The Hunt Ball

C H A P T E R 2 3

“Balls.” Bill leaned back in the leather club chair, putting his feet on the leather hassock. “He’s so full of it.”

Amy shrugged, “That’s what he said.”

“He’s always crying poor. It’s a professional hazard.” Bill would have none of it. “There’s money in the budget for centrifuges. For Christ’s sake, Amy, every school budget has a layer of fat in it. Think of it as high cholesterol.” He glanced down at his own expanding belly, the corners of his mouth turned down. “When did you see him, anyway?”

“I stopped by his office at eight-thirty. Before my first class.”

“I’m sure he was toiling away.” Bill’s voice dripped sarcasm.

“He was.”

Alpha Rawnsley opened the door to the teachers’ lounge, inhaling the seasoned oak crackling in the fireplace. “Solace!” She closed the door behind her, took in Amy’s face. “Perhaps not.”

“Oh, Alpha, I’m just mad at Knute, that’s all. He says there isn’t money in the budget to replace the four centrifuges that broke.”

“Crying poor.” Bill nestled farther into the comfortable old chair, made so by decades of teacher bottoms.

“He can be strict,” Alpha wryly replied as she poured herself a sherry from the decanter.

As each of them had taught their last class of the day, they repaired to the lounge. It was their version of stopping by the bar to have one with the boys before going home. The difference was the Custis Hall faculty thought of it as collegiality.

“Anal,” Bill said.

“That may be so, but Custis Hall remains in the black. You have to give him and Charlotte credit for that. And once the alumnae fund reaches its target, they’ll both relax.”

“If I have to wait that long for four centrifuges, I’d better leave.” Amy decided a spot of sherry would do her a world of good, too.

Outside the paned, leaded-glass windows a few snowflakes announced more to come.

Alpha smiled. “To the first snow.” She handed Bill a sherry.

They toasted the true beginning of winter.

“You know what else he’s obsessing about?”

“Amy, he has a laundry list.” Bill giggled, which made the two women laugh.

“Professor Kennedy’s bill. He must have droned on and on for a good twenty minutes about all the time she was here because she charges by the hour. He anticipates her report, which, his words, ‘Will be a pulp novel larger than the Cedars of Lebanon.’ He’s not exactly sliding into the holiday mood.”

“Wonder why he called it a novel?” Alpha, ever the English teacher, queried.

Amy shrugged but Bill piped up, “She’ll make it up.”

“Bill!” Alpha was surprised. “She hardly seemed like that kind of person, and do you think she would have the recommendation she does or her position at Brown if she were a fraud?”

“I don’t know.” Bill drained his sherry glass. “I just don’t see how anyone can authenticate an iron lock or a pair of dancing pumps. I suppose you can come close, but I know from my work that you wind up with what was most popular. For instance, let’s say I’m doing a production of The Lion in Winter. Twelfth century and it happened to be a period of clean, quite beautiful designs, especially for women’s clothing. But what do I see? Stained-glass windows. A pretty painting in a Book of Hours. There’s not a scrap of fabric left. Besides, I’m seeing idealized representations of royalty and nobles. I don’t think it’s that easy to authenticate certain objects or clothes. It’s always an approximation.”

“Carbon dating.” Amy poured another round for Bill and herself. Alpha waved her off.

“Sure. That will really put Knute over the edge. Do you know how expensive that is? Look, we’re doing this to pacify a segment of our student body. It’s window dressing.”

“I don’t think so.” Alpha disagreed without being disagreeable. “Once the administration committed to this, it realized that nothing has been done with those items since the day they were given to Custis Hall. No one knows their value. It may be important for insurance.”

“Sell off one old ribbon and I’d have my centrifuges,” Amy griped.

Bill laughed, “I can see it now, science teacher sentenced to fifteen years for theft of valuable ribbon.”

The three laughed.

Alpha lowered her voice slightly. “This is when we need Al Perez. He could jolly Knute along.”

Amy struggled, then replied, “I try not to miss him, but I do.”

Diplomatically Alpha said, “You were closer to him than we were. He had his faults. Don’t we all? However, he worked very hard for Custis Hall and we’re close to our alumnae fund goal because of him.”

“Fifteen million dollars.” Bill inhaled. “That sounds like so much money until you realize that two decades ago Stanford University launched a drive to raise one billion dollars in alumnae contributions. Now the other first-flight,” he used the hunting term, “universities have followed suit.”

“Pity poor University of Missouri.” Alpha kept up with educational news. “Kenneth Lay, a graduate, promised beaucoup dollars. They based their budget on that and, well, we know the rest of that story. I can’t imagine doing that to people or to one’s alma mater. He doesn’t seem to have a smidgen of shame.”

“Never steal anything small,” Bill replied. “Remember that movie with James Cagney? Wasn’t that the title?”

Amy glared at Bill. “How would I know?”

“That’s right, Amy. I forgot. You were still in swaddling clothes.” Bill let out an uproarious laugh and Alpha couldn’t help but laugh with him.

“Bill, you went ugly early.” Amy smiled for a change.

“Guess I did.” He finished his sherry. “My wife has promised something new and exciting with the turkey leftovers. My curiosity is rising.”

“Along with your appetite.” Alpha listened to the grandfather clock ticking in the corner. “Snowing a bit harder now. Bill, think you’ll foxhunt tomorrow?”

“It’s from Beasley Hall. Crawford will have the road plowed out. We’ll go unless it’s a blizzard. I didn’t check the weather this morning. What’s the call?”

“Light snow. Not much accumulation, maybe one or two inches. Enough for the highway department to clear the roads,” Alpha said.

“With what we pay in state taxes the highway department could do a better job of snowplowing.” Amy folded her arms across her chest.

“Budget. See. We come back to Knute. Same drama, different theater.” Bill enjoyed his wordplay.

“This is a rich state,” Amy said.

“It’s a well-managed state,” Alpha said, amending Amy’s response. “We aren’t rich compared to New York or California. We’re better managed, and because of that, our taxes are lower.”

“We don’t have people pouring in across the border using state services and not paying for them.” Bill had strong thoughts about that issue.

“True,” Alpha simply replied.

“It always comes back to money, doesn’t it? I don’t see why we can’t afford more snowplows and I don’t see why I can’t have four centrifuges.”

“If the state buys more snowplows it’s wasteful. Contract out the labor, allow those men who already have the equipment to make some money. The state doesn’t have to maintain the equipment, put the gas in the engines, or buy the bulldozer initially. It’s a better system. It’s up to the contractor to factor in those things when he bids.” Alpha believed passionately in reducing the number of people employed by the state government or any level of government. Let the private sector do it.

“So what do you want me to do? Go write a bid and turn it in to Knute?”

“Try an angora sweater that fits, uh, that shows off your assets.” Bill felt wonderful, the sherry warming him.

“Works on you, not Knute.” Amy knew her compatriots.

Alpha remarked lightly, “You can’t blame a man for looking.”

“Alpha, you’d be surprised.” A sour note crept into Bill’s voice. “If our society becomes any more politically correct the only people who will teach, run for office, you name it, will be robots. God help anyone with blood in his or her veins.”

“You’ve got a point there, Bill. I’m glad I’m getting older.” She spoke to Amy, “Bill and I will soon retire. You and your generation are going to bear the brunt of this. And you’re also going to endure a wicked recession, so my advice, dear, forget the centrifuges for now. Be as helpful as you can and the best teacher you can be. When the pink slips fly, your name won’t be on one. Because by the time this economy hits the skids, Knute will be even more powerful.”

“Hear, hear.” Bill raised his glass and Amy poured him another round.

He was a big man and could absorb it.

“We haven’t really talked about this, but Al’s murder is certainly going to affect the school. If the person who did it isn’t caught soon, parents will get nervous and so will alumnae. Our recession could start before the nation’s,” Alpha shrewdly noted.

“They’ll catch him,” Amy confidently said.

“Who knows?” Bill’s blue eyes were doubtful. “Murder is a very easy crime to commit. Steal something large, they’ll track you down sooner or later. Again, Kenneth Lay. But murder? It makes for good movies, but in real life people get away with it every day.”

“That’s cynical.” Amy wanted Al’s murderer caught even if she did cling to her resentment of the way in which the affair ended.

“Going to be more than two inches if it keeps coming down like this. What is there about the first snow? Pristine. Beautiful.” Alpha changed the subject. “I’ll bid you two adieu. I want to get home before the roads are a slushy mess.”

“Sun’s setting, too. It’ll ice up pretty fast. I guess I’ll find out what my dearest has conjured up with the leftovers.”

Amy waited alone in the lounge for a few minutes as she watched Alpha and Bill, walking together in the snow. She loved this old lounge. It was where she began her flirtation with Al that turned into something much more. For the first time since his death, the tears came. Lost loves, always emotionally potent, are even more so when death removes all possibility of resolution. Poor thing didn’t even know she needed resolution until this grief overtook her.