Random Acts Of Mayhem: Odyssey through an urban landscape; while on the road to redemption, a once-overprivleged athlete encounters life's harsh and unforgiving realities.

By Luther Lovelace

Though Isaac Preston has been battling depression nearly 17 years. he's landed a a new teaching position, his first steady paycheck in years. Despite the fact that good fortune is slowly creeping its way back into Isaac's life, it comes as no surprise that he clings to old habits, sitting alone at his desk, his brown bag lunch in front of h

• Language: English
• Publisher: ReadersMagnet LLC
• Release date: Mar 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781959761938

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Random Acts of Mayhem!

Copyright © 2023 by Luther Lovelace Jr.

Published in the United States of America

ISBN Paperback: 978-1-959761-92-1

ISBN eBook: 978-1-959761-93-8

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

The opinions expressed by the author are not necessarily those of ReadersMagnet, LLC.

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Interior design by Daniel Lopez.

Poem

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink

Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed

Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those

That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when

Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades

Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name;

For always roaming with a hungry heart

Much have I seen and known; cities of men

And manners, climates, councils, governments,

Myself not least, but honoured of them all;

And drunk delight of battle with my peers,

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.

I am a part of all that I have met;

Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough

Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades

For ever and for ever when I move.

—

Tennyson, Ulysses

Dedication

With love and adoration for Hope,

And for the four Js,

And for their mother,

And for their grandmother,

And for their wives and children.

Chapter 1

I couldn’t remember the last time I sought professional help regarding my condition and received the personal attention I deserved. In fact, the last time I checked, basketball megastars didn’t wake at 4 a.m. and think, Ah, here I am—a charter member of society’s underclass, hooked on a rundown Third World public housing existence. What Third World things shall I do today?

Just to be clear, I never regarded myself as an authority on matters pertaining to the human condition. Nor had I any special affinity for people—other than my mother—who dined from brown bags. But the events of that horrific day at Willard helped initiate a fundamental shift in my thinking, steering me down a path that forced me to spend these last seventeen years of my life staring into my rearview mirror.

I woke early that morning. Brushed my teeth. Combed my hair. Showed up for work on time, despite getting caught up in a massive traffic jam clogging over 10 miles of the 101.

Even then, I understood how first impressions are often just that: quick snapshots that, on their own, are meaningless. I was never a huge fan of pushing the limits despite a severe inventory shortage affecting automakers and dealers nationwide. I believe we are beginning to see signs of normalcy, returning to my life having survived morning classes without incident. Managed to get halfway through the first day on my new job. In fact, my mission was to merely make it through the day without incident, and judging from past experience, that was all I could feasibly accomplish. School districts around the county were facing substitute shortages so severe that officials feared temporary school closures. The situation had reached a point where district staff had begun playing musical chairs to fill positions. I got lucky, I guess, having skated through a weeding-out process designed to evaluate new hires quickly, inexpensively, and superficially. The district’s decision to ignore my foibles and eccentricities had been a matter of good timing. You could say I’d reached a point where I was seeing signs of stabilization in my life. Normalcy was returning.

All this notwithstanding, I was never a huge fan of Karma. I understood that first impressions are often just that: quick snapshots that are meaningless on their own. I feared that my run of success would peter out eventually. You might say I was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

When high noon rolled around, my worst fears were confirmed, and I found myself among the ranks of three middle-aged women, each carting Tupperware widgets arranged in an assortment of colors and configurations.

They spoke in unison, their salt-and-pepper hair styled into buns. We’re the welcoming committee.

Despite a few misgivings, I greeted this collection of geriatric busybodies with all the good cheer, enthusiasm, and hospitality a man in my situation could muster.

I guessed their average ages to be around fifty-five, but age didn’t deter them from giggling like star-struck groupies, enamored with the new kid on the block. You wish to join us for lunch, young man? one of them asked.

I pushed aside my brown bag and observed with passing interest as a cluster of grapes rolling onto my desk, stopped just short of the edge. No, thanks. I brought a chili cheese sandwich and a bag of Doritos from home.

Mercy! You can’t be serious, young man, the chubby one said. She adjusted her Armani sunglasses, anchored her fingers around the tall one’s arms, cocked her head into an oblique angle, digging again into my small bag of treats. If you value your health, young man, you might want to consider changing your eating habits. Add a little fiber to your diet. Cut back on high cholesterol junk foods.

I’ll take that into consideration, Mrs.— my voice trailed off.

"Ms. Holiday, she corrected. Four years a widow because that stubborn husband of mine—God rest his soul—ignored my advice to take better care of himself. She pointed to the tall one. Pardon my manners. She’s known around these parts as Mrs. Givens, but you can call her Leah.

I acknowledged all three with a curt nod. I’ll take that into consideration, Ms. Holiday.

Ms. Holiday suddenly struck a petulant pose in the fashion of an aging Cinderella waiting for an invitation to the ball. Leah nudged her. "I’d bet my last paycheck that your young bride doesn’t subscribe to Better Nutrition Magazine," she declared to me.

You’d most likely win that bet, Leah. I splayed my left hand across my chest. See, I said, pointing with my right index I’m not married

"Yes, I do see! she said, turning to the others, glowing with righteous vindication. Didn’t I tell you he looked more like a swinging bachelor? He has that— She turned to look at me. You have that look about you—that swagger. Married men lose their swagger halfway through the third year of marriage, that is, unless they’re having affairs."

I must have flinched at her candor because at this point, the attractive one weighed in Bananas are rich in potassium, she offered with a smile. But judging by its looks, the one you’re holding in your hand has seen better days.

I recognized a practiced political hand at work and, with a sigh, eyed my lunch with mock surprise. Is my banana on trial?

Such a sense of humor, she said, her eyes twinkling. But never mind that. How’s your first day on the job going so far?

Not too shabby. A few glitches here and there, but nothing I can’t handle.

Turning her long chin a fraction of an in toward me, Leah growled into the Tupperware bowl and began to speak, gently, barely moving her mouth. You never told us your name."

Isaac. Isaac Preston.

Such a strong name. Looking directly into my eyes and smiling, she cocked her head and furrowed her brow. Isaac Preston . . . Isaac Preston . . . Sounds familiar . . . "Isaac Preston. The basketball prodigy everyone was talking about from a few years back?"

I pressed my back firmly against the leather chair and bit into my sandwich. That was a million years ago.

I’ve got it now! Leah screamed, her eyes flashing with the excitement of having solved the riddle. You’re that kid from Willard—that basketball player. I remember reading about you in the papers!

I was somewhat of a celebrity back in those days, I nodded. You’re right.

Yes. I forget the details, but I distinctly remember my husband raving about you.

Your husband’s a basketball fan?

"Was, Leah answered. Leonard passed away several years ago."

Both Leah and I are widows, the chubby one volunteered.

The room settled quickly into an uneasy silence until Leah spoke up and complimented me on my youthful appearance.

I passed that milestone ages ago.

Every time I turned around back then, your picture was in the newspapers or you were being compared to that Michael what’s-his-name.

Jordan?

Yeah, Jordan. Opening her eyes wider and fixing me with an intense stare, she said, Pardon me for being so bold, but if you were that good, then why is it you’re not, traveling around the country with a professional basketball team?

That flight was canceled ages ago.Too bad, she said sympathetically but do you keep in touch with any of your teammates from high school?

I’ve been out of circulation for a while. That’s to say, I haven’t spoken to them in years. I suspect they’re scattered about the country, playing pickup games in their spare time.

Do you still have nightmares about that day? Leah asked, her voice dipping almost to a whisper.

What day is that? the chubby one asked, getting excited. I could feel her eyes bearing down on me. She would have heard about Willard through the grapevine—not the full story. Parts, maybe. I wanted to change the topic, but all I could do was close my eyes, hold my breath and hope to die.

Young man?

My eyelids fluttered open. Sorry. What is it you were asking?

Are we intruding into your space? Leah asked. Clearly, she wasn’t going to drop it.

I scratched my head. Well, my memory’s not quite what it used to be, I lied.

Forgetfulness goes hand-in-hand with the aging process, the attractive one quipped. Leah should be familiar with failing memory as well as anyone. Ask her when’s the last time she sprang for cappuccino at Starbucks. Bet she can’t remember.

Leah waited a minute to confirm that she was hearing her friend correctly, and then she said, Perhaps, now’s not a good time.

We’re all friends here in this room, the chubby one insisted. What’s spoken in this room stays in this room. She looked around the room, searching for confirmation. Can I get an ‘Amen’ to that?

Amen! the choir beamed.

But Leah remained unconvinced.

For some reason, I surveyed one corner of the room, half expecting to see swarms of little old ladies coming at me with pitch forks, barrels of whole grain cereal and green leafy vegetables. None swarmed over to me, of course. I was getting my waking nightmares confused.

Hell-bent on her mission to demystify this experience, Leah, her voice as tight with stress as a porcupine caught between two wolves, whispered hesitantly into my ear. I rolled the leather chair back against the wall because something about the essence of her message made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Noticing the expression on my face, the chubby one gasped. What is it you just whispered to make our young ball player look like he just saw a ghost? she asked.

Later, Leah snapped.

Ms. Holiday blinked, and her smile morphed into puzzlement. I thought we agreed to—

Not now! Not now!

Perhaps because she lacked the energy to pursue this line of questioning, or perhaps because in my furious silence she sensed a greater depth to the story, Ms. Holiday shifted her attention to the window and the haze drifting past its borders. It’s gonna be a scorcher today, she announced solemnly.

Ladies, I said, gesturing at the clock on the wall. Best I get to work before our boss comes to his senses and realizes he’s hired the wrong guy for the job. I offered a fake smile.

Well, if you need anything, the chubby one said, pointing over her shoulder. I’m right next door. Don’t be afraid to knock.

I’ll keep that in mind.

And the both of us are upstairs on the second floor, the most attractive of the three said. I hope you don’t mind if we look in on you every now and then.

Not at all. I’ll need all the help I can get.

Is this assignment temporary or do you plan on staying with us until the end of the year? she added.

Not sure. It depends on how well I do these first two weeks.

The chubby one clapped her hands together and then rubbed them off each other. Well, we don’t wish to keep you from your chili cheese sandwich and chips. Lunchtime’s almost over and by the sounds coming from outside, I sense that your students are getting a little restless. It’s best we be getting back to our own little cubbyholes!

Time flies when you’re having fun, I said.

When they opened the door into the outer hallway, I heard the discordant laughter and dissonant chatter of a hundred conversations. Tenors, altos, and sopranos merged into choruses. Choruses merged into a blur. As soon as the door closed behind them, a loud thud shook the ground beneath me—an inadvertent failure by one of my students to maintain a sense of decorum.

And at that very moment, I felt a constricting in my chest; the medication I was taking, perhaps. But then maybe the chubby one was on to something. Maybe my love affair with fast food, booze, and fast women had begun to take their toll on my body. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but thank my lucky stars for having survived the journey, considering what I’d gone through to get here. That’s to say my drinking was no longer a major concern. The twelve steps had been a test of my will to abandon my destructive lifestyle. I’d peed into the cup and the results had raised no red flags. Hallelujah! Thank you, Jesus! Landing this job had convinced me that I was finally on the road to recovery.

No doubt, the rumor mill would ramp up to fever pace the moment my three new friends returned to their little cubbyholes. The tall one had used that inquisitive brain of hers to sort out pieces of the puzzle. It wouldn’t take long for her to connect the dots. Soon, her two companions would fill in the blanks. As for her two companions, they’d pile on with insinuation and misrepresentation, and before you know it, the rumor mill would start churning like the spin cycle on my old washer dryer.

I poked a plastic fork into the Tupperware bowl and sampled the broiled salmon tossed with avocado, mushrooms, and tomatoes. I’d nearly forgotten what it was like to eat a good home-cooked dish. It was fresh—far fresher than the thawed fries that had become my staple for the past several months. Still, throughout this short respite, I had trouble concentrating. Some of it was a result of prescription medicine. The panic attacks and night sweating. The dizziness and eye strain. But it wasn’t the dizziness, ultimately, that had my head spinning. It was the feeling—all too familiar lately—that no matter how hard I tried, my past life was beginning to catch up with me.

The memories began to reappear: the images, the spring of ’95. My whole life stood before me, and the trial of the century had reached an impasse. That spring, Travis Tanner pulled me aside and offered advice on how best to avoid the calamities prophesied in the Book of Revelation.

The non-verbal cues make sense only in hindsight; Mr. Tanner was a stereotypical algebra teacher, an introvert whose mode of communication was structured around symbols and abstract rhetoric.

I was reluctant to dwell on the images that had haunted my sleep—the uncontrollable sense of guilt—but even less did I want to stroll down memory lane with three middle-aged women bent on changing my eating habits. They only needed to know my name, rank, and serial number.

I am Isaac (Ike) Preston, thirty-five years old, no rocket scientist, and I cannot begin to answer the questions strangers keep asking. I am also a statistic—an affirmative action poster child, so to speak. But by this I do not mean that I’m a charity case, only that I currently live the life of a former high school megastar gone bust.

This coming to grips with my current condition is not offered in a spirit of contrition or self-pity. Believe it or not, my fleeting encounters with happiness help keep me afloat as I work to put my life back together. In any case, such encounters are therapeutic. They put me in touch with my most balanced self, breathing life into faded images of those who lost their lives during the spring of ’95. I can’t help but wonder if the dead were the lucky ones, after all. Their pain had been sudden, terminal, blunt force trauma, not transmuted into a cycle of recursive dreams.

I realized that one of the three members of the welcoming committee had returned and was standing at the door. Sorry to interrupt . . . her voice trailed off.

No problem.

Leaning toward me, eager to explain why she’d returned, the most attractive of the three ladies smiled. Sorry I didn’t get to introduce myself earlier. Sometimes my two friends get so carried away, it’s hard to get a word in edgewise. Her grin widened. My name is Karen. Karen Younger

Nice to meet you . . . again, Karen Younger.

She held a platter of fruit in her hands and stepped forward to place the platter on my desk. I wanted to let you in on a little secret, young man, she said quietly.

Why do you keep referring to me as ‘young man’? I asked, confused. I mean, I’m not in high school anymore. In fact, I’m even old enough to hold a driver’s license in this state.

Karen chuckled. Please accept my apologies, young— She caught herself. In the crowds I hang out with these days, anyone south of fifty is considered young.

We both laughed at that.

I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, I began as a grin spread across my face. But if I were ten years older—

Flattering your boss at this early stage in your career will get you nowhere, young man.

Boss? I asked. My heart skipped a beat.

She smiled. Just joking. Flattery will get you anything you want.

"Boss?" I repeated, my mouth going suddenly dry.

Karen settled all the way into a chair across from me and crossed her legs in a seductive motion. But that’s not why I’m here. I wanted to speak with you alone, she said, her voice turning serious.

I looked at the clock. You’re the boss?

She seemed not to hear me; she seemed so determined to get this burning issue off her chest. I’ll bet you’re wondering why I’ve taken this sudden interest in you.

I’d grown accustomed to anesthetizing myself from feeling real emotions, from experiencing painful situations, and from developing any solid relationships. Diminished interpersonal skills could defeat my purpose, but now I realized that my aloofness might earn me a one-way ticket to the unemployment line. Wisely, giving recognition to my survivor instinct, I maintained a cool silence.

A penny for your thoughts.

"Why have you taken this sudden interest in me?"

How’d you like the salad?

Sure beats the hell out of cheese dogs and Doritos. Thanks.

She nodded and inched closer to my desk. I didn’t want to say anything while my two friends were here with me but—

I waited.

She continued. I just wanted to say that I’m familiar with the events that took place at Willard.

I put aside the brown bag, which still contained about a dozen grapes, and I levered myself up from the desk. How is it you know so much about Willard?

My brother taught there for twenty-two years. You might remember him. Travis Tanner?

Suddenly, I was tempted to fold my bag, stuff it into my pocket, and walk out the door, chalking this one up to experience. Instead, I took a deep breath. Yeah, I remember him, I said, exhaling slowly. Mr. Tanner was your brother?

My oldest brother. I come from a family of seven siblings.

Ah, yes, I said, looking into her green eyes, feeling the guilt on my shoulders for not being more hospitable. How’s the rest of your family getting along?

Our father passed away six years ago. The doctors said it was a heart attack. I think he died from a broken heart.

Sorry for your loss. And your other siblings?

All doing fine. Dad, though, he refused to stick to the diet his doctor prescribed. He loved his steaks well-done and with plenty of gravy and salt. He thought he was invincible. He worked out three times a week. But he spent a lot of time mourning, Karen explained. She looked down at her shoes for a moment. I’m convinced that that’s what eventually took him away.

I glanced up at the clock.

I wasn’t sure how I was going to say this, she said.

Say what?

That I’m truly sorry for what Travis put you through. It must’ve been awful being there in that room—to see your friends . . .

Most of them weren’t my friends, I said quickly.

She shrugged. I speak from the heart when I say I feel your pain. I really do. And if there’s anything I can do—anything at all—please don’t be afraid to call on me. She inched forward. I could feel my heartbeat quickening again. You mentioned you weren’t married. Is there anyone special in your life that you feel comfortable with to share the pain?

A thought immediately crossed my mind. Well, I like waking up after 10:30 a.m. most days, knowing my only real responsibility is to keep myself from strangling my current girlfriend. Instead, I said nothing.

She must have read my mind, because Karen withdrew her gaze from me and focused on the half-eaten sandwich in front of me. From the look on her face, I knew what she was thinking, Any self-respecting woman would have bent over backwards to rescue this train wreck of a man.. She stood up, took one step back, and broke the silence with a calm observation. So, I take it you’re not at all happy with how things are going in your relationship?

She thinks I’m a slacker, I volunteered.

Well? she grinned. Are you a slacker?

Convincing her otherwise hasn’t really been a priority, I shrugged. You see, she’s a black Republican and sees the world only in red and blue. That fact, alone, makes it difficult to really open up to her. It’s been better to let her believe that I’m lazy these first weeks of our relationship than risk admitting to depression. That’s taboo in her world. It dawned on me that I was opening up to a complete stranger. I rolled my eyes. But why am I telling you all this? We just met ten minutes ago, and here I am opening up to you like we’ve been best friends for years!

She inched forward, this time managing to place a hand on my shoulder. We all need friends—someone whose shoulder we can cry on. Imaginary ants instantly crawled up my back as I remembered the liver-spotted hands of my elderly third grade teacher, Mrs. Winslow, touching me on the shoulders.

Well, I explained, gaining my composure. I sat up straight. "I’m sorry to disappoint, but I’m not into the crying game. In fact, the only issue I have with my current relationship, as it stands now, is keeping it hidden from the young women I meet in bars."

For a while, Karen sat there, blotting her damp palms on the front of her dress. Her thin face was drained of blood. She was humiliated, like a scorned woman feeling the slow and painful twisting of the screws against a once-majestic oak-turned-coffee table.

So, she said bristly. Now that we’ve gotten to know each other so well in this short span of time, I hope you allow me the liberty of taking this relationship one step further. Indulge me the opportunity to briefly elaborate.

Huh?

Karen Younger narrowed her eyes. Humor me. She shook her head at me. I was right about you. Two people share the same affection for truth and goodness, and yet the affection in each of them may have a different origin; that is, each may have a different end in view. We both know that my brother’s actions were unconscionable. But there’s this tugging in my heart that tells me he was unjustly vilified. Yet, you’ve spent your entire adult life distancing yourself from memories that could help give us both closure once and for all.

I shrugged. Karen’s anger was building with her confusion—always a dangerous combination, particularly after a woman had been spurned. Mr. Tanner might have been the brother who’d gone over the edge, but I sensed that Karen had gone over the edge and returned for the sole purpose of taking me with her . . . back over the edge.

Let’s conjure a hypothetical scenario, she said. Let’s say you’ve just had another spat with your little uptight, Nubian right-winger, so you storm out of her fashionable Westside condo, jump into your refurbished Ford Pinto and drive across town to your studio apartment in Watts. This happens on a Friday night. Twenty-four hours later, you’re in an upscale Hollywood bar, fresh off a heated phone conversation where you’ve lied and told her you’re with a sick friend. Of course, she doesn’t believe you, but that’s neither here nor there. Anyway, you’re at the night club and remember that, for almost three weeks, you haven’t taken the antidepressants prescribed by Dr. Yee—

Who the heck is Dr. Yee? I interrupted.

We’re pretending here. Remember, this is a hypothetical scenario.

I nodded. Press on.

So you gulp down a Prozac Smirnoff cocktail and begin looking for female companionship and general entertainment. Karen cocked her head and chuckled at her own cleverness. Am I on the right track so far?

You’ve got me down pat. You should’ve been a psychic.

Fact: When you enter almost any room, you’re the tallest, most emotionally fragile man in the room. This used to cause you distress until you realized that A, it beats the hell out of being short and emotionally fragile; and B, your boyish charm and natural good looks help bring out the mother instinct in most women, so you’ve got that going for you. Shall I continue?

What exactly did your brother tell you about me? I wondered.

You’re taller than your average Joe. You’ve inherited the sharp features, the prominent chin from your father, and the coarse hair from your mother’s side of the family, Karen said. She gave me a long look to let me know this wasn’t over—not by a long shot.

Feeling awkward, I glanced up at the clock again, hoping she’d take the hint.

Instead, she seemed to catch a second wind and started up again. I’m sure you have a therapist lined up to help you interpret your dreams. I’ll bet he even offers advice on how to deal with people who subject you to ludicrous comments that link the size of your feet to the length and girth of another part of your body!

Her attempt at adult humor failed to strike a chord with me. She didn’t know me. She thought she did, but she didn’t. The audacity, I reeled silently.

She continued. "At any rate, women stare at you when you go places, right? This presents something of a challenge for you. You can no longer live up to expectations people dream up for you. That being said—today being a perfect example—you do get recognized from time to time, mainly because even the delusional females are able to make the leap from, ‘What really happened that day at Willard?’ to ‘Does being tall interfere with being able to stoop so low?’"

I removed my sports jacket and folded it over the arm of my chair, and then pushed the tray of fruit to the right side of my desk. Karen grabbed an apple from the tray, inspected it with a wine-taster’s eye, and then placed it back on the tray. But what happens when you don’t take your medication? You become a zombie.

My fascination with her analysis grew. You know me so well.

She continued. "The world turns flat and colors fade into shades of gray. You become lethargic and lose interest in everything; you can’t will yourself to do anything. You don’t feel sad. In fact, you feel nothing—empty, blank, flat. Great things happen, but they don’t make you happy. Awful things happen, but they don’t make you sad. But when you’re out on the town, boozing it up with all of the loose women you meet in bars, and when you’re mixing your Prozac and cocaine with tropical drinks purchased by female enablers, you’re at the top of your game. The medication and drugs don’t make you feel happy; they make you feel. With the medication, your emotions return in full force; you can feel happy or sad."

She braced for a reaction and reconsidered the apple on the tray on my desk next to my elbow, but didn’t touch it. So let’s sum this puppy up: You spend most of your time seducing the women you meet in bars.

I looked across my desk into those green eyes and realized I’d lost track of time. For the first time since taking up the moniker of analyst, Karen met my eyes and held my gaze without the accompanying psychobabble. The question remained, as it had throughout her extensive analysis of me, as to what, exactly, her intentions were. Obviously, it had something to do with loyalty to a sibling and the primacy of his honor. It was tied up in reclamation, and hinted at an attempt to re-establish a connection to the missing pieces of her own DNA.

She looked up at the clock and sighed. "I can’t believe lunch ended five minutes ago! How time does fly when you’re having fun. And guess what? I can hear your students banging on the door."

I’ve enjoyed our little chat. I can’t help but wonder, however, why the interest in me? I asked quietly.

She looked levelly at me, not a flutter in her eyelids. I’ve been following your less-than-stellar career for quite some time, Isaac. Let’s just say I needed to find out why my brother was so fond of you—what makes you tick? I don’t want to scare you, but you might say that what started out as a hobby turned into . . . an obsession.

Now you’re starting to sound like a stalker, I replied. Should I be worried?

I come to you with benevolent intentions and you accuse me of being a stalker?

I pushed aside my lunch and reached across my desk with both hands to appease her sense of indignation. Thanks again for the fruit, I said, looking at the clock. But duty calls.

Karen had returned to my room with a full platter of organically grown fruit, which she had placed in front of me. On a saucer were two pears, a tangerine, and half of a sliced grapefruit. Beside the saucer, she had placed a cup of brown honey, with a small silver spoon.

Instead of grounding me in peace, harmony, and bliss, these domestic details gave a dreamlike quality to the situation. Surreal. In fact, if Goldilocks and the three bears had burst into the room to join in on this party, I would not have been at all surprised.

Clearly in my mind, Karen’s drugstore wisdom wasn’t meant to win me over. It had been an obtuse response to rejection. Before you open your doors to let in the enemy, I must tell you that fate has brought us together, she added. No one on the selection committee is aware of our connection. Let’s just keep that as our little secret..

Agreed! But what else did your brother tell you? I asked again.

Karen’s green eyes sought the comfort of a distant column of ants marching single file toward a grape that had rolled off my desk and onto the floor. That he was under a lot of pressure. That he feared something would happen at Willard—a tragic event.

And did your brother’s behavior offer you any hint regarding his state of mind?

I was away in Europe at the time it happened. I was having such a great time—affairs in Paris, romance in Barcelona—that I barely had time enough to read my brother’s letters. To be honest, I wasn’t really interested in news coming out of the high school scene. The only news coming from the States that tweaked my interest centered on the O.J. Simpson trial.

So how much influence do you have with the selection committee?

Lots.

So why is it me sitting here today instead of someone with a better resume?

You ask a lot of questions.

Answer this one.

Your charisma, Karen shrugged. And our shared history.

What is it you want from me?

Still with the questions, she said, looking away. I want you to fill in the blanks.

A daunting task, I thought. I’d have to go back to the spring of ’95—my senior year in high school—three weeks before her brother had warned me that the time was at hand for God to smite the unrighteous with his vengeful sword of justice.

I didn’t try explaining myself to Karen for fear that she might reach the correct conclusion that her brother was not merely a loose cannon, but also a victim in his own right. And if what happened to the victims in the Simpson case had precipitated the Willard event, Karen might take the next step in logic, concluding that her brother had been a copycat. While this was highly unlikely, she might leap thereafter into the realm of the illogical: Assume that I was one of the enemies and turn against me.

And that could get me fired.

I’ve enjoyed our little discussion, she said. I’d like very much to come back later when you’re done teaching your students. I hope that doesn’t inconvenience you.

I don’t make it a habit of hanging around after hours, but I’ll make an exception for you.

Karen broke into a condescending smile. You’re so kind.

She rose from the chair onto four-inch stiletto heels with no great effort and with uncanny grace. As she crossed the room, she seemed to float, rather than walk to the door. After reaching it, she turned on those four-inch stilettos—nearly swiveling a full 180 degrees—to face me. I’d like to leave you with a parable, Isaac.

Who are you supposed to be, Jesus? I asked incredulously.

She smiled. "Do I look like Jesus to you?"

I thought a moment. Her hair hung down past her shoulders—an