OUTSIDE THE BUILDINGthat housed his office, I stopped at a concrete bench and took a moment to collect my thoughts. Chill air frosted my breath. I was near a big tree full of noisy blackbirds, but otherwise the campus was quiet. It was that time of day when morning classes were over and evening classes had not yet begun. A few students drifted by on their way to the library. I looked around me. Thomas Wolfe was right, except that home isn’t the only place you can’t go back to.

I pulled my coat collar up around my ears and headed down the sloping walkways toward what a friend of mine used to call “the lower kingdom”-the administration building, nestled into the bottom of the hill. It was my fervent wish that Booter Hodges would find my visit there an unpleasant surprise.

9

HELLO, IRENE!How nice to see you!” Booter wore a big grin as he welcomed me from his office door. “Pammy,” he called to his secretary, who was standing a few feet away, posed in the ready mode, “take this girl’s coat from her, would you?”

Grateful that I had taken it off and draped it over to my armbefore Booter could help me out of it, I handed it to Pamela and thanked her.

“Would you like a cappuccino or an espresso?” Booter asked.

“This won’t be from one of the vending machines, I take it?”

He laughed as hard as if it had been one of his boss’s jokes. I looked at the long-suffering Pamela, who stood waiting for the next command. “No need to bring me anything,” I said. “I’m fine.”

“Come on in, come on in,” Booter said.

The enthusiasm didn’t fool me. Booter is paid to be enthusiastic. He was once an economics professor. He received lousy student evaluations, but he got along well with his colleagues-a gift in an academic setting-and was made department chair. What he lacked in teaching ability he made up for in administrative skill. He continued to rise quickly through the ranks, from department chair to dean and on to his current vice presidency. His ability to raise money from alumni and other sources had kept him there for many years.

His real name was Lynn. He hated it. He was fond of telling male companions that he earned the nickname “Booter” by kicking ass in his college days. I knew better. An old chum of his gave me quite a history of the alias. Said Booter used to get drunk at frat parties, and then suffer a side effect of drinking, the one dry cleaners and cabbies hate. At his college, this charming act was referred to as “booting.”

He motioned me to a plush white leather seat. Booter was slender and tanning-salon brown. His gray hair was styled perfectly, his hands were manicured. He was wearing an expensive dark blue suit and a dark red tie. As he sat at his big cherrywood desk, he moved a wide gold band with a diamond in it up and down his left ring finger like the bead on an abacus. I hoped his wife was saving for a rainy day, because it didn’t look like Booter was sure he wanted to keep that ring on.

“Didn’t get a chance to talk to you at the Terrace last night, Booter,” I said. “You disappeared not long after you saw me come into the dining room.”

“Oh, now, Irene, no need to take offense. I was just shaken up by Andre’s collapse. I’ll tell you a little secret.”

I waited.

“Promise not to tell anyone?”

“Depends on the secret.”

He laughed, a little bass chortle this time. “Spoken like a true journalist! Well, all right. Here it is: I can’t stand the sight of blood. I’m a decorated Korean War veteran, but I am an utter yellow-belly when it comes to anything having to do with doctors or medicine. I can’t even date nurses!”

“Imagine that,” I said.

“Say, was that your husband I saw you with last night?”

“Yes, that’s Frank.”

More movement with the ring. “Now, that man’s a hero. In fact, I’m going to recommend that the president send him a letter of thanks.”

“The president,” in this case, would be the college president.

“Entirely unnecessary, I assure you, Booter.”

“No, no! I’m going to do it. He saved one of our most important faculty members.”

“Jerry Selman did just as much,” I said. “And I don’t think Frank would be comfortable with the attention.”

“Frank? Is that his name?”

I nodded, wishing he would listen to someone besides himself.

“Good-looking man.”

I was trying to figure out if saying “thanks” was the appropriate response when he irritated me by adding, “But then, you’re a good-looking gal, right?”

Trying not to do a little booting of my own, I forged ahead. “What brought the six of you together for dinner last night?”

“You were there, you saw us. Nothing to hide. Allan retired and wanted to thank those of us who stood by him over the years.”

“In what way does the college foundation stand by the city manager?”

“Oh, in my case, it’s the other way around. Allan’s an alumnus, of course. He’s done a great deal over the years to keep community leaders in touch with the college.”

“Just how much money has he brought in, Booter?”

“Well, hard to say. Hard to say. Helped immeasurably. Let’s just put it like that.”

“And the college has helped Allan, of course.”

“We’ve helped him stay in touch with experts here at the college, helped the city as well. Is that what you’re driving at?”

“Experts like Andre Selman?”

“Certainly. Andre has done a number of studies for the city.”

“And that brings in city grant money to the college?”

“We apply for them, compete for them like everybody else. It’s cost-effective to use local experts whenever possible. Allan knows that.”

“I’m sure Allan has done the college a world of good.”

Booter leaned back, making the chair creak. He began stroking his tie. It was a nervous habit of his, pulling on his tie like that. Wouldn’t take a Freudian psychiatrist to figure out why Booter didn’t wear bow ties.

“Is there something wrong with that?” he asked.

“You tell me.”

“Why no, of course there isn’t. That’s the trouble with the media these days. That’s why a lot of Americans are just plain fed up with the press. You’re all so negative-”

I tuned out while he went on and on about what a heartless bunch we were. I’ve heard it all before. Every clown who ever read the funny papers is a media expert these days.

It was especially irritating to hear someone like Booter rant about the media’s supposed failings. People like Booter believe that newspapers (and almost everything else in the world) exist for their convenience. Their idea of cooperating with the press is to try to use it. They want to be interviewed, but only if the interview flatters them. We exist to supply them with public favor, whether they deserve it or not. Their motto seems to be “Don’t buy advertising, get the newsroom to hand it out for free.” But begin to tell the whole story, and suddenly, we’re the negative press. This gets damned tiresome.

Booter ground to a halt, suddenly realizing his mistake. “Oh, Irene, I’m just an old windbag.”

Although I was tempted to tell him that I knew exactly where he had found the wind to fill up that bag, and that he had his head stuck up in the very same place, I kept my temper in check and asked, “Did the six of you get together often?”

“Not too often. We’re all busy.”

“I’ve been saying six, but I guess it should be seven. Ben Watterson would have been there.”

His smile disappeared, his eyes grew moist. Booter is such an oily fake, it was hard to trust what I saw on his face.

“Ben was a good man,” he said. “The best. He was always kind to me. I wish he would have talked to me, confided in me. Maybe I could have cheered him up. I wish he would have just let metry to cheer him up. I wish he had called.”

His wishes were wasted, of course, as are all our wishes for what we could have done for the dead. But it seemed his sadness was genuine.