Make No Bones

Besides, the truth was that he liked having her with him, liked starting and ending the day with her. They'd been married a long time now, and although there were plenty of ups and downs, a day without Frieda put him off his stride, made him feel not quite whole.

'You know why you need me?” she'd once asked when they were discussing the subject. “Because without me you tend to forget you're an august personage and have to behave accordingly.'

Well, she certainly had a point there. It wasn't easy remembering you were an august personage.

She lowered the envelope she was opening. “What do you mean, normally you'd have no doubt?'

'Frieda,” he said, “Miranda's arranged the meeting for Whitebark Lodge.'

'Whitebark Lodge!” Her expression was pained. “What an absolutely rotten idea. What on earth was she thinking of?'

'Well, you have to remember, Miranda wasn't there the night that...well, the night of the party. No guilty memories for her.'

'I hardly think guilt is the right word, Nellie. How could any of you even dream how it was going to turn out? You can't hold yourselves responsible for Albert Evan Jasper's—for what happened to him.'

As she spoke he nodded along with her, drawing on his pipe. “I know, Frieda, I know.” It wasn't the first time he'd heard her say it, and in general he agreed with her.

'Still,” she said, tapping the envelope against her longish chin, “it's going to stir up some rather unpleasant associations, isn't it?'

'That's for damn sure.” Nellie swallowed the last of his coffee, sucked hard on his pipe to make sure it was still lit, and abruptly stood up, not wanting to go into it with her just then. “It's not even nine, and I'm not due at school until one I'm going to put in the thyme and cotoneaster out front. What do you think of that?'

'I'm utterly astounded, my dear. They've only been sitting out there three weeks.'

* * * *

One week, actually, but that was Frieda for you. She enjoyed her little digs. Kneeling in the sun, working from his knees at a lazy pace, Nellie mixed the potting soil with earth from one of the planting holes in the prescribed three-to-one ratio.

'In the magnificent fierce morning of New Mexico,” D. H. Lawrence had written, “one sprang awake, a new part of the soul woke up suddenly, and the old world gave way to the new.'

If you asked Nellie, Lawrence had gotten it wrong. For him the high desert morning was relaxing, not energizing; very nearly anesthetic, in fact. The thin, dry air, the crisp, brilliant light, the rolling, open, pinyon-dotted foothills of the Sangre de Cristos, all made him feel sleepy and content, as sleek as a pampered house cat. Sleek and reflective and, on this particular morning, a shade melancholy.

He was reflecting on the first WAFA meeting, ten years earlier, as he worked the soil. “Rather unpleasant associations,” Frieda had said, and she'd been putting it mildly. Damn unpleasant was the way he would put it. What else could you call it when you'd been responsible, no matter how unintentionally, for the death—the violent, unnecessary death—of the man to whom you owed very nearly everything important you had?

He leaned back on his heels, trowel at rest. Miranda's letter would have gone out to all forty or so WAFA members. For four of them—and only four—the mention of Whitebark Lodge would create those same “rather unpleasant associations.'

He wondered what they were thinking about right now.

* * * *

Callie Duffer was thinking about—or at least talking about—the self-esteem needs and personal-growth potential of an anthropology student named Marc Vroom, who was in considerable danger of flunking out of Nevada State University in his first graduate semester. As departmental chair, she felt she was required to declare her opinions.

'Surely you see,” she told the three faculty members gathered in her office, “that failing this young man would solve none of his problems.'

'Well, it'd go a long way toward solving mine,” Harlow Pollard grumbled.

Callie swallowed down a surge of irritation. Had he said it with a hint of humor, even sardonic humor, she might have smiled. But Harlow was about as humorous as a codfish, and not so very much quicker on the uptake. Still, what was the point of getting annoyed? The man was to be pitied, a simplistic dinosaur incapable of comprehending the new dynamics of the educational suprasystem and the role of academics as change-agents. Poor Harlow still thought that he was there to teach anthropology, period. A living argument, Callie thought, against the tenure system.

Marge Harris, one of the younger instructors, tentatively waggled her fingers for attention. “Callie,” she said hesitantly, “we all understand how dedicated you are to the concept of the university as a social support network —'

Harlow made an unpleasant strangled sound.

'—but you haven't had him in any of your classes,” Marge went on. “He's constantly unprepared. When he's not argumentative he's flippant. When we try to point out what we expect of him, he treats it as a huge joke—'

'Ah!” Callie said, seizing on this, “what we expect of him. Couldn't that be the problem right there? Have we tried to attune ourselves to his needs? Have we taken the trouble to understand where he's coming from?'

A telling thrust, Callie thought, but the three of them just sat there, dumb and resisting. You'd think that at least the younger ones would grasp the importance of structural flexibility when you were dealing with a dysfunctional—

'Can I tell you what happened Friday?” Harlow said, face down, mumbling, talking to all of them. “I was giving