Irish Coffee by Ralph McInerny Page B

the building and Naomi was a frequent presence, more so during the past year, and the reason was Fred Neville. He had spent the night with her a couple times but in recent months the couple had seemingly decided on being more discreet and Fred was seldom seen on the premises. When Scott had told Anthony about this early on he invited the impression that assignations at HR were an established thing with the couple. Anthony had been eager to hear more and how could a future world-renowned screenwriter fail to provide a prurient story line? Anthony had eaten it up.
    â€œWhat he like?” Scott asked. “I mean at work.”
    â€œFred? He’s good.”
    â€œHe your boss?”
    â€œDon’t be ridiculous.”
    Aha. So he had fed Anthony a few more imaginary bones to gnaw on.
    Scott went out back for a smoke and while he was shivering and trying to pretend he was enjoying his cigarette the door opened and one of the cleaning ladies came outside dragging two large plastic bags. This was one of the youngsters who still thought of her employment as glamorous. Scott stepped forward, glanced at her name tag, and said, “I’ll take those, Heather.”
    â€œOh, thank you.” She in turn glanced at his name tag. “Mr. Scott.” A bit of a downer that, but then the cleaning ladies did not frequent the front desk.
    â€œWhere is this stuff from?”
    â€œIt’s on the bags.”
    And so it was, the number of the suite stenciled onto the plastic bags. Scott hadn’t known of this practice. But then a desk clerk did not frequent the office of resident maintenance. Heather was shivering. “Go on inside, I’ll take care of these.”
    Scott took the bags toward the Dumpster at the back of the parking lot, hearing the door close behind him, indicating that Heather had gone inside. The sack in his right hand bore the number of the suite that had been used by Naomi McTear. Scott propped it against the back bumper of his car and took the other to the Dumpster and threw it in. On the way back, he popped his trunk, and dumped the other sack inside. By such random and irrational deeds the course of history is altered. In words somewhat to that effect, Scott returned to his desk.
    It had been an impulsive deed, one done without forethought or plan, just done. He gave as little thought to it afterward as before, and so it was that for some days the black plastic sack of detritus from the suite of Naomi McTear lay forgotten in the trunk of Scott Frye’s car.

3
    MARY SHUSTER CARRIED with her the poem in which Fred Neville had, in coded form, declared his love for her, carried it as Pascal had carried his Memorial sewn into the lining of his coat, as Descartes had carried with him the account of the dreams on the basis of which he had given philosophy a new and fateful turn. The poem itself made little sense to her and she could believe that Fred had written it only to convey the message of the opening letters of its lines.
    The trauma of Fred’s death, the wake and funeral, the awful news that he had died of poisoning, were slowly giving way to emptiness. She had never felt so lonely in her life. The telephone on her desk rang but it was never Fred on the line. There would never again be a call from Fred. And when the afternoon lengthened and lights were turned on against the winter dusk the time came when she would have gone off to see Fred at the Joyce Center.
    Snow was falling softly when she emerged from the building, drifting dreamily in the soft glow of the lamps along the campus walkways. Mary set off across the campus, walking with her head back to allow the snowflakes to moisten her face. Her tears merged with the melted snow. She went through a little quadrant of residence halls and then around the great bulk of the library, proceeding on a diagonal, past O’Shaughnessy into the main mall and continuing to the law school. She crossed the oval and went along the walk