The Damp, Gray Gone Ch. 02

"Goddamn you're smart. No wonder you're a professor."

And she leaned in and kissed me again, only this one lasted longer than the first one. This one only ended when Sun Tzu decided to announce his presence by yelping and whoofing and bouncing up and down at our feet.

"Ouch," I said, breaking the kiss.

"What?"

"Little shit just nipped my ankle."

She laughed, then picked up her beer and took a sip. "Let's get him fed and go have that drink."

"Good plan," I agreed.

CHAPTER TWELVE

At eleven-thirty the next morning, Kyle bounded through the front door and made a bee line straight for Sonny, who was equally elated to see his big brother and best bud. They romped together out to the back yard.

"Hello," I heard someone call.

I walked from the kitchen to the living room and saw Tyler Collins standing in the doorway.

"Just wanted to make sure someone was home," he said.

"Come on in," I said. "Have a beer or a pop or something."

He smiled, shrugged, and stepped in, closing the door behind himself.

"Did he behave?" I asked.

"Sure," he said. "They had a blast. He may need a nap, though. Sorry, but they didn't fall asleep on the couch until almost midnight."

I chuckled. The joys of sleepovers.

"Name your poison," I said, opening the refrigerator so he could see inside.

"Just a Diet Pepsi, please."

I pulled out two and handed one to him. He popped it, took a drink, then placed it on the counter, leaning easily against the countertop as he did so.

"So what's it like being a bestselling author?" I asked for want of anything else to say.

"Busier than you'd think. There's the writing, then the editing. Then more editing. That's after I come up with the story idea and research it all first, of course. And while all that's going on, there's consultations on the movie scripts if it sells, book tours, talk shows, and the rest of the crap that goes into selling the book."

"Sounds pretty hectic."

"Way more hectic than I'd have ever guessed," he confirmed. He took another sip, then said, "And you? The life of a history professor?"

"Nine hours a week in class; maybe eighteen hours a week on average preparing for classes and grading exams and term papers; another nine hours a week of office hours to meet one-on-one with the students; and faculty meetings a couple of hours a week."

"That's not so bad," he observed.

"Then," I added, "there's the inevitable research and writing we do on our own, usually with research and editing help from student interns. You know, stuff for historic journals and the occasional small-press book."

"And that's how much more time a week?"

"Maybe fifteen hours."

"Okay," he said, holding up his hands. "It now officially reached the borderline of hectic and too much."

I shrugged. "It's not so bad. I can do a lot of the work from home. Class preparation and writing and stuff. And it doesn't really matter what time I do it here, especially now that. . . ."

He looked at me, heard my words, and saw the look on my face. He finished my sentence in his head, then said, "Yeah. That's how I got started writing."

I mulled over in my head how to ask the next question, but he saw the look on my face and grinned.

"So," he said. "You and Kristin are . . .?"

"Friends," I said. "For now, at least."

"Good idea," he said. "When I went through it--when Kristin left me--I was just . . . you know . . . ."

"Lost?"

"Or worse."

"So you would recommend?"

"Take it slow. Get to know each other. Talk. A lot. Talk about what you each want out of life and what you like and don't like and all the little shit that can suddenly become a big deal, y'know?"

"Sure." I took a sip, again unsure how to proceed. Tyler's face was an open book, though, so I just decided to say it. "She told me what happened with you two."

He nodded. "Pretty bad."

"But she says she's changed now. That she'd never do it again."

His eyes narrowed, and he looked at me long and hard before speaking.

"Did she say why?"

"That she couldn't put Ben through anything like that again."

He nodded. "Explains a lot."

"Like what?"

"Like her lifestyle since Randy divorced her." He finished his pop, put the empty upside down in the sink, then crossed his arms in front of his chest. "She was a selfish little bitch, Luke. Sorry, but it's the truth. But since her second divorce, she hardly dates. I mean, hell, this town's big, but it isn't that big. And Ben tells us almost anytime she has a date. We're not prying, y'know. But we're usually the babysitters when she does, so we have a pretty good idea. And we all still hang around pretty much the same places, so we'd know if she was with a string of boyfriends."

"But she hasn't been."

"Like a fucking nun almost. Like she's terrified or something."

"And you thought?"

He smiled. "I'd like to say I thought it was Kristin pining away for me, her lost love. But that's bullshit, of course. That would've stopped the second Marisa and I got married. Then we thought she just didn't want to be thought of as a tramp or anything. A MILF, I think they call it nowadays."

"And now?"

He shrugged. "Her reason makes sense. A lot of sense, actually."

"And?"

He patted me on the shoulder. "And I think it means she's not the selfish little bitch she was back then. I think it means she may have just finally gotten her priorities in order, and she's not putting herself at the top of that list."

I couldn't look at him when I asked the next question, both from embarrassment and from fear at the answer. "You know if she's seeing anyone else?"

"I'm positive she's not. Ben told me all about her and Allysin taking you out to get the dog. He said that was the first time she's ever even talked about another man or seemed happy about meeting one in ages. Maybe almost a year. And he notices those things. He's pretty protective, I guess. I'm pretty sure he wonders why she's not with someone again like I am."

I nodded, contemplating his words and taking all of this in.

"Still," he continued, "you gotta wonder."

"About what?"

He raised an eyebrow. "She's known you what? A few weeks?"

I nodded.

"And you two left together last night, right?"

"Right."

"And you spent the night together, right?"

I gave a sad shake of the head. "Two kisses. Good kisses. Hell, great kisses. Still, just two kisses, a beer here, two beers at the Bar and Grill, and home to our respective beds by ten."

He put on a look of mock astonishment. "Not even a handjob? A titty rub? Just a few kisses?"

I laughed. "Tell me about it."

He was still laughing when he left a few moments later.

* * * * *

Having Kyle back after only three days apart reminded me how much busier I was around the house when he wasn't with Whitney. And it reminded me how much happier, and not so alone, I was, too.

Also, it was fun spending the afternoon making Russian tanks and soldiers in the basement, and painting the cooled tin castings.

It's easy to see why the father-son bond simply cannot be overrated.

* * * * *

"Okay," I said to Heather and Randy, who were waiting in my office when I got there just before eight on Tuesday morning. "What've you got for me?"

Randy looked at Heather, who merely nodded in response. She reached into her backpack and handed me a neatly typed memorandum.

"And yours?" I asked Randy.

He wouldn't look at me, but Heather spoke for him. "We did it jointly. I ran into him Sunday night, and we spent most of our time going over our two memos. Our ideas were roughly the same, so we put it all together into one neat package for you."

I looked from her to him, then down at the memo. "That true, Randy?"

"Yes," he stammered.

"And this one memo contains all of your ideas? The ones you each had on your own?"

"Yes," he croaked.

I looked at Heather. "And why did you decide to do it this way?"

She shrugged, not the least bit perturbed by my cool demeanor. "Why should you read essentially the same thing twice? Time is money, you know, and this way you'll get all of the ideas and only have to read them once."

"And we did make the ideas more . . . well . . . more detailed working together," Randy added.

I looked at them both long and hard. In the past, I'd had interns who did this, but only because one of them was carrying all of the weight or they'd switch back and forth on the assignments, thereby only doing half the work during the internship for all of the pay and credit. That didn't seem to be the case here, though.

"Okay," I said, tossing the memo aside, "then tell me what you two think is the best idea for a new way to look at this period in classical Roman history."

"We'll do better than that," Heather said, damned near bouncing with excitement in her chair. "We even came up with a title. And it's enough for a book, too."

I raised my eyebrows. "Then don't keep me in suspense."

"Was Empire Inevitable?" she said.

"Meaning?" I said, holding my hand up for Heather to be quiet so Randy could answer.

He cleared his throat. "Meaning did the Roman Republic have to end. How many steps along the way could something have changed--little things and big things--that would've ended the brief monarchy Julius Caesar started and Octavian cemented? And why did it continue after Octavian--after Caesar Augustus--died?"

I thought about it. Not totally original, but still a ton of different ways to tackle it.

"That's it?" I asked.

"No," Heather answered before I could stifle her. "We compare it to a more modern transition from republic to dictatorship to show how history repeats."

"Okay, Heather, I'll bite: Which modern transition do we use?"

"America," she beamed triumphantly.

"Us? The United States?"

Her head nodded so hard I though her teeth would fly out. "Sure, we're not there yet. Still, look at the comparisons. Stratification of wealth. Military-industrial complex. The same tired old men--and some women--running our lives from Washington for year after year after year, and all of their campaigns financed by the super wealthy and the business interests. All so those super wealthy can stay in power themselves and use the rest of us to keep them there."

"That sounds a lot like conspiracy theory," I said, liking the idea but wondering what else was there.

"It's not," Randy said. "Think about it. The government waves the flag to keep everyone patriotic and focused on their pride as Americans. The Romans did the same thing. And every time there was a threat to the Empire--every time the people demanded a return to the Republic--the emperors did the same thing."

"Jesus, Professor," Heather exclaimed, "it's how Caesar took total control right from the very beginning. He played the rich off against the poor, promised both something he never really delivered on, and kept them both distracted by wars and pride and each other."

"And Octavian was even worse," Randy said. "He all but canonized Caesar before the people so he could follow through with the Civil War and keep power while executing all of his political foes."

I leaned back and looked from one to the other, impressed by their work.

"The story of Caesar wasn't really in the book," I observed.

"I know," Heather said. "But once the idea took root, I went back and did some quick reading on it."

"And you?" I asked Randy.

"He already knew all that," Heather answered for him. "My quick research consisted of reading a term paper he did for Professor Whitman's class last year."

I just nodded, still leaned back in my chair and looking from one to the other. But as I thought more about their topic, the more my smile widened. After maybe a minute of silence, they both started grinning, too.

"It's good, isn't it?" Heather asked.

"Uh huh," I said. "Maybe real good. There's been a lot written about the transition from republic to empire, but very little of it looked at it from the other side--from the view of what little things could've changed that would've prevented the whole slide to tyranny."

She shot Randy a look, and he blushed under her scrutiny. But the smile still didn't leave his face. I'm pretty sure he was happier about Heather's approval than about mine.

"Okay," I said, swinging forward in my chair, "here's how this is going to happen. You two spend the next week independently researching as many sources as you can about the conditions in Rome between, say, 100 B.C. and 47 B.C. Make that 110 B.C. Land reforms were getting under way around then. Stratification of wealth, wars, senators and ruling bodies, maybe even how it was all but hereditary even by that time. And you will do it separately, understand?"

"Understood," they chimed.

"Then get together and give me an outline. With sources. Nothing fancy. Just the basics, okay?"

They nodded.

"Then the following week, I want the same thing on the United States for post-World War II to the beginning of Bill Clinton's presidency. And include in that one as many names of long-terms senators and congressmen, high level bureaucrats, and their children or other close relatives in high government positions. Sound doable?"

"So long as they're just the basics," Heather said.

"Yeah," Randy chimed in. "We can't get that much depth so quickly."

"Just the basics for now," I confirmed, then gave them both a stern look. "But one other thing you need to include in all of that."

"What?" Randy asked.

"You've got your basic premise, okay? You're saying--I'm saying in an article or, more likely, a book--that the Roman Republic slid into dictatorship because of certain things, that altering any of countless little things could've changed that, and that those same certain things are now happening in America, right?"

They nodded.

"Well don't be totally sold on your hypothesis, okay? Just because we think that's the case, don't set out to prove it by ignoring all evidence to the contrary. If there are any differences, I want them, and I want them highlighted, underlined three times, and made crystal clear, okay? Even if there's a contradiction in the sources, I want the contradiction raised. Am I making myself clear?"

"Because that may change the hypothesis, but it still doesn't scrap the whole thing, right?"

"Exactly," I confirmed. "But if you want the whole thing to be a piece of crap, then ignore anything that disagrees with you and just bully ahead with your own set of facts. And make me look like an ass in the process."

"Being selective with your facts is for demagogues," Randy said, starting one of the sayings I harped on in classes.

"But it's not historians," Heather finished for him.

"For Chrissake," I said. "You two actually listened in class?"

They chuckled, but their excitement over my reception of their idea, and their new project, was written all over both of them.

* * * * *

After a hellish summer of misery and loneliness, the first day of classes was like slipping into a pair of old leather shoes. Familiar and comfortable. I knew what to expect, was happy to be where I was, and was relieved at the simple joy of teaching a group of young men and women who, for the most part, were equally excited about learning what I had to say.

It was nice.

Almost as nice as getting home to Kyle and Sonny.

My routine there was also quickly becoming easy and comfortable. Not to say it didn't have its moments of crisis and loneliness and bitter memories, because it did. Still, I was learning to deal with both present and past a little better each day.

Little did I know.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"Look, Dad," Kyle said during breakfast, prodding his finger into the picture dominating page one of the Lincoln County Register.

"I know," I said, lowering the paper. "Your mom's on the front page."

"Why?"

"She started a big trial yesterday."

"What kind of trial?"

"Some men are charged with selling drugs. Illegal drugs."

"To children?"

I nodded. Kyle had a real soft spot for all children, which broke my heart lately given the predicament in which he now found himself. "Sometimes. To adults, too, though."

"And mom's trying to put them in jail?"

"That's right."

"Good," he said, smiling for the first time at the mention of his mom.

"That's right, too," I agreed. Then I thought of something else. "She may be a little late tonight, honey."

"Why?"

"Because of this trial. They sometimes run late."

He thought about it for a moment, then nodded. "That's okay, I guess. This seems pretty important, right?"

"But not more important than you, little man."

"I know. Just can't be helped, I guess."

"Exactly. But it doesn't mean she loves you any less."

"I know, Dad," he said, bored now with the conversation and turning back to the comics.

* * * * *

When Whitney hadn't called by six thirty, though, I was getting pissed off. Years of experience had taught me that trials--even major felony trials--usually ended for the day by five. That was more than enough time for her to get home, change, and come pick up Kyle. Definitely enough time for her to at least call.

I started calling her cell phone and office phone at five minutes to seven, but ended up only leaving a string of more frustrating messages.

By nine, I was too pissed off to even leave a message anymore. Kyle had been in bed for a half hour, sad and upset, and I dearly hoped she would answer so I could chew her ass but good.

But she still wasn't answering by nine thirty, and I just gave up.

What the hell did I expect? She'd blown off visitation early over the weekend, and it was now clear she was putting this trial ahead of Kyle.

Again.

Just like she'd put it all ahead of me and our marriage.

Still, she was doing this to her own kid?

You're shitting me, right?

* * * * *

My senior-level seminar--Twentieth Century Foreign Policy Decisionmaking--finished at two-twenty, and I was packing up my materials in the small classroom when I heard someone clear his throat. I looked up and saw a man and woman, both about my age and both dressed in slacks, dress shirts, sport coat on him and business jacket on her, with weary eyes and for him a natural slouch. She was pretty, tall and slim, with hazel eyes that looked tired. Oh, and I couldn't help but notice the bulges under their armpits from their shoulder holsters.

"Professor Patterson?" the man said.

"What can I do for you, detective?" I asked, snapping the briefcase shut and leaning against the lectern.

He shot her a glance, raised an eyebrow, then turned back to me.

"Shoulder holsters," I explained. "Neat haircuts, dressed in jackets. You're either police detectives--the officers usually wear uniforms--or rogue spies sent here to kidnap me. Since I can't imagine why a foreign government--or even my own, for that matter--would want anything to do with me, I figure you're detectives. Am I wrong?"

"Lieutenant Gavers," the man said, then nodded his head at the woman. "Sergeant Adams."

"What can I do for you, Lieutenant?"

"Do you have a few minutes? We'd like to ask you some questions."

I looked at my watch. "I can give you fifteen minutes, then I have to get home before my son gets home from school."

He looked at her again, and she shrugged. Something passed between them, in his look and her shrug, and he turned back to me and started right off with the questions.

"Were you married to Whitney Patterson?"

"Yes."

"The prosecutor?"

"That's the one."

"And you're divorced now, right?"

"Yes."

"When's the last time you spoke with her?"

"Sunday morning," I said. "Somewhere around eleven."

"And what was that conversation about?"

"She wanted to drop Kyle off a day early. It was her weekend for visitation."

"Did that make you angry?"

"A little. But it ended up working out."