presence.
8
'K
EEP MOVING FORWARD,' F ARR URGED M ARK MORE THAN once. 'All you control is whether you do your damnedest to get into Yale Law School. Don't let Angela's murder kill your dreams as well.'
Days became weeks, then months. Mark studied relentlessly. He rarely dated, and avoided parties altogether. He told no one about Joe's story, or the phone calls Steve had failed to answer. He learned nothing more about the case against his friend.
The trial was set for September, four months after the graduation ceremonies that would no longer include Steve Tillman or Angela Hall. Mark never discussed the impending trial with Joe Betts; they seldom spoke at all. For Mark, except for his studies, college was done. His main activity beyond class was visiting Steve at the county jail.
Separated by Plexiglas, they met every Sunday, speaking through miniature microphones. Mark offered encouragement; sometimes they reminisced. But Steve's lawyer, Griffin Nordlinger, had forbidden him to discuss the charges in any detail. Perhaps he could not have, Mark thought; unless Steve was lying, he seemed to live in a fugue state, unable to recall or reconstruct the events that now controlled his fate. He seemed crushed by the fear of never being free. 'Just think,' Steve murmured. 'That may be the last time I ever touch a woman, and I can barely remember it.'
Mark did not know how to respond. Once again, he thought of his three o'clock phone calls.
Winter passed; spring came. And then, in April, Mark's senior year became cemented in his mind as the year of death.
IT WAS A week before Mark expected to hear from Yale. He walked into Lionel Farr's nine o'clock Philosophy of Mind class, a choice driven less by its subject matter than by a desire to experience, for one final time, the stimulation that had first drawn him to Caldwell. But another professor, Michael Dunn, appeared'Farr had been called home abruptly, interrupting his eight o'clock class. Anne was dead; Farr's classes were canceled until further notice.
Mark waited until late afternoon, thinking of Farr and Taylor, struggling to accept that Anne had died. Then he went to their home unannounced, hoping that Farr would not take it amiss.
Farr himself answered. His gaze was spectral, although he managed to summon a wispy smile. His voice was unusually gentle. 'Hello, Mark. It's good of you to come.'
Awkwardly standing on the porch, Mark shifted his weight from one foot to the other. 'I'm just worried about you, that's all. And Taylor.'
'Her mother would thank you for that.' Pain surfaced in his eyes. 'Taylor found her, Mark. Her deepest fear became real.'
The image of Taylor discovering Anne sent a frisson through Mark. He tried to imagine how she must feel, a twelve-year-old girl facing life without her mother. 'Is there anything I can do'' he finally asked. 'Maybe in a couple of days, I can take Taylor somewhere.'
Farr placed a hand on his shoulder. 'Thank you, Mark. Right now she's sedated, or I'd let you see her'she's very fond of you. But her grandparents are coming to help care for her.'
Slowly, Mark nodded. 'I only wish there was some way I could help. All three of you mean a lot to me.'
'And you to us.' Farr's grip on Mark's shoulder tightened, then relaxed. 'There'll be a memorial service, I'm sure. We'll hope to see you then.'
THEY HELD THE service in the shadow of the Spire.
Perhaps this was Farr's true memorial to Anne, Mark reflected, allowing her death to rededicate this site through a commemoration that, however premature, had occurred in the natural order of things. The day was breezy and pleasant; the lawn chairs were filled with family and faculty and students, a scattering of friends from Wayne and elsewhere. Sitting with Joe Betts and Rusty Clark, Mark was glad of this. But the Episcopal service performed by the school chaplain, while consistent with Anne's eastern heritage, came to Mark as a meaningless drone, divorced from life on earth or the woman
8
'K
EEP MOVING FORWARD,' F ARR URGED M ARK MORE THAN once. 'All you control is whether you do your damnedest to get into Yale Law School. Don't let Angela's murder kill your dreams as well.'
Days became weeks, then months. Mark studied relentlessly. He rarely dated, and avoided parties altogether. He told no one about Joe's story, or the phone calls Steve had failed to answer. He learned nothing more about the case against his friend.
The trial was set for September, four months after the graduation ceremonies that would no longer include Steve Tillman or Angela Hall. Mark never discussed the impending trial with Joe Betts; they seldom spoke at all. For Mark, except for his studies, college was done. His main activity beyond class was visiting Steve at the county jail.
Separated by Plexiglas, they met every Sunday, speaking through miniature microphones. Mark offered encouragement; sometimes they reminisced. But Steve's lawyer, Griffin Nordlinger, had forbidden him to discuss the charges in any detail. Perhaps he could not have, Mark thought; unless Steve was lying, he seemed to live in a fugue state, unable to recall or reconstruct the events that now controlled his fate. He seemed crushed by the fear of never being free. 'Just think,' Steve murmured. 'That may be the last time I ever touch a woman, and I can barely remember it.'
Mark did not know how to respond. Once again, he thought of his three o'clock phone calls.
Winter passed; spring came. And then, in April, Mark's senior year became cemented in his mind as the year of death.
IT WAS A week before Mark expected to hear from Yale. He walked into Lionel Farr's nine o'clock Philosophy of Mind class, a choice driven less by its subject matter than by a desire to experience, for one final time, the stimulation that had first drawn him to Caldwell. But another professor, Michael Dunn, appeared'Farr had been called home abruptly, interrupting his eight o'clock class. Anne was dead; Farr's classes were canceled until further notice.
Mark waited until late afternoon, thinking of Farr and Taylor, struggling to accept that Anne had died. Then he went to their home unannounced, hoping that Farr would not take it amiss.
Farr himself answered. His gaze was spectral, although he managed to summon a wispy smile. His voice was unusually gentle. 'Hello, Mark. It's good of you to come.'
Awkwardly standing on the porch, Mark shifted his weight from one foot to the other. 'I'm just worried about you, that's all. And Taylor.'
'Her mother would thank you for that.' Pain surfaced in his eyes. 'Taylor found her, Mark. Her deepest fear became real.'
The image of Taylor discovering Anne sent a frisson through Mark. He tried to imagine how she must feel, a twelve-year-old girl facing life without her mother. 'Is there anything I can do'' he finally asked. 'Maybe in a couple of days, I can take Taylor somewhere.'
Farr placed a hand on his shoulder. 'Thank you, Mark. Right now she's sedated, or I'd let you see her'she's very fond of you. But her grandparents are coming to help care for her.'
Slowly, Mark nodded. 'I only wish there was some way I could help. All three of you mean a lot to me.'
'And you to us.' Farr's grip on Mark's shoulder tightened, then relaxed. 'There'll be a memorial service, I'm sure. We'll hope to see you then.'
THEY HELD THE service in the shadow of the Spire.
Perhaps this was Farr's true memorial to Anne, Mark reflected, allowing her death to rededicate this site through a commemoration that, however premature, had occurred in the natural order of things. The day was breezy and pleasant; the lawn chairs were filled with family and faculty and students, a scattering of friends from Wayne and elsewhere. Sitting with Joe Betts and Rusty Clark, Mark was glad of this. But the Episcopal service performed by the school chaplain, while consistent with Anne's eastern heritage, came to Mark as a meaningless drone, divorced from life on earth or the woman
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