn’t until you brought it up.”

“Fair enough,” she said, sitting back down on the edge of the chair. “Do me a favor then, Katie. Take this piece of paper,” she said, grabbing a pen and scribbling onto a bright pink post-it note, “over to campus security. If they’re closed, you can take it in tomorrow, or whenever you get a chance. No rush.”

She handed me the sticky note. I glanced down at it quickly. Los Gatos, with an apartment number. “Thank you so much,” I said.

“Whenever you do hear from her,” she replied clearly, just as the dean’s office door opened, “let her know we’re looking for her too.”

“First thing,” I promised. “And you look great. Have fun tonight.”

She smiled and shut down her computer. “I will. You too. Now let’s get out of here.”

The traffic on the way down to Los Gatos was remarkably bad, even for Silicon Valley. I tailed a white BMW 5 series that braked at the last second, every time, for two miles, gripping my steering wheel and gritting my teeth as I tried to give my own weakening brakes enough distance. Then I passed that one and, half a mile down the road, ended up behind another white BMW 5 series. This one liked to swerve out, just a little bit, to see if maybe traffic was getting better. It wasn’t. Each time we stopped, I forced myself to take deep belly breaths and focus on the wavering red reflections of the brake lights on the asphalt in front of me, like some sort of interstate lava lamp. Better than staring at the dashboard clock as the minutes slowly ticked away.

I wasn’t sure what I was going to say when I found Sasha, but I was leaning towards locating her, screaming my head off, and then putting dinner on my credit card and fucking myself over financially again. But at least it’d be tasty. And I’d be alone. There was no way she was invited. I was beyond the point of actually practicing my demonstration today. If she wanted to make it up to me, she could meet me over the weekend. The best thing to do for now, I reminded myself, as I finally pulled up to the curb outside of her apartment complex, was to just try to eat enough, sleep enough, and relax. Whatever that took.

The complex was tastefully Mediterranean-style, tree-lined, and quiet. The rain had stopped, and my footsteps on the sidewalk as I dodged puddles were all that broke the silence. Save for a guy glancing down at his phone at the end of the path, I saw no one else. But the solitude didn’t give me any sense of foreboding, no premonition of what was to come. In fact, I was probably more relaxed in that brief window of time, surrounded by well-appointed rental luxury, breathing in the calming scent of damp redwoods, than I had been in weeks. If Sasha could afford this on her salary, I even found myself musing, maybe, someday, so could I. I could be going home right now. (Granted, she may well have bought before the tech boom 2.0—she almost certainly had to have done so, given that she’d been on campus for at least thirty years—but in that moment, I didn’t let that impinge on my daydream.)

But then I arrived at the turn to her apartment. It had to be at the end of the path, but there no lights on at all, outside or inside, and, I realized as I got closer, the front door was ajar. Just slightly. But ajar all the same.

I held my phone up to the number to double check. This was it—4C. Holding the door handle still, I knocked.

“Sasha?”

No response.

“Sasha, hello?”

Nothing.

I stepped back and quickly dialed her number.

A phone chimed from inside the apartment.

“Shit,” I muttered to myself, my hands beginning to shake. “Sasha, it’s Katie. I’m coming in.”

I eased the door open, quietly still, as though I were trying not to disturb a sleeper. As soon as I stepped over the threshold, though, I was hit with the stench of vomit. I fumbled for a light switch.

“Sasha, are you there? Are you okay?” I could hear my voice rising involuntarily as I patted the wall by the front door, working my way further and further into the apartment, the smell growing stronger and stronger. I bit down on the insides of my cheeks, tried to breathe through my mouth, and willed myself not to retch.

My fingers finally came across a light switch. A weak entryway light came on above me, and I could suddenly see the living area, the small TV on a white wicker table, the quilts of red and purple patterns hanging on the walls, an immaculate white futon couch bookended by tables piled with New Yorkers—but no Sasha.

“Sasha,” I called again, as I crept through the sitting room towards the next doorway. “Sasha, it’s Katie, and I’m just here to make sure that you’re—oh holy fuck.”

My phone hit the tiled kitchen floor with a clatter. I came down hard on my tailbone and left wrist as my knees gave way, and then I turned my head and threw up.

Sasha was splayed across her kitchen table, arms wide, ass up and legs bent as though she’d been about to sit down when she’d collapsed. Her face was tipped towards me, drained of color, eyes open and rolled back, mouth resting in a pool of vomit and blood.