Carrington's Pledge

By Jim Vick

When a student is found dead in his fraternity house, the questions and conflicts expose difficult relationships among his girlfriend, a psychologist, the Dean of Students, and the wealthy grandson of a famous Texas wildcatter. The setting is a fictitious college in the very real city of Austin, and the mystery unfolds amid the turmoil of college life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jim Vick
• Release date: Aug 13, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452487465

Jim Vick

At the age of 6, Jim Vick walked onto a college campus to start the first grade, and he has never left. A brief summary: 12 years at the LSU Laboratory School, 4 years to get a BS in math at LSU, 4 years to get an MA and PhD in math at the University of Virginia, 2 years teaching at Princeton University, and 40 years as a faculty member and administrator at the University of Texas. His administrative responsibilities include 11 years as associate dean in the College of Natural Sciences and 16 years as Vice President for Student Affairs. He is currently Ashbel Smith Professor of Mathematics and a member of the University’s Academy of Distinguished Teachers.He and his wife, Niki, have two children (Todd and Stuart) and five grandchildren (Alyson, Will, Melissa, Mackenzie, and Whit). They divide their time between Austin and their log house in Balsam North Carolina. In addition to his responsibilities as a faculty member, he enjoys playing tennis, cooking, traveling, hiking, and playing the banjo.His plan is to continue writing about campus life, either as fiction or as a memoir, and to someday publish his collected poetry, written over the past twenty years.

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CARRINGTON’S PLEDGE

by

Jim Vick

SMASHWORDS EDITION

*****

PUBLISHED BY:

Jim Vick on Smashwords

Carrington’s Pledge

Copyright © 2010 by Jim Vick

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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A word of thanks

This book could not have happened without the encouragement and support of family, students, faculty and staff colleagues, and friends. Our travels together have provided the inspiration that motivated me to write. For all of your insight, optimism, and patience, I am deeply grateful.

* * * * *

CARRINGTON’S PLEDGE

1

Sunday, February 8, 2004

It could have been a perfect Sunday morning. The cool, crisp February air was a reminder that spring comes early to central Texas. It was a calorie-free energy source: take a deep breath and feel your nerve endings come to life. Conditions were ideal for a brisk walk among the towering cypress, pecan, and cottonwood trees that line the trail around Town Lake. Out on the water the rowing shells would trace their rhythmic paths along the surface, and as you crossed the bridge over Barton Creek, the turtles in the clear water below would float effortlessly, like Frisbees in slow motion. You might encounter the mayor or the police chief looking casual and relaxed or the white haired former governor exchanging warm greetings with those she meets along the trail. After all, the majority of them would be Democrats, not just because this is Austin, a blue island in an oceanic red state, but most of the Republicans would either be in church or at home reading the Dallas Morning News and waiting for George Will to appear on ABC. You would likely be passed by the graceful and silent long distance runner with legs that start at his armpits or the stocky guy with the nipple ring who runs shirtless in all kinds of weather, a fisherman trolling with the wrong bait. And after a brisk four miles you could reward yourself with a leisurely breakfast of migas and hot coffee at the Magnolia Café, working a Will Shortz crossword and watching the Dellionaires and the working stiffs as they enjoy their day of rest.

But for Jack Conway this was not to be.

Conway’s peaceful Sunday morning sleep was rudely interrupted by the impatient ring of his telephone. Even when he didn’t have a hangover, the sound was more of a shout than a polite request. Although he was alone in the house, he still reacted quickly to the ring, shaking the sleep from his mind and his voice so the caller would not think the call had awakened him. He would be the first to admit that this attitude was a problem – caring too much about what others think, taking undue measures to make sure their feelings were not hurt. Given time to reflect, Conway would ask, Why in the hell should I be self-conscious about sleeping on Sunday morning? Yet something deep within him said he should do his best to sound awake and alert, even to lie about being awakened if the caller asked.

There was no need for feigned alertness this time; the caller was Captain Morris of the Campus Police whose matter-of-fact tone and attitude made it clear there were no particular feelings involved. Morris was calling to report a student fatality at the Phi Alpha Sigma Fraternity House near the College. City Police and EMS were at the scene, but no additional information was available.

Within 20 minutes Conway was dressed and on his way to the campus neighborhood that included most of the fraternity and sorority houses. With no Motorola Marathon or Capitol 10,000 going on, the streets were quiet, and the only distraction was the permanent state of disruption produced by road maintenance all over the city. He knew that soon after the work was complete and a smooth black-top brought long-sought relief, some other crew would appear with their jackhammers and backhoes and rip a trench through the newly finished roadway to reach the power lines or storm drains.

As he waited for a red light to change at Lamar, the discussion on NPR droned on about the Democratic presidential primaries that were in full swing. Conway thought to himself, It’s only February, and I’m already tired of it. The election is nine months off… Why can’t we be more like the European countries and complete our campaigns in six or eight weeks. No wonder it costs so damn much and often yields questionable results. All the Democrats have to do is decided who they’re gonna run against Bush, and then let’s get it on. His eyes panned from the Green Mesquite Barbecue on his left to the miniature golf course in the next block, and he realized his frustration was amplified by the alarming nature of the wake-up call and the ominous prospect that tragedy lies ahead.

The college years are a time of maximum intellectual growth that can open doors to new realms of human opportunity; they can be years of senseless hedonism that ignore risk and parental concerns; they are often years of youthful energy and idealism that cultivate criticism of the established order; and they are years when relationships are built that last a night or a lifetime. And sometimes this exciting, exhilarating flight we call the college experience runs head-on into the stark stone cliffs of reality. That’s when Conway’s phone rings.

For the most part, being Dean of Students at the College was a very positive experience. Six years ago he had been asked to step into the position when Helen Stronheim died suddenly of a cerebral hemorrhage. In many ways it was a welcome change from his role as a professor in the History Department. With the passing years his scholarship had become less exciting, and through advising students and chairing committees, he had assumed more administrative responsibilities that brought him into contact with offices across the campus. His teaching in the honors program was a source of intellectual stimulation and excitement, and he insisted that it continue while he was acting as dean, but it was the direct contact with students from across the campus that became a new source of satisfaction. He was fascinated with their development and change during the college years, and he took pride in their leadership and accomplishments after graduation.

When his success as the interim dean grew into an opportunity to continue in a regular appointment, it took little deliberation for him to accept the offer. But times like this led him to speculate on how readily he would resume his faculty role, with all of its own pressures and demands. At least no one would call him early on a Sunday morning and ask why the League of Nations failed.

There is not much to distinguish the neighborhood around the College from many other campus communities across the country. Outside the initial ring of fast food establishments, bookstores, and record shops that no longer sell records, there is an assortment of aging houses for rent, apartments, co-ops, bars, and an occasional drugstore trying to hang on against the pressure of the corporate chains. The architecture, if it really deserves such a title, is eclectic, and every spare space is utilized for parking the panoply of student vehicles. On Sunday morning the activity level is low, and the debris from the weekend’s social activities belies the student activism for protecting the environment, but the oak trees and the feeling of a community give it a certain charm.

The slanting rays of the sun made abstract patterns on the pavement as Conway pulled his five-year-old Volvo to a stop at the curb. There was no sound other than the crunch of small twigs under the tires of his car. He heaved an audible sigh as he stepped from the car because he dreaded the next few hours, not knowing exactly what was in store, but conditioned from experience to realize that many lives would be affected by the death that had occurred, and his responsibilities would bring him into contact with those in distress.

As he approached the Phi Alpha Sigma House, Conway was struck once again with its imposing façade of red brick with tall white columns, reminiscent of a time long past, a time when the roles of distinct social groups were more clearly defined. Was a primary reason for the existence of organizations like Phi Alpha Sigma the commitment to preserving these outdated societal structures, just as its architecture clung to another age? His experience as an undergraduate and a fraternity member told him the answer should be no, but that was twenty-five years earlier and a thousand miles away.

The broad expanse of lawn and the size and style of the building exuded privilege; it was known to be the wealthiest and most expensive of all the fraternities at the College, but on this morning the normally elegant appearance of the house was obscured by cut bamboo and sagging fishnets holding up a toppled, crudely lettered sign that read Bermuda Bash. The scene was further confused by an EMS ambulance with lights flashing and a city policeman stringing yellow tape to limit access to the building. A small group of young men stood on the steps outside the tape, in a self-conscious daze, speaking to each other in guarded tones.

They recognized Conway as soon as he stepped into the yard, and their conversations stopped in anticipation of his presence. The first to greet him was Ted Glasgow, a senior who had been involved in a number of campus activities that brought him into contact with the Dean’s Office. Conway knew that he was president of Phi Alpha Sigma, so it was likely he was living in the house. The expression on Glasgow’s face reflected the disarray of his clothes and his hair. He was tall, well over six feet, and his hair was the color of an autumn haystack, but this morning the haystack appeared to have been thru a winter storm. His jogging shorts and wrinkled t-shirt made it clear that he was concerned about neither the weather nor the prospect of dealing with the authorities. He projected a mixture of fear and anxiety that was a dramatic contrast to the poise and confidence he usually projected.

As Glasgow stepped forward, Conway said, Good morning, Ted, what’s going on?

Shaking Conway’s extended hand, Glasgow responded, Dean Conway, thanks for coming over,….we don’t know very much. Glasgow shifted his feet, looking down, and continued uncomfortably, Bill Freemen went into Charles Thomas’s room to wake him up this morning – they had planned to go to Houston to see the Rockets game this afternoon. At first he thought Charlie was just ignoring him and refusing to get up, but then Bill realized that Charlie wasn’t breathing. Bill freaked out and woke all of us up. We called 911, and the police and EMS got here about a half hour ago.

Do you have any idea what happened? asked Conway.

Nobody has a clue…We had a party here at the house last night, and Charlie was at the party, but nothing unusual was happening. There were people here ‘til about three in the morning, …none of us remembers seeing Charlie toward the end of the party. He’s in a single room, so there’s no roommate who might know.

In the awkward silence that followed Glasgow’s comment, Conway’s attention was drawn to the front door of the house where a campus policeman emerged. Conway recognized him immediately as Sergeant Phillips, one of the veterans who always seemed to be there to help when difficult situations arose. The relationship between the Campus Police and the Dean of Students Office was a solid partnership built on respect and mutual support. Conway appreciated the patience and understanding their officers maintained in dealing with students, something that stood in marked contrast to the attitude one might finding other law enforcement agencies, and Sergeant Phillips was exemplary in the way he could be firm and decisive yet fully aware that he was dealing with young adults who were exploring the freedoms of college life. On many occasions Conway and Phillips had worked side-by-side to solve problems and protect the College from embarrassing or threatening conflicts.

When Phillips saw Conway, he changed direction and accelerated his pace to reach the group. As he greeted Conway, the two of them walked silently away from the others so that their voices could not be heard. The years of experience showed in the lines around Phillips’ eyes and the gray streaks in his rust-colored mustache. The expression on his face was grim as he spoke.

Dean Conway, we have a clear ID that the deceased is one of our undergraduates, Charles Thomas; he’s probably been dead for several hours… There were no visible injuries, as far as I could see… He was dressed in a strange outfit, probably a costume from the party last night, some kind of Hawaiian shirt and goofy, baggy shorts. The room was a wreck, but have you ever seen a college guy’s room that wasn’t? There were a couple of empty vodka bottles….My guess is that he had too much to drink, and his body couldn’t handle it.

Was there any evidence of drugs?

Nothing was in sight…no paraphernalia or other indications. Of course we won’t know anything specific until we hear from the medical examiner.

How about any indication of foul play or just the presence of someone else in the room?

There was only the alcohol…and from the state of the room, there could’ve been six guys in there playin’ dodgeball… dirty clothes, books, papers, a few empty Coke cans… It would be hard to say if anyone else had been there.

Where was the body?

Thomas was flat on his back across the bed… not like he’d gone to bed… more like was sitting on the bed when he passed out and fell backward. He was clasping a ballpoint pen in his right hand as if he was preparing to write something, but there was no evidence of anything he’d written… I looked on the floor and under the bed, but I didn’t see anything.

Was there a glass or something he might have been drinking out of?

The only thing I saw was a ceramic fraternity mug on the table next to the bed. I asked the APD officer if there was anything in it, but he said no, it was empty.

Did you look at it?

I didn’t pick it up… probably as a result of my training not to disturb a crime scene, even though this seems unlikely to be a crime… But I did look into it, and it was dry.

Were the vodka bottles empty?

One was… the other was about half-full.

Were they 750 ml or something larger?

They were both 750 ml; why do you ask?

I was just wondering how much alcohol it would take to poison someone Thomas’s size.

That depends on several factors. His weight appeared to be about average, but you can’t observe anything about his metabolism… and it would depend a great deal on how rapidly he drank.

Were there any visible markings on his body?

The only thing I could see was a tattoo on his right forearm… it looked like an eagle, but it was hard to tell because his arm was turned toward the wall.

Conway paused to digest that information briefly, then asked, What happens next?

They should be able to take him to the morgue pretty soon. The medical examiner will do an autopsy to determine the cause and approximate time of death… I understand the parents have been notified by APD; they’ll probably be coming to town later this afternoon… Since this happened off campus, the investigation will be handled by the city police; we’ll help them in any way we can.

Have you noticed anything unusual?

Not really, Phillips continued, the guys in the house seem to be in a state of shock. They also look pretty hungover. This has been a big party weekend all over the neighborhood – we had a few complaints from the locals, but there was nothing special about Phi Alpha Sigma, and it was no worse than the usual early spring celebration.

As Conway turned back toward the lingering students, he said, If you come across anything, let me know. I’ll be calling the parents later this morning and trying to help those close to Thomas deal with it… This is such a senseless tragedy…. They all feel like they’re indestructible. Why does it take something like this to get their attention?

Phillips’ only response was to look Conway in the eye and slowly shake his head. Both were thinking of the many occasions in the past when abuse of alcohol had led to disastrous results.

Conway continued in a more philosophical tone, I don’t have children of my own, but it must be a parent’s worst nightmare – to put all of your love and energy into raising a child for twenty years, and then, just when he’s ready to go out and make a place for himself in the world, he’s gone without even a chance to say good-bye.

Turning to walk slowly back toward the group of students, Conway noticed three young women approaching the house. Ted Glasgow stepped forward to meet them, awkwardly embracing one who buried her face in his shoulder, her body shuddering with sobs. Conway and Phillips kept a respectful distance as the students consoled one another, often glancing up toward the house. After a few minutes passed, Glasgow approached Conway accompanied by one of the women. She wore faded jeans and a loose-fitting sweatshirt, and her light brown hair was pulled straight back with a clip. Her eyes were swollen and still brimming with tears, but through it all Conway could see that she was remarkably beautiful, the kind of beauty that would catch the attention of everyone and interrupt conversations when she walked into a room.

Dean Conway, Glasgow said, this is Heather Kilborn…she and Charlie Thomas have been going together for a good while.

She slowly extended her right hand in an involuntary greeting, and Conway took it and held it as he spoke. Heather, I’m so sorry this happened…We’re very concerned for you and the other students who were close to Charlie.

Never lifting her gaze from the ground between them, Heather struggled to say something without success, then she paused and only whispered Thank you as one of her girl friends wrapped an arm around her shoulder.

Heather, Conway said reaching out to place a caring hand on her shoulder, You’ve suffered a devastating loss,… so sudden,… so unexpected... The things we say may do little to relieve the pain you’re feeling, but please know that we care for you, and we are here to help in any way we can.

Heather only nodded in recognition without raising her eyes or trying to speak.

After an awkward pause Conway continued in a comforting but more business-like voice, When was the last time you saw Charles? Were you together at the party last night?

Heather looked up and briefly met Conway’s gaze before looking away, her breath coming in short spasmodic jerks as she struggled to speak. We went to the party together…but we got into a fight, and I went home…and that was the last I saw him. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed once again.

Already feeling guilty for sounding like an insensitive investigator, Conway reached into his pocket and withdrew a business card; turning it over he wrote on the back Dr. Elizabeth Brazwell, 528-4132. As he extended the card to Heather, he said, Here’s the name and number of a counselor at the College, Beth Brazwell. She’s very good at helping students who’ve suffered a serious loss… I hope you’ll give her a call and find a time when the two of you can talk.

Conway always had difficulty finding comforting words to say in times of grief; in his mind he felt the need to be sensitive and compassionate, but the words just would not flow. His heart ached with empathy for Heather, and he wished he could console her and help her deal with the pain she was feeling. As he did so often, he fell back on the familiar processes that were more comfortable. Turning to Glasgow, he said, Ted, we’ll have a representative of the Counseling Center available to come to the house tonight and meet with the fraternity. It’s important at a difficult time like this that people have an opportunity to express their feelings and understand what they are experiencing in the grieving process. I’ll have someone contact you later today.

During the walk back to his car, Conway’s mind raced from one question to another. Who was Charles Thomas, and what path led him to this sad end? Although Conway knew many of the students at the College, he did not recall ever meeting or even hearing about Thomas before. The fraternity he belonged to included the sons of many wealthy and influential families; was Thomas a part of that culture? Even if he was, the morning’s message was clear – the Grim Reaper cannot be bought off with power and prestige. What must it have been like to party late into the night surrounded by young, animated friends and face death alone in the morning? Why would someone smart enough to be a college student continue to drink after already being blind drunk? And through it all, the recurring theme, what could have been done to prevent this from happening?

2

Later the same day

In spite of his fifteen years in Austin, Conway still didn’t feel much like a Texan. He had been a Midwesterner through college and graduate school, and he found those cultural ties to be strong and long lasting. There were times when he longed for the splat of a basketball on the wood floor of a small-town high school gym. All his memories of basketball harkened back to the spring of his freshman year in college as Isiah Thomas cut down the net for Bobby Knight’s Hoosiers after their championship win over Dean Smith and North Carolina. With the passing of time in Austin, he had acquired the usual array of jeans and boots, and he enjoyed the barbecue and the live music that Austinites cite with pride, but he never felt as if he were really a part of it all. Among the hurdles he found challenging to overcome were the attitude caricatured in song as Big hats, big hair, big egos everywhere that seemed to be in oversupply in the state, and the contrast between the half-truth of this stereotype and the modest circumstances from which he came

For Conway, growing up in the small town of Carmel, Indiana had charms of its own. His parents were both schoolteachers, so there was an abundance of intellectual stimulation at home but only a modest level of resources that often were stretched to meet the family’s needs. Yet he never lacked for the essentials as he grew up. The contrast between his situation and the world of those more affluent was brought home to him in high school when he started dating Susan, the only daughter of a wealthy businessman in Carmel. Visiting in her home, riding in her sports car, and going with her to the Woodland Country Club served as a constant reminder of the difference in their circumstances. In those early years, the forces that drew them together were stronger and more prominent: their shared experiences, their love of music and the world of ideas, their excitement about the future, and their sense of humor. They spent many hours together talking about college and the excitement of going someplace new.

When the time came, Jack’s college decision was both economic and educational. He traveled the short distance to Bloomington where he could use his state scholarship and take advantage of the lower tuition costs of Indiana University. Susan’s choice of Bennington seemed to signal the end of their romance, and the summer following their high school graduation was a mixture of excitement and sadness. Susan found that she had much in common with her fellow students at Bennington; she developed close friendships with other young women, primarily from the east coast, and she thrived in the small classes and the close attention provided by the faculty. Jack combined an honors program in the humanities with living in a fraternity house, and this blend of intellectual and social activities permeated his experience.

When holidays brought them back to Carmel, they spent time together, and their relationship grew in new directions. It was the early 1980s, and the Reagan presidency gave momentum to Susan’s innate conservative philosophy. Conway thought of himself as a moderate independent who could be comfortable voting either Republican or Democratic, depending on the candidates and the issues. His college experience had strengthened this outlook as he was trained to be a skeptic and to ask probing questions of any position, but when political matters arose with Susan and her parents, he felt like a left-wing radical by comparison.

They both dated other people during college, but there was always a certain loyalty to each other that kept them from making a deep commitment to someone else, and this unspoken fidelity rendered them conscientious objectors in the sexual revolution that gripped their campuses. As they neared the end of their college years, they both sensed the need for a partner to share the challenges that lay ahead, and their talk became more serious. Their relationship had evolved into a blend of romance and intellectual partnership, and their decision to get married seemed like the next step in a logical progression, but there were times when Conway felt this decision was rushed, that Susan’s anxiety about the unknown future she might face alone had driven her into a marriage of convenience and security.

Their wedding was the event of the summer in Carmel, with Susan’s family sparing no expense. But the opulence of the occasion stood in stark contrast to the years that followed, as Jack labored through the graduate program in history at the University of Michigan. Stipends for graduate students in the humanities were meager at best. Some fellowship funding was available, but more often he spent many hours a week as a teaching assistant, balancing those commitments with the demands of his coursework and research. Susan found a job in the office of a state legislator, doing research on issues and helping respond to constituent requests. Their combined income was adequate for a modest lifestyle, but far from the conditions she had known at home. Susan’s family was constantly offering additional resources: a new refrigerator, a new car, a vacation trip, and while these seemed supportive, more often they drove a wedge between Jack and Susan and undermined their independence and their sense of personal accomplishment.

When Jack finished his doctorate and received an offer from the College to come to Austin, it was a time of excitement and exploration. Tenure track positions in history were scarce and very competitive; it was the strength of Jack’s dissertation and the influence of his adviser that opened the door. Neither he nor Susan had spent any time in Texas, but they were excited about the change and the challenge of starting life in a place where they were completely new and unknown.

They found Austin to be an exciting environment: a city in transition from a state capital and university town to a high tech metropolis. Susan found a staff position with a state senator, Steven Hardy, a Republican from Amarillo, and Jack enthusiastically joined the academic community at the College. The modest house they bought not far from Barton Springs became the focal point of their free time, and the work they did together to make it a special place strengthened their relationship. At last they were far away and financially secure so they could feel more independent from Susan’s parents.

Jack tackled his teaching responsibilities with enthusiasm and committed his research efforts to expanding his dissertation into a book. The enthusiastic reviews it received from his peers and his success in the classroom gave him confidence that he would fare well when the time came for the department to make a tenure decision on him. But the process was a grueling one, with authorities around the world in his field asked to evaluate his work. One negative response could very likely doom his case, so any confidence he felt was tempered by a hard dose of reality. There had been some impressive assistant professors ahead of him in the pipeline who had been rejected, forcing them to find employment elsewhere – some even leaving academia altogether.

The uncertainty of the tenure decision with all its accompanying anxiety, inextricably bound to a six-year time line, was the first major force to come between Jack and Susan. Her friendships at work and the contacts she made in the political community pulled her in a new direction, away from the social environment associated with the History Department faculty. She rarely heard a positive comment about the legislature from any of Jack’s faculty colleagues, and the political attitudes represented in the department were frequently in conflict with her ideas. In addition, the standards for success in the political world were dramatically different from to the values at the heart of faculty judgment. Nothing brought those differences more into focus then the tenure-decision process. As the time passed and the pressure increased, Susan became more pessimistic, and consequently more embittered toward the department and its senior faculty. As Jack defended the system, suppressing his own self-doubt and anger, their hopes for the future gradually became a fading remnant of the past. Like a virus, the discord spread to other areas of their lives: finances, always a matter of friction between them, became a greater source of disagreement in spite of their combined salaries; the struggle to be independent of Susan’s family grew more intense; and sex became a way of expressing conflict rather than intimacy.

Looking back on the decay of their marriage, Jack could not identify a defining moment, a climactic confrontation, an unforgivable hurt that signaled the end. There was a gradual realization that they no longer wanted to be married to each other. Even a brief attempt at couples counseling could not reverse the momentum toward separation. In one eventful year they took the final steps toward divorce in May, Senator Hardy won a seat in the House of Representatives in November taking Susan with him to Washington to establish his new office, and Jack learned in December that he would be promoted to associate professor with tenure. What a bittersweet memory that was for Jack – to finally stand on top of the challenging peak, alone, and realize the dreams the two of them had built had been washed away like a sand castle at high tide.

Even though years had passed since they went their separate ways, Jack could not think about it without feeling a pang of emptiness in the pit of his stomach. How could he have kept them together? In the back of his mind he could not erase the sense that Susan had been involved with someone. There were hints: her interest in spending more time at work, her increased travel, her lack of commitment to counseling, his finding things out of the ordinary when he returned from a trip out of town. An empty CD player meant someone else had brought music; they never emptied it until they were ready to play another disk. Or was all of this an expression of his insecurity and his active imagination? There was no obvious piece of evidence, and to accuse her of infidelity on the basis of such weak circumstantial arguments would have been a violation of their mutual trust. Jack hated the word cuckold; he never used it, but it haunted him in silence year after year.

February brought the end of the dreaded cedar season, Austin’s annual bonanza for allergists, and the beginning of spring on the College campus, with deciduous trees scattered among the live oaks adding their new foliage, and brightly colored snapdragons blooming in the manicured flowerbeds. The serenity of nature combined with the skill of the architect and designer made the campus a place of peace and reverence when it was not crowded with the normal weekday activity. Real estate in the center of the city was precious and closely held, so the College made the most of its limited area. There were no great expanses of open space as you might find at a land grant university in a rural area; the design created smaller courtyards with limited green space, but they produced a sense of small,