Requiem for Ashes Read online

  "l don't know," said Tewksbury. "You'd think so, but . . . I don’t understand the whole business, frankly. I feel like I'm in the middle of the Nazca plain . . . lines stretching off to infinity in every direction. There must be a pattern somewhere. But it's only discernible from an impossible altitude.

  His eyes brimmed with tears.

  At the moment it occurred to Albert that a jury would no more convict him than it would a puppy in an orphan's arms. If he could just hold that expression.

  "I didn't do anything, Albert! How can it seem I was there at the time of the murder, when I wasn't? How can it seem as though I poisoned him, when I didn't?" Tewksbury's brows were arched upward, like hairy little fists clasped in supplication. "I didn't do it, Albert. How can it seem like I did?"

  The building analogy came again to mind. It was nearly reassembled. They were putting in the carpet and the bath fixtures. Pretty soon they'd be turning the keys over to the new owners, who shouldn't mind the tapping within the walls. Seems they'd built an archaeologist into the place. But his room had no windows. No doors. Not to worry, there was never meant to be a way out.

  "What is Golderberg doing?"

  "Golderberg?"

  "Your lawyer."

  "Goldstein," Tewksbury corrected. "He's dead. They just kept the name on. They're all dead, as far as I know. Like Sears and Roebuck."

  Albert wondered if Mr. Dunkin' was dead as well. "Who's your lawyer, then?"

  "I don't have a lawyer," Tewksbury replied. "I've got an ice sculpture named Melissa Bjork."

  "A woman?" Albert was cognizant of women. They played violins and flutes. His mother had played the saxophone, but she was exceptional. His sister wasn't musical, so he wasn't sure what she did, besides live in Florida and have children. But she wasn't a lawyer.

  "I thought so at first," said Tewksbury. "She sure looks like one. She's got . . . " He cupped his hands an unnatural distance from his chest. His eyes brightened for a moment. Albert knew Tewksbury was a womanizer; he'd been subjected to any number of his monologues on the subject. They made Albert uncomfortable, but seemed to fill a need for Tewksbury. "She doesn't believe me, either." Tewksbury lowered his hands, and his expectations. "She doesn't care."

  "They said you could get out on bail," said Albert. He'd forgotten overhearing that. He wasn't sure what it was, but "out" had a positive ring to it.

  "Out!" said Tewksbury, rising quickly. "Out to what? People pointing at me and talking about me? Reporters in my face twenty-four hours a day? No, thanks." He looked around the room. "That would be hell. This is just purgatory. I'll just stick it out. It's warm and I eat a lot better than you do."

  There was another silence. A sudden burning sensation reminded Albert that he'd tucked a lit cigarette behind his ear. He removed it and ground its remains into a peanut-butter jar lid that the state had provided for the purpose. "What do they do . . . lawyers? How do they find out what happened?"

  Tewksbury shook his head and rubbed his red eyes with the heels of his hands. "I don't know. I guess they ask questions. Frankly my understanding of the profession doesn't extend much beyond what you see on TV." That explained why Albert’s understanding extended nowhere at all. "I don't know if Miss Bjork does anything but put in time. She looks at me like . . . I get the feeling she goes home and takes a bath in disinfectant after she leaves here," he said. "I don't think she believes me, either. Nobody does."

  "Does she ask questions?"

  The beeper on the guard's watch went off. The visit was over. Tewksbury got up from the table. "I guess so. How else would she find out anything?” He turned as the guard led him from the room. "I've been forgotten, Albert."

  At the trial Albert learned that "truth," as defined by the law, was a much more abstract and slippery thing than he'd imagined; a distant and ragged relation to his concept of right and wrong. In a court of law, nothing was absolutely true, but anything might be legal, or illegal.

  Ambiguity was the byword. He wondered how it was possible to "tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth" if you weren't allowed to finish a sentence.

  For the most part the proceedings were a blur to Albert. In the end a few important things stood out, and they painted a bleak picture for Tewksbury. The infamous letter was admitted in evidence, the heat of its scholarly indignation parboiling Tewksbury where he sat, especially in the eyes of the men and women of the jury, mostly blue-collar workers from the factory side of town who had little fondness for academics in general and whose patience seemed strained by discussion of the finer points of Etruscan civilization.

  There was a lot of eye-rolling and head-shaking.

  Albert, standing in line at the water cooler during a recess, was made sharply aware of the popular consensus by the conversation of two men in front of him.

  Man number one, a burly blond who stood an arm's length taller than Albert: "Nossir. If you're gonna kill somebody you do it with a shotgun, or a tire iron. That's what I'd do." He took a long, loud sip.

  Albert wondered if most people were like that, perpetually prepared to murder.

  Man number two nodded. He was a little shorter than Albert, and roughly as tall as he was wide. His cap matched his bright orange hooded sweatshirt, and the ensemble was set off to great effect by black-and-red plaid wool pants and brown boots. "Sulfites." he said disdainfully. "It'd take one've them eggheads to come up with a stunt like that."

  "Etruscans," said man number one with a wag of the head as he rose from the fountain. Water dribbled down his beard. He wiped at it with his sleeve.

  "Etruscans," echoed man number two, pressing his lips to the spigot. "Who the hell cares?"

  Concerning the fight in the hallway with Glenly, three or four coeds were called to witness, each wording their testimony with a mind to how it would look in the papers back home. Scrapbook material. Two young men acknowledged the scuffle. Not really a fight. A slap or two. A sprained wrist and a bloody nose. Nothing broken. No vital organs displaced. Mostly yelling. Comes of being more accustomed to backstabbing than frontal attack.

  But there was no doubt who started it.

  One thing, though, struck Albert as curious: nobody eulogized Professor Glenly. No one testified about the dead man's services to humanity in general, or the community in particular. Even the school had only the requisite to say. The same as it says for indifferent janitors and cafeteria cooks upon retirement after long service.

  Several people, Albert among them, were called to testify on behalf of Tewksbury. For the most part, though, their testimony as to Tewksbury's character was so tepid and equivocal it would have been better if they'd stayed home. Albert wished he'd stayed home. What could he say about Tewksbury? Only that he was sure he hadn't killed anyone. They wouldn't let him say that.

  Maybe Tiglath-Pilesir III, Akenaten, or another of Tewksbury’s friends would have spoken well of him, but they didn’t show up, and nobody suggested they be subpoenaed.

  In the end it was proved – at least to the satisfaction of a jury of his peers - that Tewksbury had murdered his academic nemesis, a crime all the more sinister since it was not one of passion, of archaeological ardor, but of cunning. Planning. "Councils held in the secret hours with the changeling shadows of private torment and jealousy," in the prosecutor's words.

  Glenly had been killed with sulfites, a common food additive to which a small portion of the population, Glenly among them, is deathly allergic. His allergy was no secret on campus. He'd raised a stink about their use in the cafeteria, and succeeded in eliminating them from the kitchen.

  It was effectively demonstrated that Tewksbury had access to an abundant supply of sulfites in the lab where he had recently been working with student-chemists to develop a preservative for what he called "archaeological undies," organic artifacts too delicate to withstand the debilitating effects of exposure to light and air.

  So, in the end, Tewksbury was found guilty "beyond a reasonable doubt." Nevertheless, Albert had his dou
bts.

  They'd set aside a separate day to announce the sentence, which Albert thought strange; as if the judge hadn't entertained the possibility during the long weeks of the trial. In the end the going rate for Glenly's life was set at twenty years in Walpole State Penitentiary, with the possibility of parole in seven. Payment to begin immediately.

  The sentence was much more lenient than beheading or burning at the stake, which Albert had anticipated as the natural consequence for taking someone's life. Then again, Tewksbury was innocent. Albert was sure of it. Maybe the jury had taken that into account.

  It was dark by the time it was all over. A storm that had been threatening all day had worked itself into a frenzy. Albert took a bus back to the school and struck off across the common.

  Snow had been falling on Albert's neck for ten minutes before he realized it. A few icy daggers traced his spine. He shivered and turned his collar to the storm. Loud mirthless music thumped through the ancient walls of one of the dorms, like a demon's heartbeat.

  His eyes were drawn to one of the lighted windows, the shades of which were closed. Human-shaped shadows threw themselves around with the abandon of the Israelites at the foot of Sinai.

  He stood still and looked around the campus. Everything was where it was supposed to be. The snow drifted in the same places it always drifted. Naked veins of ivy held the old brick buildings to earth and, over the edge of the world, its half-shaded windows lit in a self-satisfied smirk, the Law School leered malevolently.

  Everything was the same, but something had changed; something fundamental to Albert's foreshortened understanding of things. How could the world absorb the terrible knowledge of Tewksbury's imprisonment and continue on as if nothing had happened? Shouldn't everything come to a halt until the truth had been got to? Who would keep up with all the latest developments in Ancient History?

  Albert released a captive sigh of steam which the wind seized with angry fingers and tore to pieces. Snow had collected on his glasses, obscuring everything from sight. He didn't wipe them off. He bent his head to the wind and let habit lead him home.

  Chapter Three

  Albert had corn and Nestle's Quik for supper; the corn still frozen, like a popsicle, the Quik dry, straight from the can. As he ate he searched the rubble for a phone book. A xylophone came to light, a sweater he'd forgotten entirely. A pair of socks he'd neglected to put in the dryer that had somehow doubled in size with something fragrant and fuzzy. Other things turned up, too: a desiccated pizza, a few records, several unfinished symphonies, but no phone book.

  "Thank you for using AT&T, may I help you?"

  The last time Albert had called the operator it was a woman and she just said "operator." Now it was a man, and he gave a speech. Albert fought the urge to hang up.

  "I'd like to speak to Miss Melissa Bjork," he said.

  "You want Directory Assistance," said the operator.

  "Yes, please," said Albert.

  "That number is 555-1212."

  There was a click on the line and Albert was alone again. He held the phone out and looked at it. "555," he whispered.

  He dialed "0" again. This time it was a woman. There was hope. "I'd like a telephone number, please."

  The operator interrupted. "Information is 555-1212," she said.

  Subconsciously Albert affixed the face of the lady newscaster to the operator's voice.

  "555?" he stammered.

  "1212," said the operator then clicked and disappeared.

  Albert dialed quickly; he had no memory for numbers.

  "Information. What city please?" It was a woman again. There were at least two left.

  "Ashburn?"

  "May I help you?"

  Albert wondered if he'd accidentally tapped into an audio loop of some kind. He plodded bravely on. "I'd like the number of Melissa Bjork, please."

  "Have you looked in your phone book?" said the operator. He was being scolded. He didn't want to tell her he couldn't find the phone book. There might be repercussions.

  "I'm blind," he said, closing his eyes.

  "Oh, I'm Sorry," said the operator. "What was the name again?" He gave her the name, she gave him the number. She began telling him about special phone company services for the blind, but he had to hang up or he'd forget the number.

  His call was met with hesitation. Yes, of course she remembered him, but she didn't understand why he wanted to see her; the trial was over, there was no more she could do. Within five minutes, though, Albert's gentle persistence had piqued her curiosity.

  She would see him at her office first thing in the morning. But he wanted to see her now. Another five minutes wore the edge off her resistance. She had a collection of his recordings, even an old LP of the famous Carnegie Hall concert. How dangerous could a musical genius be?

  "I'll meet you at the Dunkin' Donuts on Main Street," she said. Albert was relieved; that’s where he did most of his shopping. "Fifteen minutes?"

  Fifteen minutes later they were sitting in a booth over coffee and donuts. Snow was melting from their hair and clothes, making puddles everywhere. He was befuddled. She was amused.

  Albert suffered over small talk. Seeing the pain on his face, Miss Bjork quickly came to the point. "Why did you want to see me?"

  At the moment Albert hated only one thing more than small talk, and that was a direct question. He choked on his coffee. Miss Bjork smiled benignly.

  "It's Tewksbury," said Albert finally. "They found him guilty."

  He looked at her as if expecting to find her surprised by the news. His eyes betrayed a childlike confusion, deep and genuine.

  Miss Bjork, whom hard experience had prepared for anything, was not prepared for Albert.

  "I know," she said, looking down at her coffee cup. She felt Albert's eyes on her, burning with questions he didn't know how to frame. A spring of words bubbled to her lips, as if they'd been rehearsed. "I did all I could," she said into her coffee. "The evidence against him was just . . . overwhelming."

  "But he didn't do it."

  Miss Bjork's training overtook her. She'd faced recrimination from a client's family and friends before. She’d minored in inscrutability in law school. "What do you mean, he didn't do it? How do you know?" Why couldn't she look him in the eye? Was it the elephant of fame that loomed behind him, nearly crowding the air from the room but of which he seemed so unaware? She flushed. She never flushed. Fortunately he was looking out the window. "Do you know something?"

  Albert kept looking out the window. "Yes," he said. "He didn't kill Professor Glenly. Tewksbury wouldn't do that."

  Miss Bjork's whole body sighed. Even her hair relaxed. ‘Tewksbury wouldn't do that.’ No new evidence. Just feelings. She reached across the table and laid her hand gently on his arm. "Albert, may I call you Albert?" He didn't reply. "Professor . . . I understand how you feel." A dreadful thought occurred to her. Was it possible that Tewksbury and . . . ? She withdrew her hand. No. Not Tewksbury. Not after the way he’d come on to her during their first interview. But . . . what about this man? This quiet, nervous, extraordinary man who seemed unable to say what was on his mind? Not all feelings are reciprocal, after all. "I think I know how you feel," she amended. "Sometimes it's hard to believe that those close to us," she tested the ice, "those we care for, are capable of desperate things."

  "Care for?" said Albert. It was such an unlikely notion, he said it again. "Care for?"

  Miss Bjork tilted her head a little. "Love?"

  That was even more unlikely. "Love?" Albert repeated. "Who?"

  "Tewksbury."

  Albert looked from the window to the table, his heavy black brows tangled in thought. "I don't think anybody did. I mean, his father did, I suppose."

  She wanted to make it easier for him. "I mean you."

  The expression that spread across Albert's face was a billboard for confusion. He didn't know what she was talking about. She wasn't sure why she was relieved. She backed off the ice. "Why are you so interest
ed in the case?" she asked.

  Albert deliberated too long, as he always did. He didn't know why he was so interested. Someone should be. "I know him," he said finally. "He would come up to my place and . . . talk about the school. And drink my beer."

  "He said you were friends."

  The words had a jarring effect on Albert. He had never tried to define his relationship with Tewksbury. Friendship? He didn't think so. He had no friends that he knew of, and Tewksbury was another of the many who weren't. They knew each other, that was all.

  "He wouldn't have done something like that," Albert said in lieu of what he was thinking. Powdered sugar sifted from lips to his trousers. “I know him personally.”

  Finally Bjork had the key; here was a genuine hermit - a brilliant, breathing, donut-eating anachronism - whose existence was circumscribed by a sort of musical cocoon. It quickly became evident that the school sheltered him, its most precious asset.

  Early in her research into Tewksbury’s case, it had struck her as curious that a composer and performer of Albert’s renown had settled on Smethhurst College, until she turned up the fact it had been his father’s alma mater. It was at his mother’s suggestion - some said insistence - that he had turned a deaf ear to cacophonous, purse-rattling overtures from clamoring battalions of the world’s most prestigious universities and schools of music from Vienna to Sydney.

  He didn’t seem to mind ending up at Smethhurst. In fact, he scarcely seemed aware. Though tiny, Smethhurst could lay claim to well-deserved academic prestige but, more importantly, it offered the reclusive Albert what no other institution could - a womb that he could crawl into.

  Suddenly life comes along and shines a harsh light up that tight little academic cervix and the world reaches in with both hands and drags him out into the maelstrom; of course it would be inconceivable for one so cloistered to imagine someone of his own professional acquaintance capable of premeditated murder. That explained it.

  "It was Tewksbury who told me Glenly was dead," Albert said.

  "I remember your testimony."