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A bit harsh maybe, but it had taught Stubbs self-reliance. He could think on his feet, improvise. One lesson he’d learned over and over again was never trust anybody. Another lesson that had come in handy was never to give a sucker an even break. And maybe that meant he didn’t have a long list of close friends, but it also meant he never risked having someone let him down. Sure, he’d come up hard and tough. But he’d learned.
And he’d turned out okay.
fifteen
Morgan had been gri
He searched under his bed for his belt and spotted the pistol Fred Jones had given him. He recoiled, the memory of it clenching his gut.
He stood. Never mind the belt.
Morgan had almost hypnotized himself into forgetting about A
Last week when Jones had been over to discuss his latest batch of poems, Morgan had almost snapped. He said he couldn’t stand it anymore. Couldn’t eat or sleep. He was going to the police. He’d tell everything, say he was out of his mind, that he’d panicked.
Jones had gripped Morgan’s wrist with strong bony fingers, had spoken low, almost a growl. “You listen to me, Professor. Forget about it. It’s handled. You get it? You didn’t kill that kid. She zapped herself on pills. Why should you get tangled up in that? How’s that fair?”
Morgan had listened, nodded, sluggishly followed the old man’s lead. Sure, why should he suffer?
But now he couldn’t help thinking about it again. About A
Not now, dumbass. A
He climbed into his Buick and was five minutes late arriving at someplace called The Sprout Shack.
He walked in, spotted her, and his smile fell into little chunks, bounced, and clattered around his ankles. Two other professors sat with A
A
“Have you been sleeping okay?” A
“Sure.” He nodded at the two strange professors. “Hey. I’m Jay Morgan.”
The two professors nodded back.
“Hello. Susan Criger.” She was beefy, red-faced, hair knotted in a severe bun.
The other guy was bland, vanilla pudding complexion. Hair the color of old parchment. “Good to meet you, Dr. Morgan.”
“I’m not a doctor,” Morgan said. “I have an MFA.”
“I’m glad you could all make it,” A
“Evidently not.” Morgan realized it had come out a bit caustic and tried to smile again to make up for it. But the muscles in his face wouldn’t work. His smile was broken.
“It’s Sherman Ellis.” A
The beefy woman nodded. “I suppose you’ve gotten the same speech from the dean we have. I was told to-and I quote-‘use the kid gloves.’ ”
Morgan grabbed a menu, sca
A
The waiter arrived, set plates in front of A
“We went ahead and ordered,” A
“No problem.” Morgan looked at her plate. A
The waiter looked at Morgan, his pen hovering over his order pad. “Sir?”
Morgan pointed at A
“Alfalfa sprouts and caraway-seed tofu cubes.”
“I think I’m going to need a minute.”
The waiter left. Morgan thought he might have been rolling his eyes.
“Look, it doesn’t matter,” the other professor said. He poked at a puddle of coarse gray gunk on his plate. “Dean Whittaker has the administration behind him. It’s a public relations show now, and they don’t want to have to tell anyone they flunked out an African-American student. They’ll say we don’t understand his ebonics or that he was culturally displaced and needed special consideration or Lord knows what. The fact that he doesn’t know a Restoration drama from an episode of Mama’s Family won’t matter to anyone.”
He stood, dropped his napkin in the chair. “I’m sorry, Dr. Grayson. I’m not sticking my neck out. It’s not worth my job. Come on, Susan. I’ll buy you a cheeseburger across the street.” He nodded at Morgan. “Good to meet you.”
Susan Criger stood, shook her head at A
A
Morgan set the menu aside. “I think a cheeseburger sounds pretty good.”
“Not about that!”
Morgan threw up his hands. “Well, what do you want me to say? I thought you asked me here-why did you ask me here?”
“I thought that was obvious.”
“It’s not. You and those other two seem to have a problem with Sherman Ellis.”
“Doesn’t he seem a bit odd to you? I mean, is he the caliber of student you’re accustomed to?” She harpooned a tofu cube with her fork, sniffed it, popped it into her mouth. She frowned and shoved in a bale of sprouts on top of the tofu, crunched without enjoyment.
“Ellis is exactly as bad as all of my other poets,” Morgan said. “Ellis only stands out in that he thinks rap and poetry are the same thing. But in terms of quality he’s as bad as all of the other pinheads.”
“You don’t sound like you enjoy your job.”
“You don’t look like you’re enjoying your lunch.”
She stabbed another chunk of tofu, squinted at it, sighed. “I don’t eat meat.” She put the fork down. “But I could use some comfort food. I suppose you could talk me into a cheese pizza.”
“I bet I could talk you into a pitcher of beer too.”
Rico’s New York Style Pizza was a pleasantly shabby place with red-and-white plastic tablecloths. The guy who owned it wasn’t named Rico and had never been to New York. But the pizza was hot and the cheese thick.
A
“After my divorce I went on this health kick.” A
“Sounds terrible.” Morgan sprinkled red pepper on his pizza.
“It is,” she said. “I’ve been hard at it about three years. I sold his golf clubs and used the cash to buy this stationary bike. I do about two hours a night. I’ll have to do three tonight after this pig fest.” But she didn’t let up, dipped the crust into a stray puddle of sauce, and ate it.