Long Way Down by Michael Sears

world of its own. But if he was as good as young Mr. Krebs had indicated, I could put up with a bit of frustration.
    “Is this Mr. Stafford calling again? I can recognize your voice.”
    I could recognize her voice, too. Ms. Sharp. Department secretary. The gatekeeper for the great man. Benjamin McKenna.
    I might have to get one of those scramblers to disguise my voice. There was probably an app for it. I could use my tablet. If I remembered to keep it charged.
    “Yes, it is. I’m hoping to avoid a drive all the way out there.”
    “Dr. McKenna has office hours Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays from eleven to twelve. I remember telling you that yesterday.”
    “Doesn’t he ever talk on the phone?”
    “You may leave a message.”
    “I left a message yesterday.”
    “I gave it to him.”
    “But he didn’t call me.”
    “Then the obvious conclusion is that he doesn’t want to speak with you.”
    You can’t fight that kind of logic.

15
    W ednesday morning at quarter to eleven I arrived at the Department of Information Studies at the university in New Jersey. I liked driving through northern New Jersey even less than driving on Long Island, but there were more roads per square mile than anywhere else on earth. This allowed free roam to my inherited obsession with maps. My father and I had near photographic memories where maps were concerned, and any time either of us set out on a journey greater than crossing Broadway, we were compelled to calculate every possible route to our destination. New Jersey was like a kaleidoscopic carnival ride.
    There were four women at work in the office on the main floor when I walked in. None of them looked up or offered to help. No matter my age or accomplishments, I always felt like a student when visiting a school—powerless.
    I walked up to the long, tall partition that separated the students from those who actually did something there. “Excuse me,” I said. “I’m looking for Dr. McKenna’s office.”
    No one looked up, but the woman closest to me—a thin woman with a haircut that looked like it had been modeled on a ragmop—swung around in her chair and called out to one of the two women in the back of the room.
    “We don’t have a McKenna. Am I right?”
    A face like Winston Churchill’s appeared around the edge of a computer monitor. “McKinley?”
    “No,” I said. “It’s McKenna, not McKinley.”
    “He says it’s McKenna, Lydia,” the thin woman called out, though the room was no bigger than my living room and everyone there could hear every syllable of the conversation.
    “No,” Churchill said.
    “There’s a McKenna in Engineering,” a disembodied voice said from behind another large monitor.
    “Benjamin McKenna?” I asked.
    “No,” the voice answered.
    “Well, then, could I speak with the department secretary, Ms. Sharp?”
    “I’m Lydia Sharp,” the woman in the back said. She stood up and walked with a sailor’s rolling gait up to the partition. “What do you need?” She said this last as though everyone she ever spoke to had some sad, desperate need and it was her lot in life to deny them all. She sounded nothing like Ms. Sharp.
    “Did we speak on the phone? Monday? Yesterday?”
    “No.”
    “I didn’t think so. Is it possible that there is a Dr. Benjamin McKenna in this department and you four wouldn’t know about him?”
    “No.”
    “A visiting professor, maybe?”
    “Is he a student?”
    I didn’t think so, but I was ready to try anything. “I thought he was a teacher.”
    “Try Room 108. Downstairs. TAs use it for tutoring sessions. There’s a list on the door. Maybe you’ll see McKenna’s name there.”
    “Thank you.” I backed out of the room, not comfortable turning my back on the four guardians of knowledge.
    There was a list on the door of Room 108. There were eight names on the list, each with schedules for student assistance. McKenna was not on the list. There was no one signed up for the eleven a.m. slot