Separate from the World (15 page)

Branden flinched at the postscript and looked up at Eddie, astonished. “You can’t write this, Eddie,” he said. “You can’t give it to them like this.”

“Why not, Professor?” Eddie asked, coming forward on his seat.

“Eddie,” Branden said, shaking his head. “This postscript makes it seem as if you think they’re to blame, because they didn’t like you.”

Eddie gave him a blank stare. He didn’t get it at all.

Branden tried again. “Eddie, you should just write that you are sorry and leave it at that.”

“I thought I had done that,” Eddie said.

“You did,” Branden sighed. “But the postscript says that you think this wouldn’t have happened if they had only liked you more.”

“Well,” Eddie said slowly, “I do kinda think that.”

Branden shook his head again. “You can’t write this to the Billetts. They just lost their daughter.”

Eddie lowered his eyes and thought. When he looked back to Branden, he seemed dismayed. With shame, he said, “I’m such a screw-up, Dr. Branden. I’m just as stupid as they come.”

Branden said, “I’m sure you mean well, Eddie. You should write your note again, but leave off this postscript.”

Eddie hung his head sadly. “I should just go somewhere by myself. I just screw everything up for people.”

“Eddie,” Branden said, “the note is fine without the postscript.”

“OK,” Eddie whispered. “I’ll write it again.”

Caroline came into the living room with a tray with three water glasses, but Eddie stood up abruptly and said, “I can’t stay, Mrs. Branden.”

Caroline said, “I’m sorry to hear that, Eddie,” and set the tray on the coffee table.

At the door, Eddie said, “Thanks, Dr. Branden. I would have screwed this up, too.”

FOR THE first time at Millersburg College, on the request of the Board of Trustees, the commencement bulletin gave the title of each senior’s thesis, with the adviser’s name beside it. Branden sat in the oak grove and watched the seniors walk across the stage, and as each one shook the president’s hand, Branden read the thesis title. It passed the time for him, and he found that he liked the personal touch it gave. The ceremony began with a prayer for Cathy Billett, and several students came forward to speak of their friendship with her.

The weather that day was unusually warm for northern Ohio, and many of the students and some of the faculty opened their academic gowns to the breeze and sat with their shoes off, toes in the cool grass, according to the Millersburg College tradition. On the back of the commencement bulletin, a note explained that this was done in honor of beloved Professor Newton White, who had died on a hot day in 1922 during commencement, with his shoes off and his robe open to the breeze.

Aidan Newhouse stood during the awarding of degrees, fist raised high overhead, with Ben Capper’s manacles shining brightly in the sun. It was his badge of honor, and he wore it well, for a while. By the time the president had worked through the alphabet to the Cs, Aidan’s arm had slumped a bit. During the Ds, he found it necessary to move it in a slow circle over his head in order to maintain circulation. In the Hs, Newhouse let his arm drop so he could hold his elbow up with his other hand. In the Qs, the psychology professor sat down, but found new strength in his arm. In the middle of the Ts, he settled for lifting his fist at intervals, when inspiration overcame his fatigue. And during the benediction, he had nothing left. He just sat in his chair with his head bowed for reasons that had nothing to do with the prayer.

Through it all, Branden sat next to him. They had always marched together, lately near the head of the line, having come to Millersburg College the same year. Their seniority surpassed that of all but two active professors ahead of them, plus a half dozen Emeriti who still needed the grand march to give meaning to their lives.

While Newhouse maintained his vigil, Branden watched the students accept their diplomas, mentally noting each one he had taught. Still, because the procession was slow, he had time to study the crowd of parents and relatives who looked on. And once, for about twenty minutes, he observed Chief of Security Ben Capper, who usually organized and directed his security detail on the far perimeter of the assembly. But today Branden observed Capper eyeing Newhouse with disgust, and Branden noticed that when Capper came into view, Aidan Newhouse found new life for his arm.

After the commencement ceremony, the oak grove turned to mild pandemonium as friends in the graduating class sought each other to hug, take pictures, and say their good-byes. Branden stood to the side and let students find him if they wished, and he said his good-byes, too.

Late in the morning, he observed Ben Capper walking briskly out of the oak grove toward his office. Catching sight of Bruce Robertson standing with a distraught couple at the spot below the bell tower where Cathy Billett had died, the professor surmised they were the Billetts from Montana. During it all, President Arne Laughton walked from family to family and stood proudly for photographs when asked. Eddie Hunt-Myers ushered his parents to Laughton, and the president lingered with them, speaking in hushed voices, no doubt about the Billetts, Branden thought.

Professor Nina Lobrelli sought out Branden and asked about the Amish boy who had been abducted. Branden explained that too much time had passed to contemplate hope for the lad.

Near the end of the morning, as Branden was thinking of walking home, a young woman in a cap and gown approached rather diffidently from the side and stood with him, watching the people mingle. He had never taught her in class, and he was embarrassed not to know her name. Without looking at him, she began to speak softly, and by the time his attention caught up to her words, she was saying, “That was all before he hooked up with Cathy Billett.”

Branden turned to her and saw an extraordinarily petite woman with sorrowful eyes. She was no more than five feet tall, and holding a brick in each hand, she might barely have tipped the scales over a hundred pounds. She had short black hair and brown eyes that turned to look at him directly only once. Her complexion was the pale color of coconut, and the muscles in her jaw line were knotting as she spoke.

“Cathy Billett was my best friend,” she said, “until they hooked up. After she’d been out with him for the second time, she stopped talking to me. Best friends, Professor, for three years, and she stopped talking to me after two dates with Eddie. That’s gotta be a record.”

Branden said, “I remember seeing you when Cathy died. You’re the girl who tried to slap Sergeant Niell.”

“I was trying to get to Eddie,” she said with a chilled laugh.

Branden felt a ripple along his spine, an uneasy tension, born of strange insight.

“I don’t know your name,” Branden said. “I’m sorry.”

“Hope Elliot, Professor. Psychology. I did my senior thesis with Professor Wells. I was Eddie’s girlfriend, until he dumped me for Cathy.”

“I see that Eddie wrote for Newhouse,” Branden said, tapping the bulletin and struggling to focus his mind. “Psychology, too.”

“He killed her, Professor Branden.”

“That’s a serious allegation!” Branden exclaimed.

“I know he did it, but nobody can prove it. So he’ll probably get away with it.”

“Eddie says she jumped,” the professor said, adjusting his posture to relieve the tension in his back. “He says he broke up with her, and she jumped.”

“Either way, Professor, he killed her. He killed her by how he treated her.”

Branden turned to face her fully, and Hope Elliot couldn’t look at him. Eyes forward, she said, “It won’t be good for me if he sees us talking too much.”

 

 

When Hope Elliot walked out of the oak grove, she was crying. She was also watched, Branden noticed, by Eddie Hunt-Myers.

Branden watched Eddie’s eyes track Hope to the street, and then he saw them swing back to rest on him. Branden held to his spot, and Eddie pulled his mother over to him. He offered Branden his hand and shook it with abundant goodwill, smiling as if it were the happiest day of his life. Then Eddie introduced his mother. His father joined them, and Eddie introduced him, too. The Hunt-Myerses asked for a picture, and Eddie clamped his arm around Branden’s shoulder and smiled for the shot. Eddie’s father shook Branden’s hand again, and Eddie gave his mother a bear hug. When he released her, there was a light in Eddie’s eyes that could have been pride, if it weren’t so tinged with sorrow and conflict.

 

 

As the Hunt-Myers family moved off with their graduate, Branden caught a glimpse of Bruce Robertson talking on his cell phone. Robertson spoke, listened, spoke again with heat, and started across the oak grove toward the professor at a run. Thirty yards out, the sheriff shouted, “Mike! Mike!” as loud as cannon shots, and everybody in the oak grove turned to look.

“We got him!” Robertson shouted. “We got him, Mike! Albert Erb! He’s safe. He just walked home on his own.”

“HAS HE said anything at all?” Robertson asked. He was standing on the front porch, talking through the screened door to Israel Erb. The sheriff could see Albert behind Israel, cradled in his mother’s arms, head shaved and scalp as white as cotton, in a fresh suit of blue Amish denim.

Israel said, “No, Sheriff. He won’t talk. We’ve tried.”

Branden stepped out from behind Robertson and asked Israel, “Do you still have the clothes he was wearing?”

On the steps behind Branden stood Dan Wilsher in a blue suit, his gray hair lifting in the breeze. Behind him Ricky Niell, in uniform, was clicking his gold pen nervously. Cal Troyer waited on the lawn below, and beside him were Missy Taggert with her medical bag and Willa Banks with her endless curiosity. Branden’s white truck was parked in the drive, in front of two cruisers and the coroner’s wagon. Missy had already explained to Robertson her need to examine the boy. Cal had objected, fearing Albert was already too traumatized. They had agreed that she should start with the English clothes Albert had worn home, and examine him only if it proved to be wise to do so.

Israel looked the whole scene over anxiously from his side of the screen and said, “Yes. We have the English clothes.”

He turned back to the room behind him and spoke to an older son in dialect, calling him Daniel. The boy came forward with a plastic Wal-Mart bag bulging with clothes and a pair of pink flip-flops. Israel held the door open, and Daniel stepped out onto the porch with the bag of clothes. Robertson motioned him down the steps, and Missy Taggert came forward to take the clothes and flip-flops. The boy went back inside.

Next, Robertson said, “We want to talk with him, Mr. Erb. Let us talk to Albert.”

Israel stepped to the side, and his wife Hannah carried Albert forward to the screen. Robertson pulled the screened door open, and Albert cringed deeper into his mother’s grasp, squirming and whimpering. Hannah had difficulty managing him, so Israel took him from her. He laid Albert prone against his chest and let the boy rest his chin on his father’s shoulder. Albert was not facing Robertson, so the sheriff said, “Can you please bring him out here?”

Israel nodded for Hannah to precede him, and he followed with Albert. Robertson got them seated on the front porch and signaled for Cal Troyer to join them. Then Robertson and Branden stepped back. Cal waved them back farther, and the two descended the porch steps.

A warm, soft breeze suggested safety, peacefulness. The rhythmic clanking of the windmill pump bracket kept a slow, regular pace. Troyer could hear the beat of the windmill and feel the pulse of the breeze, but he dismissed these distracting sensations because of the insistent cry of Albert’s shaved head, the damage to the boy as disturbing as a knife wound to his psyche. Miraculously, the lad had made it home on his own. Perhaps that was all Troyer could ask for.

Troyer wanted to lay a hand against the boy’s scalp. He wanted to communicate safety and compassion through his touch. He wanted to hold the child. To console him with human tenderness. He searched himself for all of his healing instincts, but he had only his voice—and then only if he chose his words well. He would get one chance at this, and he’d better get it right.

Softly he said, “Hi, little fella. Hi, Albert. My name is Cal. You are safe now, Albert.” And Israel translated it into Dietsche.

Nothing but a bit of squirming came from Albert. He wasn’t facing Cal and wouldn’t turn around.

Cal continued after a pause. “Mattie is safe, too, Albert. I saw her today. She is safe at home.” Israel translated.

Cal said more. “The man was scary. I know that, Albert.” Israel translated for the boy.

Nobody made a sound. Albert gave no sign that he had heard. Cal kept his sight on the back of the boy’s shaved head, and he prayed as he talked.

“I’d like to see your eyes, Albert,” Cal said. “You don’t have to talk. You can just show me your eyes.”

Slowly, Albert lifted his head from his father’s shoulder. Branden, Robertson, Wilsher, and Niell kept a silent vigil on the lawn. Hannah Erb had started to cry. Willa Banks stood with her fingers laid against her mouth, scarcely breathing.

Slowly, as slowly as a child can manage, Albert brought himself around so that Cal could see his eyes. Cal was on his knees, his head slightly lower than Albert’s. He held his hands softly in front of himself, as if praying, showing Albert that there was no longer any danger. But, when he saw the boy’s face, Cal hungered more than prayer to hold the child and weep.

Tears had made Albert’s cheeks wet and shiny. His little lip quivered. There was pain there and also fear. Cal could see that plainly. But as for his eyes, Albert held them closed—closed as tightly as he could squeeze them. All the horror was locked inside. He couldn’t show his eyes. He would not let the pastor see them.