Last Things (11 page)
Anne Gogarty scheduled the meeting of the Appointments and Tenure Committee of the English Department in a seminar room in the library, an unusual venue, but Cassirer's campaign to intimidate the committee was unprecedented, and it seemed wise not to gather in the office of the chair in the Arts & Letters Building.
“He'll call it a rump meeting when he hears,” Andrew said to her.
“Well, the subject is an ass.”
Any pretense of neutrality had long since deserted the little committee that held Horst Cassirer's fate in their elected hands.
Anne had told Andrew of the provost's eagerness to get rid of Cassirer.
Anne had told Andrew of the provost's eagerness to get rid of Cassirer.
“Does Holder feel threatened?”
“We all do.” A little cupid smile. Anne was the kind of girl he should have: bright, feminine, serviceable good looks. Of course she was married and had two children. With a shock he realized that she reminded him of his mother, an updated version, but nonetheless. Gloria was a lot more like his Aunt Eleanor, and a lot less.
Lily St. Clair entered, avoiding everyone's eyes, her unlipsticked mouth a severe line in her hawklike face. She joined Zalinski on the opposite side of the table to Andrew. Zalinski had been ostentatiously reading student papers since sitting down, groaning as he did so, and making savage marks on the pages he disdainfully flipped through.
“They don't know English,” he cried.
“Well, whose fault is that?” Anne said, squaring the papers before her. “We're the English department.”
“My God, it's their mother tongue.”
Lily seemed inclined to take this as an assault on her gender, but let it go. Mike Pistoia, hunched shoulders, bald, wearing a baggy corduroy jacket, looked in, looked around, entered. When he sat next to Andrew, Anne called the meeting to order.
“First, I'll distribute the external reviews. They are all quite favorable.”
“Of course,” Lily said.
Zalinski dropped his student papers on the floor and took his copies of the letters. Andrew too began to read them. Someone from somewhere called Rowan University asserted that Horst Cassirer was the white hope of criticism in the United States.
“They were in graduate school together,” Lily murmured.
A second letter was from the editor of
Theseus,
praising the
pieces of Cassirer's he had accepted for publication.
Theseus,
praising the
pieces of Cassirer's he had accepted for publication.
“He could scarcely trash them,” Pistoia observed.
“No one could trash them,” Zalinski said.
It was agreed that Horst Cassirer was a formidable scholar and that his work was recognized as superior by his peers in his chosen specialty.
“There are, however, three major criteria for promotion; scholarship is only one. The other two are teaching and collegiality.”
Anne had laid the grounds for the subsequent quarrel, which went on for an hour and a half, Lily and Zalinski arguing that scholarship trumped the other two, Pistoia reminding them that St. Edmund's was not a research university but a college whose principal task was the instruction of its students. Cassirer's hapless record as a teacher could not be ignored. Letters to the student paper from his indignant students in response to Cassirer's screed were part of his dossier.
“An orchestrated campaign,” Lily said, looking meaningfully at Andrew.
“Odd. That is Cassirer's phrase. He seemed to know all about our last meeting, incidentally.” And Andrew in turn looked meaningfully at Lily. Anne reminded them of the confidentiality of their considerations, and Lily made a little impatient noise. Of course there was much other evidence of Cassirer's classroom performance and treatment of students, and Anne went through it in a dispassionate voice. There was an eloquent letter in the file from Mabel Gorman describing Cassirer's contempt for students and the literature he was supposed to teach.
“So he's a lousy teacher,” Zalinski conceded. “But he brings distinction to the department.”
Andrew wondered about the wisdom of telling the committee of the visit he had received from Tuttle representing Cassirer and conveying unveiled threats of legal action. He and Anne had discussed
this and left it an open question whether this card should be played. Andrew kept his peace.
this and left it an open question whether this card should be played. Andrew kept his peace.
Pistoia said, “As a colleague he makes Attila the Hun look like St. Francis.”
“That is completely subjective,” Lily said. “I find him very ⦔ She hesitated, searching like Flaubert for the mot juste. “Congenial,” she finally said and Pistoia laughed. It was Lily who brought up Cassirer's intention to litigate.
“We should be aware that what we are doing cannot remain private. Of course I acknowledge the confidentiality of our proceedings.” She glared at Anne. “But if lawyers get into it, everything will become an open book.”
“Lawyers?” Pistoia said.
“Lawyers. I have reason to believe Horst has already engaged legal counsel. He may not wait for us to act.”
All academic hell broke loose. Anne and Lily sparred and jabbed, Lily defending the right of any faculty member to demand that the hitherto sacrosanct records of the college be brought into the light of day, Anne wanting to know if she were willing to deliver her responsibility over to a judge who could not possibly understand what was at issue.
“I think anyone would understand what is going on here.”
“And what is that?”
“You intend to railroad Cassirer,” Zalinski said. “This meeting is a perfect example of what has gone wrong in academe. Here we are, what we are, presuming to thwart the career of a young man simply because his superior talents threaten us. Well, I for one want us to promote people better than myself.”
“No feat that,” Pistoia said.
Anne tried unsuccessfully to regain the role of umpire of the discussion, but her own judgment on Cassirer was plain, and her exchange with Lily had removed all doubt. When she tried to
bring the matter to a vote, Zalinski slapped the table.
bring the matter to a vote, Zalinski slapped the table.
“I will refuse to vote under these circumstances.”
“When you could lose?” Pistoia asked.
Anne said, “You cannot let down your colleagues who have elected you to shoulder this responsibility.”
“Our colleagues!” Lily said. “You are more concerned for the deadwood in this department than for its future.”
“I will record your complaint.”
“Do so. I will put it in writing.”
“For the judge?” Pistoia asked.
“For the record!”
“You're remarkably silent, Andrew,” Zalinski said in surly tones.
Andrew replied that he was willing to concede Cassirer's scholarly accomplishments, obscure as he found them, but he thought him woefully inadequate in the other two categories.
“The lawyer Lily mentioned has called on me already.”
“Of course he would,” Lily said. “Your silence today cannot conceal that this is all your doing.”
“Mine?”
“Doesn't it bother you that you lack the ultimate credential of the professor? I wonder what Gloria would make of this discussion.”
“I'll ask her.”
“Confidentiality,” Pistoia purred.
“Lily makes a valid point,” Zalinski said. “I mean this quite impersonally, Andrew, but you represent the past of this place. We all know how you came to be on the faculty.”
“And how was that?”
“Nepotism!”
“Please,” Anne said. “Let us exhibit a little collegiality.”
“I cannot exhibit what I do not feel.”
“Are you calling into question my status as a member of this committee?” Andrew asked hotly.
“I think you are a perfectly representative member of this committee.”
“You seem to have picked up some of the more charming traits of Horst Cassirer.”
“I would rather have a competent curmudgeon as a colleague than ⦔ His eyes were wild, but some vestigial trace of decorum stayed his tongue.
A stunned silence followed Zaliniski's incomplete sentence.
Anne dealt slips of paper around the table. “Let's vote.”
Lily said, “Maybe we should postpone it until tempers cool.”
“Let's vote!” Pistoia said.
They voted. Unsurprisingly, it was three to two against granting tenure to Horst Cassirer. Zalinski leapt to his feet when Anne announced the result, stooped to pick up the student papers he had dropped, and headed for the door. Lily followed on his heels.
“We have struck a blow for Western civilization,” Pistoia said with satisfaction. “You say his lawyer called on you?”
“In my office.”
“Was Foster there?”
“It didn't faze him a bit.”
“The odor of sanctity,” Pistoia said.
Anne thanked them for coming and got to her feet. Then she sat down again. “What a rotten place this is becoming.”
“Lilies that fester smell worse than weeds,” Pistoia said and, turning to Andrew, “but not perhaps worse than Foster.”
“I would prefer a competent unbathed office mate to ⦔
They adjourned on a note of laughter.
Â
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“Is it true?” Gloria asked in shocked tones when Andrew stopped by her office.
“You've already heard about our vote on Cassirer?”
“You turned him down?”
“Was it Lily?”
“Andrew, I agree with her. If this college cannot accommodate someone with Cassirer's credentials it is doomed to mediocrity.”
“My own credentials were questioned.”
“That was uncalled for.”
“So Lily told you that as well.”
“Andrew, what possible difference can it make to you if Cassirer becomes tenured? Your job is safe. You do what you do; he does what he does.”
“And the students?”
“Frankly, all this concern about the students strikes me as a little forced.”
“Gloria, you saw the student letters.”
She looked away. “I assured Lily you had nothing to do with that.”
“You sound doubtful.”
The fact that the execrable Cassirer could come between them seemed a revelation of the nature of their relationship. That night it was silent in the apartment. Gloria had her study, he had his, and they worked that night on separate islands no common water seemed to lap. Later, he put a video in the VCR and watched
From Here To Eternity.
When Pruitt settled into the apartment of the girl with whom he had formed an attachment, he said, “This is like being married.”
From Here To Eternity.
When Pruitt settled into the apartment of the girl with whom he had formed an attachment, he said, “This is like being married.”
“It's better,” she said. In his own case it had become worse.
Amos Cadbury, now in his late seventies, was still a daily presence in the firm he had founded although he himself supervised only the work of his old clients as they dwindled and departed, one by one, and their estates had to be looked after. Sometimes he thought that he would be kept alive until he had seen the last one through probate, and then his own summons would come. Meanwhile, he was hale and hearty and had devised a number of mental exercises to chase away the thought that he was living in one of the later chapters of the Apocalypse. His knowledge of history was narrow in scope but profound, confined to the great crises in the Church. No previous one could possibly compete with the present dissolution. The apparently terminal illness of Fulvio Bernardo brought back memories of one of his departed clients, Alfred Wygant.
Many lives end on an ambiguous note, no doubt of that. An orderly dignified exit was the exception rather than the rule. Too many old friends had ended in Alzheimer's or dementia, there but not there when he visited them, thankful he had power of attorney and could fulfill the will they had expressed when their will was still amenable to reason. Amos loved the precision of the law and the illusion it gave of imposing rationality on the messiness of life. In this very office he had gone over Alfred's affairs with his widow, Eleanor. And Alfred's fears about Eleanor's affair with a man he
would not mention, but whose identity, of course, Amos guessed. Eleanor was still a handsome woman, but in her second bereavement she had taken on what Amos regarded as a classical beauty. If only she wouldn't frown.
would not mention, but whose identity, of course, Amos guessed. Eleanor was still a handsome woman, but in her second bereavement she had taken on what Amos regarded as a classical beauty. If only she wouldn't frown.
“He has left you amply provided for.”
“You can tell me everything. I am practiced at this.”
Joseph Bernardo. Her first husband. She had swept her second into the bosom of the Bernardo family, an equivocal blessing. Alfred too had sat across this desk.
“Tell me about Fulvio Bernardo, Amos.”
Alfred had prospered in insurance, playing a role that Amos in his darker moods compared with that of a bookie. Bet your life; enrich your heirs. But where would his own practice be without such concern for a future the client would not see?
“He turned a modest little nursery into a chain of garden stores in the Chicago area. He has done very well. His son is a priest.”
“What does he know about the market?”
“The stock market? As little as anyone else, I suspect.”
Amos was a loyal and patriotic citizen, but in the deeper recesses of his heart he despised what was called “the market.” In the commodities market in the Merchandise Mart men who had never seen a farm bought and sold wheat futures, sow bellies, all sorts of things they never came in contact with, driving the price up and down, their activities light years removed from the activity of growing wheat and raising hogs and all the rest. Yet their speculations vitally affected the prospects of the farmer. And was Wall Street any better? Half-mad dealers dashing about, frantically buying and selling the shares of companies they knew only through their books. The plants, the employees, the productâthese in their reality were incidental to the buys and sells of the traders. He knew the replies to these doubts. Without capital the
entrepreneur could do nothing, and the market furnishes that capital. Amos had a soft spot for the entrepreneur, the inventive risk taker who alas paved the way for the managers and traders and accountants, the soulless parasites. What money of his own that was not in tax-free municipals was invested directly with such enterprises as Fulvio Bernardo's chain of garden stores as silent partner. It turned out that the analogy was all too relevant to Alfred's visit.
entrepreneur could do nothing, and the market furnishes that capital. Amos had a soft spot for the entrepreneur, the inventive risk taker who alas paved the way for the managers and traders and accountants, the soulless parasites. What money of his own that was not in tax-free municipals was invested directly with such enterprises as Fulvio Bernardo's chain of garden stores as silent partner. It turned out that the analogy was all too relevant to Alfred's visit.
“He knows his own business, certainly.”
“This is something else.”
Amos never got clear on what “this” was, possibly because Alfred himself did not understand it. Insofar as he did grasp the idea it had to do with opening the Bernardo family business to investors but keeping it in the family, not going public. Alfred would be an officer of this new entity, his investment getting him onto the ground floor of the enterprise. Fulvio knew the nursery business, and Alfred as a businessman had reason to be confident in that, but Amos with great obliquity and indirection suggested caution. Alfred never spoke of it again, and Amos had been relieved. It had sounded like a way to buy off his rival for Eleanor's affection. Only after his death, as he went through the grim task of closing Alfred's account with this world did Amos learn that his mild demur had had no effect.
“I urged him to go in with Fulvio,” Eleanor explained. “The man has a Midas touch.”
The interval between her marriages had created in Eleanor the illusion that she was a practical woman. Nearly a million dollars of Alfred's money had been turned over to Fulvio over a period of several years. The record of outgo was clear. There was no record of earnings.
“It was in the formative stages,” Eleanor said. “They both agreed to let their money ferment.”
“Ferment.”
“Taking money out prematurely would weaken the prospects.”
The prospects of what? It was Bernardo's chain that had received the money. In return, Alfred had been given receipts.
“Was there a written agreement?”
“Amos, they were practically relatives.”
Never do business with relatives or the Church was an axiom to which Amos subscribed, at least in part. One did not do business with the Church in any case. His own services were always pro bono where the Church was concerned.
Despite the fact that Eleanor seemed quite at ease with this odd arrangement, Amos took the liberty of speaking with Fulvio on behalf of his client.
“It's all right, Mr. Cadbury. Not that it is the sort of deal I would normally have made. Mine is a family business. But he wouldn't let me say no. At least his wife wouldn't.”
“Eleanor?”
“Eleanor.”
“I am engaged in wrapping up his affairs, and I must confess I don't see what Alfred received in return for a considerable amount of money.”
“He became a partner. A silent partner.”
“Sharing in the profits?”
“What else does
partner
means?”
partner
means?”
“I can't find any record of income from Bernardo Garden Stores.”
“That surprises me. Alfred was a pretty astute businessman.”
“I always thought so.”
“And now it will go to his wife.”
“Eleanor.”
“Eleanor.”
There are decisions a lawyer makes that do not give his mind
rest even with the passage of years. He should have demanded an audit. When he mentioned it, Eleanor was horrified.
rest even with the passage of years. He should have demanded an audit. When he mentioned it, Eleanor was horrified.
“That would sound as if I think he cheated Alfred.”
He told himself afterward that he had simply respected the wishes of his client, but Eleanor understood the arrangement between Alfred Wygant and Fulvio Bernardo even less than Amos did. But he had let it go. Nearly a million dollars! Did he think that Bernardo had cheated Alfred? In any case, there was still a handsome amount for Eleanor. But, ever since, Amos felt he had let down his old friend Alfred Wygant. Hadn't the normally levelheaded Alfred ever raised the question to Fulvio Bernardo? One thing was clear: He would have had to do so without Eleanor's support.
Amos shook away such troubling thoughts and turned his mind to Father Dowling's request that he look into the possibility of a parole for Earl Hospers. The strange events that had led to Hospers's trial and conviction were easily recalled. The body of Sylvia Lowry was found in the freezer in her basement. There had been several suspectsâthe son, the son-in-law, and a charlatan from Chicagoâbut eventually evidence that Earl Hospers, a television repairman, had carted off the meat from the freezer and dumped it had led to his arrest. He denied killing Sylvia, but the only palpable evidence pointed to him. He had been tried for manslaughter and been in prison in Joliet ever since.
Amos called in young Nordquist, who dealt in criminal law, not a busy sector in Cadbury & Associates. Nordquist, a tall and gangly fellow with stiff blond hair, entered the office uneasily, as if he feared a dressing down.
“What do you know of paroles, Harry?”
“Paroles?”
Amos explained Father Dowling's request and told Nordquist he wanted him to look into it.
“Yes, sir. Was he a client of ours?”
“Earl Hospers. No, Sylvia Lowry, his alleged victim, was.”
“Alleged?”
“Not legally of course. He was tried and convicted. But he has paid a great price already, and if there is any chance of getting him released, I would like us to bring it about.”
Nordquist seemed delighted with the assignment. No doubt he was not overemployed in the firm, and this chance to try his skills was welcome.
“Keep me posted.”
“Yes, sir.”
On Amos's desk was a notice of a meeting of the trustees of St. Edmund's for that afternoon. Here was a duty that had seemed only a duty in recent years. The newer appointees to the board had little conception of what the college had been, but then the president and provost seemed equally uninformed or perhaps simply disinterested. For them the college was a possibility without a past, something they were ushering into the wider academic world. The watchword was
excellence
, which seemed to mean being guided by received opinion. Once meetings had been presided over by an Edmundite, and the officers of the college were also members of the order. Trustees were there to help these good priests fulfill their mission. In that Amos had found satisfaction. Of late he felt that he was colluding in the abandonment of that mission.
excellence
, which seemed to mean being guided by received opinion. Once meetings had been presided over by an Edmundite, and the officers of the college were also members of the order. Trustees were there to help these good priests fulfill their mission. In that Amos had found satisfaction. Of late he felt that he was colluding in the abandonment of that mission.
He thought of Raymond Bernardo, Father Raymond as he then was, addressing the board on a long ago occasion, insisting that the mission of the college would never change. An impressive young man, his manner more reassuring than his message, and yet he was within months of his personal defection. And now at last he had returned to be at his dying father's bedside. What thoughts must come in such a setting? To them both?
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