Summer Session Read online

  Harper was thinking that it was a good idea, going outside. She wasn’t paying attention to Graham. So she didn’t notice him lifting one leg, then the other over the sill, didn’t look his way until she saw her students’ gaping mouths and disbelieving eyes and followed their gazes just in time to see Graham purposefully lower himself over the ledge. His tangled curls dropped out of sight until all that was visible were his fingertips on the window frame.

  Instantly, Harper was out of her chair, bolting to the window, leaning out and grabbing his wrists. She reacted reflexively, with precision and dexterity, calling for assistance. Graham hung there, gazing up at her with hazy green eyes. For a few endless seconds, Harper strained to hold on, tightening her grip, tugging at his thin, slippery arms, but she couldn’t get leverage to pull him up, didn’t have the body mass. Larry, Terence and Esoso joined her at the window, crowding her, reaching out, yanking at Graham’s forearms.

  ‘Graham,’ Harper ordered, ‘grab hold of my hand.’

  But Graham didn’t even try. Without a word, his eyes still fixed on Harper’s, he let go of the windowsill and pushed off of the wall with his legs. His wrists slipped from her hands and, silently, he dropped four stories to the ground.

  For a moment, nobody moved. Everyone was silent. Stunned. Then chaos erupted. Shrill screams. People running in circles, yelping, making frantic calls on cell phones. Shaundra stared at the window, strangling her bear claw; Gwen bent over, holding her belly, yipping, her voice drowned out by Monique’s.

  The room around Harper became fuzzy; she smelled gunfire, heard explosions. Oh God, she thought. Not now. She couldn’t allow a flashback now. Grabbing a pencil from a nearby desk, she dug its point into her palm, using pain to ground herself in the moment. She concentrated on the present, on panicked cries, on the commotion of chairs scraping the old wooden floor. Her students needed her. She pulled away from the open window and, as trained, left the dead in order to protect the living.

  ‘Listen up, everyone. Hey!’

  No one listened. They continued shouting, moving in a dance of confusion.

  ‘OK, then,’ she muttered. Drawing a breath, Harper let out a shrill, ear-bending whistle.

  Instantly, the room was silent. Fourteen pairs of eyes turned to her, lost and childlike. Reflexively, Harper shouted orders. ‘Get your belongings. We’re moving out.’ Scanning the room, she saw that, amazingly, despite the havoc, Anna still slept in her seat.

  ‘Anna!’ Harper called to her. ‘Somebody – Jeremy – wake her up.’

  Jeremy looked at Anna, muttered, ‘Jesus Christ,’ and rolled his eyes in annoyance as he jostled her shoulder. She didn’t wake up. Didn’t react at all.

  ‘Come on, Anna.’ Jeremy shook his head, impatient. Finally, he leaned over and bellowed into her ear. ‘WAKE UP!’

  Anna didn’t budge. Didn’t move.

  OK. Never mind. Harper would come back for her.

  The class stood at the door, staring at Anna, asking what was wrong with that girl? Wasn’t she strange? Tsks of disapproval among the panic.

  Harper kept them moving. She called out names: Jeremy. Cathy, Shaundra. Gwen, Kevin, Larry. Pam. One at a time, touching each on the arm, she guided her students to the staircase; from there, she ushered them down the four flights to the door.

  ‘Everyone stays here.’ She put Jason in charge. ‘Nobody moves. Nobody goes near Graham or even glances at him until I get back.’ She hurried to the side of the building where a mere glance told her that Graham was beyond help. Then, ignoring the pain in her leg, she climbed the steps again to the classroom to get her remaining student.

  Anna looked around in confusion. ‘Loot? Where is everyone?’

  ‘Outside.’ Gently, Harper took her arm. ‘Come with me.’

  Anna resisted, pulled away. ‘I heard shouting.’

  ‘There’s been an accident. I’ll explain—’

  ‘Why was everyone shouting?’ Anna refused to move. ‘What happened?’

  Harper was getting annoyed; Anna was taking too much time and attention, shouldn’t have been sleeping in class to begin with. ‘Graham fell. Now let’s move.’ She started for the door.

  Anna followed, asking questions. ‘He fell? Where? How? Is he OK?’

  Harper didn’t answer; she ushered Anna down the stairs to the spot where her classmates huddled, flustered and shaken. Anna remained apart, tagging along as the group moved silently on to the landscaped quadrangle. When they came to the mangled body in orange madras shorts and a red tank top, the silence shattered with a scream.

  ‘Whoa—’ Kevin reached to catch her, but too late. Anna had already collapsed, out cold.

  Students blinked at her and looked away, disapproving. Shaking their heads.

  Harper hurried to her, feeling at fault. Granted, Anna was different. Always by herself. Often asleep in class. Even so, Harper shouldn’t have been so abrupt, should have better prepared her for seeing Graham’s body. Now the girl had fainted. Harper knelt, checked her pulse. Lying on the grass, Anna resembled an overstuffed doll, her torso cushiony and pillow-like. She seemed unhurt, but her skin felt clammy, and she remained disturbingly still, eyes closed, not responding to her name or Harper’s touch.

  ‘She’ll be all right,’ Harper assured herself as much as the others. Then, although several students had already done so, she used Jeremy’s cell to call the police. Bystanders gathered, gawking and asking questions, but the class clustered around Graham, listening for sirens, protecting their freshly dead classmate, unsure what else to do.

  Harper watched over them, struggling to process what had happened. One moment, Graham had been taking a quiz; the next, he’d jumped to his death. Poof. No warning. Unless she’d missed something. She replayed the morning. The students in their seats, the suffocating heat. The weak buzzing fan. She’d given out the quizzes, and Graham had asked to open the window. Had there been any desperation in his voice? Any anger? Or sadness? She tried, but recalled nothing of note. Harper could still see Graham’s unwavering eyes, feel his slick skin slipping from her grip. She also heard distant explosions, a low rumble of gunfire. No, she insisted. Not now.

  ‘OK, everybody. Listen up.’ She refocused, looking each student in the eyes, one at a time. ‘I don’t know what the hell happened to Graham. Why he did this. But we’re going to be OK. All of us. The police are on the way. For now, stay together. And stay strong.’

  Nods. Tear-filled eyes. Hugs. Sniffles and whimpers. Students stood arm in arm or sat leaning against each other, except for Anna, who lay beside them on the grass. Despite the heat, Harper shivered as she paced in circles around them, guarding her pack, touching Gwen’s shoulder or patting Cathy’s head. Her students depended on her, so she remained in control, fending off the flash of explosives, the flames nipping at her belly, the bullets whizzing past her ears. She pressed the pencil point into her palm, hoping that pain would hold her in the moment. Or that Graham’s broken body would magically mend itself and stand, revealing a tasteless practical joke. Or an acrobatics trick. Or some reason, however misguided, for his death.

  Finally, an endless few minutes after Graham crashed on to the quad, lights flashed and sirens blared. Campus cops, Ithaca police, firemen and an ambulance arrived, closely followed by local news, the dean, a cadre of university officials and even more curious onlookers.

  ‘Attention, everyone.’ Detective Charlene Rivers’ voice blared into a megaphone, even though it was hardly necessary; people could easily hear her without amplification. Fortyish, broad-shouldered and dark-skinned, she’d assessed the scene quickly and taken over. ‘Paramedics are here to check you out and see if anyone needs attention. Meantime –’ her voice jolted to a stop, interrupted by a blare of feedback – ‘nobody go anywhere; we need to talk to each of you, individually. Who’s first?’ She eyed the group, waiting for a volunteer.

  Jason raised his hand; officers escorted him to a nearby bench.

  Harper wandered after them, intending t
o eavesdrop. It wouldn’t be easy to hear their conversation, not with machine guns firing in her head, but she was determined to find out why Graham had killed himself. What her students knew. Inconspicuously, she sat on the grass not far from the bench, listening.

  ‘Loot – our instructor – she tried to stop him. But there was no time – nobody could do anything.’ Jason’s voice was flat, emotionless. ‘He just climbed out, hung on for a few seconds and let go.’

  Dustin was next. ‘Threaten? You mean to kill himself? Never. Well, not that I know of.’

  Gwen called Graham a comedian. ‘I met him freshman year. He had a droll sense of humor. Real wry. When I saw him going out the window, I thought it was a joke.’

  Pam sniffled. ‘He seemed a tad eccentric. But not destructive or dangerous. Just in his own world.’

  Terence shrugged. ‘I didn’t know the dude. No disrespect intended; it’s just we never, you know, actually hung out.’

  Monique fumed. ‘Sorry, but I’m furious at Graham – selfish bastard. Did he think about anybody but himself? His family? His friends? Was his life so unbearable that he had to do this?’

  Larry, Graham’s room-mate, chewed his thumbnail. ‘He gave no sign. No warning. Well, this morning, he was pretty grouchy, but – truthfully? Graham was grouchy every morning. Nothing seemed different.’

  Anna awoke and gave her statement in a whisper too low for Harper to hear.

  Jeremy threw up behind a tree.

  Finally, Harper went back to the group, having listened to parts of fourteen statements and learned exactly nothing.

  Dean Van Arsdale addressed the group, his smooth baritone bellowing through the borrowed megaphone. ‘. . . And remember, free counseling is available for any and all who need or want it. Make sure you fill out the forms being distributed by my assistant, Marge, and take a brochure about the university’s mental health services and ways to access help.’ He urged students to seek support, reminding them that they’d been through a terrible ordeal. A trauma. Explaining that the effects of a trauma could be unexpected and lasting. Harper listened, blinking away sniper fire.

  When the dean finally finished, Detective Rivers took the megaphone again. ‘If you think of anything relevant to Graham Reynolds’ suicide, get in touch. Meantime, everyone is excused.’

  ‘Wait. Ma’am?’ Harper didn’t want to overstep authority, but it was, after all, her recitation. ‘I’d like to say something.’

  The detective offered the megaphone, but Harper didn’t take it. Instead, she let out another attention-getting whistle. These were her students, her responsibility. Fourteen faces – not counting those of the dean, the onlookers, the cops or the press – turned her way.

  ‘Next recitation is a memorial.’ She spoke quietly. ‘Dedicated to Graham. Write something about him. Or to him. We’ll share them as a group. Before we go, anybody have something they want to say?’

  Eyes diverted; heads shook.

  ‘RIP, man,’ Terence finally offered.

  A few voices mumbled, ‘Amen.’

  Nobody added anything.

  ‘OK, then. Stay strong. See you in class.’

  With that, most of the students and bystanders wandered off. Gwen and Shaundra stopped to give Harper hugs. Larry lingered a few feet from Harper.

  ‘Larry?’ Monique hefted her pink book bag. ‘You coming?’

  He didn’t answer, didn’t even look at her. Finally, she stomped off alone.

  Larry didn’t say anything. Didn’t leave.

  ‘You OK, Larry?’

  He shrugged, watched the grass. ‘Sure.’

  Clearly, he wanted to talk. Harper watched him, saw tension, small twitchy movements of his head and neck. ‘This must be hard for you, losing a room-mate.’

  Larry shook his head. ‘Truth is I hardly knew the guy.’

  Harper was confused. ‘But I thought you lived with—’

  ‘I only met him a few weeks ago. At work. Graham needed a place; I had an extra room. So he moved in.’

  An edgy silence. Larry twitched, cleared his throat, shifted his weight. Getting up the nerve to say something?

  Dean Van Arsdale was talking with the police. ‘Mrs Jennings.’ He gestured to her. ‘Would you join us, please?’

  She nodded, but didn’t move. ‘Larry, if you need—’

  ‘No, Loot. It’s cool. Thanks.’ He backed away. ‘I’ll catch you later.’

  Harper watched him as he took off after a pink form crossing the quad.

  The police asked Harper the same questions they’d asked the students. Had she known Graham Reynolds well? Had she noticed any changes in his behavior? Any signs of depression? Any personal crisis?

  She answered, No. No. No. And no. She felt useless, frustrated. And surprised that no one was blaming her for Graham’s death, even though she’d been in charge. In fact, as he left, the dean squeezed her hand and offered his sympathy and support.

  Detective Rivers offered her a ride home, but Harper had her Ninja parked on campus. Besides, the gunfire in her head was escalating rapidly; she couldn’t fend it off much longer, so she thanked the detective and told her she wanted to linger a while. Finally, when the police, the media and university officials had gone, she sank under an oak tree, leaning against the sturdy safety of its trunk.

  There was not even the hint of a breeze. No matter where Harper looked, she saw Graham’s red tank top disappearing out the window, his curls dropping beyond the sill. Again and again, his skinny wrists slipped from her grasp.

  No, she repeated, shaking her head, trying to reject the emotional triggers. Think of something else. Repeat your wedding vows; picture the sparkle in Hank’s eyes. Or try to find a squirrel to feed. Or count the trees on the quad. But it was too late. She smelled gunpowder, saw explosions. Her mind had already begun its spin, would have to cycle through, so she sat stiffly, arms crossed, waiting for her flashback to pass.

  Harper pressed her back against the wall of a blown-out building and clutched her rifle. No, wait – it wasn’t her rifle; it was Graham’s wrists, and she clung to them, felt them slide out of her hands, saw his eyes watching hers as he fell. But no, it wasn’t Graham who was falling. It was her husband, Hank. She was home in the yard, planting tulips. She smelled damp soil, glanced up at the roof where Hank was fixing shingles.

  Hank didn’t make a sound. Not a grunt, not a curse. He simply fell.

  Watching him for the thousandth time, Harper still couldn’t take a breath. Couldn’t move or stop her brain. Shutting her eyes, she waited for Hank to hit the chimney, then the ledge; she anticipated the thud of impact.

  But there was no thud. Just a bang, a flash of white-hot wind. Men were shouting, guns popping. Dust and smoke, an acrid, burning smell. Weapon raised, Harper dashed to take cover but stumbled, glanced down to see what she’d stepped on. The boy. He had no face. It was entirely gone, blown away. His head, a ball of red.

  Or was that the red of the tulips? Back in the garden, digging, she paused to look up at the roof. Again, Hank slid, limbs akimbo, his head smacking the chimney, his body tumbling over the gutters and falling through the air.

  Hot air. Dusty air. Someone was approaching through the haze: a woman. Sameh. Harper knew her name, saw her every morning as she passed the checkpoint on her way to the market. Sameh, in traditional black garb, with shining eyes. Often, she had children with her – two young boys. But not this time.

  Marvin was jabbering about an old movie. ‘The guy’s a genius, but when the schoolteacher chick’s around, he trips, falls, bumps into things—’

  Sameh came toward them, crossing the road. Harper nodded a greeting. Sameh nodded back, eyes smiling. Marvin talked. ‘. . . He’s a complete buffoon . . .’

  Was there a burst of light? A bang? Harper saw, heard nothing. She was vaguely aware that she’d left the ground. She was flying . . .

  Downward, from the classroom window. Whooshing through hot air, four stories to the ground of the Arts Quad.

&
nbsp; No, not to the Arts Quad. To her garden. Harper raced across the flowerbed, stomping on her new plantings. ‘Hank!’ His name erupted from her belly, a soul-wrenching howl. Hank’s eyes were partly open, but he didn’t respond to his wife’s frantic calls or her desperate rattling of his body. She needed to get help.

  But Harper couldn’t move. She smelled smoke and burning flesh, tasted metal. Blood? She was on her back, her arm on her belly; her hands felt sticky clumps – oh God, were they her guts? She closed her fingers around something, lifted it. Saw a red fleshy glob. Oh God, oh God . . .

  ‘Oh God—’ The voice came from above, from the roof. Trent’s voice. Trent Manning, Hank’s colleague, close friend. He’d been up there, helping Hank with the repairs. ‘Christ – Harper. I’m coming down. Don’t move him.’

  Move him? Harper couldn’t move him. Lord, she couldn’t even move herself, lying there holding a glob, trying to call out but making no sound. What the hell had happened? Where was Marvin? Sameh? The others – Cooper? Phyllis? Mike? Were they OK? Why couldn’t she move her legs? And the blood on her belly – she must have been shot. Must be dying. But she didn’t feel pain – wasn’t that interesting? Death didn’t hurt, wasn’t as bad as she’d imagined. She lay still, watching the empty sky, aware of flickering light. Waiting to be dead.

  But she didn’t die. She was on her feet again, running for help. Breathless, pushing through enemy fire, seeing bodies drop around her. Stepping on the kid with no face. Holding her body low to the ground, dashing past overturned trucks and wounded comrades, up on to the deck and into the kitchen where she grabbed her cell phone. Every action took too long, and her thoughts were jumbled, interrupted by surges of gunfire and cries of pain. And by Graham turning into Hank and falling, landing with a muted thud and an understated rustle of dogwoods.

  Which, absurdly, she noted needed trimming. Their old house needed so much work. The upstairs bathroom was gutted; the kitchen only half redone. Shingles were coming up on the roof . . . and – damn, there went Hank again, falling. Or was it Graham? Marvin chattered; Sameh stepped through the dust, about to cross the street.