Separate from the World (9 page)

Capper stood motionless for several turns of the circle, and then he bent over and picked up a brown teddy bear with a yellow ribbon tied around its neck. His eyes sought out Newhouse in the crowd, and he asked, “Do they even know what a yellow ribbon means?”

Newhouse thrust his manacled wrist into the air over his head and kept marching silently.

Capper laid the stuffed bear back on the memorial pile and squeezed through the circle of people again, coming out on the side near Troyer and the Brandens. Spotting them, he walked over to them wearily.

“Mike,” he said in greeting. “Cal. Mrs. Branden. I don’t think these kids even know what a yellow ribbon signifies.”

Cal said, “You served in Vietnam.”

“Air Cav. I flew Hueys.”

Cal said, “Medical Corps.”

“You know Newhouse has led Iraq war protest marches down at the courthouse?” Capper asked.

Cal nodded and said gently, “I think he’s got a point, Ben.”

Capper nursed his antagonism while he considered that statement. Making an obvious effort to contain his anger, he said, “Nam makes us brothers, Cal. You and I are not going to have an argument over Iraq.”

Cal offered his hand, and Capper took it forcefully. He pulled Cal to himself and embraced him. Then he turned and walked out of the oak grove, head high, shoulders back, fists clenching and releasing at his sides.

 

 

Once they got home, Caroline put on a pot of coffee and sat at the kitchen table with her husband and the pastor. While the coffee maker chirped, she traced the grain in the curly maple tabletop with her finger and gave a little nervous shudder. “Newhouse knows the police were as much a problem to the marchers in the sixties as the war was,” she said. “He’s going to wear those cuffs every day now, and he’s going to try to bring it all back. He’s been waiting for something like this all his life.”

Cal said, “It’s not the same. This is not about racism, or society, or free love. It’s not anything like that this time. Now, it’s all about the war in Iraq. That’s where Newhouse will take this.”

The professor said, “You’d think so, Cal, but I promise you Newhouse isn’t that big a thinker. He’s not going to do anything that’ll quench his glory, and that has always been teaching about the sixties.”

Cal barked out a “Humpf” as protest.

Branden said, “He’s the real deal, Cal. A true McGovern believer. A Woodstock idealist. He’s never harmed anyone, and he won’t try to make this any bigger than it is.”

“He’s exploiting Cathy Billett’s death to make a political point,” Caroline complained.

“It’s more about the handcuffs,” Branden said. “He was handled roughly by police in a southern protest march in the sixties, and he spent nearly twenty-four hours chained to an iron bar in the basement of a horrid little jail. He doesn’t like handcuffs, and if Ben and Ricky hadn’t used any today, this would all have blown over. It would never have gotten started.”

“So, you don’t object?” Cal asked.

“Not to Newhouse, I don’t,” Branden said. “He’s always been forthright about his beliefs, and when we talk about the issues of the sixties, he is logical, measured, and fair. He’s a debater, Cal. He’ll debate it as long as he can talk. But do any harm to someone? No. Aidan Newhouse is too much of a peace advocate to ever contemplate violence.”

“Then what?” Cal asked. “What’s he want?”

“It’s going to stay local. It’s all about the handcuffs. Ben Capper is just the kind of person Aidan Newhouse most distrusts. He distrusts that type of authority. He’s going to go after Ben Capper. He’s going to try to get him fired.”

“And if he can’t hurt Ben?” Caroline asked.

“He’ll try to take down somebody for allowing this to happen. Maybe Arne Laughton.”

“The president?” Cal asked.

“Right. Arne Laughton kicked Professor Aidan Newhouse’s son out of college about ten years ago, for cheating on his senior research project.”

WHEN MIKE BRANDEN drove Cal Troyer home, he parked in the church lot next door to Cal’s small house, and he shut the engine down intending to sit a while and talk. It was a cool night, damp from the storm, but they had the windows of the truck rolled down. Cal eased back in the passenger’s seat and hung his elbow out the window. “I don’t know, Mike,” he sighed, eyes turned away. “Enos only has vague suspicions. I think it’s pretty thin. Maybe Benny tried to go up the ladder and failed. You’d just be meddling.”

Branden arched his back and rubbed at tension in his shoulders. The Cathy Billett tragedy had lodged as a sharp complaint in his muscles, and he was having trouble thinking about Benny Erb. But it was more than that. In his living room, he had watched remorse nearly cripple Eddie Hunt-Myers, as he explained to Branden why he had tried to tell Cathy they shouldn’t be together anymore. And then there was his job. Maybe he’d handle this better if he weren’t so sick of grading papers, he thought. Maybe he’d be less of a useless complainer if he could just do his job like everyone else. But that was the trouble—it was just a job to him, now. It was just a way to make money. His disaffection toward what had once been a career was hurting him. And he’d always promised himself that if it ever came to that, he’d retire. So, put up or shut up, Professor, he told himself. And then there was Benny Erb.

“Maybe Enos didn’t tell us everything, Cal. I don’t think his brother Israel would be strong on the Anti side without a good reason. There must be something else mixed in here.”

“Amish are a suspicious lot,” Cal argued. He felt restless and annoyed, nervous about the letter on his desk.

“Still,” Branden said.

“OK, then how do you plan to investigate?” Cal asked. His mind was working on the Rachel Ramsayer problem, not really on Benny Erb.

“I’ll talk to Israel.”

“He might not let you,” Cal argued.

“Then I’ll go into his little store. At least I can have a look around. See this ladder Enos is talking about.”

“Won’t be able to see anything,” Cal said, an unusual impatience in his tone.

“You could introduce me to some of the people in Andy Miller’s district.”

“Don’t know ’em all,” Cal said dismissively.

“Introduce me to this Bishop Miller, then,” Branden said, thinking Cal a bit terse.

There was no answer from Cal.

The lamps of the church parking lot painted faint yellow light into the cab of the truck. A cool, damp breeze drifted in through the windows. Cal sat with his thoughts hidden, and Branden wondered why the pastor seemed so reluctant to talk.

“What are you going to do about your letter, Cal?”

“Don’t know.”

“You could write back. Take it slow.”

“I don’t know, Mike, OK?” There was frustration in his words.

Branden ignored it. “OK, Cal. At least call her up. Take the DNA test. Move it forward, somehow.”

“I can’t get past her mother.”

“That’s not like you, Cal.”

“Yeah? Well,” Cal said, with bitterness fringing his delivery.

Branden held silence, surprised by Cal’s sarcasm.

“It’s too much, Mike. It’s too much to handle all at once.”

Branden turned in his seat and saw Cal’s familiar profile, silhouetted by lamplight, and he marked the years in Cal’s face. He saw a hollow aspect there, framed by consternation. The young Cal Troyer Branden had known in grade school was hidden underneath the years, now. And there was doubt in Troyer’s eyes, something the professor had rarely seen there.

“You going to be OK?” the professor asked softly.

Cal shrugged, looked over briefly, and popped the door handle. He swung his feet out, paused, and asked, “What are you going to do about Lobrelli? She’s mixed into this, you know.”

“That’s where I’ll start, Cal. Tomorrow.”

MIKE BRANDEN found Professor Nina Lobrelli the next morning in a large office adjoining her labs in the new science building, on the opposite side of the stone chapel from the history building. Parked in front of a large desk cluttered with manuscripts and journals, Lobrelli was staring so intently at her laptop that she didn’t notice Branden in her doorway until he cleared his throat. She looked up briefly, saying, “One minute, Mike.” After saving a file, she pushed back from her desk and added, “Sending an e-mail to all of my students.”

“About Cathy?” Branden asked.

Lobrelli nodded. “I want to spend some time with my research students and teaching assistants, to help all of us get through this. Truth is, though, I don’t know how I’ll get through this myself. I’m in shock. I can’t believe she’s really gone.”

“Cathy was one of your assistants?”

“Teaching assistant, Mike. In my sophomore-level genetics class. But she started a research project last summer and was going to finish it for her senior thesis, next year.”

Lobrelli stayed seated at her desk. She sighed. She looked at Branden with a question in her eyes and said, “Why don’t you have a seat, Mike? She was your student, too.”

Branden stayed on his feet and said, “She was in my Civil War class. So was her boyfriend Eddie.”

Lobrelli shook her head with a leaden slowness and dropped her eyes to her desk. Without looking up, she said, “Cathy was going to defy her parents. She was going to follow Eddie home to Florida, after he graduated.”

“She must have loved him,” Branden said.

“They loved each other, Mike. He’s devastated.”

“You’ve talked with Eddie?”

“Earlier this morning. He’s trying to write a letter to the Billetts.”

“What would he say to them?” Branden asked.

“That’s the problem—he doesn’t know. But he thinks he owes them a letter, and he came here to ask me about that.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That it would be a very difficult letter to write, and get it right.”

“No kidding,” Branden said. “How do you know Eddie?”

“He took my genetics class last year, but he also wrote his senior thesis for Aidan Newhouse, upstairs in the psychology labs. I was his second reader when he defended, and his thesis was so good that I nominated it for the OPA Walton Prize.”

Branden did not recognize the prize, and Lobrelli surmised as much, saying, “It’s the Ohio Psychological Association. The Walton is their top scholarly prize, Mike. I think he’s got a lock on it. Eddie, I mean. His thesis is worthy of a master’s degree.”

Branden said, “I know he’s smart, Nina. He just earned an A in my Civil War class. But I didn’t know his senior thesis was that good. I hadn’t heard about your having nominated it.”

“Nominations are going to be announced in OPA’s journal, in the June issue. I just told Aidan about that last week.” Lobrelli shut down her laptop and asked, “So what’s up, Mike? What can I do for you?”

Branden said, “I’m here for a lesson, Nina. On another matter.”

“Oh?”

“Biochemistry.”

“That’s a big subject,” Lobrelli said. She rose from her chair, stepped around to the side of her desk, and pulled a thick volume off her shelf. When she handed it to Branden, its weight tugged at his arms.

He hoisted it back, and Lobrelli laughed when she took it. “That’s just an introductory text,” she said.

Professor Lobrelli was dressed as always in jeans and a simple button-front blouse under a tattered white lab coat, which she wore perpetually, even to lectures. She wore a broad smile most of the time and spoke with a Carolina accent. Her eyes were a soft brown, but there hadn’t been a student who had mistaken her for soft in over a decade. She had always impressed Branden with her success at writing proposals for federal or private funding of her research, and she was one of only a few professors at Millersburg College who devoted themselves to undergraduate research during the summers. It was common knowledge that any bright student with ambition and a good work ethic could start a research project with her as a sophomore and finish senior year with at least one publication in a professional journal.

Lobrelli sat back against the edge of her desk. “You never come visiting, Mike,” she said.

“There’s never enough time.”

“You hear about Newhouse?” she asked.

“I was there when Cathy Billett died. I saw his marchers yesterday.”

“You saw her jump, Mike?”

“No, but I saw her on the stone walkway before the paramedics took her away.”

“Do you know if her parents are here?” Lobrelli asked.

“Arne says they’re flying into Cleveland this morning.”

“That’s going to be rough, Mike. Arne’s not so good with this sort of thing.”

Branden showed Lobrelli a deep scowl. “I had to convince him to call her parents, yesterday afternoon.”

“Oh?”

“He was on the phone with Eddie Hunt-Myers’s father.”

Lobrelli shook her head. She folded her arms over her chest and changed the subject. “Ben Capper’s not so bright.”

“It’s Aidan Newhouse we need to worry about,” Branden said. “He’s gonna milk this.”

“Capper should have known that.”

Branden said, “Right. You’re right.”

“A hundred bucks says he’ll still be in those cuffs for commencement.”

“I’ll pass,” said Branden, laughing.

Lobrelli shrugged and changed the subject back to Branden’s visit. “Why the interest in biochemistry, Mike?”

“You’re doing genetics with some Amish people. How’s that working out?”

Lobrelli started right in on the science, pulling Branden over to her chalkboard. She drew a circle and then a square, and connected the two with a wavy line. “We study transcriptional activators, Mike,” she said. “If this square represents an activation domain, or AD, and the circle represents a DNA binding domain, DBD, then we want to find compounds that will either enhance binding to DNA or enhance transcriptional activity. We’re looking for the kinds of artificial activators that could one day reverse a genetic disorder. Right now we’re working with isoxazolidines . . . ”