Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [7]
PRESENT DAY
Merry Christmas,” Duckey says as he slides a rectangular box wrapped in red foil across the table. His manicured fingers stay on the present for a few seconds, long enough to let me know that whatever is inside is something he would want for himself, even as the thousand-dollar watch peeking out from under his shirtsleeve assures me he probably already has several of whatever it is.
“Thanks, Ducks.” I pick up the gift, a sticky film of syrup on the bottom, and shake it a little. I can hear something shifting around inside, but it is not heavy and does not seem breakable. “You want me to open it now?”
He waves off my question with his fork, then sinks the implement into a multilayered wedge of pancakes. “Your call. Just make sure you treat them with the care they deserve.”
I consider doing the deed here, on the lacquered wooden table in the Student Union, but there is something that seems wrong about that, especially if I am right about what is inside. With a nod of thanks I set the package to the side, careful to avoid the largest of the sticky spots, and reach for my coffee cup.
Jim Duckett, Dean of the Schools of Anthropology and Archaeology at Evanston University, finishes his pancakes and moves on to the last two sausage links on his plate. It still amazes me that he can eat like he does, at an age when the metabolisms of most men begin to slow and an extra layer of fat starts to build above the belt line. I’m convinced that no man should have a thirty-four waist at age forty-five. True, I wear the same size, but I’m still three years shy of forty. And I do eschew the elevator for the six flights of stairs in my apartment building.
“So you’re staying here for the holiday break.”
“Nowhere I’d rather be,” I say.
Having exercised his privilege as dean to forgo the last week of the semester, Duckey and his brood will leave for Denver in the morning to visit his in-laws. The children will have two weeks of doting from their grandparents, and Duckey and the missus will haunt the ski slopes with guiltless abandon.
His plate empty, Duckey leans back in his chair and reaches for his breast pocket. It’s a reflex. I see his fingers slide over the smooth metal of his cigar case and then fall away. We’ve been eating a late-afternoon meal, a breakfast-for-dinner thing, in this place—usually the same booth—a few times a week for the last two years, and he has never been able to break himself of the habit of reaching for an after-meal cigar. At least twice he’s gotten as far as selecting one, clipping its end, and lighting up, with me watching in amused silence before the student manager of the grill could come over and remind him that “This is a no-smoking facility.”
He watches me for a minute in silence, his appraiser’s eye flitting over me and, apparently, finding something distasteful. During this perusal, which I bear with stoic good nature—this being just the most recent of many such evaluations—I return his look with a smug smile. Around us, the sights and sounds of a semideserted student hangout run their courses.
“If you were anyone but you, I’d say you were itching for someone to ask you to spend the holidays with them,” Duckey says. “But I know better. It wouldn’t surprise me if you don’t leave your apartment for days.”
“I’ll still have to check the mail.”
“If you don’t make it out of the building, it doesn’t count.”
“The life of a hermit is underrated.”
“You’re an odd human being.”
“That may well be true, but I’ll be the one walking around in my underwear and watching ESPN all day.” I effect a faraway look and a blissful smile. “And I won’t shower, and I’ll eat frozen cookie dough right out of the wrapper, and I’ll sleep in a fort made out of sheets.”
“All right, Peter Pan, I won’t feel sorry for you. But one of these days you’re going to die in your apartment and no one will know until your stink drifts out from under the door. And I’ve smelled your place, so it may take some time for someone to notice the difference.”
“You’ll come looking for me when