Tail Gait

April 25, 2015

People stood outside the chapel at the University of Virginia, down the walkway, onto the front lawn. The crush was so great that even the roadside of the Rotunda was filled. Those of all ages stood to bid goodbye to an exciting teacher, an intellectual ornament to the state of Virginia, and a good man.

Every living governor was there, as was every living president of the university. Paying homage were the two United States senators, the representative to the United States congress, as well as their counterparts to the state General Assembly.

Those current students who had read his books and chatted with him during his office hours also attended. The males wore coats and ties. This was UVA, after all.

Sunshine flooded through the chapel windows. The eulogies, succinct and touching, befitted Ginger. Together with her surviving family and Ginger’s, Trudy sat in the front pew. And while some institutions would have paraded the governor first, not so here. Ginger’s former colleagues, the UVA presidents, sat just behind the family.

The football team of 1959 was in the rear, as were Harry, Fair, Susan, and the Very Reverend Herbert Jones with Miranda Hogendobber. Those who had loved Ginger in life came to bid him farewell. It was a mix of sorrow and loss, as well as joy and admiration.

After the dignified service, the crowd moved behind the chapel, then around the Rotunda and down the undulating lawn to the statue of Homer before Old Cabell Hall. The reception was at Pavilion VII. The lawn of this most beautiful of American universities was filled with people.

Caterer Warren Chiles, who had catered the Reverend Jones’s small dinner party, had prudently hired twenty extra servers to carry trays onto the lawn. There was no way all those folks would fit into the Pavilion, even if they kept circulating, which they did not. Four bars served those inside and those outside, with students under twenty-one not drinking. On their own, at their own parties, they could drain the James River, but in a situation such as this, students knew what was expected of them.

Harry—separated from Fair, who was trying to get drinks—found herself with Nelson and the old boys from the football team.

“Harry, let me get you something to drink,” Marshall quickly offered.

“Thank you, but Fair is at the bar.”

Looking at the mob, Paul Huber remarked, “Fair has the advantage of height.” Then he spoke to Nelson, “Ever wish Fair had played when we did?”

“All the time,” Nelson replied. “But Fair’s an Auburn man, through and through.”

Talking to Sandra Yarbrough, Harry fell silent for a moment.

Sandra whispered, “Let’s hope there’s no one from Alabama within earshot.” This brought a grin to Harry. The two universities had not quite reached the level of hostility of the nations in the Middle East, but sometimes they hovered close to that.

Back from UCLA, Lionel Gardner walked toward Fair to help him carry the drinks. Counting the glasses, Willis Fugate left the group, saying to Marshall as he did so, “I’m almost as tall as Fair. I can complete this mission.”

Handed libations first, the ladies gratefully took sips, for this felt like the first day of high spring. A light breeze, low seventies, sunshine.

Rudolph Putnam asked, “What did you all think?”

Marshall cleared his throat. “Fitting. Teresa Sullivan”—he named the president of the university—“and her staff organized a wonderful service. But even knowing there would be a crowd, I don’t think anyone could have anticipated this.” He swept his arm to indicate the numbers.

Paul checked his watch. “You’ve got about fifteen minutes before announcing the endowed chair, and I think it will take fifteen minutes to get in there.”

Marshall straightened his tie. “Right.”

Accompanied by Nelson, Lionel, Paul, and Rudy, Marshall made his way to the open front door. Willis, hands full of glasses, passing them, hurried additional libations to the ladies. “Girls”—he was of a generation that would use this term without any hint of offense—“I’ve got to go block for the boys.”

Sandra laughed. “People will think we’re lushes.”

“Could think worse.” Harry smiled.

Susan gratefully sipped another vodka tonic. “This is overwhelming.”

“Yes, it is,” Harry observed. “I don’t know where Herb and Miranda are.”

“Maybe Herb is with Trudy and the girls,” Susan murmured. “He would be a great support.”

“He would,” Sandra agreed. “He always knows just what to do and what to say.”

The 1959 men made it through the Pavilion’s crowd. When Marshall made his announcement, only those in the room could hear, but the news rapidly spread to the outside.

“The boys” as they would probably always be known, even if they all lived to be one hundred, had to date raised six million dollars for an endowed chair in Ginger’s name: “The Professor Greg McConnell Chair in Early American History!” Cheers rippled outward like waves, and when Marshall and the boys tried to get back to their wives and friends, they moved at a snail’s pace. Everyone wanted to shake their hands and slap their backs, and a few ladies kissed them. Everyone said “Thank you” or “How wonderful.” The money engine, Tim Jardine, had called everyone he knew. Walking with the old football players, he was also feted by those who recognized his success in the business world.

One former governor was overheard saying to another, “Ah, imagine if Jardine had been our campaign treasurer!”

While not happy, if a funeral can be said to be positive, Ginger’s was. People, giddy with spring, thrilled at the endowed chair, talked, mixed, cried, and laughed. Those without the money to make handsome contributions pledged one another to various activities memorializing Ginger. Knowing this, Marshall worked the crowd, as did the others, urging people to help: any amount, even five dollars, would benefit the fund for the new chair.

Fair finally caught up with his wife, who was walking toward the arcade to get out of the sun.

She had just noticed a furtive figure lurking nearby.

Stopping, she studied the lone man hiding as best he could behind one of the Rotunda’s large pillars. “Fair, get Marshall or any of the boys, will you?”

“What?”

“Never mind. Come with me.” She hurriedly made her way through the throng to Marshall, who turned from another handshake. Harry put both her hands on his shoulders, stood on her toes, and whispered in his ear.

“Marshall, Frank Cresey is on the Rotunda behind a pillar. If Olivia comes out.” She left it at that.

Marshall turned to Paul. “Get the boys, will you?”

Within a few minutes, Marshall, Willis, Lionel, Paul, and Rudy were walking under the arcade toward the Rotunda. Harry watched with apprehension, as did Susan, now beside her. Fair, given his size, had left them to trail the other men, just in case.

“God, I hope he doesn’t make a scene,” said Harry.

—

Frank froze as he saw the other men walking toward him.

In a gentle voice, Lionel called out, “Frank, good of you to come.”

At this, Frank burst into tears, ran down the Rotunda steps away from the crowd, away from his past.

Paul began to follow when Marshall called out, “Let him go, Paul.”

Nelson also said, “Let him go. We need to rejoin the mourners.” Then he said to the others, “Does anyone have a cellphone with them?”

Willis pulled his out from his inside coat pocket, as did Marshall. “Whoever knows Sheriff Shaw’s number, call and alert him,” said Nelson. “I doubt Frank will do any harm, but we don’t want anything to upset Trudy, the girls.”

Marshall quickly dialed the sheriff’s number, as Willis did not know it by heart. Marshall was always good with numbers. He made the call. There were already university security people all around, as well as sheriff’s cars, with lights flashing, to eventually lead people to the grave site.

Trudy, Olivia, and Rennie had decided to have the reception immediately following the service. Then family members, dear friends, colleagues, and his students could follow to the grave site if they wished. Otherwise, it would have been a snarl to leave UVA grounds, then try to return.

Two hours after the chapel service, they reached the grave site.

Out of the corner of her eye, at least one hundred yards away from the grave, Harry again spied Frank. How he had gotten there was anybody’s guess, but the burial details had been printed in The Daily Progress. Perhaps he’d hitched a ride with someone. Frank’s eyes never left Olivia, but he kept his distance.

After the interment, Harry said to Fair, “Frank’s here.”

“Where?”

She looked again at the spot. “He was over there.”

Fair unobtrusively, or as unobtrusively as a six-foot-five-inch man could, moved toward Olivia.

But Frank did not show himself again or harass Olivia. Their good luck held. Frank’s good luck was running out.