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Authors: Carol Goodman
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statement, Miss Demarchis?”
Zoe shakes her head, “No, I mean…I didn’t see, I just assumed it was an accident or that Orlando pushed him.”
“No, I’m afraid it wasn’t an accident, and I was holding back Orlando. Robin looked straight at both of us, and then he pushed himself off the balcony.” Mark covers his eyes with his hand and shudders. “If I’d only known that the boy was suicidal…”
“I don’t believe it!” Zoe Demarchis cries, her voice verging on hysteria. With her pink hair and bloodshot eyes, she looks like a crazed rabbit. Mark tilts his chin up and as if by magic Frieda Mainbocher, the women’s studies professor, appears out of nowhere. I certainly hadn’t noticed Frieda here earlier. In her dowdy denim jumper and orthopedic Mary Janes she doesn’t look like she’s dressed for a party. I imagine she sensed the crisis brewing from her apartment on Thompson Street and showed up just in time to whisk Zoe off to the Women’s Counseling Center.
When they’re gone I turn back to Mark. “Orlando looked wild when he ran onto the balcony. Are you sure he didn’t push Robin?”
Mark shakes his head. “I know it’s difficult to accept when a young person we’ve been close to—whom we think we’ve helped—gives up on himself,” Marks says, slowly and deliberately. I feel myself blanche under his gaze. He’s afraid, I realize, that I’ll blame myself for Robin’s death. The idea that I may have been partly to blame effectively silences me.
“There’s going to be a lot of denial surrounding this boy’s death,” Mark continues, turning to the police officer. “Everyone expected so much from him.” The film isn’t going to be what everyone expects, Robin had said. Had Robin been that frightened of disappointing people that he’d chosen to kill himself? Had I been one of the people he’d been afraid of disappointing?
“You say he won first prize in the contest tonight,” the police officer says, shaking his head. “It seems a strange time to kill himself.”
“Sometimes success can be the worst kind of pressure,” Mark says. I glance at Mark, surprised that he would voice this sentiment. Mark is one of the most ambitious and driven men I’ve ever met. He wouldn’t be a college president at forty-five if he weren’t. “And many people were jealous.”
“Like this Orlando fellow, right?” the officer asks. “Did he tell you what he wanted, President Abrams?”
“There was apparently some dispute about credit for the film. Mr. Brunelli seemed to think he deserved credit as a collaborator on the film, but of course he wasn’t a Hudson student, and only works by Hudson students can be entered in the film contest.”
“Everybody wants a producer credit.” The remark comes from Leo Balthasar, who has come up behind me. He’s taken off his white jacket, and his immaculate black T-shirt has come untucked from his trousers. He looks a little yellow under his tan.
“Is that what the two young men were arguing about on the balcony?” the officer asks.
Balthasar nods, but he’s looking at Mark and not the police officer as he answers. “Yes, that seemed to be what the argument was about. Robin was pretty drunk and was very upset at this other boy’s attack—”
“Attack?” the police officer asks, looking up from his notebook. “Did you see Orlando Brunelli push Robin?”
Leo Balthasar glances at Mark and then back at the police officer. “Excuse me. I meant verbal attack. From where I was, it looked like Robin jumped. But you were closer to him and Orlando, President Abrams. Is that what happened?”
Mark nods, his jaw so clenched that his lips look white. “I’m afraid so.” “And what about you, Dr. Asher? Where were you when Mr. Weiss jumped?”
“I tried to follow President Abrams out onto the balcony, but the guard stopped me. I couldn’t see what was happening because I was behind the door…Maybe if I had been able to talk to Robin…”
Zoe shakes her head, “No, I mean…I didn’t see, I just assumed it was an accident or that Orlando pushed him.”
“No, I’m afraid it wasn’t an accident, and I was holding back Orlando. Robin looked straight at both of us, and then he pushed himself off the balcony.” Mark covers his eyes with his hand and shudders. “If I’d only known that the boy was suicidal…”
“I don’t believe it!” Zoe Demarchis cries, her voice verging on hysteria. With her pink hair and bloodshot eyes, she looks like a crazed rabbit. Mark tilts his chin up and as if by magic Frieda Mainbocher, the women’s studies professor, appears out of nowhere. I certainly hadn’t noticed Frieda here earlier. In her dowdy denim jumper and orthopedic Mary Janes she doesn’t look like she’s dressed for a party. I imagine she sensed the crisis brewing from her apartment on Thompson Street and showed up just in time to whisk Zoe off to the Women’s Counseling Center.
When they’re gone I turn back to Mark. “Orlando looked wild when he ran onto the balcony. Are you sure he didn’t push Robin?”
Mark shakes his head. “I know it’s difficult to accept when a young person we’ve been close to—whom we think we’ve helped—gives up on himself,” Marks says, slowly and deliberately. I feel myself blanche under his gaze. He’s afraid, I realize, that I’ll blame myself for Robin’s death. The idea that I may have been partly to blame effectively silences me.
“There’s going to be a lot of denial surrounding this boy’s death,” Mark continues, turning to the police officer. “Everyone expected so much from him.” The film isn’t going to be what everyone expects, Robin had said. Had Robin been that frightened of disappointing people that he’d chosen to kill himself? Had I been one of the people he’d been afraid of disappointing?
“You say he won first prize in the contest tonight,” the police officer says, shaking his head. “It seems a strange time to kill himself.”
“Sometimes success can be the worst kind of pressure,” Mark says. I glance at Mark, surprised that he would voice this sentiment. Mark is one of the most ambitious and driven men I’ve ever met. He wouldn’t be a college president at forty-five if he weren’t. “And many people were jealous.”
“Like this Orlando fellow, right?” the officer asks. “Did he tell you what he wanted, President Abrams?”
“There was apparently some dispute about credit for the film. Mr. Brunelli seemed to think he deserved credit as a collaborator on the film, but of course he wasn’t a Hudson student, and only works by Hudson students can be entered in the film contest.”
“Everybody wants a producer credit.” The remark comes from Leo Balthasar, who has come up behind me. He’s taken off his white jacket, and his immaculate black T-shirt has come untucked from his trousers. He looks a little yellow under his tan.
“Is that what the two young men were arguing about on the balcony?” the officer asks.
Balthasar nods, but he’s looking at Mark and not the police officer as he answers. “Yes, that seemed to be what the argument was about. Robin was pretty drunk and was very upset at this other boy’s attack—”
“Attack?” the police officer asks, looking up from his notebook. “Did you see Orlando Brunelli push Robin?”
Leo Balthasar glances at Mark and then back at the police officer. “Excuse me. I meant verbal attack. From where I was, it looked like Robin jumped. But you were closer to him and Orlando, President Abrams. Is that what happened?”
Mark nods, his jaw so clenched that his lips look white. “I’m afraid so.” “And what about you, Dr. Asher? Where were you when Mr. Weiss jumped?”
“I tried to follow President Abrams out onto the balcony, but the guard stopped me. I couldn’t see what was happening because I was behind the door…Maybe if I had been able to talk to Robin…”
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