their reality for years and then suddenly take some action. But a suicide doesn’t seem right. Killing yourself in front of your colleagues, all theatre. Showing them what they’ve driven you to. Sheila was a master at inflicting guilt, but with language, not action.” He stopped and looked at Ray. “Have you found a suicide note?”
“No, not yet.”
“If she were going to kill herself, I would have expected a carefully crafted letter where she identified all those she thought had hurt her, a letter in which she elaborated on every incident where she felt she had been snubbed or harmed. But I have to give you this caveat. I’ve learned in this business to expect the unexpected. However, her suicide just doesn’t feel right.” He gave Ray a long look, “Changing the subject, how are you doing?”
“I’m okay.”
“How okay?”
“Most of the time, during the day I’m fine. It’s just late at night and early in the morning when I get blue, especially in the morning. There are still lots of ghosts.”
Are you still taking the prescription…?”
“No, I stopped a couple of months ago. I don’t think I need pills.”
“Elkins, grieving takes time. Two or three years, sometimes more. Have you given any additional thought to moving to another house, a new environment? You might be able to leave some of the ghosts behind.”
“I’m comfortable there. It’s a beautiful house. Besides the thought of moving—I hate packing.” Ray was feeling uncomfortable.
“Have the place torched.” Margrave chuckled. “You can take the insurance money and buy new. No packing, no unpacking. You once talked about moving back to the area where you spent your childhood, northern Michigan as I remember it.”
“Yes, good memory. That’s a fantasy. I really love it there, but there are no jobs for someone with my credentials. Maybe when I retire.”
“You need some distance. What’s important to you? What will make you happy?”
“Let me go back to Benson,” said Ray. “From your professional view, a suicide is unlikely.”
“You’re forcing me to equivocate a bit, but it’s a prerogative of the professional. We’re almost as bad as lawyers. If she killed herself, I’m surprised. That said, this is a very imperfect science. You never know what someone might do.”
9
The heat of a late summer day was beginning to build as Elkins drove the freshly paved six-lane ribbon of concrete back into town toward central campus. He passed the several miles of new subs that had sprung up in recent years, circling the city like annual rings in a tree trunk. The fields of corn and soybeans had been pushed back, replaced with vinyl-clad two story homes on treeless lots. At the border of the original city limits, the highway abutted against the warren of roads and alleys that had been laid out more than a hundred years before. The once wide thoroughfares of the horse and buggy era were now the congested arteries of the densely populated town.
Ray parked in a near-empty faculty lot and stopped by a Starbucks for a large coffee and raspberry scone. The coffee and food seemed to help lessen the effects of the hangover. He started to go to his car, and then decided he could use the walk. The campus religious center was in an area of newer buildings on the east side of the central campus. Most of the buildings in the area had been erected in the 60s on land reclaimed from old homes and apartments, when enrollments exploded with the arrival of the baby boomers. Most of the steel framed, concrete block buildings were faced with thin tan bricks, aluminum, and glass, built in a style that started looking dated and dowdy a decade or two later.
The center was built in the style of its neighbors, streamlined gothic windows and doors suggested the edifice’s devotional intent. Ray stood for a moment in the cool, dull interior, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Then he followed the signs to the office of Father Robert
“No, not yet.”
“If she were going to kill herself, I would have expected a carefully crafted letter where she identified all those she thought had hurt her, a letter in which she elaborated on every incident where she felt she had been snubbed or harmed. But I have to give you this caveat. I’ve learned in this business to expect the unexpected. However, her suicide just doesn’t feel right.” He gave Ray a long look, “Changing the subject, how are you doing?”
“I’m okay.”
“How okay?”
“Most of the time, during the day I’m fine. It’s just late at night and early in the morning when I get blue, especially in the morning. There are still lots of ghosts.”
Are you still taking the prescription…?”
“No, I stopped a couple of months ago. I don’t think I need pills.”
“Elkins, grieving takes time. Two or three years, sometimes more. Have you given any additional thought to moving to another house, a new environment? You might be able to leave some of the ghosts behind.”
“I’m comfortable there. It’s a beautiful house. Besides the thought of moving—I hate packing.” Ray was feeling uncomfortable.
“Have the place torched.” Margrave chuckled. “You can take the insurance money and buy new. No packing, no unpacking. You once talked about moving back to the area where you spent your childhood, northern Michigan as I remember it.”
“Yes, good memory. That’s a fantasy. I really love it there, but there are no jobs for someone with my credentials. Maybe when I retire.”
“You need some distance. What’s important to you? What will make you happy?”
“Let me go back to Benson,” said Ray. “From your professional view, a suicide is unlikely.”
“You’re forcing me to equivocate a bit, but it’s a prerogative of the professional. We’re almost as bad as lawyers. If she killed herself, I’m surprised. That said, this is a very imperfect science. You never know what someone might do.”
9
The heat of a late summer day was beginning to build as Elkins drove the freshly paved six-lane ribbon of concrete back into town toward central campus. He passed the several miles of new subs that had sprung up in recent years, circling the city like annual rings in a tree trunk. The fields of corn and soybeans had been pushed back, replaced with vinyl-clad two story homes on treeless lots. At the border of the original city limits, the highway abutted against the warren of roads and alleys that had been laid out more than a hundred years before. The once wide thoroughfares of the horse and buggy era were now the congested arteries of the densely populated town.
Ray parked in a near-empty faculty lot and stopped by a Starbucks for a large coffee and raspberry scone. The coffee and food seemed to help lessen the effects of the hangover. He started to go to his car, and then decided he could use the walk. The campus religious center was in an area of newer buildings on the east side of the central campus. Most of the buildings in the area had been erected in the 60s on land reclaimed from old homes and apartments, when enrollments exploded with the arrival of the baby boomers. Most of the steel framed, concrete block buildings were faced with thin tan bricks, aluminum, and glass, built in a style that started looking dated and dowdy a decade or two later.
The center was built in the style of its neighbors, streamlined gothic windows and doors suggested the edifice’s devotional intent. Ray stood for a moment in the cool, dull interior, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Then he followed the signs to the office of Father Robert
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