Death of a Department Chair: A Novel

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230 15 When F. Scott Fitzgerald said that there were no second acts in American life, he would have been astonished by the obsession of a twenty-first-century America with dysfunction. Failure has become almost a qualification of contemporary success—the entrée to talk shows, book tours, and media celebrity. Darryl Hansen, excerpt from a luncheon speech delivered at the annual convocation of deans of liberal arts On Saturday, Miriam helped Graciela Brown, Isabel’s sister, box up the remainder of Isabel’s effects from her old office. Miriam, on the faculty’s insistence, planned to execute her occupation of the chair’s suite the following day. At the elevator, Graciela enfolded Miriam’s hand in both of hers. “I want to thank you for your efforts in finding out what happened to Isabel.” “You’re very welcome. I only wish things had turned out differently.” Graciela turned slowly to take in the spartan corridor, the gunmetal sheen of the elevator, the porous and streaked gray walls which seemed to absorb rather than reflect light. “It’s hard for me to imagine that this building is where my sister died. She was so colorful, so dramatic.” “I’m afraid our building is very drab and utilitarian,” Miriam said apologetically. “It’s not just that. It feels devoid of life,” Graciela said simply. Her thin face crinkled in a sad smile. “In that sense I guess it is appropriate . Now. It’s hard for me to accept that she is gone.” 231 “Of course. Were you very close?” Graciela’s hazel eyes, with their gold flecks, so similar to Isabel’s, searched Miriam’s face. “Not really. I was six years older. I was already away at school when our mother died.” Miriam hesitated. “You know, Isabel never discussed your mother with me in all the years we knew one another. I hope you won’t take this as prying . . . but I understand her death was the pivotal event of Isabel’s young life.” “She was my mother’s favorite,” Graciela said, a tone of wonder underlying her words more than any indication of bitterness. “They were very attached to one another, perhaps overly so.” She bowed her head, her midlength, fine silver hair partially obscuring her face. “I don’t mean to suggest anything abnormal, but it’s not good to love a living thing the way Isabel did our mother: so fiercely, so possessively . No one else ever really mattered to her in our family.” “Not your father?” “They were very different.” Miriam noticed she winced as she said this, but then she laughed and added: “He loved to argue, and he and Isabel did that often. It’s how she learned to be such a very good advocate for whatever she believed in.” As she lifted her eyes to track the flashing light on the wall indicating the slow ascent of the elevator, she murmured: “I don’t need to ask you if Isabel had changed in that regard.” The elevator finally arrived, and the two rode together down to the street level. Heavy clouds muted the November light, and a brisk wind signaled the arrival of a blue norther. Miriam placed the box she was holding into the backseat of Graciela’s vintage Volvo. “You drove here, from—?” “From Fort Worth. This is a friend’s car—I flew in from Atlanta.” Miriam had an urge to detain Graciela, the last vestige of Isabel. “May I ask you something about your family?” Graciela nodded, but a subtle tightening of her posture telegraphed caution. She appeared skittish, and Miriam feared the smallest pressure—or one clumsy question—would cause her to bolt. If only she could blurt: Who was Isabel? Please, tell me. 232 “You’ll think this odd, I suppose,” Miriam trod carefully. “But your father, did he practice the Catholic faith?” Graciela’s handsome face looked amused. “Fanatically. He was a good Italian boy. Why?” Miriam shook her head. She wasn’t sure how to articulate what she wanted to know. “Just wondering. Isabel seemed to be . . . ah, critical, or, shall I say, not very interested in certain religions.” Graciela adjusted the collar of her ivory blouse. “It was a contentious subject in our family. My parents fought about it frequently.” Miriam said thoughtfully. “Perhaps that explains it. My family did too. My parents were both Jewish, but only...