Gay

Unfortunately forHilberry University, the first murder of this new year involved one of the most distinguished newer members of the English department.

Clark Pembroke Austen III came to Hilberry by way of a circuitons and rather puzzling route: Harvard, Oxford (where he was a Rhodes scholar), Amherst, the University of Pennsylvania and Youngstown State University. With his graceful, rather shy good manners, his impecable credits and the slightly British intonation of his speech, he was something of a eatch for Hilberry--an unpretentions university in southwestern Ontario, not far from Niagara Falls, with an enrolloment of about 5000 and a very modest budget, much of which seemed to be directed toward physical education, here called human kinetics.

Much speculation centered on Clark; his colleagues were fascinated by him and queried students about his teaching: Did he lecture, was he able to communicate, was he--well, in any way--unusual? He was a bachelor of course. There were several other bachelors in the department and all of them. except a young instruction with the repulation of being popular with his girl students, were quite eccentric. They existed on the fringes of the department, however, and caused little trouble; one of them was possibly insane--but in a mild, harmless way, and he had, even, a small coterie of students who supported him. Clark Austen was another case entirely. Not only had he published his doctoral dissertation-- Stagecraft and Costume Design in Ford's "'Tis Pity She's a Whore"--at one of the top Ivy League schools, and a respectable scattering of scholarly critical essays in excellent journals, but he seemed to be on a casual, first-name basis with eminent scholars in the Ivy League, at Oxford and Cambridge and even at various European universities. He dressed beautifully, though rather formally--in suits with vests, blazers with gold buttons, dress shirts and ties. It was evident that his nails were manicured regularly, his neckties were in exquisite taste and his hair razor-styled so that its rather youthful length was not inappropriate for a man in his late 40s. Rumor had it that Clark's shoes were custom-made, sent to him from a Bond Street shop in London. In any case, he carried himself well, as if constantly aware of an audience; he was always friendly, always good-natured, though sometimes his conversations were strained, even abstract and perfunctory, and members of the English department remarked to one another that there was something "remote" and "mysterious" about him. Frank Ambrose, the department's only black man, and one of the few men in the entire university who dressed with the quiet and expensive good taste with which Clark dressed, said that he liked Clark very much, they had had a lively discussion about the staging of Addison's The Drummer one afternoon, but, still, there was something quite secretive about the man. "Anyone from the Ivy League who winds up at a university like Hilberry has got to have some reason for it." Frank said soberly.

From the first, however, Clark was popular with his colleagues. He had a certain style, having been born in Boston of evidently quite well-to-do parents, and he was a delightful conversationalist when relaxed, after a few drinks; moreover, he showed his gratitude profusely-- and even a kind of sweet humility--by complimenting his hosts on their lovely homes and charming children and delicious food. Sometimes he took a dozen roses, sometimes a bottle of Scotch or an excellent wine. "He's really very attractive," the wives said, as if arguing a subtle point. Indeed, he had a sort of ruined beauty, striking green-gray eyes and a noble nose and mouth rather eroded in the fattish contours of his face.

It was noted that he could drink a remarkable quantity of alcohol before he started to show any effects. Basil May, the department's new head, had an open house in September at which, it was estimated, Clark drank at least five martinis before his speech became slurred; and even then, he grew more and more gracious, more courtly. He complimented his hostess at great length, as if he'd never seen anyone so beautiful. "That dress is so becoming, Mrs. May, I've never seen such lustrous, healthy hair--such an exquisite auburn shade!--it's impossible to believe that you're really the mother of three growing boys, it's just wonderful, just ... just surpassingly wonderful!" The poor woman stood there by the buffet table, plain Joanna May, blushing, confused, embarrassed. Clark took another drink and self-consciously joined a small group of men who were discussing the phenomenon of popular culture and its consequences for English studies: Were King Lear and Peanuts mutually exclusive or were they, perhaps, part of the same creative expression, the "human essence"? Clark appeared to be listening politely, but he said nothing; he finished his drink quickly. It was said afterward by Jake Hanley, who stood nearest him, that his skin had gone dead-white in a matter of seconds. He interrupted the intellectual discussion by pointing to Eunice Ambrose and Marcella Blass, on the far side of the room, both of whom wore long dresses with floral prints and ropes of pearls. "Flowered skirts ... flowered skirts and pearls and ... and perfume," Clark said very slowly. "What does it mean? What does it mean?" When no one answered, he narrowed his eyes to slits, puffed out his cheeks and made a face that could only be called-- so everyone said who happened to see it--incredulous. He waited a moment, then said, in an even slower voice, gesturing with his forefinger, "I say flowered skirts and pearls and perfume and open-toed shoes and shaved legs and shaved armpits and.... I say, What do they mean? What...what do they mean?"

Then he staggered, set his glass down, complained of being suddenly dizzy. Of course, everyone came forward lo help. Mrs. May asked if he might like to lie down for a few minutes, in one of the upstairs bedrooms; Brian Packer offered to drive him back to his apartment, since he and his wife were about to leave anyway. "Yes, thank you very much, thank you very, very much," Clark whispered. "I do think it's time for me to go home...."

After the Packers drove off with Clark, everyone talked about what an extraordinary thing to have happened--Clark Austen suddenly so drunk, his skin lardish-pale, his eyes glassy and tiny and somehow--this was most terrifying of all--somehow not quite human. Dr. May had been out of the room at the time of Clark's peculiar metamorphosis, so it had to be demonstrated for him. Jake Hanley tried but was too grossly melodramatic; Frank Ambrose, himself a little drunk, but nerved up and witty, did a much better imitation. Everyone laughed, though of course it wasn't a laughing matter; it was really very strange, very unfortunate. Very sad.

They talked of little else but Clark Austen for the rest of the evening. The last persons to leave were the Ambroses. Saying good night to the Mays, Frank Ambrose suddenly ran a hand over his head, as if he had just thought of something incredible. "Do you suppose--look, do you suppose that poor bastard doesn't know he's queer?" Frank cried.

•

Almost immediately, Brian and Natalie Packer took up Clark's cause. Because the Packers were from Toronto, and therefore supposed themselves sophisticated, they were eager to befriend Clark; he was a remarkable man, Natalie insisted, far more sensitive than most. And he was lonely. Very lonely. Large groups upset him, Natalie said, but he was very much at home with the Packers: they were, after all, the only people in the department to have permanent orders at a downtown newsstand for the Sunday New York Times. Clark loved the ballet as much as the Packers did. and he was ecstatic over Natalie's cooking and genuinely fond of the Packers' twin poodles--large, rather flabby white dogs in late middle age--so it came about, quite naturally, that the three of them, in Natalie's words, constituted an "oasis" of sorts in the midst of Hilberry's general mediocrity.

Brian Packer was a tall, frail man in his early 30s, with a wistful, sweet, cherubic look; a specialist in 17th Century literature. He did not mind that Natalie governed both of their lives and tried to inspire him to write critical essays-- so that, someday, they could return to Toronto and civilization. Everyone liked Brian. It was Natalie who claimed attention: hardly five feet tall, chirrupy, assertive, with a loud, abrasive, lusty laugh, she was five years Brian's senior and always caught up in special projects. One year it was harp lessons; another year, pottery; still another year, she decided to enroll in the master's program in sociology at the university but dropped out midway because of a violent quarrel she had with one of her professors, in front of an entire class. "The man is an idiot! A total idiot!" she cried. For months she went about, to faculty wives' meetings, to parties, telling everyone who would listen, including friends of the professor, what an idiot he was. "A creature like that should be fired immediately," she declared. She wrote letters to the dean of humanities and to the president of the university, but naturally, nothing was done: Hilberry was such a mediocre place, what else could she and Brian expect?

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Natalie insisted that Clark come for dinner two or three times a week. She insisted that he bring things to be mended, if he had any: and she sent him back to his apartment--in a cold, regal, expensive high-rise north of the campus--with plastic containers filled with leftovers. She was convinced he didn't eat right, being a bachelor. He drank too much, she said bluntly--bluntness was one of Natalie's deliberately cultivated virtues--and he had poor eating habits and at times his shoulders slumped, as if he were very unhappy. While Brian corrected student papers at the dining-room table, Natalie and Clark sat in the living room, sipping espresso and talking earnestly about innumerable important things: Clark's childhood, Clark's education, Clark's sensitivity and disappointments, his successes, his failures, his sickly father and his ignorant mother and his four vain, selfish sisters, his frank opinion of Hilberry--it was truly mediocre, wasn't it?--and of various individuals in the department: They were so lazy and pathetic, weren't they? And, of course, these people gossiped. Constantly. Natalie had been amazed at the amount of gossiping and backbiting that went on at Hilberry; it was so contrary to her own nature, and foreign to her own experience, that she had had difficulty adjusting to life here. Even now, six years after Brian's appointment, she could not quite believe how vicious her husband's colleagues and their smug, dowdy wives could be.

"Don't let them hurt you," she said warmly. "Don't ever let those small-minded people hurt you, Clark."

"Why, how would they hurt me?" Clark asked, surprised.

"Well--you know."

"I do ... ?"

"They're narrow-minded, they're hopelessly bourgeois," she said. Though she was a small woman, her face was rather large; it had, somehow, a creased, muscular look, as if she were continually tensing her forehead and cheeks. When she was especially excited, as she was now, her glasses began to ride down her nose. Clark liked her--he was sure he liked her. She was so intense, so intelligent, so different from the other faculty wives. ... He was sure he liked her, though at times she intimidated him. "They simply can't tolerate people who are different from them; they're right-wing prigs, believe me. So don't ever let those fools get you down."

Clark tried to smile. His forehead was damp, his toes and fingers were twitching helplessly. What on earth was this awful woman saying ... ?

"I'm not sure I understand," he said rather stiffly.

"Oh, Clark, for Christ's sake." Natalie laughed. "You needn't pretend with us. We're your friends, aren't we? You know we are! ... Look, it's perfectly all right; Brian and I lived in Toronto for years. We quite approve of alternate, lifestyles. We've always been totally liberal. And I mean liberal! It doesn't matter to us, Clark, not one bit."

"What doesn't matter to you ... ?"

It was at that point, Natalie said afterward, that Clark fixed her with such a strange, malevolent look ... so coldly vicious a look ... that she faltered and could not speak. He had had only two drinks, and yet his eyes were glazed; there was a frightening, almost demonic air about him. And how quickly it had happened. ...

"Why, why.... Clark, you look so angry ..." she stammered.

"You horrible squat creature," Clark whispered. "You ... you runtish little ... ugly little runtish little sow."

He rose from the sofa. He got his coat. He left.

For days afterward, Natalie talked of nothing else. She went to visit other faculty wives, she made telephone calls, she dramatized again and again Clark Austen's terrifying metamorphosis, sometimes breaking into tears. How awful it had been, how totally unexpected! They had been such warm, intimate friends, and then he had turned on her! For no reason! No reason! Brian tried to calm her, but she refused to be calmed. "I have never in my life been so frightened," she told Joanna May, whom she met in the A & P. "The man looked at me as if he was about to strangle me. I'm not exaggerating! His face was twisted, his voice was guttural and inhuman...." While walking the poodles, she saw Eunice Ambrose driving by and shouted after her, waving her arms so energetically that Eunice had no choice but to stop; she told Eunice all about Clark, stressing the rapidity of his change, the totally unexpected nature of his hostility. "He hates women, of course. I should have known that. In a way, I did know. But I was trying to be generous, trying to be liberal. It was such a shock! Such a blow! One minute we were the best of friends and the next, he had turned on me ... called me an ugly little runtish sow, can you imagine?"

"Natalie, he didn't.! A what?"

"Brian and I stayed up all night afterward, literally shaking. Shaking with fear that he might come back. Brian isn't very strong, you know. These things upset him. When we looked back over our relationship, we could see how Clark was primarily interested in Brian: He was always asking Brian about his classes, about his students, about where he bought his clothes. That sort of thing." Natalie shivered dramatically. "I have absolutely nothing against homosexuals. I never have. Some dislike women--are afraid of us, I suppose--but I sympathize with them, I'm as understanding as can be. But, you see--and this is something I worked out for myself, and Brian agrees that I'm right--the freakish thing about Clark Austen is that while he knows very well he isn't a normal man, he imagines--the poor fool imagines!--that the rest of us are deceived. That is his secret."

"He thinks ... ?"

"He thinks no one knows he's queer," Natalie said angrily.

•

By midwinter, Clark had gained at least ten pounds and his stylish clothes were tight on him, and rumpled-looking, and he seemed to have a perpetual cold. Frank Ambrose, whose office was next to his, complained that the man was always snuffling and wheezing and clearing his throat. Though it was said that his students liked him--he was evidently quite a good lecturer and had a beautiful reading voice for Shakespeare--he seemed rather unhappy at Hilberry. He sent a note of apology to Natalie Packer, but it was so absurdly hypocritical, Natalie said, so falsely obsequious and groveling, that she'd ripped it up immediately. "God. how I abhor effeminate men!" Natalie said.

Her stories about Clark involved now not only the ugly circumstances of their last evening as friends but other matters entirely: Clark's miserable childhood, his envy and hatred of his four beautiful sisters, the probability--she would swear to it, really--that he had been fired from his previous teaching positions, and his truly shocking opinion of the Hilberry faculty (the place was a "hotbed of mediocrity," in Clark's own words). Worst of all, in Natalie's opinion, was the man's pathetic self-deception: as if everyone didn't know fully well what he was!

"I thought you didn't mind homosexuals," Frank Ambrose said.

"Of course I don't mind. I certainly don't. But Clark Austen is a hypocrite," Natalie said hotly. "And he's sick; the man is really sick."

Nearly everyone detested Natalie, however much they liked Brian; they repeated to one another, in scandalized delight, Ugly little runtish sow! Didn't that describe their Natalie perfectly? By contrast, poor Clark seemed quite harmless. And he was lonely. It was pathetic, really, how lonely he was. Taking pity on him, Frank Ambrose stopped by his office late one afternoon. He was conscious of the man's transparent gratitude that someone should say hello; Clark's face actually seemed to light up. He asked Frank to have a seat, please. Please do! Would he like some coffee? Some tea?

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Frank declined; he told people afterward that he'd been a little afraid of sitting that close to Clark. After all ... ! But the man was so pathetic, and really quite nice, that he decided to invite him out to the house that weekend. A few friends were getting together, nothing fancy. How would Clark like to join them?

•

Despite Frank's charity, however, the evening was doomed from the start.

Clark arrived 15 minutes early. He was wearing a handsome navy-blue blazer, gun-metal-gray trousers, a pale-blue shirt and a yellow knit tie; he looked quite good, except for the fact that his face was slightly flushed and it was evident that he'd had a few drinks before coming to the Ambroses'.

Some five or six couples had gathered in the Ambroses' basement recreation room and though Clark knew them all, he didn't mix very well but sat on the American Colonial sofa, staring at the linoleum floor, or at the simulated-knotty-pine wall, or at the portable television set on its aluminum cart, though, of course, the set was turned off and the screen was a featureless leaden-gray blank. It was February now: Talk dwelt upon the overcast skies, the streets that were so inadequately plowed, grocery prices, taxes, the university's disappointing budget allotment from the legislature, various children's ailments and hobbies and difficulties with or successes in various schools, a rapid cascade of names that whirled about Clark's head but left him untouched.

Then one of the Ambroses' little boys appeared in his pajamas, to pass Cheez-bits and cashews and tiny spicy hot dogs around to the guests, and it was generally noted how Clark, sitting there on the sofa with his drink on his knee and his hair rather loose and disheveled about his face, stared at the boy. Frank Ambrose was a good-looking black man, amazingly slender, with a lithe, graceful, almost boyish body, though he was well into his late 30s; his wife, Eunice, was a very pale woman with dull red hair and a sweet, patient, sometimes rather strained smile. Their children, all boys, were very light-skinned, with large dark eyes that were thickly lashed, and very dark, somewhat frizzy hair. They were beautiful children, everyone proclaimed. Really beautiful. So it was no wonder that Clark should be staring at little Marty with that peculiar half-smile, as if he had never seen anything quite like the child.

Approaching Clark, however, the boy hesitated; he began to giggle.

"What's wrong, Marty?" Eunice said. "Pass the hors d'oeuvres around. Go on."

But the child shied away, giggling.

"Marty, stop being so silly. You're being a naughty boy."

"It's really quite all right," Clark said quickly. He tried to laugh. "I'm not ... I don't really.... You see, I'm on a diet, anyway, and I mustn't have.... It looks delicious, really, but I...."

"Marty!" Eunice said sharply. "What is wrong with you? I told you to pass those hors d'oeuvres around and stop being so silly, or I'll let Bobbie do it. Aren't you bad? Aren't you silly?"

The boy turned to his mother and motioned for her to bend down to him. He whispered something in her ear. "What" Eunice said. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"Looks like a witch," the boy said, cupping his hands to his mouth and peering back over his shoulder at Clark. "Like on the Monster Show...."

"Why, Marty!" Eunice said. "Isn't that bad of you! Give those plates here and go right upstairs to bed. Isn't that bad, isn't that silly ... ?"

Marty gave his mother the dishes and ran out of the room, still giggling.

Frank Ambrose cleared his throat nervously and said something about children's being so unpredictable, so irrational. They were likely to say anything without the slightest sense of----

"Exactly," Jake Hanley said. "And they don't mean it, of course."

"They don't know what they mean," Marcella Blass said.

"It's the influence of television ..." someone else said.

"Not at all, not at all," Clark said slowly. "I understand. I ... I was a child once myself."

There was another uncomfortable silence, as if the group doubted Clark's statement but was too polite to comment.

Talk leaped eagerly onto other, similar topics. But Clark remained oddly stiff, staring at the linoleum. It was a bright, cheerful design, swirls of green, orange, beige and red; it was meant to complement the dark-green and beige furniture. He sat there, beside Joanna May, who was talking animatedly with Eunice Ambrose and Jake Hanley and Sid Train-or about the latest fiasco in the drama department--and gradually it came to Joanna's attention, and then to the attention of the others, that Clark was muttering under his breath.

At first they tried to ignore him. Then it became more difficult.

"What does it mean ... ? What does it ... mean? Shouldn't wear short skirts; knees bunchy and fat. Pizza. Henna rinse. Horrid old granny: the bitch! Pickaninny. Cute. Eyes, rosebud mouth. Won't you have another drink? Clark? Yes, thank you, thank you very much, yes, damn nigger, get me that drink fast, damn show-off, you'll see, you'll regret it...."

He seemed oblivious of them, muttering, shaking his head from side to side. The entire sofa shook; he was 6'2" or 3" and by no means a light man. His eyes were nearly shut as he spoke in that slow, painfully slow, almost meticulous way. Everyone stared in astonishment. The man's entire personality seemed to have changed within a few seconds. His face was chalky, a comic monster's face, ugly and creased and lined and worn; his mouth shaped itself into absurd, sinister contortions, as if he were a child before a mirror, trying to frighten himself. "Does it mean? What? Don't you touch me, you nigger. Don't you come near! I want another drink. I'm thirsty. Hairpiece. Knitted right into hair: five hundred dollars. Fraud! Crooks! Oh, my God, my God...."

It seemed that he was about to burst into tears. Frank Ambrose stood over him, trying to calm him down. "Clark? Look, Clark, are you all right?"

"Don't you touch me!" he said murderously.

He shoved poor Frank backward, moving so quickly that everyone was taken by surprise. Frank staggered a few steps, fell into Marcella Blass's lap, then onto the floor. The women began uttering short, faint, astonished cries. Clark himself tried to get to his feet but failed. He was so drunk that, it was said, the lower half of his face seemed dislodged somehow from the upper half: his jaw ground maniacally back and forth. "Lower-class bastards. I wasn't destined for this. Not on your goddamn life I wasn't! Clark Pembroke Austen III. Lower-class bastards, bags, bitches, cows, scum, canaille.... Cheez-bits: Oh, my God! Wasn't destined for this. Call me a cab. Don't touch me, niggers. This is not my life, this is someone else's. Ugly ugly ugly. You'll regret your audacity. You ugly, ugly creatures ... !"

"Now, Clark, please," Jake Hauley said earnestly. "You----"

Clark struggled massively to his feet. He swayed, stumbled across Joanna May's feet and threw his martini glass at Jake. Only the ice-cube fragments struck Jake, fortunately; the glass itself smashed against the simulated-knotty-pine wall.

"Ugly, ugly! Oh, my God! It cannot be, it cannot be. Forty-nine years old. Harvard, Oxford, Amherst.... Somewhere in Canada? Monster Show. Call me a cab, you niggers! I don't want to eat your fucking tuna casseroles, I don't want to drink your cheap liquor, I want to go home, I hate you all, oh, my God, you'll regret it, bags, bitches, cows, goggle-eyed scum, little nigger brats prancing around in pajamas.... This isn't my life, I swear." He began shrieking. "It isn't! Isn't!"

•

The following week, at least a half dozen variants of the story of the Ambroses' party made the rounds, not only of the English department but of the entire university. People laughed uproariously, then wiped their eyes and said, solemnly, "It's a shame, isn't it? So intelligent and gifted a man. Is he seeing a psychiatrist?... At least he shouldn't drink, if he's an alcoholic." Ron Blass was excellent at demonstrating Frank's backward stagger and his look of utter incredulity; Jake Hanley was perfect at imitating Clark's glowering, sneering, mad expression and his wail This isn't my life! It isn't! Isn't! In some versions of the story, Clark threw his martini glass at Eunice Ambrose, having accused her of marrying a "nigger"; in other versions, he attempted to fondle the Ambrose child and Frank intervened and a scuffle resulted; in still other versions, repeated as far away as the civil-engineering department and the Human Kinetics School, one of the new English professors had gone berserk over the weekend, attempted to rape a small child, was beaten by someone--the child's father, perhaps, or police--and had been committed to the Harris Clinic, the area's hospital for mentally disturbed people.

Clark himself was absent from classes for a week. When he returned, he still looked rather sick. His skin was slack, lifeless: his eyes were red-rimmed. When he met colleagues in the hall, he whispered greetings in a formal, embarrassed way. Everyone who had attended the fateful party received notes of apology shortly after he returned to classes. Each note was written in longhand, begging forgiveness, expressing his sincere regrets for the "unfortunate incident." He was very, very sorry. He was ashamed of himself, he said, and though he could only barely remember what had happened, he knew he had behaved disgracefully and it would never, never happen again. He knew he must not drink; and he was not going to drink. He could understand anyone's wish not to see him again--he knew he had behaved in a beastly way. He intended to begin afresh and he begged their forgiveness and understanding, as far as they were capable of granting it to him....

"The poor bastard," Jake Hanley said, scanning the note Clark had written to the Ambroses. His own was quite moving but not so lengthy as the Ambroses'; both, however, were longer and better phrased than notes sent to the Mays and the Blasses and the Trainors. "He's really contrite, isn't he? Asked me how much he owed me for the cab--so he did remember I was the one who helped him out to the street--and said he was sorry if he'd insulted me in any way.... You really should forgive him. Frank."

"You know what he called me. You heard him."

"He was drunk."

"That broken-down fag." Frank whispered. He was hot-blooded: That was Frank's particular reputation at Hilberry. A few years ago, in his early 30s, he had been something of a rake himself; he had drunk quite a bit, had attended student parties, had been involved in romantic escapades with various girl students--nothing serious, of course--and, of course, Eunice had forgiven him: on several occasions, he had gotten very drunk and had fought with friends and even with a patrolman. But that was years ago. Years ago. And he had never, so far as he knew, really insulted anyone; he had never called anyone a nigger.

"You should forgive and forget, Frank," Jake said. One of the department's two or three poets, Jake was a stocky, sandy-haired, easygoing man in his 40s. He smiled a good deal. He smiled now, noting the black man's pouty expression; he was thinking of how surprised poor Frank had been, insulted in his own basement recreation room, sent staggering backward into Marcella Blass's lap. Jake laughed aloud, thinking of it.

"What the hell is so funny?" Frank asked.

"I was just thinking of Clark trying to get into the cab." Jake said, wiping at his eyes. "He slipped on the ice. He sprained his wrist, but nobody knew it at the time. The poor bastard! But the expression on that taxi driver's face ...! Jesus, did he look worried. It's such a shame, really."

"The son of a bitch needs to see a psychiatrist," Frank said. "One of these days he's going to kill somebody or kill himself. The first time I had a look at him, I said--"

"I wonder if the administration will fire him," Jake said.

•

That spring, Clark met his classes regularly and attended departmental meetings and was courteous, as always, though rather abashed, and even a little timid, when he encountered his colleagues in the halls or in the men's washroom. Rumor had it that he was, at last, seeing a psychiatrist in the city; and he was evidently on a rigorous diet, slowly losing weight, so that by the end of the term, he looked fairly healthy. Something had been done to his hair: It was styled in the same way. but there were vivid red-brown glints to it. He was sometimes seen downtown, wearing sunglasses, smoking cigarettes in a black cigarette holder, dressed in quite fashionable clothes. People forgave him, gradually. Even Natalie Packer was inclined to express her sympathetic pity for him; and Frank. Ambrose, meeting him one day in the library, believed he saw tears of contrition in the man's eyes, and grumbled hello, and made the necessary gesture of forgiveness by offering to shake hands. They did shake hands. Frank winced a little, remembering it, remembering the clammy touch of the man's hand. But he was happy he'd made the gesture. "After all," he said afterward, "the poor son of a bitch is human."

•

Clark Austen spent the summer in Europe and rumor had it that he wouldn't be back to Hilberry in the fall. He had resigned, some said; or he had been secretly fired by the board of trustees. Someone told Frank Ambrose that Clark had been admitted to a Swiss hospital, having had a nervous breakdown while traveling in the Alps. Frank, who had received a postcard from Clark, from Italy, didn't know what to believe. He felt some relief, then, when Clark returned in September, as trim as he'd been the spring before, looking good, courteous, as always, though not quite so nervous. He had had a marvelous vacation, he told everyone.

There were a few parties in the autumn and Clark was invited, accepting with his usual gratitude. At the first, he drank nothing at all. At the second, he consented--since his host seemed to insist--to have a glass of red wine. At the third party, he drank two martinis but showed no effect, though he did leave early, with the excuse that a young nephew of his was a house guest that weekend. "He seems to be perfectly adjusted now," his friends said. "He is a very nice person, isn't he?"

It was sometime in late October that Clark was first seen--by a neighbor of the Trainors', herself the wife of a physics professor--in the company of a strange-looking young man. The young man was in his early 20s, had shoulder-length blond hair and very pale skin, a somewhat blemished forehead and long, narrow hands and feet. He wore a denim outfit and cowboy boots. At first, it was thought that he might be a student.

Jake Hanley saw him leaning against a wall in the Toronto-Dominion bank, while Clark waited in one of the lines to make a withdrawal. The boy was smiling at nothing. He smiled into the air--dreamily, lazily. He was tall, even taller than Clark, but very thin; in fact, he looked sickly. His teeth were grayish-green, Jake said, and he certainly was not a student at Hilberry. "Frankly, he looked diseased," Jake said.

"Was he good-looking?" Frank asked

Jake shrugged his shoulders and colored slightly. "How would I know? ...I doubt it.

Ron Blass thought it was an unfortunate development in Clark's private life. His wife seemed very embarrassed about the subject and had no opinion at all. "It's a shame that poor Clark should have to stoop to that," Basil May said irritably. Since becoming head of the English department, he was acquiring, like his predecessor, who had had some emotional problems during his term of office and who had, in fact, retired two years early, a certain nervousness about nearly everything his faculty did. The pending publication of an article, the pending birth of a child, the latest rash of poems by Ron Blass or Jake Hanley, the newest idea put forth by anyone at all--and Dr. May began to feel jumpy and apprehensive. As an ordinary faculty member, he had been quite vocal, and even rather critical of the administration; now that he was an administrator, he distrusted such persons. He had begun to think that the university had drifted too far into democracy. But his wife, Joanna, surprisingly, thought that it might be a "good thing" for Clark to have a friend, even if it was a boy so much younger than he.

"All human beings want companionship," Joanna said bravely. Brian Packer looked grave when told about the boy, but Natalie said she wasn't surprised at all. "I wouldn't even be surprised to hear that Clark is handing most of his pay check over to the boy, and that he's made him the beneficiary of his will. Men like him do things like that."

Sid Trainor said that, in his opinion, Clark Austen really yearned for a son, for a way into the "human community." "This might be his salvation, you know."

Love was one thing, friendship was one thing, but this relationship, Frank Ambrose said, was something quite different. They all knew what it was, there was no use denying it. "The man is sick. Next he'll be propositioning our students," Frank said.

"But if they were girl students ...?" Jake Hanley said.

It was possible that Frank blushed; his skin tone seemed to cloud.

"Anyway," Jake said, "Clark can't help it--he's the way he is and it isn't a disease, they say, it's just a behavioral matter, really nothing that unusual. Times have changed, Frank. The world is very experimental now."

It was true enough: The little Hilberry community had to confess that styles of living were vastly different now than they had been, say, 20 years ago. Students openly roomed together, not just girls and boys but threesomes, strange mixed groups, ragamuffin families that smoked marijuana together and ate only brown rice--or was it white rice?--and none of this was done with an air of defiance, as it had been in the Sixties: It was quite ordinary, even conventional. "Boys and girls do anything they like now," Sid Trainor said slowly. "Anything we can imagine they probably do ... and a lot we can't imagine."

"Still," it was pointed out, "Clark Austen is a member of the faculty. He must exercise responsibility and restraint...."

But nothing happened, time passed, and though Clark had the good sense never to bring the boy to campus, he was often sighted elsewhere with him. They went to movies together downtown, they ate at the Chinese Villa and the Blue Danube Hungarian Inn, they were seen one night at Si's, a pub near the university, both rather drunk--a reckless thing to do, everyone agreed, since Clark's students might very well have seen them there. Someone said that Clark had bought the boy a Yamaha, or that, at least, the two of them had been pricing motorcycles at a downtown dealer's. There was even a story--unsubstantiated, of course--that the two of them quarreled frequently and that, one cold, rainy night in November, the boy had shoved Clark out onto the balcony of his apartment and locked the door on him, and wouldn't let him in for over an hour. (Clark had been wearing nothing but a flannel bathrobe at the time.)

But nothing extraordinary happened, though everyone worried. Then, just before Christmas recess, Clark sent invitations to his colleagues for a New Year's Eve party.

At first they hesitated. Then, one by one, they accepted. It was a very friendly gesture on his part; he certainly did mean well. Natalie Packer was especially moved by the warmth of the invitation. She halfway regretted the things she had been saying about Clark. They had been friends, after all, until the evening of his strange breakdown. We'll be happy to come to your party, Natalie wrote Clark. We've missed you very much.

•

Clark's large, handsome apartment was on the 11th floor of a high-rise building; entering it, his guests were impressed by gleaming surfaces, marble-topped tables, a brushed-velvet love seat, gilt-edged mirrors, prints of Constable in costly frames, fussy, striped silk wallpaper, a lavish oatmeal-colored rug, statues of Negroid-looking women carved in stone, brocade, lamps with fluted shades, a nonfunctional marble fireplace with luxurious brass andirons, a cherrywood dining set, dainty little cigarette boxes and ashtrays ... a kaleidoscope of shapes and colors and textures, dizzying in its variety. "I'm so glad you like it," Clark said, obviously flattered by their compliments. "It will take me years to pay it off!"

He was pleased, too, by the cordiality with which they greeted his nephew Carlie. All the men shook hands. Carlie flicked his long, stringy hair out of his eyes, mumbled something and made a grimace that resembled a smile. He seemed a little sullen. His outfit for the evening was a buckskin shirt with fringes, tight-fitting suede trousers, boots with three-inch heels, an identification bracelet that was too loose for his bony wrist and a number of rings on each hand. Clark introduced him as the son of his brother who lived in Philadelphia, where he was "in banking." Carlie was visiting Clark for an indefinable period of time, he said; and they were taking the opportunity to improve Carlie's writing. He wrote a theme a day and Clark went over it with him and then he revised it and, in that way, he was gradually developing writing skills. Carlie listened, nodding without much interest. He belched. He flicked his hair out of his eyes. Clark beamed at him, and in that instant, Frank Ambrose experienced an odd insight--he saw that, for the first time since coming to Hilberry, Clark Austen was part of a couple. He was no longer a single individual, no longer a bachelor in the midst of couples.

But though the evening began well, it slid downhill quickly. Clark was drinking too much and Carlie sat on the armrest of the love seat, a beer bottle in hand, his expression remote, vacuous. He was clearly stupefied with boredom. The hi-fi played Vivaldi, turned too high. The food was delicious--liver pâté, caviar, an entire ham, cold sliced roast beef, several delicatessen salads and breads--but neither Clark nor Carlie was eating at all. Clark kept hurrying into the kitchen, muttering under his breath, fussing like a demented old woman. He wore a dinner jacket and a ruffled shirt of pale-blue silk, but there were stains on the jacket sleeves, and as time passed, he grew increasingly flushed and confused. Frank and most of the others were standing around the buffet, eating heartily. The food was of a much higher quality than they served at their own parties; the Scotch was unquestionably superior. Natalie Packer, whose appetite was legendary, stood off by herself, a plate clutched in one hand and pressed against her firm little tummy, her fork busy in the other hand. A small trembling pyramid of food lay before her.

The trouble started when Marcella Blass, prettier than usual in a floor-length blue dress, and a little drunk from the Scotch, began questioning Carlie in a warm, maternal voice. He was so thin, she said, almost scolding. Why didn't he join them at the buffet, why didn't he have some of this delicious food? The boy scowled, then giggled. Marcella offered to prepare a plate for him. "I don't want noner that shit," he said, drawing his arm swiftly beneath his nose. For some reason, Marcella giggled. At that moment, Clark reappeared, carrying a crab-meat-and-lobster casserole in what must have been a particularly heavy stoneware dish. He bumped his hip against the sharp edge of the table, seemingly distracted by something, staring toward Carlie; as if in a dream, while everyone watched, the casserole dish tipped out of his hands, a pot-holder fell with it, and there was a sickening crash. Clark shrieked; he must have been burned.

It took a good ten minutes for the mess to be cleaned up. Clark was very confused now, mumbling as if he were alone, actually pushing people aside when they got in his way. Jake Hanley had the mop and was energetically using it, and Clark simply yanked it from him, stooped over, his hair loose about his face. Frank poured himself another Scotch, straight, appearing to sense that the party would be ending soon.

"Get your ass over here," Clark said to Carlie. "Do you hear me, boy? Layin' there all evening, goddamned slut. ... There's some stuff under the table there, some crab meat or mushrooms or something, d'you hear me?--crawl under and get it, and hurry up!"

Carlie set his bottle down, as if he were going to obey. Then he giggled shrilly. "Crawl under and get it yourself, Clark," he said.

"Layin' there all evening." Clark said in a peculiar singsong voice, one side of his face twisted into a kind of grin. Frank had never seen Clark look like that: He was both playful and vicious, clowning and demonic. He seemed unaware of the other guests. A kind of skit had begun, a melodramatic comedy, which had the air of being familiar to the two actors and yet exciting. "Goddamned lazy tart," Clark crooned.

"Who's calling who what?"

Clark strode over to Carlie and gripped his shoulder. He might have misjudged his strength; Carlie cried out in pain and anger. There was a brief scuffle. Frank looked around at the others, searching for Eunice, wanting to catch her eye--or someone's eye--before it was too late. But everyone was staring at Clark and Carlie. No one spoke. "Don't you touch me, I told you never to lay hands on me," the boy cried. He leaped to his feet and pushed Clark back against the wall, his eyes enormous. Somehow, his fist smashed against Clark's face; Clark's lower lip was split and bleeding. "I told you! I told you!" Carlie cried. His voice rose in terror. "It ain't my fault what happens!"

Droplets of blood had splashed onto Clark's ruffled shirt front. He moved his head slowly from side to side, as if trying to clear it. "Won't let me alone. Eh? I'll show you. Why are you all gaping at me? Who invited you? Goggle-eyed fools. Must be punished. You'll see: Six bullets and then reload. Spying on me. Carlie, get rid of them. Spies. Aren't we pretty, all fixed up for New Year's Eve! Flowered skirts and pearls and perfume, what does it mean? ... Must be punished. Murderers."

"You're drunk, you stinking old fag," Carlie said, giving him another shove. "Shut up!"

"Filthy little beast," Clark said, wiping his mouth with his coat sleeve. He giggled softly. "Filthy, filthy little beast ... should gargle with mouthwash, your breath is fetid ... always has been. ..." His chest rose and fell. He was clearly winded, on the verge of collapsing. Yet he stood there, swaying, grinning, until the boy yelled something in despair and ran past him, back toward the bedroom.

Frank and the others exchanged incredulous looks. Clark wiped his mouth again, and again shook his head as if to clear it. He stared at Frank without seeing him. Frank started to say something, but the malevolent look in Clark's face discouraged him. Then, making a low wailing sound, Clark followed the boy back along the corridor. The boy had locked himself in the bedroom; Clark pounded on the door and commanded him to open it.

"Let's get the hell out of here," Basil May said.

There was a scramble to get to the hall closet, where their coats were hanging. Frank was saying, "Yes, but maybewe should---- Maybe we owe it to---- Don't you think we'd better do something?" But no one listened. Eunice was shivering violently and could hardly get her arms into her coat sleeves.

"Hurry up, hurry, for Christ's sake!" Jake Hanley muttered. "Where's my coat? Is this it? Let's get out of here before we're witnesses----"

At the other end of the apartment, Clark was calling to the boy in a peculiar wailing voice, partly cajoling, partly commanding. He was again pounding on the door.

"At least let's tell Clark we're leaving," Frank protested.

"Tell him yourself; nobody's stopping you."

They were leaving. Frank pulled at Basil May's arm. "Look. Dr. May, we can't just walk out on him, can we? I mean--what if something happens? Isn't that kid his beneficiary or something?--where did we hear that? They're both drunk, they're both crazy, I've never seen anyone look so maniacal----"

"Frank, for God's sake. You've been drinking too much yourself. It's only a lover's spat: let's have the decency to leave them alone."

"But----"

Frank followed his friends out into the corridor, carrying his coat. Excited, frightened, like children, they ran down to the elevator, and he found himself running after them. Joanna May was in such a strange keyed-up state that her teeth were actually chattering. Frank, panting, said once again that he really thought they should stay a while longer, because something terrible might happen. But the elevator arrived and everyone crowded into it. The women made faint little squealing noises and Jake Hanley, who was a bit overweight, was wheezing.

On the way down, Brian Packer said, his voice trembling: "What could we have possibly done? It's a family squabble."

"We could notify the police," Marcella Blass said doubtfully.

"Oh, no! Like hell! And get sued for false arrest or something?" Ron Blass said. His voice slid up and down; he must have been very drunk. "'S got a right to his own life, goddamn it. Every body's got a right to his own life. See? No cops."

"What if something happens up there?" Frank asked. His heart was pumping absurdly. He knew that his eyes were enormous now and that the whites were glittering, but he could not help his fear.

"Frank, for Christ's sake!" Natalie Packer snorted. She had brought a roastbeef sandwich with her, pieces of rye bread clutched tight in her small plump hand. "Calm down, will you? You look like something in a minstrel show. Clark is old enough and big enough to choose his own playmates, isn't her What business is it of yours?"

In the foyer of the apartment building, they felt much safer: they spoke in normal voices, hurrying to the front door.

Joanna May hurried alongside her husband, holding his arm. She said, laughing breathlessly, "Sometimes I think I've got a lot of catching up to do. ... I mean, the way the world is now." She giggled. She hiccuped. "Freedom, experimentation, lifestyles, alternative ... alternate ... whatdyacallit? ... Got a lot of catching up to do."

"Joanna, really!" Basil said in disgust. "You're drunk."

Frank helped his wife down the icy steps. The others were going to their cars, breaking into couples, eager to be off. He wanted to shout after them. But there they went, breath steaming in the frigid air, and who was he to call them back ...? "It's such a shame, such a shame," Eunice mumbled. "That nice apartment and the delicious food and Clark trying to be so nice. ... I do hope that boy doesn't hurt him. What if somebody bashes in somebody's skull with one of those ugly statues? Oh, my God, Frank. I'm dizzy, I don't feel well. ..."

"Shut up and get in the car," Frank said.

From across the street, someone called over, "Happy New Year!" It was Ron Blass, or maybe Jake Hanley. Frank, pushing his wife into die car rather impatiently, hardly looked up to see.

"Happy New Year!" he shouted back.