Murder Is Academic Page 6

  “I was surprised that this fellow who killed Christie James also killed that old woman on the thirteenth,” said Dick.

  “Yes. Most of us think of rape as a crime of passion, some poor fellow overcome by desire for some seductive woman. But it’s not true. They’re angry, not horny. That’s the frightening thing. All those pointers Mother gave us about wearing high necklines and not smiling at strangers have nothing to do with it. Any female will do as a victim.”

  “God, this is an unpleasant discussion,” said Dick.

  But Linc persevered. “You make it sound like a mugging.”

  “It is like a mugging. The same guys sometimes do both. But being able to describe a typical rapist doesn’t help the victim much.”

  “What does?” asked Linc.

  “We’re looking into that next. Check back later,” she temporized, glancing at Dick. He was staring at his sherry as though it contained a worm, and she hoped Linc would not go on.

  “Nowadays it’s hard to feel safe even in your own home,” said Dick. After a pause he looked up at Jane and Linc. “Can I freshen your drinks?”

  “No, thanks,” said Jane. “In fact, I’d better be off. I promised my psycholinguistics class I’d get their papers back tomorrow.”

  She’d left her briefcase and raincoat in the bedroom. As she shrugged into her coat, the case fell and snapped open. Damn, all that junk. She dropped to her knees. Pens, coin purse, keys, letter-knife, appointment book. Anything else? Valium. Where was it? She didn’t see the little bottle. She felt next to the nightstand, under the bed. Something round. But not the bottle, she realized suddenly. The handle of a knife, a long knife. She pushed it back hastily and lifted the edge of the bedspread. God, there were four of them, four knives. Hard to feel safe even in your own home, he’d said. She pitied the burglar who tried the Davies bedroom.

  The Valium, she saw, had lodged between two knives. She scooped it into the briefcase and hurried out.

  The Volks coughed a time or two in protest before starting. Still not quite fixed. She eased it into gear and proceeded cautiously into the traffic lane, depressed to think of taking it yet again to the dealer.

  The night was not quite clear, a faint cold haze visible around the streetlights. No doubt it was her imagination, or the knives, or the talk about rapists. But it seemed to her that a light-colored car that pulled onto the road behind her a block from Dick’s was following her. She locked both doors when she stopped for a traffic light, and parked at the well-lit front of her apartment building instead of going into the dark garage. Roger was home; she could see the light of their living room through the drapes. She waited until the pale car went past, then hurried up the stairs and into the apartment.

  “Anything wrong, honey?” asked Roger.

  “No. Too much of Dick’s sherry, I guess,” said Jane. She kissed his dark head, and felt safe, and kicked herself for being so old-fashioned.

  VI

  7 Iiq—12 Chee (March 29—April 3, 1968)

  “Maria Markaao was the daughter of a god,” explained Mary Beth. “Her admirer Oyew Achi was a god too, but her father didn’t like him. So Oyew Achi thought of a plan. He turned himself into a hummingbird. Maria saw the bird and was delighted with it. She was a fine weaver, like most Ixil women, and she told people that she needed the bird to use as a pattern. They caught it for her and brought it to her room. Once the door was closed, he turned back into a man.”

  “Shouting, ‘Surprise!’” said Maggie.

  “No doubt. Well, Maria apparently found him as attractive as the bird. They locked the door, and the father found out the next morning that he now had a married daughter.”

  “Ah, sweet young love. And this is the bird in question?” Maggie, doing splits on the hearthrug, inspected the design woven into the blanket that covered the old sofa.

  “So Ros tells me.”

  “And Maria and her husband lived happily ever after?”

  “Well, no. Her dad had to accept the marriage, but he continued to hassle them in various ways. They overcame most of his tricks, but eventually he succeeded in hitting Maria with a lightning bolt. Today her spirit is splintered into a variety of animals.”

  “A sad end.’’ Maggie was now practicing a backbend and spoke upside down. “I like the Ixil stories. A lot more realistic than happily-ever-after.’’

  “They aren’t very romantic people. If anyone ever had reason to know that life is unfair and cruel, it’s the Ixil.”

  “God, Maggie, are you stuck?” asked Jackie, looking in. Maggie was still in her backbend.

  “No. Just doing stretches.”

  Jackie plopped herself onto the sofa next to Mary Beth and eyed Maggie solemnly. “I asked Frank to come to dinner tonight.”

  Maggie righted herself abruptly. “Will you want me to leave?”

  “No.” Jackie sounded determined. “I like him a lot, Maggie.”

  “Sure.”

  “The first two times I saw him, you were all he talked about.”

  “Sounds boring.”

  Jackie grinned. “He’s thought of other topics since. But you see, I want to know where I stand before I get too involved.”

  “Okay, kid. I’ll help.”

  It was awkward at first. Frank, though civil, was stiff and ill-at-ease. Maggie, too, had somehow subdued her vitality, her wide sunshiny smile, almost to the point of dowdiness. But slowly, under the combination of her polite reserve and Jackie’s warmth, he relaxed. Everyone became comfortable again from then on.

  Except Peter.

  The Times front page was jammed with immense headlines. President Johnson had announced that he would not run again. Eugene McCarthy and Robert Kennedy and Hubert Humphrey scrambled to better their chances for the Democratic nomination. Richard Nixon was securely ahead among the Republicans.

  In Guatemala, Archbishop Casariego was kidnapped, then found alive in Chichicastenango, a bit south of Ixil country.

  “Who’s he?” asked Maggie. This evening she was lounging at the other end of the sofa, building a puppy from a Soma cube.

  “Important in the church. Right before I left in December, he publicly asked the government to account for some people who had been arrested and disappeared while in police custody.”

  “An awkward request?”

  “Yes. There were two hundred seventy-some people on his list,” said Mary Beth.

  “God! Do you think the government kidnapped him?”

  “I’d guess right-wing terrorists plus the army. But the president is firing some of the top men. So the archbishop may be just an excuse for the president to get rid of a few top rivals.”

  “Will it make any difference to your Ixil?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes I think they’d be better off just giving in, not fighting. What would you choose, Maggie? A life of safe drudgery and poverty and malnutrition? Or a faint chance to bring justice? No, not even that, there’s really no chance for justice at all.”

  “A faint chance to screw the bastards keeping me down?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Well, that’s what I’d choose.”

  “Even if it got your family in trouble?” She was remembering Ros, the fierce sacrificial protectiveness toward her children.

  Maggie got up, restless, and went to look out the window at the rotting gray snow revealing patches of dead earth. “I’m afraid so,” she said. “I’ve done it before, Mary Beth. I try not to, but I have this talent, it seems, for sacrificing other people.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My family and friends are doomed to flounder in the wake of my ill-conceived crusades.”

  “We’re not talking about alarm clocks. We’re talking about civil war and death.”

  “Well, I have to admit I haven’t encountered any civil wars yet,” she said consideringly. Mary Beth noticed the omission, and was chilled. Maggie turned back, the fading light picking out the line of cheekbone and square jaw. “But if I ever do, Mary
Beth, be warned. Sauve qui peut. Sink or swim.”

  “I’ll remember. Do your friends complain?”

  “Oh, yeah. They kick and scream. But so far, luckily, my friends have mostly turned out to be swimmers.”

  Sue was coming in from the library, arms loaded with books with Cyrillic titles. “What an odd requirement for friendship,” she observed, dumping the books on the table. “I can dog-paddle. Will that count?”

  “No, not good enough. But fortunately for you, we were merely extending a metaphor,” said Maggie.

  “A metaphor. Good. Literature may yet triumph over Pythagoras,” said Sue approvingly. “Listen, Swede, speaking of literature, are we going to The Three Sisters?”

  “Of course!” Mary Beth went to the theatre whenever she could talk someone into accompanying her. Since Frank had begun monopolizing Jackie’s evenings and Maggie never went, it was more difficult. But Sue wanted to see the Chekhov.

  “Well, they’re already sold out for both Saturdays,” reported Sue. “But we can get good seats on weekdays. Say this Wednesday.”

  “Let’s try for Wednesday. Want to come, Maggie? Chekhov?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Why not?” She hadn’t wanted to see The Crucible either, or the studio theatre Ionesco. But suddenly Mary Beth had an image of that box of books in the closet upstairs, Shakespeare and Molière and Shaw. And Chekhov.

  “I just don’t,” said Maggie mildly, but there was a warning edge in the pleasant voice. Mary Beth ignored it.

  “But how can you give up something as wonderful as theatre?”

  There was a flash of anger in the blue eyes. “How can you give up chipmunks and white metal doors?”

  The room dimmed suddenly as the underworld engulfed her. Mary Beth’s damp forehead fell onto her palms. Hun-Came and Vucub-Came shrieked with laughter inside her head. Chipmunks and white metal doors! The chanting rang in her terrified ears. No, it wasn’t chanting. It wasn’t the Lords of Death. It was Sue, repeating it in bewilderment. “Chipmunks? White metal doors? What the hell are you two talking about?” And then Maggie’s strong penitent arm around her shoulders.

  “It’s okay, Mary Beth. Everything’s okay. I’m a klutz.”

  “Oh God, Maggie.” The Lords of Death retreated reluctantly.

  “Everything’s okay. Really.”

  “Come on, kiddo,” said Sue, worried. “Everything’s cool. We didn’t mean to say the magic words. Didn’t even know them.”

  “I did,” said Maggie. “I was mad as hell. But it won’t happen again: I promise.” Gentle bony fingers were stroking Mary Beth’s long hair back from her face.

  “Okay, look, it’s nothing,” she managed to say. But she felt exposed, as though the secret she had been laboring so carefully to conceal was open for all to read.

  “Good,” said Sue briskly. “That’s the spirit.” She gave Mary Beth a concerned glance, but continued, “Okay, Wednesday, two tickets, right?”

  “Right,” said Mary Beth, straightening a little. The panic had subsided into exhaustion. Maggie’s supporting arm, like a protective wing, was still around her shoulders.

  Maggie said, “Three tickets.”

  “Really?” asked Sue, pleased.

  “Yes.”

  “Maggie, are you sure?” Mary Beth blundered in with a clumsy, urgent anxiety.

  “I’m sure that anything that makes me hurt my friends has got to go.” Their eyes locked in mutual pain.

  “But what if you’re not ready?”

  “The hell with being ready. The important thing is being in control. Nobody’s going to decide for me what I do or don’t do.”

  “Except, of course, for yours truly, the collective conscience.” Sue’s husky voice broke in. “And, Maggie Ryan, I’m here to remind you that the guard has changed, and it’s your night to take out the trash.”

  Maggie smiled at her. “Except, of course, for that,” she said, and breezed off toward the kitchen. Mary Beth was left alone and apprehensive on the sofa.

  Quintet practice that night was not a complete success. Sue and Maggie did all right, and from time to time Dan on the clarinet sounded almost inspired, his red hair tousled, his stubby fingers flickering on the keys. But Mary Beth still felt tired and dull, and Peter was worse. He greeted them with his usual wiry bounciness, but as it became clear to him that, once again, Jackie was not there to listen, he seemed to sag, and the oboe sections were dispirited and often inaccurate. They broke up a little early, and he packed up his instrument, refused the coffee they offered, and almost forgot to say good-bye as he left.

  “So you’re saying it’s related to ongoing, incomplete actions?” asked Professor Greene.

  “That’s right. Like ‘I am sleeping.’”

  “That’s very interesting, Mary Beth. Find something on the historical development, and you’ve got a paper right there.”

  “Yes. I’m looking at other Mayan languages now.”

  “Wonderful!” Professor Greene’s pouched eyes creased in enthusiasm. “Keep it up, Mary Beth! Why don’t you sketch out this section separately, and we’ll submit it to the institute this summer?”

  “Thank you. That’s great, Professor Greene!” Mary Beth was pleased. That disturbing verb form that Ros had used had turned out to be a key to the whole system. The only problem was that it was clear it would take many months to work out the implications.

  She stopped at Peter’s on the way home. His roommate opened the door.

  “Hi, Tom. Peter here?”

  “No, he’s got a late seminar today.”

  “Well, he borrowed my duckbill pliers last week to make some reeds. I need them back. Just found out my two extras are both split.”

  “You guys are crazy to have such temperamental instruments,” said Tom. “They’ll be in his room. Why don’t you look around?”

  “Thanks.” Mary Beth went in. Peter’s room was orderly, desk cleared, no dirty clothes. His reeds were almost done, she saw, and her pliers were laid neatly by the paraffin and wire on a bookshelf. Turning to leave, her attention was caught by the only chaotic place in the room, the wastebasket. Something familiar about that torn scrap. She leaned over, picked up a second scrap, and saw Jackie’s photo, ripped into pieces.

  “Did you find them?” called Tom.

  “Yes. Thanks.” Mary Beth tucked the pliers into her Guatemalan bag and left, the pleasure she had felt at Professor Greene’s enthusiasm diminished by Peter’s pain.

  Monday night, when Jackie was away with Frank, the other three sat in the living room looking at the fuzzy cheap TV that Sue had inherited from her older brother. The late news came on. After a few scenes of wounded Vietnamese, burning villages, and stunned, bleeding children. Sue switched it off abruptly.

  “Enough,” she said. “I already knew the world was going to hell.”

  “No news there,” agreed Mary Beth.

  “I don’t understand how anyone can think any purpose is worth all that.” Sue’s husky voice was troubled. “Do you think we’ll ever get out?”

  “Who knows?” said Maggie. “But Johnson’s quitting, and look how well McCarthy’s doing in the primaries.”

  “But we’re still over there.” Mary Beth gestured helplessly at the TV. “And ready to move into Guatemala and a dozen other places.”

  “The trouble with people for peace is that we don’t have big guns and loud voices,” declared Sue. “Everyone ignores us. We should get up a crack military division. Don’t you think they’d pay attention then? Whang between the eyes if they didn’t.”

  Mary Beth said feelingly, “God, I wish I was a man.”

  “How come? You don’t like what they do. You don’t even like them,” said Sue, turning her resentment toward this new target. Maggie frowned at her but she went on defensively. “Well, look at us. Jackie’s out fucking Frank, all red-blooded American womanhood. But we three sit here, frustrated or not, I don’t know, bad-mouthing men, blaming them for a war they’re mostly again
st too, watching the years tick away.”

  There was a half-smile on Maggie’s face. “Chanting faint hymns to the cold fruitless moon,” she said. Mary Beth was reminded again of the boxes of books that hadn’t been unpacked.

  “Right,” Sue was saying. “So what is it? We all claim to be happy here. We haven’t always been against males. In fact, Mary Beth had a hot thing going with Tip Warren last June before he went to Arizona and she skipped off south of the border. They were writing twice a week before she left. Right? Not a card since she got back and she doesn’t even miss him. And despite the clouds of perfume she’s started wearing, she says she’d rather be a man.” She glowered at Mary Beth. “And I had some fun in my flaming youth too,” she went on when Mary Beth said nothing. “But now I’m making like an embittered old maid. And judging from Frank, I think it’s the same with you,” she finished aggressively to Maggie.

  “Sure,” said Maggie softly. “I had a flaming youth too. I was very vulnerable. Not anymore. Never again.” She was looking at Sue with understanding.

  Sue seemed to have forgotten that Mary Beth was there. Her eyes were fixed on Maggie’s. She said, almost tentatively, “Mine left and didn’t even help with the abortion.”

  “Mine left too.” Maggie reached out and took Sue’s freckled hand. “But I didn’t have an abortion. That’s a hell of a thing to have to go through alone.”

  “God, yes,” Sue remembered grimly. “It was in the back streets of Toledo, you know? Sooty brick. Filthy. And I had to go at night. It was so dirty. Now, I keep cleaning things all the time. Maybe that’s why. And they whisked me in and out because they didn’t want to get arrested. I bled for a month.”

  Maggie was patting her hand. “You’re okay now.”

  “I know, I know. There’s the pill now. But still ... I just don’t want to risk that again. It was too horrible.”

  “Of course not. None of us do.”

  “I was relieved, but ... you know, kids and flowers. Ideals. I still get depressed every year on the anniversary. I wish it could have been different.”