Anders' Contrition
by Quinn Tyler Jackson

The twists of autumn floated from trees, blown about on a current before falling to Anders' feet. He pushed the leaves away, taking in the fresh air as deeply as it would go without too much ambition. With a long sweep of his arm, his cigarette came to his mouth and he inhaled a mixture of autumn and smoke. Along the edge of the sidewalk ran a fence, and beside that, the gravel and grass of a playing field.

He thought of games of soccer he had played on similar fields as a child and the thought made him smile. It had been how long now since he had kicked a ball? He tried to remember, but it did not come easily. Again he put the cigarette to his mouth and inhaled. Years. It had been years.

Only twenty-five more paces and he would be there. As much as his feet did not want to carry him there, he know of no other place for him to be. He walked so slowly that his cigarette was finished before he made the last necessary step. He stood, facing forward, at the corner house across the street from the playing field, unable to turn towards the house.

Trees lining the street made breathing sounds. A squirrel hurried across the sidewalk, just a few feet ahead. Just one more cigarette, he told himself, and he would look. He reached into his overcoat pocket, found the pack, shook out a smoke, and put the unlit stick to his lips. With one hand covering the flame and the other spinning the flint of his lighter, he soon had a good tip going.

With each drag, he burned away a small piece of his hesitation, until the second cigarette was done and he finally turned. The grass had not been mowed. The wind had blown local papers about the front yard and soggy piles of newsprint had started to pile up against the railing at the top of the stairs. He took a step towards it on the walk.

He did not want to unlock the door, but it came the time to push the key into the lock, turn, and step into the house. The air was stale. At first he was not sure if it was from having come straight from the wet wind of autumn that made the house smell stale, but after a few seconds he could smell the full garbage bag under the sink in the kitchen. That would have to be the first thing put out back.

He undid the buttons of his coat, hung it on the top of the closet door to his right, shook off his shoes, and sat on the couch a few feet to his left. He did not open his eyes. The place stunk. He reached back, without turning around, fumbled for the window latch, slid it up a bit, and pulled the window as far open as he could at this angle. Air started to come in and he could breathe again.

The phone rang, but he did not get up. Eventually, the answering machine picked up the line and started recording, echoing the words through the house for his ears to hear. Although he was certain he must have heard it before many times, he did not recognize the voice.

"Anders! I just heard. Listen, I'm not going to bother you, just wanted you to know that I am here for you if you need me. OK? Got that? Nothing too big or small. Take care, OK?"

Anders leaned into his hands, elbows on knees, and counted his breaths. After passing twenty, a gentle knock came to the door. He opened his eyes, stood, and peeked through the peephole. He could see no one, and unlocked the door. It was the Schmidt's girl.

"Have you seen my cat Misty?" she said.

"I've been away for a week," he softly replied.

"If you see her, can you let us know?" Her eyes were bright, but Anders could see the worry in her nine-year-old features.

"I sure will," he said.

"Make sure you tell your wife, too," she said.

And then came the first time he would have to say it. She was only a nine-year-old girl, but she, too, would have to know. How did one tell a girl distraught about a lost cat? He took as much air as he could through his nose, half fresh and half rotten, and said, "My wife has passed away."

When the little girl's face did not change, Anders realized that the ancient euphemism meant nothing to one so young. He took into another breath and said, "My wife ... died."

The girl's face changed noticeably at this. These words meant something to a young mind. "Oh, that's sad. When my grandmother died last year, I was so sad forever and ever."

"Yes, it is very sad," Anders agreed. "If I see your cat, I'll let you know."

After closing the door, he returned to the couch. He had found the strength to tell Shelley Schmidt about Joan; it would be no more difficult to tell anyone else. He would tell himself that over and over and maybe he would come to believe it.

"Professor Byrne?"

And again, "Professor Byrne?"

Without turning his head, Anders nodded his head, to show he was at last listening.

"Mr. Goldsmith didn't say when you'd be back," a young man said into his right ear. "Are you back to lecture or just here for a visit?"

"Back," Anders replied. "You can expect to see me at today's lecture."

"Are our papers still due at the end of next week?"

"Yes."

"Are you OK, Professor?"

Anders turned. "Lawrence, isn't it?"

Lawrence Miller nodded.

"I'm fine, Lawrence. Thanks for asking." He turned again to face the window and watched the crows out in the landing. He was thinking of how happy Shelly Schmidt had been when he'd returned her cat to her that morning after finding it digging through the garbage he'd put out the night earlier.

An hour later, ten minutes into his lecture, he was overtaken by the urge to light up a cigarette. It didn't matter to him that it was forbidden to smoke inside the university. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his pack of cigarettes and his lighter, and started one going. It made the time easier to navigate. He did not care that some of the students screwed up their eyes at him.

"Professor Byrne?"

And again, "Professor Byrne?"

Anders shook his head and returned to the present. He glanced down at the clear plastic sheet on flat back lit surface and tried to recall to his mind what he had been discussing. He then surveyed the faces of his students, from left to right of the lecture hall.

"Where was I?"

Lawrence Miller called out, "'Enumerable sets are....'"

Anders nodded. "I seem to have forgotten what the hell I was on about." When he stood to stretch, an ash half the length of his cigarette fell to the floor. The notes on the overhead made no sense to him. "You'll have to forgive me, please, people."

None of his students said a word.

"Mr. Goldsmith?" Anders called out.

His teaching assistant stood and approached the lecture stage. When he arrived beside Anders, he leaned over and said into his ear, "Are you going to be OK? I can take over the class from here if you need some air."

"My mind is wandering," Anders admitted quietly to his assistant. "Was I talking about enumerable sets? I have no clue."

"They don't know what happened," Goldsmith said. "I just told them there was a family emergency."

"Then they don't understand why I am making an idiot of myself," Anders said. He turned to face the class, and said in a voice loud enough for them to hear, "I apologize for being distracted."

"Are you OK?" someone in the back asked.

"No," Anders returned. "You see, my wife died after being in a car crash last week. I thought I was ready to come back and teach, but I guess I'm not ready just yet."

The students were completely quiet as he lit another cigarette. "Mr. Goldsmith can take over for today. I'll be in my office if anyone wants to discuss next week's paper one on one." He quickly walked off the stage, up the stairs to the door at the back, and into the hallway. His cigarette between his fingers, he started for his office. Once inside, he sat behind his desk, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

"Misty is a wonderful cat," he had said to Shelly. "She doesn't appear big enough to be fully grown. How old is she?"

"Eight months," Shelly had said as she took the cat.

Cabbage rolls. Mrs. Schmidt had brought over cabbage rolls the night before. "Thank your mother for the dinner," he'd told the girl. "They were delicious."

"Mom's food is always good."

"Professor Byrne?"

And again, "Professor Byrne?"

Anders opened his eyes. One of his students, Farrah Donahue, was standing at his open office door. "Are you OK?"

"Come in, Ms. Donahue," Anders said, waving his hand in invitation. "What is it? Yes, the paper is still due."

"I'm not here about the paper," Farrah said as she entered his office.

"You'll do just fine," he replied. "You have the second highest mark in the class, for a reason."

"Professor, I'm not here about the paper," she repeated as she sat down in front of his desk.

"Go on, then," Anders urged. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

"Not at all. Go ahead."

He lit a cigarette after pulling an ashtray from his desk drawer.

"Last semester, my fiancé was killed in a car crash," she said. "I'm not going to lie and say that I understand what you're going through, but I wanted you to know...."

Anders put his right index finger to his lip and smiled a half smile. "How long had you been engaged?" he asked after a long silence.

"Two years. We were living together all that time. I met Jim at university in my second year."

Anders turned his desk photo of Joan to face Farrah. "This is Mrs. Byrne."

"She was very beautiful."

"Yes, she is." He was speaking in the present tense, as if Joan were still alive, and realized this only when he compared how Farrah was speaking of Joan in the past tense.

"Do you have a picture of your fiancé?"

Farrah went through her purse and found a small photograph. Once she had, she handed it to Anders. Jim had been a handsome young man.

"Such a shame," he finally sighed.

"Yes, it was very difficult."

Anders looked into Farrah's eyes and asked, "Was the hardest part coming home to the empty apartment after the accident?"

He could see that a tear was welling up along her bottom eyelid.

"Yes."

"Damn it, I hated doing that," he admitted. He felt she had come into his office to be open about how it felt to lose someone, and he didn't want to lose his chance to tell another human being who might understand what he was feeling.

"Yes," she agreed.

"Say," he finally then said, "could you do me a favor and drive me home? I know it sounds stupid, but ... the car ... was a wreck. I had to take a cab to the university today."

"Sure," Farrah said. "When are you leaving?"

"In about an hour?" he answered. He shuffled a few papers on his desk as if he was going to look through his business of the day, but really only wanted the hour to close his eyes and drift.

"No problem at all, Professor Byrne," she said, standing to leave.

"I appreciate it," he said. "See you in about an hour, then?"

"Yes," she answered as she walked out the door.

"I hear you were smoking during lecture today," Anders' department head said as he entered his office.

"Yes," Anders admitted. "Someone complain?"

"Oh, no, no," Gary Wolf rushed to say. "Bob told me. Said he took over for you halfway through your lecture."

"Bob has been a godsend this last week," Anders said.

"He said you lost it a bit today," Gary added.

"Yes, I did."

"I understand, Anders. No worries. You can still take that sabbatical I offered, you know. Feel free at any time."

Anders turned Joan's picture back to face him and said, "I just may, but I am going to try to get back on the horse before that, if you know what I mean. Besides that, I've got to review Bob's dissertation one more time before it goes to committee."

"It fits your style," Gary replied. He sat across from his friend and former graduate student, now a tenured professor.

"This is harder than my fucking dissertation," Anders said.

"I have no idea," Gary replied. "Life has been kind to me when it comes to stuff like this. The hardest thing I have ever had to go through ... well ... it was nothing like this."

"Eight months into my tenure," Anders said, sighing loudly.

"Well, you won't be fired for smoking during a lecture," Gary said. "Do whatever it takes to calm your nerves." He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small bottle of vodka. "Stole this on the flight back from the convention in Amsterdam. Here, have a drink, on me."

Anders took the bottle, opened it, and drank it down in one gulp. "Thanks."

After a few more minutes of small talk, Gary stood and left. Anders looked at his watch. In fifteen minutes, Farrah Donahue would be by to drive him home. He flipped through a few pages of his assistant's dissertation, circled a few spelling mistakes, and put it aside after not being able to make any sense of what the dissertation called a key lemma. His mind was in no condition to struggle through theorems, lemmas, and proofs.

"Are you ready, Professor Byrne?" Farrah asked at his door.

"I will be in a minute," he replied. He gathered up the strewn pages of Goldsmith's dissertation, put them into his attaché case, and stood to go.

Five feet from the door of his office, Bob Goldsmith approached him. "Hey, Anders. Feeling any better?"

"Yes, a little," Anders returned. "I have your dissertation with me. I'll give it a thorough going over this weekend. Are you set to defend it once you get it back?"

His assistant smiled. "Is anyone ever ready for that?"

"The defense is a formality," Anders assured him before moving on. Farrah walked about three feet to his left.

"I hope to move on to graduate studies," she said as they walked.

"Do you need a letter of recommendation?"

"I will. Would you mind?"

"Not at all."

Soon, they were out of the building and at her sedan. When he noticed her lighting up a cigarette, he did not bother to ask for permission to smoke in the car.

"I live on the corner of Elm and White, right beside the playing field," he informed her.

After five minutes of driving, he asked Farrah where she planned on going for graduate studies. She replied that she was not set on a school yet, and that her final decision would depend on funding.

"Ah, yes, funding," he sighed. "I remember that phase. Joan worked two jobs while I was...." He stopped himself. "Well, money is no object for me any longer."

"Do you get paid well as a professor?"

"Not really."

"Then...."

"Well, the mortgage had life insurance on both of us," he explained. "The house ... well, it's paid off now. It seemed like a practical, reasonable thing to do at the time. It seems creepy now."

"I've never liked the idea of life insurance."

"Me neither, really. But like I say, it seems so practical and level headed to get it when everything is going fine. So very pragmatic. And now the insurer on my wife's life insurance policy is contesting."

"That's sick."

"Well, they have two options. If the police and coroner rule it an accident, they have to pay me quite a pile of money. I could care less if they ever do that."

"What are they contesting? I'm sorry if this is a sensitive topic. It's just that Jim never had a policy, and I had to declare bankruptcy after he died, because, well, of the costs. I had cosigned all of his credit. So I was wondering. You don't have to talk about it."

Anders was quiet for a minute as they drove, and then explained. "Since the policy stated that all was forfeited in the case of a suicide within the first two years, and since the policy was only eight months old, they're trying to claim she wrapped herself around that tree."

It had come out into the open, at last.

"Oh, they are sick, aren't they? Vultures!"

"When the police arrived at my door after the accident," he said, "I burst into flames. The first words out of my mouth were, 'Oh my God, did she go and kill herself?' They wrote this in their report, and haven't finalized whether it was an accident or suicide until they look into things. The insurance people grabbed onto this and are riding it for all it's worth. To them, it's a ticket into not paying out, so they are doing their best to make sure the coroner leans towards suicide."

Farrah went quiet.

"They've probably got a private investigator tailing me right now," he laughed. It was an empty laugh.

"Why?"

"To see what the hell it is I've been up to that would drive my wife to despair."

"That's so sick."

"Damned straight," Anders sighed. "I don't care if they keep every last penny of their fucking bad luck money. I don't need any of their shit right now."

Soon, they were at his house. Anders took his attaché case, opened the car door, and stood outside on the curb. "Thank you very much for the ride, Ms. Donahue."

"Professor Byrne," she said. She brushed her long auburn hair from her eyes. "Why did you say that when the police arrived?"

Anders coughed, put a closed hand over his mouth, and finally said, "The night she died, she and I had a huge fight."

Farrah replied almost immediately, "Can you sit down for a second?"

Anders got back into the car and looked straight at his student. "Yes?"

"The night Jim died...." She did not seem able to finish her thought.

"I understand," Anders replied. He put his hand on Farrah's shoulder, to comfort her. "I understand too well."

"It was ruled a...."

He put his index finger to his mouth to shush her. "Listen, Farrah?I'll call you Farrah, OK? -- I really appreciate your coming into my office today. I needed to know I wasn't completely alone in this." He waited a few moments before taking his hand from her shoulder.

"If you need anyone to talk to," she said as he closed the passenger side door, "feel free to talk to me."

He nodded, turned, and walked to his front door. Once inside, he glanced at his answering machine and saw that there were ten new messages. He skipped through most of them - the condolences - until he came to his father's message, which he played three times before heading to the couch and laying down to rest.

At first Anders thought it might be Mrs. Schmidt with more cabbage rolls knocking at his door. He wiped the sleep from the corners of his eyes with the knuckles of his index fingers. Once at the door, he opened the door without looking out the peephole.

"I drove around for an hour and just couldn't stay away," Farrah announced as the door opened.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" Anders asked, waving her in. The cold air followed her; he could feel it around her as she passed near him.

"Sure," she replied.

Anders went to the kitchen, filled two mugs with water, dropped in the Earl Gray bags, and put the cups into the microwave. "Sorry it's nothing fancy. Joan always made the tea around here. Do you take cream or sugar?"

"No, that's fine," Farrah replied. She sat at the kitchen table.

"I'm sorry this has brought back painful memories for you, Farrah," Anders said as he brought the tea over to the table. The handles of the cups nearly scalded his hands.

"I'm more concerned for you," she said, pulling the bag from the hot water by its string.

"I appreciate that."

The phone rang and Anders reached over with one hand to get it. It was his father.

"John, I'm glad I caught you at home," came the thick Irish voice.

"Dad."

"Do you need anything? Anything at all?"

"Not right now. How's Mom?"

"Anne is OK, John," his father replied. "She's sleeping right now, or I'd call her to the phone."

"Thanks for the long message. I appreciate it."

"You take care?"

"Yes, Dad. And thanks again."

"Maybe you should go to Church? Light a candle?"

"Maybe I should, Dad."

"It may help."

The conversation was soon over.

"Where do you parents live?" Farrah asked.

"New York."

"Catholics?"

"Father is. My mother is an agnostic. Swedish agnostic and Catholic. Nice combination of hot and cold, those two."

"How about you?"

"Technically? John Peter Anders Byrne. I'm a confirmed Catholic, but haven't practiced for years."

"You're first name is really John?"

Anders leaned back in his chair and sipped his tea. "John is my Confirmation name. My first name is actually Per, but this was changed to Peter at confirmation, as well. I chose to keep Anders, and once I drifted from the Church, I started going only by Anders. My father calls me John, my mother calls me Per, and everyone else calls me Anders."

"That's complicated," Farrah laughed.

"And now, it's Professor. Professor Byrne this, Professor Byrne that. You're Irish, with a surname like Donahue, aren't you?"

"Yes. Both parents. Nothing too complicated. No Confirmation for me."

"Protestant?"

"No. I was raised in a political house, not a religious one. Are you familiar with the political writer Sean Donahue?"

"The Irish labor reformist from Wicklow?"

"Yes. I'm surprised you know of him, actually. You're a mathematician, not an economist."

"Your father?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'll be damned." Anders smiled. "Did you know that he and my father once ran against one another in an election in County Wicklow?"

"You're kidding."

"No. I've always been led to believe this was the reason my father left Ireland, actually. He couldn't live down the shame! He was more or less run out of Ireland over that one!" Anders couldn't hold in his laughter. "Because of your father, my father went to New York and met my mother. You could say that I owe my whole existence to your father. Here's a good one for you: whenever my father would get really pissed at me, he wouldn't say the usual 'I wish you'd never been born.' Know what he would say?" Anders put on his Irish accent and said, "'If only that bastard Donahue hadn't taken that election.'" He turned off his father's accent and continued. "In a sense, your father's name is a swear word in the Byrne house."

Farrah started to laugh, too. "This is eerie!"

"We seem to have more in common than tragedy," Anders finally declared. "Life is a series of synchronicities and coincidences." For the first time in the last weeks, Anders felt the curtain lift.

"At 6:05 PM, Miss Donahue returned to Dr. Byrne's house, entered house, and left at 11:52 PM that same evening."

"Do you mind if I smoke, Mr. Coors?"

"Be my guest, Professor Byrne," the claims adjuster replied.

"Thanks," Anders said, lighting up. "Go on."

"At 8:15 AM the following Monday, Miss Donahue returned to his house, and both subjects drove off in Miss Donahue's car. Dr. Byrne was at the university until 5:00 PM Monday night, at which time he again met up with...."

"I get the direction this is going," Anders interrupted.

"When did you start seeing Miss Donahue?" Mr. Coors asked dryly. He had a notepad with him and was ready to take notes.

"She drove me home on Friday evening. She returned that night to talk. We talked. She picked me up and drove me to work on Monday. That's the extent of it." He tipped his ash into his left palm, since there was no ashtray.

"You didn't see her before Friday?"

"Well, she's a student of mine," Anders replied. "I've seen her in class every week, except the week I was off. That's it."

"Can you tell me how this looks to a claims adjuster, so close to the time of your wife's suici-- death?" Mr. Coors asked. He was still looking at his notes.

"What it looks like? It looks like I've got a vulture hovering over my wife's dead body, trying to get out of paying a life insurance claim by coming up with a bogus suicide claim, and supporting it with whatever they can dig up. From your perspective, Mr. Coors, it's 'double or nothing' and you want to drag me through a pile of horse shit. That's what it looks like." Anders stood to leave.

"None of this looks very good," Mr. Coors replied.

Anders wanted to be quiet, but could not hold in his anger. "Listen, Mr. Coors. My wife and I had a huge fight over money. Money, you hear? She stormed out of the house, and drove off with the car. To cool down, you know? To cool down."

"Why were your first words to the officer...."

"Guilt, damn it. Guilt. Do you understand guilt? Are you married?"

"Yes."

Anders sat down again. "Have you ever had a fight with your wife?"

"Yes."

"Now, suppose she stormed off one night after a fight and got into a crash and died."

"I can't imagine that."

"Exactly. That's your problem as you follow me around with your investigators, trying to get out of settling this claim. You can't imagine what it feels like to feel guilty for going a little too far in a fight. For saying one nasty heated thing too many."

Mr. Coors continued to write in his notes.

"The first thing you think when you hear about this is, 'Did I push her too far?'" Anders admitted. "Followed by, 'Was I too nasty?'"

"What do you feel happened, Dr. Byrne?" Mr. Coors asked calmly.

"Now that I've had to think about it? I think she got in the car, crying her eyes out, and it was raining that night. Buckets of it. I think, in her anger, hurt, and frustration, she forgot to turn on the defroster, and windows steamed up. Used to happen all the time with that car. Then, I think she missed an exit, turned too hard to try to make it, and the rest, well, the rest is a big mess I don't want to get into."

Mr. Coors calmly wrote everything down.

"The crash happened near that horrible fucking exit. Have you ever taken that exit at night, in the rain?"

"Yes."

"With your windows steamed?"

Mr. Coors thought about it for a while and replied, "Once or twice maybe."

"While you were crying, angry, and hurting inside?"

"I think I see where you are coming from, Dr. Byrne."

Anders was calm again. "It was an accident. When the police told me where the accident had occurred, that's when I knew it wasn't suicide."

"How so?"

"Think about it, Mr. Coors. Just before that exit, you go over the overpass, right?" Anders lit another cigarette. He tipped his ashes from his palm onto the table and started blowing them about.

"Yes."

"Thin railing. Underneath is more traffic than you could ever want. If you're going to kill yourself, you're going to drive through that railing, not wait until you get to the exit, and then hit a hard right and skid into the trees on the meridian. It just doesn't make sense."

"You seem to have given this a lot of thought."

"She was my wife," Anders replied. He took in a long drag. "What else do you think I'd be thinking about at a time like this? How, when, why. These are my major concerns right now. My major concern is really not whether or not you decide to do the right thing and settle this claim on my side. I could give a shit about the money here. It's the principle of the thing, do you understand?"

"The principle?"

"Are you a Catholic?"

"No."

"In your line of business, you must come up against Catholics. Even the lapsed ones."

"I do."

"Suicide is not an option in the Catholic way of thinking, Mr. Coors."

"Was your wife a Catholic?"

"No, but I am."

"So she didn't practice Catholicism?"

"No."

"Do you?"

Anders leaned on to his knees. "Not for years. I was studying towards the priesthood when I met Joan. She's the reason why I didn't finish seminary and become a priest."

"What has this got to do with suicide and the Catholic faith, then?"

"When a soul is in the balance, Mr. Coors - the soul of someone you love - it has everything to do with it. I want to know she's at peace." Anders stood, left the office, and did not look back. He'd had enough questions for the day.

"Forgive me, Father. I have sinned. I has been fifteen years since my last confession." It had been a long time. In the confessional, after so many years.

"God saw a reason for you to come here today, Son. This is all that matters. Confess the sins you remember, and God will know those you have forgotten, and forgive those, too."

Anders pressed his face to the grating. "Father, I was angry with my wife and we fought," he began, and then stopped.

"Go on."

"We fought, and it was raining. She stormed off in the car. That night, she had an accident and was killed."

There was a short silence. "Son, how long has this been on your conscience?"

"It happened last month," Anders said, almost whispering.

"Do you know you remember how to pray the rosary?" the priest asked. "After all these years?"

"I was once going to be a priest, Father, I know it still."

"Your sins are forgiven in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Pray the rosary with the Sorrowful Mysteries and give everything you can give to the poor."

Anders crossed himself, stood, and left the darkness of the confessional. He walked to the church doors, pushed one open, and came out into the sunshine. In December, even the sun offered no warmth, but it was bright outside.

Standing beside her car, parked in front of the church, was Farrah. She smiled at Anders. "Did it help any?" she asked when they had driven halfway down the street.

"I am to pray the rosary with the Sorrowful Mysteries and give everything I can to the poor," he said.

"Pray the rosary with the what? What's that?"

"A lot of Hail Marys, a lot of the Our Father, and the Sorrowful Mysteries interspersed."

"I'll never understand organized religion," Farrah replied.

"Me neither, really," Anders admitted, "despite the fact that I went through the motions at the seminary. But it felt better than last week's meeting with the claims adjuster."

"Oh? How was that?"

"Worst hell I've ever been through," he said. He lit a cigarette and rolled down the window to tip his ashes. The cold air cut into his right cheek. "The man essentially accused me of having an affair, trying to insinuate that Joan found out about this alleged affair, and did herself in."

Farrah was quiet as she drove. "An affair? With whom?"

"Well, remember when I told you they'd be investigating me? They figured I'm having an affair with you, if you can believe that."

"Oh God!" Farrah said, half laughing and half angry.

"When you stayed at my place for so long Friday night, they were watching, taking notes. They noted when you arrived and when you left. They probably noted that I went to church today with you."

"You haven't done anything 'untoward' with me, Professor."

"They don't want to let up on their suicide theory. If they have to spend a lot of money to 'prove' suicide, in the long run it's far cheaper than settling the claim."

Farrah turned the corner. "Aren't you allowed to have friends of the opposite sex? Aren't your students allowed to offer an ear?"

Anders turned. "Not if they're young and pretty. I've probably breached some ethical code or another by accepting all these rides. It's been so long since I looked up the Code of Ethics that I have no clue. But let me tell you something...."

"Yes?"

"I really don't give a rat's ass what they do over at the insurance company," he admitted. "I learned this morning that coroner has finally ruled the death accidental, even after reading all the insurance adjuster's comments and notes. Nothing from last week's barrage of questions from the adjuster changed anything. That's what matters for my peace of mind, not the opinion of those who have ulterior interests in keeping their purse strings tied tight."

"Right."

"So I don't care anymore."

Farrah turned, brushed her auburn hair from her face, and said, "Good. It's enough trying to cope, to move forward, without shit like that."

"Exactly. Pray the rosary and give everything I can to the poor. That's what I am going to do." He lit another cigarette. "It won't make me feel any better, but that's what I'm going to do."

"What about teaching? Are you going to take a sabbatical or not?"

Anders shuffled his feet about. "I've been thinking of retiring."

"Retiring? Didn't you just get tenure?"

"Eight months ago," he said.

"That would be such a waste."

A low laugh erupted from within Anders. "Isn't that basically what I've done with my life? Fifteen years of marriage for what? To end all in a split second on a rainy exit after an overpass. Poof! The whole show, up in smoke. A cosmic game of cups and ball, with God hiding the ball."

Farrah did not reply.

"Aren't you supposed to say, 'Don't talk like that, Professor Byrne. The times you shared were not for nothing. They have meaning.' Or something like that."

Farrah laughed. "No, I'm not going to say that. You know why?"

"Why?" Anders asked. He brushed imaginary ashes from the dashboard with his left hand.

"Because I know that feeling, and I respect it," she replied. "I used to be an economics major."

"Makes sense, given who your father is," Anders replied.

"Exactly. I really loved pure math. This pulled me through a good deal of economics, but all in all, I hate the political side economics. So, when Jim died, I switched majors. My father was not happy. Mathematicians are in even less demand than economic theorists. But I felt, after Jim's death, that everything up to that point was for nothing."

"Mathematics is your area, that is for sure," Anders replied. "I've finished marking your paper. I have to give it to Bob for a second opinion, though."

"A second opinion?" she asked. She lit her own cigarette while driving with one hand.

"When I discovered that I'd given you the highest mark on the paper, and that this would push you to the top of this semester's class, I had to do the right thing and give it to Bob. I gave him five papers, without any marking on them, photocopies, and asked him to mark them. Yours was one of those. I told him I was a bit rushed. I gave him five so yours wouldn't stand out."

"I understand. You wanted to be sure you weren't being easy on me because I've been a friend," Farrah said. "I can see your point, and you know what?"

"What?"

"I appreciate that. I wouldn't want to get the highest mark for being your friend." She tipped her ash our her window.

"It doesn't help that the insurance company thinks you and I are sleeping together," Anders admitted. "I want to resign - maybe - but I don't want to get fired." He laughed.

The time had passed quickly and they were now at the university parking lot. He got out of the car and started for his office. Once there, he entered the marks of those paper he had already marked. He picked up his phone and called his assistant.

"Bob, have you got the marks on the five papers I gave you to mark?"

Bob read the marks out loud.

"You really think Farrah Donahue's paper was all that good, Bob? Her first paper was a bit sloppy."

"Oh, it's almost perfect, Anders. She may have been rushed the first time around. Her final paper is excellent."

"Thanks for chipping in, Bob, I appreciate it. By the way, I think it's time to schedule your defense. Your dissertation is right on the money."

After a few more minutes of small talk, he hung up the phone and entered the five other marks in. Bob had marked her paper higher than he had. He was satisfied that no favoritism had occurred, and he left his office to get some coffee at the cafeteria. Once there, he bumped into Gary Wolf. Gary waved for him to come and sit down.

"I'm going to get straight to it," Gary said, stern faced. "I got a harassing visit from some insurance company adjuster last week. He went up and down me like a biker with a tire iron, trying to pry me open to say something, anything nasty about your and Joan's relationship."

"Fuck," Anders managed to muster the strength to say.

"And you know, I don't mind deflecting that kind of bullshit one bit," Gary added. "I basically painted you out to be - and rightly so - a fucking walking, breathing version of Saint Paul and Mother Teresa rolled up into one. But then he starts on me about you and some student of yours... Farrah Donahue."

"Fuck," Anders repeated.

"Asked me how long I've known you've been 'boning' her," Gary finally said with a long sigh.

"C'mon, Gary, you know me," Anders said.

"Oh, I know you didn't screw around on Joan when she was alive, man, but please tell me you didn't go seeking that kind of comfort in a student's arms. I can't protect you from the kind of heat this could generate, man... friend or not."

"And I wouldn't expect you to, Gary." He pointed at Gary's cell phone and motioned for Gary to give it to him. Once it was in his hands, he dialed Bob's number.

"Hey, Bob, this is Anders."

"Hey, Anders."

"Listen. Can you do me one more favor? Read out the list of names of the five papers I gave you to mark. Just read them out."

He handed the phone to Gary, who put it to his ear. A few moments later, Gary handed the cell phone back to him. "Thanks, man. Sorry to bother you. Just wanted to make sure about something."

"OK, so he read out a list of names, and her name was on the list. So what?" Gary took a sip of coffee.

"Ms. Donahue lost her fiancé in a car crash a year back," Anders started to explain. "Remember that day you gave me the vodka? She came into my office and offered me an ear. Frankly, Gary, there are some things that only another survivor can understand. She's been chauffeuring me around until I have a new car. Anyway, to be totally above board, I had Bob mark her most recent paper, to avoid any issues of impropriety. I gave Bob five papers to mark, so her name wouldn't stand out. I didn't even want to be accused of favoritism for getting rides around town, let alone... well... you know."

"All appears well, Anders. Just don't fall asleep and let it come up on you and bite you in the ass, you understand? Be on your guard. I'm telling you this as your friend, not your boss, because I don't want to have to come and tell you this as your boss. Understood?"

"Understood. I assure you that I have no interest in having sex with a student, under any circumstances. I can still taste and smell Joan when I wake up in the morning, for Christ's sake."

Gary nodded. "You seem back on track with your classes. All seems well. I can't imagine how much work it is to appear that way, but you seem to be able to do that extra bit of work."

Anders took a long sip of his coffee. "It has been work. I am very thankful that Ms. Donahue has been listening to me, to be honest. She may have saved you a tenured professor from a nervous breakdown, and it didn't hit the medical plan up for a damned cent in therapy costs."

On hearing this, Gary laughed. "Martha and I wouldn't mind having you over for dinner one of these nights, you know. I mean, well, Christmas is on the way. That can't be easy on you."

"None of it is, Gary. None of it. I will be going to Midnight Mass, for old time's sake, but Christmas is open."

"Then be my guest."

"It's a deal."

Talk, talk, talk. Anders had heard enough talk. He closed his eyes, put his head back, and listened to the sound of the metal on the radiator in his office expanding as it heated up. He listened to footsteps as people passed in front of the closed door of his office. Anything but talk. Anything but questions. Anything but answers.

The letter from the insurance company sat on his desk. They finally had accepted it was an accident, and would pay him. It was an empty victory to a battle he had only fought because of principle. With his mortgage paid in full and his teaching salary, and no one to support, he didn't need the damned money, and had his secretary write up a letter assigning it to the university, to be given out as yearly scholarships to poor young students who otherwise could not afford to go to school. He would have none of it for himself. Principle. His act of contrition, as ordered by the priest, had been to pray the rosary and give whatever he could to the poor. The Joan Byrne Scholarship would mean something. Something more than talk.

Talk, talk, talk. That's all anyone ever did. Even Farrah Donahue was beginning to talk too much and get on his nerves. At first, he welcomed it, but now, he wanted silence. Total and complete silence and solitude. Why didn't people shut up once in a while and enjoy the sound of nothing happening? They always had something to say, even if it had no substance. Everyone always had an opinion that could not wait to be blown past the voice box and into the open.

Talk. The elixir of life. People would die without it. They had to have hours of it, every day, day in and day out, or they would disintegrate. When they could find no one with whom to talk, they would turn on the radio or television, and listen to hour upon hour of someone else's conversations. Boatloads of Nothing being pushed down the River Styx, not from the land of the living to the land of the dead, but in the other direction. The dead were exporting their ghost conversations to the living by the gondola-full. Once they fell on live ears, the brains of the living numbed unto death.

A knock on his door and then, "Can we talk?"

Anders opened his eyes. Talk.

"What would you like to talk about, Bob?" Talk. Talk. Talk.

"Next week's defense."

Anders motioned for Bob to sit down.

"As I've said many times before, it's a formality. I can't call you doctor yet, Bob, but you've done the work, written the dissertation, and next week's defense is for show. It's meant to make you nervous."

"I've bet the farm on this, Anders," Bob said.

"You've been at this for so long, and now the light is at the end of the tunnel," Anders replied. "So, naturally, you've developed tunnel vision. It's a mathematics dissertation, Bob. It either is, or is not. A theorem either is, or is not. Mathematics and logic are the most precise, clear, shining beacon of reason we have. You are going to walk into that defense sweating, and walk out a doctorate holder. Mathematics will not have budged an inch from its pedestal in the process. All will be well with the world."

Bob breathed a sigh of relief. "Were you this nervous?"

"Yes, but Gary Wolf gave me the same fucking speech I'm now giving you, and he was exactly right, which is why I'm repeating it for your benefit. Do you plan on staying on here to teach? We could use you. You saved my ass this semester."

"It was the least I could do, Anders," Bob replied. "I'm thinking of applying to teach at MIT, actually."

"I'll write you a letter of recommendation they can't overlook," Anders offered. "Is there anything else?"

"Well, there is one thing," Bob admitted. "I've noticed that Farrah Donahue has been driving you to work. Are you... well... you know?"

"First off, it's far too early after Joan's death for that. Second, I wouldn't put my human weaknesses before my professional ethics. I just would not."

"Understood. I was curious is all. There's this one...."

"It's a no-man's land, Bob. Don't ever. Single, married, it makes no difference. Don't step over that invisible line. Even if you think you see others doing it, and think it's winked at where you are. First, you may not be seeing what you think you are seeing. Second, even if you are seeing things right, you won't be when you've lost your job over it."

"Thanks for the advice."

"No problem. See you next week at your defense."

Talk. Talk. Talk. The same questions. The same answers. The same talk. It changed very little. It signified nothing. A tale told by idiots. These were the words to say in response to other words. In the end, what mattered was not the talk, not even the actions that spoke more loudly than words, but the silence. After the noisy breath of autumn always comes the silence of winter.

After struggling to remember how to fasten a tie, Anders was ready to drive to Gary and Martha's for Christmas dinner. He now had a car of his own, finally, and could drive himself. He hadn't seen Farrah Donahue since the Christmas break had started. It had been a time, finally, of peace and quiet, and winter silence. The dinner at the Wolfs' would be the first break in the silence he'd had for a week.

It had been a wondrous week of doing nothing. No papers to mark. No nervous graduate student to comfort. Bob Goldsmith was now Dr. Bob Goldsmith. Of course, mathematicians didn't typically go around flashing titles like fancy cufflinks, but he was proud for Bob, who was now likely to move on to MIT. He'd been Bob's advisor since before he himself was even tenured, since Bob's research so closely followed his own. Now came the silence.

Farrah Donahue was off to see family for Christmas and would not be returning. She had her bachelor's degree and was now ready to start graduate studies somewhere else. His own family were all in New York or back in Ireland. He was alone and immersed in the comfort of being that way.

He thought it strange how, at first, the aching in his heart, the empty part that Joan's death left, was satisfied by human company. Farrah had given him that. Now, the aching was dulled most by peace and stillness. He would have to break this perfect run of solitude to be with the Wolfs, but even that would soon be over.

"Dinner was wonderful, Martha," Anders said before going onto the front porch to have a cigarette. The air was icy, and the small tears in the corners of his eyes stung. After a few minutes, Gary came out to join him.

"Damn it's cold out here," Gary groaned.

"Yes, but I like it. It's quiet, still, and cold."

"I don't mind the still and quiet of Christmas Day, but I'm no fan of cold."

Anders took in a deep breath through his nostrils. It stung, but he was happy. "I've been considering resigning," he said at last.

For a long time, Gary was silent. "Why? Things seem to be going well. As well as can be expected."

"I need a sabbatical at the very least. I am running on empty."

"You can have as long as you need, Anders," Gary said. "Don't go retiring just yet. You know, Kelley Johnson over at Cambridge sent me an email asking if we had any math professors willing to do a year transfer for a guest lectureship. How about a change of scenery, rather than a full sabbatical? A year in England? You're family's English, isn't it?"

"Irish. You know, that doesn't sound half bad." A year in England. "I haven't been in the UK for years." He took Gary's hand and shook it. "It's a deal."

"I'll send Johnson an email and see what can be arranged," Gary returned.

"Thanks."

"I heard about the scholarship, by the way," Gary then said.

"It seemed the right thing to do." Anders lit another cigarette.

"It was really big of you. You'll be doing so many so much good."

"The justice of it," Anders said, sighing, "is that the last thing Joan and I did was fight over money."

"That's the past," Gary said. "This is now."

Anders blew smoke rings into the chilly air and watched them shiver.

"You smoke too much, man," Gary said, poking Anders in the ribs. "Way too much."

"Yes, I do," Anders replied. "Maybe I'll make a New Year's resolution to cut back."

"Or quit."

"One thing at a time."

"Let's go back inside for some dessert, Anders," Gary finally suggested.

"I think I'll stay out here and listen to the silence, if you don't mind," Anders replied.

Gary placed his right hand on Anders' left shoulder, saying nothing. Soon, he lifted his hand, turned, and went back into the house. Anders sucked the cold air of Christmas Day into his chest and listened only to his own breathing and to the words of the Our Fathers and Hail Marys that constantly repeated themselves in his head as he moved his stare from one house's window to the next. He hadn't owned a rosary for fifteen years, so the panes of windows and the outdoor lights of Christmas would have to suffice.

Copyright © 2003 Quinn Tyler Jackson
All rights reserved

About the Author

        Quinn Tyler Jackson has been writing since he was twelve. At various stages of his career, he has been an artist's apprentice, antiquarian bookseller's assistant, gas jockey, freelance editor, literary agent, stay-at-home father, and computer software and hardware consultant. Through it all, he has always written poetry and fiction and has usually, when presented with two paths, taken the one that holds the promise of enlightenment, however worn. To learn more about Mr. Jackson's writing, please visit his (creatively named) Homepage.

Images:
Top and Cover: Skull With Burning Cigarette, Vincent Van Gogh, 1885/86, Answerp Museum
Middle: Skeleton with Cat, Vincent Van Gogh, 1886/87, Answerp Museum
Bottom: The Husbands' Train: The Death of the Sinner, Faelicien Rops, Uilenspiegel, a Belgian satirical journal circa 1885-90