The Lonely Void

By Shannon Hodges

Dr. Bob Gifford is interim director of the Student Health Center at tiny Wells Springs College in the ridiculously remote town of Wells Springs, Texas. When one of Bob's students claims she was visited by a brother thought to be killed during the Gulf War, he fears she's losing her mind. He schedules a second session, but the student mysteriously disappears.

His lone friend is Fr. Jose Pallo, a radical, ex-con, very profane priest ironically is the one person in whom the irreligious Bob can confide. Soon, shadowy forces are closing in leaving Bob to rely on his raw wits for survival. Each time he dodges a threat, another seems lurking around the corner, turning a seemingly tranquil college campus and sleepy community into a landmine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Legend Press
• Release date: Oct 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781785072253

Book preview

resources.

Chapter one

The merciless desert sun baked the thin, lonely ribbon of asphalt as it meandered through the desolate southwest Texas countryside. Sweat rolled down the driver’s face in steady rivets like a summer shower off the dusty hills. Though she could see the heat’s wavy vapor rising from the obsidian road, she preferred the natural air of the arid desert to the contrived air conditioner her mother was so fond of. She drove in silence, eschewing the radio and its plethora of AM country music stations and idiotic talk show fear monger hosts that seemed to have metastasized since 9-11. Her thoughts wandered through a litany of responsibilities: make sure to ask Bernie to water the horses the next two days; stop at Wiseman’s for mom’s grocery shopping; and, most of all, don’t forget to mail the care package to her cousin serving in Iraq.

She exhaled at the thought of Willie, stationed in such a dangerous place. Willie and her late brother Roberto had been so close growing up. They were far more like brothers than cousins. Both had gone through college on ROTC scholarships and had been commissioned on the same day. The pair could have been brothers as they stood proud and ramrod straight on that stage. The difference was that Willie was still alive. Roberto…well, she didn’t like to think about him. Their mother had been so proud when he was commissioned. He cut such a commanding figure in his dress uniform. Roberto had always been goal-oriented and education-minded. While far too many Latinos dropped out of school and settled into low wage, subsistence level employment, Roberto had always been rigidly focused on success. Sadly, she and her brother had never been close. It was always Roberto with their mother and relatives: Roberto the handsome and popular member of the family; Roberto, who always got the best Christmas and birthday presents; Roberto the teacher’s pet and athletic star. Roberto this and Roberto that. She sighed as the old feeling of survivor guilt settled in. But there was also anger underneath. She could read the unspoken question in the face of her mother and relatives; that Why couldn’t it have been you who died and Roberto who survived? She had read this was about her own projected animus in a psychology text, but she wondered about it.

I’ve been called up for the middle east, her brother had announced at dinner during a leave from Ft. Riley. Everyone in the family was tense, and while her brother tried to ease concerns, their mother had cried and cried. I’ll be fine, mom, her brother had counseled. Survival rates are high.

A Jack Rabbit darted before her bumper invading her thoughts momentarily. Then she realized her brother was like that poor Jack Rabbit, inevitably drawn towards the path of destruction. One day Roberto’s daily e-mails abruptly ceased. At first she and her mother told themselves he was out on a mission and would be back in contact soon. This had happened before. But after a week passed, she realized things were far more serious. Mom stayed in denial, lighting candles, going to early Mass every morning at six, keeping his room spotless. Keeping up appearances, she supposed. Then, a few days later, a nondescript, tan, four door sedan with U.S. Army stenciled on the front doors pulled into the dusty driveway. A young gringo stepped from the vehicle. She recalled that the man blinked a lot and that his uniform seemed to swallow up his stick-figure frame and he seemed scarcely old enough to shave. Despite his youthful countenance-or, perhaps because of it-he looked ominous. Yet, he appeared ill at ease with his grim task, fidgeting with his hands and the small, white envelope in his left hand. The messenger fumbled with the words that her brother had been confirmed killed in a convoy explosion during a mission in Fallujah. She had been too stunned to react, but her mother had fainted and only a swift response by the soldier saved her from hitting the hardwood floor.

She pulled her thoughts back from the brink once again. It had been more than a year since his death and she couldn’t assimilate the reality. Her mother had refused to believe her son was dead. Because of the violent explosion, his remains were unrecognizable. A closed casket funeral Mass was conducted in their Parish Church and he was buried with full military honors. She suppressed an urge to slap the Captain, who, as he handed her mother a crisply folded American flag, gave the wrong name for her brother. She had felt so empty. Then, everyone seemed to be telling her what a hero her brother was, and weren’t they proud he made the ultimate sacrifice? She hated everyone who mouthed such pithy, dime store patriotic clichés. For her part, she just glared at the well-intentioned, though ignorantly hurtful people, most of whom had no loved ones taking the risks her brother and cousin had taken. Fuck the politicians too, she thought. They could vote for whatever war they wanted, safe in the knowledge they and none of their family members would ever see combat.

A flash of late afternoon sunlight got her attention. A car was pacing her from about 100 yards distance. She took little notice and stared forward pushing painful memories from her consciousness. She needed to stop at the grocery store then get home to pack for her trip to San Antonio. She was going to visit her cousins and looked forward to a few days in the city, always a welcome respite from her meager life in the remote southwest part of the state. She continued on a few more miles thinking of shopping in the Canal district, eating in good restaurants, and dancing at a club with people like herself. The long weekend would be therapeutic and she looked forward to it.

As she considered her trip, she had not noticed that the car in the distance was now tailgating her. She happened to glance in her rear view mirror and noticed a large, dark sedan hovering silent and predatory. Shadow-tinted impenetrable glass gave it an even more sinister look, like something from a Stephen King novel.

Asshole, there’s plenty of room! she snapped, gesturing with her arm for the car to pass her. But the sedan simply maintained its pace just a few feet behind. She began to perspire more freely as there was virtually no habitation and they were still an hour from town. She had forgotten to recharge her cell phone and it lay useless in the cup tray between the front seats. Still, she tried to maintain her focus, as she nervously drove with one eye on the road and another in the rear view mirror. She prayed for a cop, but there was never one this far out, especially as the county had enacted a tax relief measure resulting in the loss of two deputies, meaning the impossible job of patrolling the most remote county in the lower 48 had become even more unmanageable. She noticed the vehicle had Texas plates and that the driver’s silhouette appeared male.

But the car made no move to harm her and she breathed a sigh of relief when she saw a road sign informing her Wells Springs was a mere 10 miles. She relaxed figuring the car behind her was probably some jackass getting his kicks by being the bully of the road. She entered the city limits of Wells Springs and quickly pulled into Wiseman’s Grocery parking lot. The trailing car drove on. She breathed a deep sigh of relief, and then went inside to shop in the small grocery. The bully had moved on to other prey.

She spent a half hour at the grocery store filling the cart with a gallon of milk, pound of hamburger, tomatoes, carrots, cans of tuna and salmon, and all the sundries her mom would need the next five days. Mom would be home late tonight, as she was chairing the Liturgy Committee at St. Mary Magdalene Catholic Church. For the life of her, Selena wondered how her mother could continue to venerate a God who allowed her son to be blown to bits. But that was her mom: the woman stubbornly clung to her religious faith like one of those pithy bumper stickers to a fender.

She arrived back at their small ranch style home near the river. She was going to put the groceries up, then have a large ice tea on the back deck. The evening breezes always refreshed her spirit. She entered the house, set her groceries on the counter and was about to unload them when a familiar voice shattered her calm like a wrecking ball.

Hello sis, said the familiar smooth, almost feminine voice. She turned, unable to assimilate what her ears and mind told her. Standing just three feet away leaning casually against the kitchen counter was her handsome brother Roberto in civilian dress. The shock of seeing him in the flesh when he was supposed to be interned in St. Mary Magdalene Cemetery seemed to suck the oxygen from her lungs. Instead of feeling relief or even joy that her brother was miraculously alive, she was engulfed by an overpowering sense of fear. Only later would she recall the milk jug slipping from her hand and hitting the tile floor.

Chapter two

The lifeless meeting in the windowless auditorium drug on long after the attendees ceased caring. To complicate matters, the air conditioning, a necessity in the stifling desert heat of southwest Texas, had decided to cease functioning half-way through. Bob Gifford stifled a yawn, while catching a sympathetic glance from Kris Pies, a second year Assistant Professor of Psychology, also a conscript to the meeting. Bob was no stranger to dull committee meetings, what with a background both in college and community mental health, where seemingly pointless meetings were a venerated tradition. This particular gathering, known as the Dean and Department Heads Retreat, was infamous for both its dullness and the fact that no one understood why it continued. History was sketchy on the genesis of this annual gathering, which was anticipated in the same manner as one might a colonoscopy. But we’re better people for it, Professor Goodine had whispered tongue-in-cheek. Bob glanced around the room taking stock of who was attending the talk being delivered by a well-paid motivational speaker, who was significantly less than his website testimonials advertised. Some people doodled on paper, while others wore the blank stare of those sleeping with their eyes open, a few listened, and even fewer took notes. Dr. Maricella Cruz, who now was nominally in charge of the event, seemed to endure it all with a How did I get in charge of this? look Mercifully, the all-day event finally reached its conclusion with the presenter attempting an inspirational finale that fell flat as three day beer.

Now, remember, ‘I am the center of myself,’ he opined, nodding in apparent self-satisfaction.

And I am self-centered, whispered Kris Pies to Bob’s right. Both stifled a laugh.

Event mercifully completed, Bob rubbed his leaden eyelids and stumbled from the building into the blinding late afternoon sunlight. Heading back to his office for a quick check-in, he decided the annual retreat he’d just endured was another of the 36 reasons (and counting) why he should never have become a director, albeit an interim director. That he was a director of anything could best be described as accidental. He had been hired at Wells Springs College as a line counselor. His original job, to provide personal and occasional career counseling to students, something he was good at, had, against his will, morphed into his actually being drafted as interim director of the Health Center when the previous director, Dr. Cruz was named V.P. for Student Affairs. He now supervised a nurse practitioner, counselor, and office manager. Granted, directing such a small office on a small, very isolated college campus was scarcely like running of a large clinic. Still, as a person who had never headed anything, the new and unfamiliar role seemed burdensome to Bob.

He entered the door of the Health Center as Mary Nez and Ms. Delderfield were conversing. Mary was a nurse practitioner and the person Bob had hoped would take the job as interim director. Mary refused and threatened to quit when it had been offered. I’m here to do medical work period and not administrate, she had stated unequivocally. The job then fell to Bob by default.

You need a highly excellent cup of coffee after that meeting, Bob, Ms. Delderfield, the office manager and British ex-pat, said with a smile.

No, I need a real good pint of beer or ale, he thought. He’d settle for coffee of course, as really good coffee was one of his vices.

The secretary filled his bright purple, Wells Springs College thermal mug and Bob took a seat at the small round table. The school year would begin next week with the students scheduled to return to campus over the weekend.

Well? inquired Mary expectantly. Mary, a Navaho, who had come to Wells Springs five years ago when her husband was hired as chair of the Science Division, did not tend to waste her words. Though she usually wore a slight smile on her placid face, she was not one to make idle conversation. She was, however, an excellent listener skilled at getting students to tell her things they were reluctant to disclose, especially regarding unwanted pregnancy, sexual assault and other such sensitive topics. She was a constant source of referrals to the counseling wing of the center. The Health Center itself was housed in an old, Air Force surplus Quonset hut. The hut, formerly part of a well-known, remote, top secret base in Nevada, had been purchased at a government auction by a wealthy Wells Springs alumnus and shipped on a semi to the equally remote location of Wells Springs, Texas. Campus lore maintained the building had been the site of an alien autopsy at the base, or so the legend went. Wells Springs College, a member of the Work Colleges Consortium where students held jobs on campus to defray the cost of a college education, was arguably the most isolated campus in the U.S. and possibly the entire world. The college of just over 1000 students was located some four plus hours southeast of El Paso and roughly 70 miles north of Big Bend National Park, in a town of some 900 people, some 70 minutes from the next community, which itself was only some six thousand people. Most prospective college freshmen who might happen to check the internet for the college’s location likely crossed it off their list post haste.

How was the retreat? Ms. Delderfield asked. Bob just shook his head.

I just want to know what everyone else here wants to know which is why do we keep having that retreat? All the directors and department heads hate it. Darcy Delderfield, a charming, ex-pat Brit, governess type whom everyone referred to as Ms. Delderfield, just smiled.

A yearly rite of passage Bob. We Brits have lots of these boring annual events nobody understands and we bare it with a stiff upper-lip. Good for discipline. What’s good for discipline is good for morale; what’s good for morale is good for everyone. Now, how’s the coffee? Pretty good for a tea woman, eh?

He nodded, then turning to Mary, You all ready for the year? Mary meticulously stirred the cream in her coffee as if she were creating a magical potion. She nodded her head.

We’re in good shape. Good for us anyway. The x-ray machine donated by that Dallas alum arrived and is set up. The rural colleges grant funded some new health education materials and they just came in. Elian in IT updated the website. Now all we need is another nurse or a physician assistant to help. That coming Mr. Interim Director?

By Pony Express, Bob quipped. That and a new state of the art Health Center building. Plus, we’ll all get hefty raises. They all chuckled. The only new building at the college was the high-tech, gold-certified LEED (Leadership in Environmental and Energy Design) Science building that had been funded through donations, and hard-nosed fundraising by Steve Olsen, Mary’s spouse, and the college president, Jane Hardin-Wall, a Harvard Law School grad and former power house attorney. She also happened to be an alumnus of Wells Springs College and was intent on remaking the image of the campus despite being in only her third year as president. A new health center building, however, did not make her list of projects published in the online and print editions of the local paper. Nor did salary increases for student affairs staff such as Bob and Mary.

The trio discussed projects, the new temporary hire for Bob’s previous position, and the upcoming search for a permanent director of the health center. Given the college’s location, limited social opportunity, lack of available jobs for dual-career professionals, and the not-so-stellar advertised salary range, it was likely to be a short list of applicants. Mary and Ms. Delderfield had been inquiring whether or not Bob would apply. For his part, Bob was unsure of what to do. He did not want the job, but for future mobility-meaning getting to a more cosmopolitan setting-serving as a director would be a good idea. Though he liked working at Wells Springs College, he wasn’t at all sure he wanted to spend his life in such a remote location where there were few social outlets and even fewer eligible women. Of course, he had never exactly been much for dating anyway, given his background. Bob was an orphan and had been raised in the State Boys Home in the rural Ozark foothills community of Mammoth Springs, Arkansas in north central Arkansas right smack-dab on the Missouri border. The orphanage had been all male and most of the boys there had been a rough lot, with many adjudicated by the courts as a last stop on their journey to the state prison system. During adolescence, Bob had been sexually assaulted once. His way of fighting back had been taking Aikido lessons and lifting weights. Later, he had exacted revenge on his three assailants and he currently thought of himself not as a victim or survivor but as a thriver of sexual assault. He never tried to justify his counterattack as he thought of it. But, he saw it as a means of sending a message to the perpetrators. Of course, that message had meant he was essentially under house arrest for one year.

He finished his coffee, said his goodbyes and hopped onto his bicycle for home. The community had built a number of bicycle trails, both on the side of the roads and through the mountains. Bob had just recently purchased a home, after renting a small cottage from the college the previous year. He cycled through campus, past the football field at the edge of campus, then down the road towards the new housing complex on the west side of town. In the small, close-knit town, it didn’t take long to arrive home. The most arduous part of the journey was the steep hill that led to his house. A seasoned runner, and former college basketball player, Bob had remained in very good shape with an active fitness routine six days a week and planned to run in the Butte to Butte half marathon in late September. He climbed the last section of the hill and arrived at his home, sweating from the dry, though still intense desert heat.

As one who’d never had a place to call home, his house represented a significant marking point and a significant emotional commitment. His boss, Dr. Maricella Cruz, hoped this was a sign he was putting down roots in the community and intended to stay for a long time. The 1600 square foot dwelling was ultra-modern in design. Built 10 years previously by an entomology professor, with solar panels and a wind turbine, it was incredibly energy efficient and environmentally sound. There were three levels: the basement, though small, had a converted space for watching movies, laundry room, and a fold-out futon; the main floor, with his bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, small living room, dining area and deck; and, finally, the small second floor, with a small bedroom with a deck, and bathroom with shower. Bob had constructed a makeshift office and library in the living room area, with a view of the Glass Mountains. The house was so well insulated, and with large ceiling fans that he seldom needed to run the air conditioner. As they say in real estate, it’s all location, location, location. As Wells Springs was in such a remote location, he had bought the house for $125,000 on a 15 year mortgage- a real steal of a bargain. Because he bought during the recession, his interest rate was ridiculously low. Having a house he could truly call his own (other than the bank holding the mortgage, of course), certainly made remaining in the area more enticing.

He put on shorts, opened a beer, and turned on the public radio station out of Alpine. He microwaved some chili beans and made himself a plate of nachos for dinner while he listened to NPR’s All Things Considered. He paid little attention to the news, letting it roll over him and fill the silent abode as he chewed his food and stared into the distance, considering the question that had plagued him the most the past six months. Would he apply for the job of permanent director of the health center? He had gone back and forth on the question, sometime thinking absolutely not while at others thinking he would. He had been so undecided that he went to speak with Susan Brown, the director of the Career Center. She put him through the usual paces: career counseling sessions for background, visioning for what he wanted in his career, steps on how to achieve the vision, a pro-con list of apply or not apply for the director’s position, and so on.

It looks to me like you’re inclined to apply for the position, Susan had commented at their last session. Then, should you be offered the job, you will have another decision to make.

Bob reflected on his decision-making process. He had generally not had difficulty making decisions; rather, it was the decisions circumstances made for him that gave him such difficulty. He shook his head in memory of his past life in the orphanage. He understood himself pretty well at this point in his life, though he was only 30. He was an average person in most regards, intelligent though not stellar, a decent, though not great athlete, handsome in a way, but not someone who would cause whiplash when he walked into a party. The most notable compliments he, or anyone, might say was that he was a good counselor and had a strong sense of resilience in the face of difficulty. The latter attribute had carried him through a very difficult and traumatic, institutional childhood and adolescence during his formative years. Then, after completing his doctorate, his hardiness had sustained him through scores of job rejections. After a tumultuous one year fill-in position at an elite college in rural Minnesota, he had landed the job at Wells Springs College—where he was finally wanted! He had had a relatively smooth first year at Wells Springs College. Now, as interim director he would be expected to be more of a leader. Should he be selected as permanent director he would be thrust into the very unfamiliar role as long-term supervisor. Did he really want such responsibilities, four person office notwithstanding? He would need to chew on this for a while. In point of fact, he needed to consider many things regarding his future.

Bob rose early the following Monday morning and prepared for the first day of fall semester. He had a cup of coffee and a banana for a snack then went through his morning stretching ritual. He had begun running during college for off-season conditioning and had continued it when his collegiate basketball career had completed. He had completed numerous 5 and 10K races, and a couple of half marathons. He toyed with the idea of running a full marathon, but wasn’t sure he wanted to make the huge time commitment training for 26.2 miles required. You would need to build your life around your training, an experienced marathoner had advised him. Bob was not quite ready for that level of commitment.

He stepped out into the cool desert air and wound his way down from the hills, surprising a coyote, which scampered into the desert. Taking the bicycle path, he wound around the match-box size downtown, then along the river and finally through campus before taking a wide loop through the edge of the desert reserve, a 1200 acre recreational area-called the ranch-and owned by Wells Springs College, then finally back home, taking almost an hour. He showered quickly, then hopped on his bike and peddled to campus.

As usual, he was the first to arrive at the Health Center. He made the coffee and ate a peanut-butter and jam sandwich, turned on KRTS 93.5, the NPR affiliate out of Alpine and eased into the day. It was the first day of fall semester and his first as interim director. He would be making decisions for an entire office, representing the Health Center at meetings, and whenever he spoke, he would be speaking not only for himself, but for the Center as an entity. As he was lost in thought, Consuelo, the counselor who had taken his job strolled in.

Consuelo was a very interesting young woman. She had lived in a commune in the hills outside of Austin for a year after college before matriculating into a graduate program at the University of Texas San Antonio, where she completed her master’s degree in counseling. She spent two years counseling in a Pride center in San Antonio before taking the job at Wells Springs College. A painful break up with her female partner had precipitated her decision to apply for the job. Incidentally, had Consuelo refused the job, they would have been in some difficulty. The applicant pool had been just nine deep and only two applicants agreed to interview. One, a social worker from Abilene, decided during the interview that the area was simply too isolated for her and her family. That left Consuelo. Though Bob had liked this unusual woman, he wondered if she were a good fit for the institution. Though Wells Springs College was definitely on the progressive end of the spectrum, it remained somewhat staid and its remote location meant Consuelo would scarcely have a supportive community off campus. Regardless, when offered she immediately accepted the one year appointment.

Morning! she announced poking her head inside Bob’s door. Bob knew not to offer her a cup of coffee, as she had made it clear at the interview that she drank only herbal tea. She also kept a vegan diet, and drove a hybrid vehicle, though generally she walked practically everywhere.

Ready for the year? he inquired. She nodded enthusiastically; Consuelo was an enthusiastic sort.

I’m looking forward to it, she replied, dragon tattoo showing on her left upper arm when she raised her arm. Consuelo, who grew up in a lapsed Mexican Catholic family in El Paso, was a practicing Wiccan, who also claimed to be following Zen Buddhism. Bob, an atheist, didn’t care what she followed as long as she was a good counselor and respected the secular nature of the services they provided. Consuelo did have a bit of the New Age evangelist in her as she had asked Mary Nez if she was interested in attending a Zen retreat. Mary, who followed most of her traditional Navaho spiritual practices, said a polite no. She solicited Bob, and when he informed her of his atheism, she was dumbfounded. But you don’t have to believe anything to attend, she had countered and continued to witness to him. Bob flatly informed her he had no interest in anything remotely spiritual. She then approached Darcy Delderfield, who, as a devout Anglican simply replied, No thanks dearie, in her offhand British manner.

Bob and the staff attended the beginning of the year convocation in the assembly hall then a meeting of directors of student affairs meeting chaired by Dr. Cruz. He arrived at the room with Susan Jones. The Department of Student Life consisted of the Health Center, Academic Advising, Career Center, Student Activities, Residence Life, Athletics, Financial Aid and Admissions (joint offices at Wells Springs), and the Campus Minister. Though Wells Springs was nonsectarian, by history it had retained a Campus Minister. Though Bob had not a spiritual bone in his body, he liked the Rev. Garda Johnson, a very innovative, open-minded woman who had formerly worked as Peace Corps volunteer in South Africa. Garda had also referred numerous students for counseling and had been very supportive of Bob. Dr. Cruz strolled in and brought the meeting to order.

Ok, welcome to another year at Wells Springs, she began. For the first time in my memory, there are no new directors to introduce, Bob excepting, she added and all chuckled at Bob’s interim status. "We have a lot to do this afternoon. I’ll call on Sonya for a report on admissions numbers.

Sonya Hernandez, a pencil-thin, 35 year old alumnus had worked at the college for a decade now. She had begun by working in the financial aid office as a sophomore and continued as a financial aid advisor for five years after graduation. She left for two years to complete a master’s degree in student services at Texas Tech, and then returned as assistant director of Admissions. She was tapped as the director when the previous director moved on to another institution. Sonya was as energetic as the former collegiate cross country runner she had been.

Good news! she began, flashing her pearly whites. Her teeth were so straight and ivory toned they almost looked like dentures. Her silk pants suit hung about her in a fashionable manner and she touched her lap-top for what promised to be an entertaining power-point presentation complete with sound, music, moving graphics, and the requisite special effects that would make Hollywood proud. Sonya Hernandez didn’t do anything in an ordinary manner and occasionally her show-tunes approach grated on some of the more conservative directors. Bob wondered if all admissions types were schooled by Walt Disney Productions, given their evident flair for the theatrical. All would agree, however that she was respected and very good at what she did. This fall Wells Springs College has reached the highest enrollment in its history. She hit a key and musical a graph popped up on-screen. You can see our current enrollment is 1029 students, all full-time of course. That breaks our former enrollment record of 987 by 42 FTE’s (Full Time Enrollment). Now, we’ll lose a few students after fall term, but if we can minimize that, and pick up a few transfer students in spring we will be in very good shape. Questions?

Coach Crockett, the longtime football coach and athletic director, inquired as to the percentage of students who were playing a sport, and was told the number was nearly 20 percent. The Athletic department was also in charge of intramural sports and if the percentage of students participating in intramurals was counted, the AD department would serve roughly 70% of the student body. Rev. Johnson asked about job placement for freshmen and was informed everyone who wanted a campus job was placed. As a work college no one was turned away due to inability to pay, though students were no longer required to work on campus. Those who held campus jobs however paid significantly lower tuition. Thus, the major way WSC students defrayed costs outside of scholarships, federal Pell grants and student loans was through working on campus. Freshman jobs were the basement level: mucking out the milk barn at the organic farm, weeding through the recycling containers, the composting work, janitorial work in residence hall bathrooms, washing dishes in the cafeteria, and so forth. Oddly, most of Wells Springs’ students were solidly middle class, though a few were from impoverished circumstances, with a sliver from wealthy families.

What about reviewing plans for additional housing? This was Dave Willis, director of Residence Life. He oversaw three residence halls, the cooperative house, the apartments and the student cottages. More than 90% of all Wells Springs students lived in student housing. The green cooperative house located a half mile away on the grounds of the 1200 hundred acre Wells Springs Ranch, was considered the prime dwelling due to location, privacy, size (30 students), cooperative activities (watching and critiquing films, group travel, and their own small, family-style cafeteria serving vegan meals among others) and the fact a minimum 3.5 gpa was required to live there. The co-op even offered a three credit course taught co-taught by Dave and Rev. Johnson on Eco-housing in College Communities.

The Governing Board plans to take that up at the next meeting, Dr. Cruz explained. But, it’s likely we won’t see any ground breaking until we’ve consistently been up in enrollment for a couple more years.

But this is the third year straight year where we’ve had three to some rooms. We’re at 105% capacity, Dave pressed.

No argument Dave. But board members think green as in bucks not the environment. Dr. Cruz was referring to a recent article in Mother Jones where Wells Springs College was named as the country’s most environmentally sound college, beating out better funded luminaries such as Evergreen State College, the University of Colorado, and Middlebury College among others. The campus was entirely self-sustaining: all energy was produced by wind (there were two large wind turbines at the edge of the reserve) and solar power (numerous solar collectors on roofs and in the Physical Plant area). The campus also had its own organic farm and collected methane from its biomass plant. Because they wanted to assist the community, Food Service bought select food products through local farmers and Wiseman’s grocery store. Campus food options included organic food and vegan diets.

Dr Cruz then updated the gathering on the endowment. Fund raising had unfortunately come late to the college, with the first director hired just six years ago. The new president, Jane Hardin-Wall, had nevertheless been a fundraising star. In three years she had spearheaded a capital campaign that had netted over 20 million dollars, a staggering amount for a college like Wells Springs, a younger institution (founded in 1904) with few wealthy alumnae. Then, Slim Pickins founder and CEO, Fred Pickens, an alumnus and now billionaire matched the amount of that amount with a donation. With their low energy costs, low staff rate (students filled many positions), and a history of living within their means, the college had never suffered a deficit, not even during the Great Depression. Of course, faculty and staff pay was very low, but then again the area boasted one the lowest cost of living rates and taxes in the entire country.

Each director gave a report on goals, challenges, and so forth for the new academic year. Bob’s report was brief. He mentioned the new x-ray machine, new inside painting, and the beautiful handmade Navaho throw rug donated by relatives of Mary Nez that brightened up the waiting room, and, of course, the search for a new director. There was a brief pause, with his colleagues and Dr. Cruz eying each other.

So Bob, will you be applying? asked Sandy Yamoto, the director of Student Activities. He paused, then perhaps surprising himself the most, answered:

Yes, I plan to apply.

The sound of clapping was immediate as Bob had become popular in his short time at Wells Springs, something that was a surprise to him. He had to remind his colleagues that there would be a search and that another candidate could wind up with the job. Of course, given the location and advertised pay, the competition was likely to be limited.

After the last report Dr. Cruz adjourned the meeting and the small group made their way outside in relief as they had been confined in all day meetings. The directors dispersed to their respective offices. Bob entered the Health Center, which was already buzzing with students making health and counseling appointments. Mary rolled her eyes and told him she had seen already seen 10 students. Consuelo had been busy since 10 am with several students walking in.

Bob, there’s a student asking for you. She’s filled out her paperwork and sitting by the lamp, Ms. Delderfield informed him. Bob noticed a woman reading a business textbook. She was a solidly-built woman of medium height, casually dressed in slacks and a short-sleeved tan blouse. He went to greet her and she rose before he reached her, as if she were in a hurry. He introduced himself and noticed she had a strong grip and she walked ahead of him towards his office.

The Quonset hut building that housed the Health Center was made up of two wings: one for medical rooms and infirmary beds, and the second for counseling offices. The counseling wing had two offices for the staff and a group room. There was also a separate room for the library, where students could check out numerous self-help books and DVDs. The high, arched ceilings made the modest building seem cavernous. Ceiling fans and vents kept the building cool.

Once they entered his office, Bob scarcely had time to glance at her paperwork and he hadn’t even gotten to the informed consent spiel.

Look, I know all about confidentiality and my rights…I’ve been in counseling before. My Beck Depression score’s low and my score on the AUDIT (Alcohol Use Disorders Identity Test) indicate I’m not a problem drinker. OK?

Uh, sure…

I’m Selena Torres, she said abruptly.

Bob Gifford, he replied. So, I noticed you wrote on the intake sheet that you wanted to talk about your brother. She nodded, and suddenly and without warning, the assertive young woman burst out crying. After seven years of counseling and five years of supervising students in collegiate living groups, Bob was accustomed to crying. But the severity of her outburst surprised him. Immediately she began pulling out reams of Kleenex tissues, wiping her eyes, blowing her nose and trying to stem the flash flood of tears. Bob patiently waited until she was ready. His experience was that it was best to let sobbing clients start talking when they were ready. He examined her presentation: she was well groomed with clean clothes, styled hair, well-manicured fingernails and her face indicated she was well rested as there were no dark circles under her eyes. At last, after several moments, she came up for air.

I used the whole frigging box, she said, indicating the Mt. Denali of soiled tissues she dumped into the trash can. Bob just shrugged. Well, I’m sure you wonder what’s going on. I’ve held it together the past two weeks, but coming in here I just lost it.

Sometimes we all need to lose it a little, Bob added in an attempt to encourage her.

That’s what the last counselor told mom and me. I don’t mean any offense…but I haven’t found a lot of help with you counselors and the like…but I’m willing to give it another whirl, you know. Bob nodded again, wondering what was up with her brother. Anyway, I have a real problem with my brother. She paused for an extended period of time - maybe 30 seconds - and then continued. You see, Roberto, that’s my brother’s name, was killed in Iraq a couple of years ago.

Sorry to hear that Selena, he said. She nodded.

You people always say that. I mean, you didn’t know him…or me, right? So, how sincere are you really? She shook her head and he decided the best strategy was to remain silent and perhaps she would get into what had brought her in. Anyway, I was talking about my brother. There are only two of us. Our father died when we very young and mom raised us as a single parent. As Latinos, Roberto was the favorite. He could do no wrong in mom’s eyes, no matter what he did. Get in a fight at school and that’s what boys do. He and his friend got caught joyriding in a neighbor’s car and she wrote that off as a juvenile prank. Get caught with the principal’s daughter in the locker room and ‘Well, how can you stop nature?’ She paused and stared through the window at the mountains in the distance as if remembering something. But he was still a good man…or so I had always thought.

Has something happened to have changed your opinion about your brother? Bob inquired.

She nodded.

Yes…Two weeks ago I saw my dead brother. She stopped abruptly and her sentence hung in the air like thick, black smoke.

Bob struggled to keep a poker face. Uh, you say you saw him? What do you mean, Selena?

She looked straight into his eyes, the way his multicultural textbook advised that most Latinos don’t tend to do. This car was stalking me. I thought it was just some dickhead getting his rocks off intimidating some chick, you know. Well, the car turns off when I pull into the grocery store. I figure that’s the end of it, you know? Well, I pull into home, and carry the groceries inside and there he is: My dead brother!

Bob was struck dumbfounded and it took him a moment to recover. That must have been quite a shoc-

"A shock! A shock! Doc you have no fucking idea! A shock, you say, well Jesus H. Frigging Christ!" She sighed and shook her head vigorously at Bob’s obvious density.

Bob wondered if he were losing all hope of being therapeutic. Selena ran her hand through her dark hair. Okay, okay. I know I must sound crazy! If someone told me what I just told you I’d think they were crazy too. You think I’m crazy? No, don’t tell me ‘crazy is a word you don’t like.’

Bob took a breath and decided to lay what few cards he had to play on the table. I don’t know what to think Selena. I have no history with you and none of your previous records. But, I am concerned with what you just told me. I mean the Army said your brother was killed in action and even held his funeral, he replied, recalling the story in the local paper. Now you say he came to your home? Did anyone else see him?

She shook her head. No, just me. I didn’t tell mom anything. I didn’t want her hurt more than already having her only son killed could hurt her. Her son-my brother-who’s apparently not so dead.

So, what did your brother say?

Well, I was shocked, you know…because he was dead, right…or so we thought…had the full honors funeral, flag presentation and all that. He tried to reassure me everything was alright. I was scared of him at first then really pissed off! Imagine letting our mother believe he was dead! Even took a swing at the bastard…clocked him pretty good on the cheek, she added with a smile. But he held me until I would listen to what he had to say.

Which was…?

"That he was now in some black ops shit, deep military intelligence where being dead was a real advantage. You see, he always had a facility for languages…he’s equally fluent in Spanish and English. He took French in college and made straight A’s…now don’t ask me why anyone would take that language. Bob refrained from informing her he also had taken that language in college, though he had not made straight A’s. Anyway, he wasn’t killed, but they made it look that way. He’s learning Arabic or something. With his dark skin and all he thinks he can pass as an Iraqi or Afghani. This is what he tells me." She shook her head.

Wow that sounds like quite the upsetting and miraculous experience. How are you doing with it all? Of course, Bob had no idea if what he had heard was real or not, but he thought proceeding as if it were would get him more therapeutic mileage.

Upsetting! You sure have a gift for understatement! Anyway, what’s worse, he doesn’t want me to tell mom yet. He says we need to wait a few more months until the mission he’s on is over. I want to tell her now.

Why do you think he came to see you now? After all, you could tell your mother anytime.

He said his ‘conscience had been bothering him’ she replied using her fingers for quotation marks. He said if anyone else discovered he was alive he could be send to Leavenworth for 20 years. See, he wasn’t supposed to see me but he said he had to let me know he was alive."

Bob scratched his head for something to say but could think of nothing in his training or experience to help.

I went to see the priest…not that I’m particularly religious anymore. My mother has enough religion for both of us anyway. But, the priest here’s a decent one…dying breed for damn sure! Anyway, he listened without judgment, unlike that military Chaplin idiot mom and I saw after our brother was …was…uh, well, you know. Fr. Pallo suggested I talk to you for another perspective. Me, I put as much stock in you shrink types as I do in priests and God. But Pallo was right. I need to talk with someone.

What would be helpful for you Selena?

She shrugged her muscular shoulders. He noticed her hands for the first time. They were large and calloused. This young woman was physically strong and her face bore a look of determination. She muttered something in Spanish. I’d like to see you for a few sessions. I need a sounding board and besides my student fees help pay your salary. Like to get my money’s worth, you know what I’m saying.

"Okay. Anything else?’

Yeah. I’d like you to talk with Fr. Pallo. You two are the only people who know anything about this and I want to keep it that way. Pallo’s got that confessional seal bullshit. God’ll nail him if he violates that or something, right? And you, you got your professional confidentiality oath. The state counseling board will castrate you if you violate it, right?

Bob didn’t like to think of it so crudely, but her point was well taken. Well, there are except-

Yes, the exceptions. Let’s see: danger to self or others, suspicion of child or elderly abuse, court order, anything I missed? Bob shrugged. Good. Now, where’s that release for me to sign?

Mary, I need to speak with you when you get a chance," Bob said, catching the nurse in the hall. It was almost closing time. Mary indicated her office and she closed the door. Her office was spotless and the paper stacks on her desk were so organized it almost hurt to look at them. Mary’s workspace, compulsively tidy, was a far different cry from his own, as his bordered on qualifying for FEMA funds.

So, what’s up Dr. Director? she inquired mischievous grin on her face. Bob laid out the story Selena had told him. Mary Nez had graduate training in psychiatric nursing and two years’ experience as a psychiatric nurse at the VA hospital in Albuquerque. Bob and Mary frequently consulted with one another. Mary provided simple psychotropic medications such as Prozac, Zoloft and other SSRIs for students. When Bob had finished his story on Selena Torres, Mary let out a long sigh, something she often did when she was puzzled.

"So, her brother came back from the dead-like Lazarus, right?’

Or the other guy?

Other guy?

Uh, Jesus.

"Oh, Him.’

Him with the capital H. Any thoughts?

How was her affect and thought content?

Affect was congruent throughout, with some sarcasm and anger for deflection, but nothing noteworthy. Her cognitive functioning seemed intact and she was well oriented to time, place, and person. She doesn’t abuse chemical substances and denies any delusions, hallucinations, and such. She’s in very good academic standing, no legal charges, and so forth. Nothing unusual, except of course, her dead brother just happened to pop in at their house.

That will do it every time! Both chuckled. I don’t have a clue what to think either. You say her grades are good?

I haven’t seen her transcript but she listed her GPA as 3.5 on the intake sheet. She’s in the MBA program and has also held a steady job as accountant at Gutierrez Paving and Construction. She’s also worked there in some capacity since her senior year of high school and that was seven years ago.

You’re saying she seems pretty solid.

As solid as they come. He paused. Except for her incredible tale.

I can check her for meds if you want, but if she’s as you say she likely doesn’t need them.

She made it clear she’s not on meds, doesn’t want meds and she knows her rights about that.

What’s your next step?

I’m going to see a priest.

An exorcism? Can I come? Mary’s white teeth gleamed in the light.

Nothing so grand, she just wanted me to talk with the padre and gave me a written release. She’s about as religious as me, but she trusts this guy. Pallus or something. You know him?

Yes, and its ‘Pallo’. Yeah, he’s a decent guy. Seems pretty unpriestly in many regards…and that’s why I like him.

Okay, thanks Mary.

No worries.

He stood to leave.

Hey, we’re all rooting for you to be the permanent director.

You’re just afraid they’ll force you to do it if I lose out.

Self-interest is indeed part of it, she admitted, sly smile on her face.

Bob and the priest had chased one another’s calls on their cell phones, courtesy of the fact both had hourly appointments. Finally, they agreed to meet at the local parish church. Bob cycled over late the following Friday. St. Mary Magdalene Catholic Church was a stately edifice near the center of the tiny town. Constructed in adobe style in the 1920’s, the building achieved a certain distinction of classic Spanish architecture without coming off as being homogenous. He entered the sanctuary and followed a small, subtle sign that read Church Office. He stepped through a door, turned a corner and entered an empty reception area. Fr. Pallo’s door was open and he could hear this side of an animated conversation.

…Well, I’m returning your donation to you…what don’t you understand? Huh…why? Like I said, I don’t appreciate your comments about my people…Word on the street is you refer to us as wetbacks, spicks, and some other names even I don’t like to mention… You’re gonna lodge a complaint with the Archbishop. Really? At this point Bob could hear the priest chuckling. What’s he gonna do, huh...I was sent here because it’s supposed to be Archdiocese’s version of Siberia…A personal friend of his holiness, eh? Well, let me tell you, the Archbishop’s a sorry son-of-a-bitch himself! He knew kids were being molested by priests and didn’t do a fucking thing...You don’t like my language? You as upset about those pedophile priests as my language?...Yeah? Go ahead, write the Pope for all I care! With that, he slammed down the phone.

Bob gently knocked on the door frame.

Come in, the priest said in a suddenly calm tone. Bob walked into the crowded office that overflowed with pictures, books, and scores of handmade dolls, children’s artwork, and such. On the far wall was a picture of a young Cesar Chavez sitting on a harvester in some field. With the sun’s rays providing a beatific glow to Chavez’s face the photo had a definite hagiographic flavor. The man behind the cluttered desk was a trim, mid-30’s athletic-looking Latino of average height. Bob noticed his hands, unusually large for his size, were a mish-mash of scars.

You are…? and the priest looked at the ceiling and snapped his fingers. Gifford. Bob Gifford. From the college counseling center?

He snapped his fingers. Right, right. Oh yeah, we’ve got an appointment to talk about a mutual friend, no? Bob nodded. Please sit, Pallo offered, searching for a chair that wasn’t weighed down with piles and finding none, said, Oh, just put those drawings on the floor. From the kids CCD class. I like them to draw, and sing, dance, make a joyful noise and all that. Religion’s too damn stuffy most of the time. Bob carefully put the stack of drawings on the floor. Some child had drawn a picture of Fr. Pallo with his arms open to an egg-shaped drawing of earth.

Selena Torres wasn’t it, Pallo said. His face resembled worn leather left too long in the merciless sun, but he smiled naturally and his brown eyes danced in lively fashion. He was dressed in faded Wrangler jeans, worn, scuffed tan cowboy boots and the standard issue black shirt and dog collar of RC priests.

She’s given me a release of information to speak with you about her brother." Pallo nodded his head and waved his arm.

Yeah, I actually referred her to you. She’s also said I can tell you anything, Cept, of course, I ain’t got nothing written down my friend. Anyway, you go first." Bob shrugged his shoulders, feeling somewhat uncomfortable in a religious establishment. As an atheist he had little regard to institutionalized religion, though he had had two close friends who were quite religious.

Uh, okay then. Well, as you know Selena claims she has seen her supposedly dead brother recently. He reportedly came to their home just outside town about three weeks ago. She also claims that her brother is not only very much alive but than his death was faked by the military in order for him to go into some deep, undercover work for the military. He paused to see if the priest was to interject something. Fr. Pallo stared silently back, weathered cowboy boots propped upon the cheap looking wooden desk. Pallo looked as if he hadn’t a care in the world. With his hand he motioned for Bob to continue.

She doesn’t know what to do. She wants to tell her mother that her brother is alive, despite her brother’s pleas that could endanger national security. With this, Bob shrugged. Yet, she sees her mother in grief and isn’t really sure whether to trust the brother as, after all, he’s a party to this terrible deception. She wants to explore the decision-making process in counseling. This time Pallo spoke.

And you wonder just what to make of it all. Whether she’s got an onset of schizophrenia or another major form of psychosis? Or, maybe that Selena’s angry that her brother, who got all the attention in life is continuing back to steal it in death and wants her mom’s attention. He paused studying his heavily calloused hands. Or, just maybe you think she might be on the level and you really don’t know what to think, right?

I’m curious what she told you, Bob replied side stepping the padre’s questions.

Pretty much the same. She was as reluctant to see me as she was to see you. Selena’s got issues with both our professions, though she likely told you that as she’s not the sort to keep her thoughts under a bushel. Am I right?

Bob chuckled. How well do you know her and her family?

I know the mother best as she’s a pillar of this parish. In fact, she’s president of the Parish Council. Her son’s death, and Pallo used his fingers for quotation marks, seems to have had the effect of making her even more religious. Seen that go just as far the other direction, of course. I know Selena and knew…know… and he shrugged unsure whether to refer to Roberto in the past or present tense, her brother Roberto quite well. As you can see, this is a very isolated community and that has had the effect of creating a very tight knit church. He paused and looked at Bob. But I don’t quite know what to make of her story. Selena’s definitely the brutally honest type. But on the other hand… and he shrugged. What do you make of it? he tossed back at Bob.

Beats the hel-, uh, I mean, I’m not sure, he corrected as the priest laughed.

Listen, Dr. Gifford, Bob, as you heard on the phone call, I’m hardly the type to get shook up on a little profanity. By the way, on a regular basis people tell me all sorts of incredible things: one elderly woman in this parish has held regular conversations with Jesus for decades. Or, so she claims. Another person came in with what he maintained was stigmata on his palms. Pallo leaned forward, I didn’t have the heart to tell him the blood should be coming from his wrists, as palms wouldn’t have supported a man’s weight. Then there’s the curious case of the family that’s seen the Blessed Mother on their garage wall. Seems the blowing dust collected on an area that had not dried from the son’s cleaning work. I went out to humor them. It looked just like what it was, a big dirt swirl. So, you see, as a Catholic priest, I hear lots of fanciful things from otherwise ordinary, well-meaning people. Perhaps it’s that wish-fulfillment thing Freud wrote about."

Bob nodded, taking it in. So why send her to me if you hear this kind of thing all the time?

Not all the time, Pallo corrected, but occasionally. Most of our parishioners are very grounded, sensible people. I sent Selena because she’s not the type for incredible tales. In fact, she’s informed me that she’s an agnostic and attends Mass just to support her mother. Were it anyone else, I’d write it off as a grief reaction or something else. There was a momentary silence. So, what do you think you’ll do? he asked.

Beats me. Listen for a while. What about you?

Not a clue. But, let me know if there’s any way I can be helpful. I have to say that I wish I, or you, could get Selena and her mom in to come in together as they could do better supporting each other. But hey, right now it is what it is.

Bob nodded and thanked the priest and started to leave, stopped and then turned around, remembering something. What about her brother?

Roberto? What about him?

Well, what was he like? What was Roberto and Selena’s relationship with each other? Did they get along?

Pallo rose and strolled over towards Bob. The man had wiry-type strength in his arms and shoulders. When he came closer, Bob could see a long scar on the left side of his neck. He had not noticed it previous because Pallo had been sitting at an angle that kept it camouflaged in the dim office light.

Knife fight when I was a teenager. Gang skirmish. I have others, you know, he said casually, holding up his hands for inspection as if such were de rigueur, like scars from a dueling fraternity. "I wasn’t always a priest.