July 29, 2026

Today I post another original novella. Like the recent "Ghosted," I realize the length of these make it difficult for many to read on small screens. As a result, I offer "Seeking Relief" in multiple ways:

The full novella below;
As complete word document Seeking-Relief.docx (Warning: it is a 35-page document);
Serialized in three parts:

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

                                     Seeking Relief

Preface

“Hello, sir! Long time, no see. Just one tonight?”

“Hi Maureen. No, I am meeting someone, a young lady.”

Merrick hadn’t been to The Cellar in well over a year. Yet somehow nothing seemed to have changed at all, Maureen looming over the front station, the hustle and bustle of her family members scuttling around the large open-floor dining area, plates and glasses clinking, the buzz of mixed conversations overlaid by the television showing a football game over the bar. The place was packed as it always had been when he and Watson had come regularly.

“I think she is already here, back in the corner by the kitchen. Hey Mario,” Maureen yelled shrilly to the young man busing tabletops, “take Mr. Landon here back to table 30.”

“I don’t need an escort, Mo.” Merrick waved Mario off dismissively. “I can’t get lost here.”

“Still a charmer, eh, Merrick?” she joked, waving him off as dismissively as he waved off Mario.

Merrick walked away smiling. The cellar was the same as when he and Jeremiah came here all the time, most importantly, spicy, world-weary, sassy Maureen. The dining room had one large gathering in the middle of the room, four tabletops pushed together to accommodate the large group, which was laughing loudly. They blocked his view of the corner where Lindsay would be waiting.

“Hey, Merrick. Nice to see you back.” Karen, Maureen’s daughter, grabbed a couple of glasses from a table as she acknowledged Merrick.

“How you been, Karen?”

“Ah, you know. Never a moment’s rest. Not with Mo up there.”

“What would you do with time to rest, Karen?”

“Hmm. Good question. What have you been doing with your time since we never see you here anymore?” Karen wiped her hands on a red flowery apron tied around her waist.

“Reading. Still have a lot of books in order to catch up.”

“Oh my, nothing but sitting around reading all day. Be still my heart.” Karen raced toward the kitchen with a tray of glasses she had collected. Merrick followed her, noticing to the left of the kitchen doors the pale, stout figure he was expecting: Lindsay Chesterton. She saw him and waved and started to rise to greet him. That’s when Merrick noticed a man sitting across from her. He stopped dead in his tracks.

“Hello, Merrick. So good to see you.”

Merrick did not glance at Lindsay, quickly scanning her guest with his eyes: well-groomed haircut, blue and yellow dress shirt, well-known logo on the left chest, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, the left one resting on a portfolio, a kind of portfolio Merrick knew way too well.

“What the hell is he doing here?” he snarled at Lindsay.

Six months earlier

“Katie, why is the name Merrick Landon familiar?” Phil Colasanti stood in the doorway of his office, holding his cup of coffee in one hand and a report in his other. His cup bore the image of a cartoon Viking, a logo he was quickly grow to love.

Katie Williams, his administrative assistant, sat stiffly behind her modular desk in the outer office. Phil was still in his first week as Vice President of Development at Hefford College, certain that Merrick Landon was a name he should know. Given that Landon was on the past donors’ list, he figured the name may have been mentioned in any of hundreds of conversations he had already had with President Willis, other leaders at Hefford, donors, or local community members.

Katie offered a partial smile. “Dr. Landon is the former Dean of Students, sir.”

Colasanti snapped his fingers. “Of course! He was quite beloved here, wasn’t he?”

“He certainly was. He worked here for almost a quarter of a century.”  A student worker had quietly slipped into the office and slid a couple envelopes onto Katie’s desk. Katie nodded in appreciation at the student, then looked back at Colasanti in his white shirt and blue and yellow tie, the official colors of Hefford. It didn’t take her new boss long to stock up completely on college colors.

“I noticed from the past donors’ report that he faithfully gave to the college up until three years ago. Would you have any idea why he stopped?”

“That might be something you need to ask President Willis, sir.”

“But I am asking you, Katie. You’ve been working in the Development Office for nine years, correct? You probably have a clue about the comings and goings of donations and donors.” Colasanti started rolling his left shirt cuff. It wouldn’t take Katie long to figure out that such a small act would be a daily habit, as if Colasanti believed he needed to live out the trite adage of “rolling up your sleeves and getting to work.”

“Above my pay grade, though, sir,” Katie said, smiling more broadly.  She turned to face one of the two computer screens at her desk, leaving him to see only her angular face in profile, blonde bob framing a steely resolve.

“Fine,” he laughed. He went back into his bare office. He still had brought no personal effects outside of a picture of June and the kids, which sat at the corner of his desk. Everything else, which wasn’t much, was leftover from the previous VP of Development, pictures of groundbreakings, basketballs with the Hefford seal, Hefford Viking pennants on the wall, and copious issues of Hefford Highlights, the magazine this office put out for alumni and donors.

He sat back down at his desk and looked at the report. Landon had given between $1000 and $2000 a year between 1997 and 2010, almost $5,000 a year between 2011 and 2022, then donated $25,000 in 2023. However, he had donated nothing since then. He looked up Landon’s record in the employee records and learned that he did retire in summer 2022. So, he upped his donations for that first year, then stopped. What had happened? Just as intriguing was why he donated so much more the second half of his time at Hefford. Katie’s evasiveness piqued his interest even more.

He dialed President Willis’ office number. He was surprised Willis picked it up on the second ring. “Hey, Phil, what can I do for you?”

“Do you have a second if I come over there? Just a quick conversation, I promise you.” Colasanti had learned at his interview that Willis loved to talk, and he had already lost hours when he anticipated just a few minutes with Sherman Willis.

“Sure, I am good until 10:00. Then I have a meeting with the Board chair.”

Colasanti checked his watch. It was 9:10. He’d drag his heels for a few minutes then head across campus to Willis’s office. That should ensure enough time for a quick update on Landon but little else before Willis met with the Board chair. “Great. I’ll be there around 9:30. Thanks, Sherm.”

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Merrick Landon looked at the hill leading back up to his house and groaned. His knees fought with this hill every morning. Determined to walk 4-5 miles every day, Merrick always started downhill, literally, as his Tudor-style home sat at the top of one of Cairo’s many hills; unfortunately, this meant the walks always ended uphill, when he cursed himself a fool.

Still, a slight breeze fluttered, making the June walk rather pleasant.  Donegan no longer pulled on his leash during the last three-quarter of a mile, also a plus. The road also got very little traffic, allowing his mind wander freely. As was often the case, he thought back to Cheryl, remembering how often she would have a fresh batch of lemonade ready for him as well as a bowl of fresh water for Donegan when they returned from the walks. In their younger days, Cheryl would have joined Merrick and the dog (who was mostly Wilson in those days), but that Cheryl hadn’t been struck down by bone cancer.  Even in many of her sickest days, she was upbeat. When Merrick would complain about not wanting to walk the dog if she couldn’t come with them, she’d tease him with “get over it, Merrick.”

Donegan struggled on the hill, so Merrick stopped to let him catch up. “How you doing, old friend?” Merrick asked. Donegan, once he had gotten to Merrick’s side, wagged his tail and panted heavily. It was his answer to almost anything Merrick might ask. “Is there a God in Heaven?” Merrick frequently asked Donegan, getting the same wag and pant every time. He tried to see that as a good sign, even if it was the same sign as when Merrick asked Donegan if he had rolled around in dog poop.

When he got back to his house, Merrick grabbed the mail and used his key to come in the side door leading to his kitchen. He tossed the mail on the table and went to the sink, pouring himself a glass of cold water while also filling a small pitcher that he took to Donegan’s bowl by the basement door.

While both enjoyed their water, Merrick rifled through his mail. Two bills, a catalog, and a form letter from the alumni office at Penn State University. He ripped the catalog and letter in half and dumped them in his recycling bin. Hemingway awaited him. He filled his glass with more water and made his way to his den.

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“Merrick Landon, eh?” asked Sherman Willis, all six foot three, two hundred fifty pounds, leaned back in his desk chair, feet on his cherry desk, sound muted on the television set across his office. It showed, thankfully silently, MSNBC, a frequent broadcast in Willis’ office Colasanti had noticed.  “What specifically about him?”

“Well, Sherm, I was looking through a former donors’ report and his name, meaning his donations, stood out prominently. He was quite the financial supporter of the college until a few years after his retirement, then he stopped.” Colasanti had taken a comfortable peach-colored leather chair angled to view both the president’s desk and the television screen on the wall.

“Merrick’s a tricky old bugger.” Willis offered no additional explanation.

Colasanti was taken aback by the president’s sudden Calvin Coolidge impersonation. “Maybe so, but at $25,000 a year, we should be welcoming those tricks with open arms.”

“You’re probably right. Now that Merrick’s wife has passed, I hear he’s even crankier. Hangs out in his big old mansion on Cascade Hill with his faithful Labrador. He’s rather a recluse.”

Colasanti’s ears perked up. Widower, alone, just a dog. In the world of fund-raising that formed the holy trinity. “Does he have any kids?” he asked hesitantly.

“No. He never did. I’m not sure what family he has. From what I hear, he has a housekeeper come in once a week but that’s about it for his human contact.” Willis had begun to rifle through his desk drawer.

Colasanti smiled, probably too obviously. Luckily, Willis was concentrating on something in his desk drawer. “I’d like to see if we can get him donating again. Anything I can find out about him beforehand would help, especially about circumstances that might have stopped his donations.”

Willis shifted in his seat to look directly at Colasanti. “Well, you might need to talk to some of the other leadership. Merrick pretty much stopped associating with the place about the time I became president.”

“I can do that, Sherm. Did you know he donated over $100,000 up until 2022? His donations made a big jump to $25K that last year, but then nothing. So many questions.”

“I don’t really know. Perhaps the others can help you with that too.” Willis was back to watching the television.

“Thank you, I will check around. I hope this can be a pretty big fish we can reel in.”

Willis waved him out of the room. “Well, good luck. By the way,” he started back up, pointing at the television, which showed a basketball highlight, “did I ever tell you about the time I took on Larry Campbell in a one-on-one game before homecoming?”

“You did, sir. At my interview.” Colasanti sensed the loquacious Willis returning. He looked at his watch. “I should get out of here. You need to meet the Chairman in a few minutes.”

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“So, how has your first week gone, Phil?”  Miranda Teasdale was cutting her Danish with the cheap plastic knife provided by the Hefford cafeteria. She had draped her white sweater over the back of her chair, showing her bare arms in her black sleeveless top. Colasanti noted that she still looked pretty good for being almost sixty. Her grey hair contrasted elegantly with her dark eyebrows. She wore just a hint of make-up, which allowed the strength of her high cheekbones and lines around her eyes to show through.

“It’s gone well, Dr. Teasdale. A lot to learn but everyone has been so helpful.” Colasanti swiveled his half-empty coffee cup.

“Good to hear,” Provost Teasdale responded, “but please call me Miranda. Titles seem so off-putting in casual conversations.”

“Understood, Miranda. I also won’t keep you too long, as I am sure you have a thousand things to do.”

“Enough time for a coffee and Danish break, Phil. Besides it’s not as busy during these summer months.” Teasdale sipped at her coffee and took a bite of her cheery Danish.

“I’m looking for a little more information about Merrick Landon. President Willis suggested I talk to you all who knew him the best.”

“Mmm,” Teasdale mumbled, wiping a crumb from her lips. “I knew him for about a dozen years, I suppose,” she offered, closing her eyes in thought. “That may not mean I knew him the best. He was a great colleague, but we weren’t especially close in any non-work way.”

“That’s o.k. I noticed that he was a dedicated contributor to the college for years then stopped suddenly. I was hoping to find out if anyone could explain the sudden cut-off.”

“Let me guess. This was around 2022?”

“Technically 2023 was the last year he contributed.”

“Well, things got pretty ugly between him and President Collins in 2022. That precipitated his earlier-than-expected retirement.”

“How old was he when he retired?”

“67, but until that last year he had shown no indication of retirement. We often joked he’d stick around long enough to get a 30-year service pin, which would have been a record for an administrator.” Teasdale was collecting the Danish crumbs on her plate, pressing down firmly to get them to stick to her fork. “I hope to God I am not still around in fifteen years to earn that distinction.”

“I have no doubt you would still be as sharp. Besides, you’d barely be 50 then?”

“Hmm?” Miranda facetiously fluttered her eyebrows at Colasanti. “You fundraising guys are all alike.”

“Some lines always come in handy,” Colasanti joked. “Anyway, what was the specific dispute with Collins?” Colasanti’s stomach rumbled. He should have ordered something to eat.

“Usual kind of b.s. New president wants to restructure departments. Merrick was adamant that the reductions in his advising staff would hurt students. Eventually, Collins went around Merrick and implemented a new structure.”

“How could he even do that?” Colasanti had seen plenty of turf battles over departmental restructuring, but never one where the executive responsible wasn’t at least part of the final decision.

“He and HR managed it. Did it while Merrick was on FMLA taking care of his wife.”

“You must be joking?”

“Sadly, no. Merrick was fit to be tied, obviously, when he found out. He submitted his retirement on the spot.”

“Pretty sad.”

“It certainly was. A lot of employees were pretty upset about the whole thing, not helped by the fact that Collins left us a couple years later for a different presidency. As you may know, we have had three Dean of Students since Merrick left. You’d find a few people around here who wish Merrick had been brought back, even temporarily.” Teasdale had pushed her plate aside and drank the last of her coffee.

“Did anybody ever ask him?”

“I don’t think so.”

Colasanti swirled the last of his coffee and drank it in one gulp. “This is explaining a lot.” He hesitated. “Or maybe not. He made one last big donation in 2023, the biggest he had ever made, and then nothing after that. That timing is weird, given what you have described.”

“Well, his wife died around Christmas 2022, if I remember correctly. That may have contributed, pun not intended.”

Colasanti gave a half smile.

“You knew his wife was a faculty member here, right?”

“Uh, no.”

“Yep, Cheryl Austin. She never took his name. She had been on the faculty before Merrick got here. Taught English.”

“So, they met here.”

“Absolutely. Got married when they were both in their 40s, I believe.”

“That could explain the lack of children.”

“Careful there, big guy. I can see you salivating.”

“Is it that obvious?” Colasanti looked around the room nervously, as if there was a whole crowd able to see his intentions.

“No, but like I said, all you development guys are the same. This ain’t my first rodeo, you know. Anyway, she was diagnosed with late-stage cancer sometime before Merrick left. That was the FMLA he was on when Collins did the restructuring.”

“Jesus.” Colasanti never swore, but he couldn’t stop himself. “What a mess. And yet he still donated $25,000 that year after his wife died. I wonder what was going on?”

“Hmm. I can’t help you there, Phil, but it is certainly an intriguing detail. Somebody somewhere must know the story there.”

“Hmm. You’re probably right, Miranda. I guess I’ll go back to Katie.” Colasanti was beginning to feel the frustration of being a one-man department with only a devoted, but reticent, long-term administrative assistant.

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Donegan stood at the front door wagging his tail furiously waiting for Rochelle Collier to come in the door. It was Tuesday morning and he knew the routine: Collier would come with her buckets of interesting smells, spend a few minutes petting him, then start removing the familiar smells of his home with other smells, always interesting but not as comforting.

“Get away from the door, you dumb dog,” Merrick muttered as he slowly walked to the door. He could hear Rochelle using the key he gave her, but he still opened the door for her. “Morning, Shelly.”

“Hello, Dr. Landon. Hi there, Donnie. How you been, boy?” Rochelle knelt to one knee to get face to face with the happy Labrador-mix, who licked her face feverishly. “Oh my, lots of wet kisses today.”

“It can be the usual today, Shelly. Donegan did have an accident in the den a few days ago, which I tried to clean as well as I could, but you might have to do a little more there. You’ll see the stain on the carpet to the right of the small bookcase.”

“Will do, Dr. Landon.” Rochelle had stood up, smoothing her grey and navy-blue skirt. Her red hair was tied in a ponytail, as it was most weeks, and she had pulled some nylon gloves out of her bucket and started to put them on. “So, how’s your week been?”

“Quiet. Finished three Hemingways. ‘For Whom The Bell Tolls’ awaits me next.” Merrick was determined to read the entire works of major 20^th century writers. He felt it was something to do to make up for what he hadn’t done for his wife all those years she faithfully taught literature classes.

“That’s good. I don’t know how you do it, sir. I love to read but not at the rate you do.” Rochelle was setting up cleaning supplies by the door, her arms showing off the strong muscles of a working woman.

“It’s not like I have a whole lot else going on, Shelly.”

“So, you didn’t go out at all this week?” Rochelle grabbed his arm and frowned.

“Just to the store. But that’s o.k.”

“I’m not so sure of that, Dr. Landon. Man cannot live by books and dog alone.” She flashed him a big smile, “even a dog as faithful as Donny boy.”

“I’m doing quite well so far, Shelly.”

“Far be it for me to say, sir, but don’t you think you need to socialize a little more? Why don’t you go back to the college and attend a concert or a game?”

Merrick snorted. “No thanks.”

Rochelle rolled her eyes. “What was it your wife used to tell you? Get over it, Merrick!”

Merrick ignored her and started to walk to the stairs.

Rochelle persisted. “What happened to that colleague from the college you used to meet for a drink?”

“Watson? He died. You remember, I went to that funeral a few months ago.”

“I may not remember that specific one. You deal with too many of those.”

Merrick smiled. “You got that right, Shelly. Anyway, I’ll leave you to it. I will be upstairs showering and changing.”

 ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Katie, when I asked about Merrick Landon, why didn’t you mention Cheryl Austin?” Colasanti had returned from his chat with Provost Teasdale eager to get to the heart of Landon’s contribution history.

“You didn’t ask about her, sir.” Katie was steeping a cup of tea at the edge of her desk. Colasanti could hear Don Henley’s “The Heart of the Matter” playing quietly from her computer speakers.

“Katie,” he sighed, “especially in these first few months while I am in this job, recognize that I am on a lot of fact-finding missions. I am counting on your years in this office to help me as much as possible. I would appreciate it if you didn’t treat any questions like a police interrogation.”

“Yes, sir.” Katie blew at the steam rising from her cup. She took a dainty sip.

Colasanti rolled his eyes, not that she was looking at him. “So, what can you tell me about Austin?”

Katie looked at her boss, eventually with teary eyes. “Professor Austin was a wonderful teacher. Like many students, I loved her and owe her a lot for helping me navigate college.”

“I’m sorry if it hurts to talk about her, Katie.” Colasanti sat down in the white leather chair used for people waiting to enter his office. “Truly.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“She and Merrick Landon were a popular couple on campus?”

“Absolutely. You’d see them together a lot.”

“In what ways were they seen together? At events? At meetings? In each other’s offices?”

“They lunched together almost every day.”

Colasanti withheld exhaling loudly in exasperation. This conversation was like pulling teeth.

“Did she make donations separately from Landon?”

“I don’t remember. You can probably find out in your reports.”

“Can you just look her up quickly for me? I know you can do that in seconds. I’m still trying to figure out the stupid system.”

“Give me a minute.” Katie set her cup of tea to her side and began typing away at the keyboard to her two computers. Colasanti glanced around the room while he waited. Katie kept the office prim and proper, as befitting the entrée to a college development office.  Behind her were a few pictures of her family, he assumed, but nothing personal faced the front of the desk where visitors might linger.

“It looks like she gave a modest amount, often around $500 a year, probably via payroll deduction, until 2002, then nothing after that. Is that what you needed, sir?”

“Hmm?” Colasanti reflected. “Yeah. I am guessing they donated as a couple after they got married. That might explain some of the increases in his donations.”

“Right, sir.” Katie was shooing a fly away from her keyboard.

“O.K., thanks.” Colasanti went to get up, then paused. “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened after she got ill? I don’t mean in terms of donations. I mean in terms of the college, her colleagues, her students, once the news of her cancer came and then later her death.”

“A lot of us were devastated. None more so than Merrick Landon.”

“Do you know if either had been married before? Had any kids from a previous marriage?”

“I wouldn’t be able to answer that, sir?” Katie seemed to be getting agitated. “You might look through Mr. Sykes’ electronic files, sir, for correspondence between him and them. Maybe that will answer some of your questions.”

“That’s probably so. They should be on the h-drive.”  Colasanti got up and headed back into his office. Katie offered nothing more, returning to her tea.

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Thanks to Shelly’s question, Merrick found himself ruminating about Jeremiah Watson while he waited for his shower to heat up. Jeremiah had been the last person Merrick had seen socially. They’d had their usual drinks at the Cellar that Friday before Watson’s heart attack. Watson had been the former Chair of Sciences at Hefford, and the two of them had formed a surprising friendship in the days following Cheryl’s death. All of Cheryl’s faculty colleagues had attended her funeral, offering Merrick whatever support he might need, but most of them, like the staff he worked with, dissolved back into their own lives. Only Watson, fellow widower, took the time to reach out to Merrick, offering companionship in the guise of a glass of ale and the occasional burger at The Cellar.

Watson had been a full professor of business. He and Cheryl had little reason to interact much, but that hadn’t stopped Watson from admiring her and Merrick from afar. That first meeting at The Cellar, Watson expressed deep, genuine sympathy for Merrick.

“I tell you, Merrick, Cheryl and you were the lifeblood of the college. Many of us commented on that, especially when remembering those halcyon days of the late 2000s.”

“Halcyon? One doesn’t hear that word used that often.” Merrick was nursing a Killian’s and munching on a basket of fries.

“Hey, us business faculty appreciate fine language.” Watson was drinking his usual black-and-tan.

Merrick laughed. “The things I learn all these years later. I thought you only spoke in business-speak.”

“I’d run that ignorant comment up the flagpole and see if anyone in this fine establishment salutes it if I didn’t want to remain unobserved.” He chortled and waved at the waitress to bring him another black-and-tan.

“What happened to those good-old-days, Jeremiah? I appreciated so many folks coming to the funeral this week, but everyone seemed so dour, well beyond the occasion.”

“Too much change, Merrick.”

“You have to admit that’s a mostly predictable lament from faculty.”

“You don’t think four presidents over twenty years isn’t a tad ridiculous?”

“Par for this industrial golf course, Jeremiah.”

“Is it? You were a casualty of it. You bitter about it?” The waitress had brought Watson his beer and he took a healthy glug.

Merrick deflected the question. “Did you know that neither Collins nor Hendrickson came to any visitations or the funeral?”

“Really? Not even Hendrickson. That seems unlikely for an HR person. They don’t usually pass on an opportunity to pretend their human. Good for you that they didn’t, if you ask me.”

Merrick took another sip of his Killian’s. “I know. I probably would have been upset, but on the other hand, the respect would have been for a long-term, very popular, faculty member. I gave up on it for me.”

“If it helps, I thought the turnout from faculty showed the respect we had all for Cheryl.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Merrick offered his bottle for a toast; Watson clinked his beer glass.

“To Cheryl.” They both took healthy draws from their drinks.

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Edward Sykes, Colasanti’s predecessor, had methodically saved communications from the Development office during his tenure. They appeared to be electronically saved in duplicate, once in a file by year, and again in a file by donor name. Austin’s, given the alphabetization, was one of the first Colasanti found. All the letters to Austin were the standard “thank you for your donation” end-of-the-year tax-supporting letter that employees got. That is up until 2003, of course, the year she and Merrick presumably donated as one.

Landon’s file, whose oldest letters were his own end-of-the-year thank-you letters, contained more personalized letters starting in 2011. For those years when he donated $5000, his contributions were shown in a bulleted list, with $2500 annually attributed to the “Lindsay Chesterton Poetry” scholarship. Colasanti made a note to ask Katie who Lindsay Chesterton was, wondering if she too would refuse to answer that question.

The most puzzling part of these letters is that they were written only to Merrick. No reference to Cheryl Austin anywhere. He made a note of this too with a giant question mark. He quickly noted the same basic questions throughout the letters sent to Landon through 2022. They weren’t form letters, and sometimes, smaller amounts of money were given for different reasons, but the $2500 was always connected to this poetry scholarship. Colasanti grabbed his list of active Hefford scholarships, but couldn’t find any reference to the Lindsay Chesterton poetry scholarship.

Upon clicking on the 2023 file icon, Colasanti was shocked to see the file empty. No letter to Landon at all. He added that question to his list and headed back to the outer office where Katie was typing away.

“Katie, you know of a Lindsay Chesterton poetry scholarship?”

“Oh, my, I haven’t heard of that scholarship in a few years.” Katie didn’t look up from her typing.

“I don’t see it on the active scholarship list. Does that mean it’s now inactive?”

“That would seem logical, sir.”

Colasanti turned his face to his inner office to hide his frustration. After a couple of seconds, he turned back to Katie. “Who was Lindsay Chesterton?”

“A poet.”

“I kind of figured that, Katie. Anything more you can tell me?”

Katie stopped typing and leaned back in her chair. “She was a student here. After she graduated, she had some poetry published. The English Department recommended we start a scholarship to encourage other poets.”

“Meaning that Austin spearheaded that request?” Colasanti could feel a couple of key jigsaw pieces falling into place.

“I wouldn’t know about that, sir.”

Colasanti bit his tongue. “Do you remember when it was started?”

“Not off the top of my head, sir. You can probably find that information in Dykes’ files.” If Colasanti wasn’t crazy, he could have sworn she had cut herself short from adding “also.”

“So, I’m probably wasting my time asking if you know why it stopped.”

Katie smiled. Colasanti turned back into his office and pulled the door shut a little more forcefully than he should have. Then he remembered he had to ask Katie one more thing. He sheepishly opened the door again.

“Just taking a chance here, Katie. Ed’s file for Landon and 2023 donations contains no letter. You have any idea why not?”

“Certainly not, sir. Mr. Sykes didn’t share much about his personal file-keeping.”

“Of course not.” This time Colasanti let the door swing slowly shut as he made his way back to his desk. He decided to take a walk around campus and free his mind.

The next morning, Colasanti decided he probably had done as much fact-finding as he could and decided he would turn his attentions to devising a plan to reach out to Merrick Landon in the eventual hope of landing some kind of planned gift. He wrote down the things he knew and didn’t know about Merrick:

Known

Respected leader for almost twenty-five years.

Married to respected English faculty member who had a thirty-three-year tenure at the college.

Austin donated close to $60,000 to Hefford up until 2011.

Landon donated close to $25,000 prior to marrying Austin.

Landon donated close to $60,000 while married to Austin, mostly to a Lindsay Chesterton poetry scholarship.

Landon donated $25,000 the year after Austin died.

Landon had an unpleasant departure from Hefford.

Austin suffered a life-ending health condition around the time of his departure.

Austin died in 2022.

Unknown

Why did the poetry scholarship suddenly stop?

What exactly was the final $25,000 donation for?

Why was there no record of that specific donation?

How does Landon feel about Hefford these days?

Is there anyone connected with Hefford Landon might favorably respond to?

The latter question seemed like one he might be able to get an answer to. There were still quite a few faculty and staff around who knew Landon from his time here, and probably most of them, like Katie, respected him very much. For a second, he thought about asking Katie to participate in that first meeting with Landon but then recognized she would not appreciate the request.

He glanced back over his lists and kept his pen hovering over Lindsay Chesterton’s name. He thought for a second about finding her in the student information system (more complicated than his donation system), but decided to do a Google search first.

It didn’t take him long to find a Lindsay Chesterton poet. He started with her own website. She had published six books of poetry with names that reminded him why he didn’t like poetry: “The Anguish of Abandonment”; “Catching Lightning Bugs In Tahiti”; “Life ImBalance”; “Lonely Is Virginia Woolf”; “My Time In Lethargy”; and “Cached Garbage Bags.” Fearing the worst, he clicked on a link to one of her new poems, “Misappropriations,” and was frustrated to find a formless paragraph of words with no line breaks or punctuation. He quickly exited that page, heading back to her home page.

It looked like she was on the faculty at Southern Illinois University. So, she didn’t live that far away. That might help if he asked her to meet with him and Landon. He left a message on the site’s contact form, telling her who he was at Hefford and that he would love to have a few minutes to chat with her. He left his office number.

Several days later, Katie transferred a call to him, saying only that it was someone he had recently contacted.

“This is Phil Colasanti.”

“Hello, Mr. Colasanti.” The voice was almost girlish, and the opening was followed with a kind of gurgle. “This is Lindsay Chesterton responding to your message.” She gurgled again.

“Oh, Lindsay, thanks so much for calling me back. You can call me Phil, by the way.” He quickly pulled out from under a pile of papers the yellow pad he had been using for his fact-finding on Landon.

“Sure, Phil. I don’t get many calls from Hefford anymore. I was intrigued.” The gurgle had become more distant. Maybe she had moved him to speaker phone.

“I am glad you were intrigued. I am still pretty new here myself, so I am doing a crash course on college history, especially key alumni.”

“You’re the new head of the Development?”

“Yes.”

“Meaning fund-raising? Do I assume you want to ask me for money?” A louder gurgle.

“I would never turn that down, but that is not really the reason for my call. I wanted to talk to you about Professor Austin and Merrick Landon.”

“Oh. Such a fine couple.” No gurgle.

“They set up a poetry scholarship in your name.”

“They certainly did, Phil. I was really touched. This was back when I had only published two of my books with obscure publishers. I wasn’t sure of my name value, or maybe what you guys in development call, ‘brand.’”

“Do you have any idea why that scholarship stopped once Dr. Austin passed away?”

“Did it stop? That’s news to me.”

“Yes. I suppose there’s no reason you should have known but that’s kind of surprising.”

“Well, early on I was informed by the college as a kind of courtesy. It’s not like I was donating money to it. Mostly, Cheryl and Merrick made a big deal about it when it was established and included me in a lot of those initial discussions. However, all that ended after she passed away.”

“Exactly. Now I am on a fact-finding mission to figure out why it stopped then.” Colasanti was unrolling and rolling his sleeves absent-mindedly through the conversation.

“Because she had passed away.” Colasanti would have appreciated the gurgle over the tense silence.

“What do you mean, exactly?” Colasanti wasn’t sure how to explore the delicate subject.

“She and Phil were the champions of the scholarship. Hefford promised to find other donors to help build it up, but at least the last I knew, which would have been, hmm, maybe 2019 or 2020, they had developed no other donors for the scholarship.”

“That’s certainly peculiar. Since it was before my time, I can’t speak to what might have happened . . .  or not happened.”

“I guess the good news is that you would like to re-start it.” Gurgle.

Colasanti hesitated. He wasn’t necessarily interested in re-launching that specific sponsorship, as he had a bigger fish he wanted to land, but he couldn’t exactly tell Lindsay Chesterton that. If Merrick demanded the scholarship as part of a bigger giving plan, Colasanti would welcome it with open arms.

Chesterton must have inferred a lot from the lack of a quick response. “With all due respect, Mr. Colasanti, it’s one of the reasons I haven’t donated to the college.”

“I can understand that. Anyway, this all leads more specifically to why I called. I would like to reach out to Merrick Landon to try and rebuild some bridges between him and the college. I thought it would be best if I could bring along a friendly face from his past.”

Chesterton snorted in laughter. “Have you read any of my poetry, Mr. Colasanti?”

“Uh, I have to admit, just one, at your website. Is that a pre-requisite?”

Chesterton snorted again. “No, I’m just not sure many would characterize me as a friendly face.”

“Not even for Merrick Landon?”

“Oh, I adore him and Cheryl, even more so since her death. I think I can remember the face to prepare for him.” The gurgle was gone again. “So, when would this meeting be?”

“It may be a while. I’m looking at a long-term game-plan, Lindsay. I needed to know that my goal of having a face-to-face meeting with the three of us could be pulled off from my end. Now I will work on him. Sit tight. We’ll have plenty of time to pick a specific date later. For now, thanks so much.”

“You’re welcome, Phil. Keep me posted.”

Colasanti hung up, pondering Chesterton’s comment about her not-friendly face. Her website had offered no picture of her, just shots of her cats, books, and yard. He went to Google Images and typed in Lindsay Chesterton, poet. The images that popped up would qualify as “severe looking,” Chesterton almost always shown with her jet-black hair pulled back in a bun, eyebrows plucked and arched, eyes staring straight at the camera, thin lips glossed with bright red lipsticks, mouth in a permanent pout, pale face and neck adorned by no jewelry, unless one counted the bejeweled glasses that hung from a chain. Colasanti let out a whistle. There was no doubt that Chesterton was a striking woman, but pity the fool that it struck.

In the end, who cares, he thought. If her face reminded Merrick Landon fondly of his wife and their commitment to a scholarship . . .  and a college . . .  then Chesterton could fit the cliché of angry woman poet as much as she wanted.

He turned to his computer and started typing a letter.

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Merrick sat on his back porch watching Donegan chasing squirrels. The shadows formed by the setting sun made his tree-filled back yard look magical. He loved this time of evening. It had become routine. He’d come out with a small glass of scotch, a blanket made and given to him by Cheryl when they were dating, draped over his bony legs, a book of Sudoku puzzles, and a small bowl of water that he left by his chair for when Donegan worked up a thirst hunting the backyard vermin. It was in these moments he could both curse and revel equally in his life.

Tonight, though, his enjoyment was interrupted by the letter, still unopened, sitting on the patio table. He had almost thrown it away when he first brought it in from the mailbox, but he set it aside and tried to forget about it throughout the day. That was easier said than done. The official Hefford envelope, return address one he knew so well from his working days, leaped from the paper. He toyed with a match he had brought out to light the citronella candles. The letter could be ashes in seconds.

He knew it was mostly childish to be harboring bad feelings toward the place. The people he were most disappointed with were long gone. He hadn’t even heard from anyone but Jeremiah Watson from the college in several years, and certainly not by official letter. The unopened letter probably meant nothing. All the more reason to burn it. “I have received Schrodinger’s letter,” he called out to Donegan, who watched from the middle of the yard, tail wagging slowly. “As long as I don’t know what is in this envelope,” he chuckled, waving it at the dog, “the letter remains both meaningless and dripping with relevance.”

He fingered the match in his left hand while slapping the envelope with his right hand on the table. “What to do, Mr. Donegan? What to do?”

Donegan came running back to his seat, convinced he was missing something tasty. Merrick thrust his leg out to keep the dog slightly away, then lit the match followed by the envelope, watched the flame move slowly from the corner near the return address, then sweep, buoyed by oxygen, to the right. He slowly dropped it into the empty pot he kept by the table and watched it burn away.

“Come on, Donegan. Nothing to see here. Time to go in.”

Less than an hour later, fatigued by trying to read Islands In The Stream, which he found annoyingly tedious, Merrick dragged himself upstairs to bed, Donegan following faithfully, of course. Merrick got in on his side of the king-sized bed and patted for the dog to jump onto the other side. Within seconds, the dog was stretched out right next to Merrick in the middle of the bed, just as he had done while Cheryl was still alive. Merrick groaned and tried to push the dog onto the open side of the bed, but he knew it would be for naught. The stubborn dog would eventually jump off the bed rather than populate Cheryl’s side of the bed. As with other nights, Merrick wondered if Donegan still expected Cheryl to come home to bed.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a steamy mid-July day when Rochelle interrupted Merrick from his afternoon nap in his deep, maroon-colored recliner.

“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to wake you. The mail came and I was just setting it on the table by you.”

Merrick rubbed his eyes, grogginess consuming his entire being. “That’s o.k., Shelly. It’s always just bills and junk though.”

“Doesn’t look like any bills today. You did get something from Hefford.”

“You can put that straight in the trash, Shelly.”

Rochelle paused, eyeing him suspiciously with her dark green eyes. “Don’t you want to see what it’s about, Mr. Landon?”

“Nah.” Merrick stretched his long legs, bent over, and started the process by which gravity would eventually help him get out of the chair.

“Once you read it, you can still throw it out. What if it is something important about the wife?”

“Why would there be something important four or five years later?”

Rochelle glared at Merrick. “Honestly, sir, the missus would want to slap you right now, you know.”

“Well, the missus ain’t here no more, in case you haven’t noticed. Throw it away, Rochelle.”

“Mind if I read it. Just to make sure it’s nothing important.”

“No, Shelly. It won’t be important. Throw it away now.”

Rochelle was not accustomed to Merrick using such a curt tone. He had always been the kindest employer. Feeling her face getting red, she turned away to head to the kitchen trash. “Yes, sir.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rochelle held the latest Hefford letter in her hands and wondered what to do with it. Merrick was in the backyard with Donegan, and as usual she had stepped out front to get the mail when it had come. She knew she could just leave the cable bill on the kitchen counter but questioned whether she should do the same for the Hefford envelope or tell Merrick about it, which would almost certainly result in him telling her to throw it away again. She wondered how many other envelopes from Hefford had been coming to Merrick. She only came here one day a week, so if she had now seen two letters over a month, with six other days a week, surely he had received others. Had he tossed them all? Had he looked at the first one, assuming the others were the same?

She knew her curiosity was not helpful, but she really did worry about Merrick. Rochelle understood that she was Merrick’s only connection outside of his reclusive life. His anti-social stance on life since the death of his wife was not healthy. That was obvious. The careers he and Cheryl had carved out at Hefford had defined them, had been the locus for everything that interested them. When they had first hired her all those years ago, she immediately could tell they poured their souls into the college. It broke her heart to see Merrick potentially throwing that away in some kind of bitterness regarding that past.

She walked to the kitchen window looking out over the back. Merrick was flinging Donegan’s favorite stick all over the yard, Donegan happily chasing, retrieving and bringing it back ad infinitum. On the other hand, the old guy did look pretty happy out there, she thought.  ‘Well, both of them do,’ she chuckled to herself.

Taking a deep breath, keeping her eyes half out the window, she quickly tore open the envelope. She unfolded the single-page letter on Hefford letterhead. She quickly scanned the contents:

“Dear Merrick,

I am writing again to see if I could interest you in a meeting. As I mentioned before, one of my goals is to connect with some of the living history of Hefford College, and clearly you represent so much of that, both in your own right and in your wife’s right. People talk about you and your wife’s tenures with so much fondness and love, and I’d be humbled to honor that sentiment as well as bring you up to date on some of the new history Hefford makes every day.

I promise you that I will ask nothing of you but your time at this moment. I’d love to take you to lunch and share our stories about Hefford College.

Please call me at your earliest convenience.”

It was signed by Philip W. Colasanti, Vice President of Development, and included all the requisite contact information.

“What’s that?” Rochelle was startled out of her concentration by Merrick standing at the door, Donegan on the steps behind him.

“Oh,” Rochelle stammered. Her face must be as red as her hair again. “You caught me sir. I was reading one of these letters from Hefford before I tossed it. I’m really sorry.” Merrick remained silent, reaction completely imperturbable. “I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t something important.”

“I suppose it’s alright, Shelly.”  Merrick made his way into the pantry to get a doggie treat. Now Rochelle couldn’t see his expression at all. “So, was it?”

“Was it what? Oh, was it important?” Rochelle was taken aback by both the overall response and now the question. “Probably not. Someone wanting to meet with you.” She held the letter out toward him. “Want to read it?”

Merrick first handed Donegan a treat, then wearily sat down at the stool by his kitchen counter. “Might as well now that the cat is out of the envelope, so to speak.”

Rochelle blushed again. “Honestly, sir, I really am sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Merrick reached across the counter and took the letter. “You’re forgiven, Shelly.”

Merrick read the letter slowly, puzzling Rochelle given how short the letter was. Outside of the dog panting, the kitchen was eerily quiet. Finally, she broke the silence: “maybe you should take him on his offer. Get yourself a free meal out at least.” She smiled.

Merrick laid the letter down on the counter.  “So, I’m living history, am I? Like Stonehenge, only with me the giant stones can be taken to lunch and asked to spill forth its secrets. No thanks.”

“I think he was being sincere, sir.”

“Sincere? He says he would be ‘humbled.” What a load of hogwash. He turned and tossed the letter into the trash. Rochelle and Donegan stood there looking at him, no doubt both wondering how to make sense of the action.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Mr. Landon, the message light on your answering machine is blinking again.” Rochelle was still amazed that Merrick even had one.

“Ignore it, Shelly,” Merrick yelled from the den where he was deep in the middle of One Hundred Years of Solitude.

“Do you know who it’s from?”

“That Colasalami or whatever his name is from Hefford.”

Rochelle walked to the top of the two steps that led down into Merrick’s den. “Why don’t you meet with him and blast him with all of your grievances. Couldn’t that be therapeutic?”

Merrick laughed. “I have thought of that. But Cheryl’s ghost would haunt me forever for being so boorish.”

“Then can’t you at least tell him you aren’t interested? How many of these messages have you ignored?”

“Three or four? Not as many as I have ignored from the local Republican party. Do you recommend I answer their calls?”

“It’s not the same and you know it, sir. With all due respect, you can be as stubborn as my mama’s goat. I don’t know how the missus ever put up with you.” Rochelle playfully waved her towel in his direction.

“Thankfully, she did, Shelly. God rest her soul.”

“You’re right! God rest her soul, sir.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Colasanti slammed his office phone down violently, so much so that a few seconds later Katie poked her head in her door.

“Everything alright, sir?”

Colasanti wiped his brow with his handkerchief (yellow to match his blue suit, of course). “Not really, Katie, but thanks for worrying. Just placed another call to Merrick Landon, only to have it go to an answering machine.”

“Could he be out, sir?”

“For the last month? When three letters were never answered, I switched to calls. I have been trying for close to three months to reach him. For a recluse, he must get out a lot,” he snapped sarcastically.

“Maybe he doesn’t want to be bothered?”

“Bothered to have a free lunch and a pleasant conversation? I find that hard to believe.”

Katie turned around and headed back to her desk. He could have sworn he heard her say something about “in his shoes.” Colasanti sighed and leaned back in his chair. He had many successes in reaching out to new donors in this first quarter of his time at Hefford, but Landon’s unwillingness to even respond to him had turned personal. He thought about whether he should just drive the 80 miles to Merrick’s home and pop in on him unannounced, but he knew that would certainly make matters worse. Besides, if Landon was as reclusive as everyone said, he might greet him at the door with a shotgun.

That’s the problem with courting donors. There were so many lines to tread around carefully. He had already planned to have Lindsay Chesterton show up with him, if a meeting could ever be set, without giving Landon forewarning. The ethics behind that strategy was already tenuous, but to even attempt it they needed it to occur in a public place where ideally the moment could be managed better.

Thinking of Chesterton opened a new line of thought. Finding her contact information, he quickly called her again.

“You want me do what?” she asked after Colasanti explained his new strategy.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Merrick waved at the mail carrier driving away as he and Donegan made their way to the top of the hill back home. Donegan pulled at the leash believing he had one of his best chances ever of getting to that person who came to his master’s house almost every day, leaving things that at best caused Merrick to sigh.

Merrick pulled from the mailbox a couple of envelopes and several catalogs, the volume of which always increased starting in October through Christmas. The catalogs all came from companies Cheryl might have once used. Merrick shook his head in amusement that they kept wasting their postage sending these to his home. Not only had he never ordered from any of them, but he also didn’t even look at them, merely dumping them straight into the recycling bin. As he walked to the kitchen door, he dismissed one of the two envelopes, a semi-regular notice from his gas company that he should get insurance for the gas lines in his house.

He stopped short of the door when he looked at the other envelope. It showed his name and address in flowery handwritten lettering and bore a return label proclaiming “Lindsay Chesterton.” Now, that was a name he hadn’t heard for a while.

Given that the Fall weather was considerably cooler, Merrick opted for another cup of coffee over a cold drink. While he waited for his single-serving coffeemaker to brew a cup, he got Donegan fresh water and wondered about the contents of Lindsay’s letter.

Lindsay had been one of Cheryl’s students, graduating with a degree in English. She had dabbled in poetry, and her work was often featured in college publications at the time. She had gone on for an MFA and developed a respectable career as a poet/faculty somewhere in the Midwest. He had forgotten where. Her return address showed Cambria, Illinois, which sounded familiar.

Lindsay and Cheryl had remained close friends long after Lindsay’s graduation. Merrick could remember many times Lindsay had come to the house to visit Cheryl, mostly before Cheryl’s cancer. He recollected one visit after her diagnosis, and then, of course, a visit for the memorial and the funeral.  She was a bit of a rough character, which never bothered Merrick, but she put off some of their Hefford colleagues. Merrick remembered vaguely a couple of her poems, which he admittedly never really understood. Not that he particularly understood much poetry. He made a mental note to add poetry to his “for Cheryl bucket list.”

With a steaming cup of black coffee in his hands, he grabbed the envelope and made to the den. Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart lay next to his recliner, the next book he was ready to tackle. First, though, Chesterton’s envelope.

Opening it, he found more of the flowery handwriting as had been on the envelope.

“Dear Merrick,

Surprise! Sorry to have been a stranger. I’ve been thinking about you and Cheryl a lot the last few months. Cheryl’s spirit occasionally still makes her way into my work.

I have been asked to come back to Hefford for an event and would love to see you. Given you are right on the way in and out of town, I would be glad to stop by the house or meet you someplace around there. Your choice.

The time frame would be November 17 and 18, and I am sure I could juggle my responsibilities with the college to meet whenever and however you want either of those days.

I am so hoping we can meet. Please let me know. You can reach me at either my cell phone or my office phone as on the enclosed business card.

With much love,

Lindsay.”

Sure enough, there was a business card that had fallen on top of the Achebe book. Southern Illinois University. Now, he remembered. Apparently she was an Associate Professor there.

He set the letter and the card down on the side table and took a healthy glug of coffee. Donegan came up to sniff them, and Merrick lightly petted his head. He thought of Lindsay and Cheryl, who made a rather rag-tag team when they got together: Cheryl, petite, long, silky blonde hair, in fashionable dress; Lindsay, tall, thick, curly black hair, most likely in clothes befitting of a drill instructor. He could easily remember Cheryl introducing Lindsay at various campus events, often to read a poem. There had been other students Cheryl championed, but the bond between her and Lindsay was the strongest. He was then struck by the image of Lindsay and Jeremiah Watson after the funeral, serving as his family in a way, helping to manage the niceties expected of a funeral and memorial while he stood to the side completely spent.

All of this sudden thoughts made him smile and pet Donegan more aggressively.

“What will I wear, Donnie boy?”

-------------------------------------------------------------------

“What the hell is he doing here,” snarled Landon. In person, Merrick Landon was not at all the grumpy decrepit old-timer Colasanti expected. He was in surprisingly good shape, had only a touch of grey, albeit thinning, blackish hair. His face was clean-shaven and outside of a map of wrinkles on his forehead, maintained a relatively unblemished complexion. All of that was diminished, however, by the obvious look of disgust on his face.

Even with Chesterton, herself not projecting the warmest personality, standing to greet Landon with open arms, Landon stood rigidly and coldly, even brusque in his mannerisms towards Chesterton.

“Merrick, have you met Phil Colasanti?” she asked, reaching for Merrick’s right arm.

“We haven’t had the pleasure, have we, Phil?” Merrick’s brittle words seemed to shatter in the air as soon as they left his mouth.

“Merrick, don’t blame Lindsay here. I asked to ride shotgun on this visit with you.”

Merrick turned toward Chesterton. “Honestly, I am very disappointed, Lindsay.”

“Merrick, please sit down and let me explain.” Chesterton had moved to a spot almost behind him and tried to push him to the open seat between her and Colasanti. Merrick was having none of it, though.

“What’s to explain? This goon has been hounding me for months and has now used you for it.”

“What do you want, Merrick?” asked Karen, clueless to the dynamics, as she approached the table. “The usual Killian’s?”

“I’m not staying, Karen.”

“Get him the Killian’s, please,” Colasanti said, standing up. “If need be, in a few minutes I will leave.”

“Please, Merrick, just sit for a couple of minutes. I really do want to see you and catch up. If Mr. Colasanti’s presence here becomes a bother, I will demand he leave.” Lindsay let out a small gurgle as she pulled the chair out for him.

Karen hesitated, waiting to see if Merrick would sit. With a wave of Colasanti’s hand she was off to the bar. Meanwhile, Merrick moved toward the chair.

Seated, almost as rigidly as he had been standing, he turned towards Lindsay. “Honestly, Lindsay, I am really pissed at you right now.”

“I understand. You deserve to be. You may not believe me, but I probably want some of the same answers from Mr. Colasanti that you might want.”

“I want nothing from him.”

“O.k., then answers that Cheryl would want.” Lindsay had taken a sip of the white wine she was drinking. Colasanti appeared to have only a Coke.

“That’s a low blow, Lindsay.” Merrick could feel tears welling in his eyes.

“No, it isn’t, Merrick. That scholarship you and Cheryl set up in my name wasn’t really to honor me. It was to honor Cheryl and her passion to help young people find their voices in a deafening world of din and discord. I want to know why the college stopped the scholarship.” As Merrick had not forgotten, her speech was occasionally punctuated by a slight gurgle.

Karen had returned with Merrick’s beer. “I assume you all need a few minutes?”

“Yes, hon,” said Colasanti, “thanks.”

Merrick bristled at Colasanti’s use of ‘hon,’ a term he would have found insulting even if he didn’t know Karen. He also could sense Lindsay’s displeasure.

Colasanti, however, seemed completely oblivious. “I should say right away that I have no idea why that scholarship died. It was before my time. However, as the new guy in the place, literally and figuratively, I would be delighted to rectify the situation.”

Merrick groaned. This guy really was like all the others.

Lindsay had grabbed Merrick’s arm to pull his attention back to her. “Merrick, did you stop contributing to that scholarship when Cheryl died?”

Merrick could feel his eyes motioning. “Oh, God,” he barely whispered. “If anything, we both hoped it would be her legacy.”

Colasanti noted that Landon hadn’t exactly answered Lindsay’s question. “Look, Merrick,” Colasanti interjected patiently, “I can find no documentation in the college’s files about your 2023 donation, which seems odd. Ed Sykes seemed to have kept copious documentation, yet there is nothing in that file. Do you have any insight?”

“Well, I was gone by then. How the hell would I know?”

Colasanti ignored the snideness. “I just thought that maybe you knew. Besides, that was the last time you donated anything to the college.”

Merrick took a long glug of his Killian’s.  “Maybe you should be talking to Robert Collins.”

Colasanti drained his own Coke. “Collins isn’t here. And I’m guessing he would be of little help. Besides, it’s you I care about.”

Merrick snorted. “You care about me? That’s a joke!”

Lindsay grabbed his arm again. “Even if he doesn’t, I do, Merrick. When I saw you at Cheryl’s funeral, you clearly were hurting, not just from her death but from a number of things you blamed on the college. It’s been almost four years, Merrick, let it out.”

“You all ready to order?” Karen had arrived at the table again. Lindsay and Colasanti looked at Merrick.

“I guess everyone’s waiting on me. I ain’t walking out yet, so I might as well get my free meal out of this. Give me the Cajun pasta, Karen.”

Colasanti smiled and held his hands out to Chesterton. “And you, Lindsay?”

“I’ll take a Reuben with fries. And another Chardonnay.”

Colasanti grabbed the menus from the table, handing them to Karen. “I’ll do the Mediterranean Salad. And I’ll take a refill.”

“Got it.” Karen hustled away from the table.

“I need to hit the facilities,” Merrick said, rising from his chair. “Don’t worry, I won’t sneak out.”

In the men’s restroom, the pain and humiliations of 2022 came back to Merrick in a rush. He leaned with his right arm on the wall above the urinal and let everything come flowing. It all started with that phone call while he nursed Cheryl when HR informed him the advising staff was being reduced and its director position being eliminated. Was he really prepared to relive those agonizing six months culminating in the worst Christmas and New Year’s he could ever imagine? He reminded himself that he could get up and leave whenever he felt like it. He didn’t even have to worry about the tab.

When he returned to the table, he was surprised to see Lindsay sitting there alone.  She had let her glasses fall around her neck by their silver chain. “Where’s the goon?” he sneered.

Lindsay gurgled a laugh. “Oh, Merrick, you never change. Phil had to step outside to take a call.”

Merrick grunted in approval, then sat down and took another sip of his beer.

“So, how have you been, Merrick?”

“O.k., I guess. I’ve been reading a lot.”

“You always read a lot. Both you and Cheryl. I never knew a couple to read so much.”

“Yeah, but at the time I was too busy reading non-fiction. Too intent on staying up on educational theory and the world at large. After the funeral, I decided I needed to finally read the literature that Cheryl had been teaching for years. I took her syllabi for 20^th Century Literature classes and started reading all of that.”

“How sweet!” Lindsay sipped at her wine. “I know Cheryl is smiling somewhere.”

“I hope. She might not have been too keen on my swearing as I read Faulkner. I’m still not sure I understood much of him.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Merrick, she would appreciate the effort.”

Merrick sighed. “She would have appreciated it more when alive. The conversations we could have had.” He was peeling the label off of his emptying beer bottle. “Let me know when you see Karen, I will want another.”

“That’s good, Merrick. Thank you for staying.”

“To be honest, I am not sure why I am. I guess it’s for you.”

“I appreciate that Merrick. Look, the goon’ may hit you up for money before the night is over. Don’t let that be an expectation. I just think there’s some minefields on your path to peace and maybe we can remove them with some discussion.”

Merrick nodded half-heartedly.

“Anyway, how’s Donegan?”

“He’s good. Getting older, too. I think he still misses Cheryl, also.”

Lindsay drained her wine. “We all do, Merrick. I wanted you to know that my next book of poems will be devoted to Cheryl. I think of her so often.”

Karen had returned to the table. “Looks like you might need refills? Food shouldn’t be much longer.”

“Definitely for me.” Merrick looked at Lindsay. “How about for you? I assume this is all on ‘the goon’s’ bill?”

“It is,” Lindsay laughed, “but I do have to drive back tonight. Can you switch mine to a sparkling water?”

“Of course.” Karen bustled away.

“Where is he?” Merrick asked, looking toward the front door. “Not that I am in a hurry to get him back, but it seems bad form to surprise me and then ignore me.”

Lindsay smiled. “When he gets back, let it all loose, Merrick, whatever haunts you. If it’s any consolation, all of these grievances probably pre-date him.”

“I know.”

The gap in the conversation reminded Merrick of how social settings could bring him anxiety. He was no longer sure what constituted appropriate small talk. Certainly not politics, maybe not even the weather since that usually descended into arguments about climate change.

“Oh God, my manners. What have you been up to, Lindsay?” he asked.

“Teaching and writing mostly. I got Associate Professor at SIU last year.”

“Congratulations. Carbondale’s a nice town I hear.”

“It is, but I actually live in a small town outside of it, Cambria. I like my privacy.”

“Sounds like a good deal all around.” Merrick could feel his legs getting restless. He really wasn’t used to socializing.

“Yeah, whatever. That’s what six collections of poetry will get you: a new title, a small raise, an acre of land, and two fewer classes to teach a year.”

Merrick smiled. “I might as well ‘fess up that I still struggle with poetry, skipping much of the poets Cheryl had on her syllabus.”

“Here comes, Colasanti. Thought I should give you a heads up. And you should go back and try the poetry. I guarantee that will please, Cheryl.”

“Sorry about that,” Colasanti said as he pulled his chair out. “When the President calls, everything else must come to a halt. But I don’t need to tell you that, Merrick. I bet you don’t miss any of that at all.”

Karen had returned with Merrick’s beer and Lindsay’s water, accompanied by Mario with their food.

After all was settled with the drinks and dinners, Colasanti looked directly at Merrick. “I’m finding out, Merrick, that even if you don’t miss the old job, a lot of people at Hefford miss you.”

Merrick grunted in appreciation while biting into his hot and decadent pasta.

“Merrick, I know enough about the circumstances surrounding your departure and Cheryl’s passing that I won’t pretend I can offer any apologies on behalf of the college. From the little I know of how Collins handled things, I would be outraged too. To Lindsay’s interest here, did all of that affect the continuation of the scholarship?”

Merrick set his fork down and stared first at Colasanti and then at Lindsay. He could see her eyes moistening. Self-conscious, she quickly wiped at them and pulled her glasses back up over her eyes.

“When Cheryl started that scholarship, it was with the understanding that the college would grow it beyond our donations by seeking out additional donors. As you both know, $2500 a year would barely cover the cost of a year’s tuition, undergraduate or graduate for any aspiring writer. Josephine Walsh promised us that they would actively reach out to donors to increase the principal.”

“Walsh?” Colasanti interrupted him, his mouth full of lettuce. “She’s like three of my predecessors ago.?

“Uh-huh. There’s not a lot of longevity in your department, Phil,” Merrick snarled.

“Don’t I know it. I guess I should have figured that out going by the years. What I don’t understand is that you kept giving to that scholarship long after she was gone, heck, long after Myron Adams had left the building.”

“Well, that became the problem. When Cheryl discovered how little, well, how nothing, had been added to the principal after our donations, she asked for a meeting with Sykes and President Collins.”

“To be honest,” Colasanti began before Merrick cut him off.

“Hah. ‘To be honest,’ has never set up the most innocent of remarks.”

“Touché,” laughed Colasanti, “but to finish my thought, it might be hard to find many people willing to support a poetry scholarship.”

Merrick could feel the heat from Lindsay’s glare. She let out a gurgle.

Colasanti looked across the table and held his hands up. “No offense, Lindsay. You probably no better than anyone how poets aren’t exactly tucking away thousands of dollars.”

Lindsay continued to glare. Merrick focused on his pasta. After a few seconds, Lindsay settled back into her seat. “You are correct, Phil. Is that how Collins and Sykes explained the issue to you, Merrick?” she asked.

Merrick snorted. “Hah, both claimed to have no clue about that expectation.”

Colasanti jumped back in. “I could see Sykes not knowing because of the transitions. You must have set that up well before Collins, who came to Hefford in, what, 2017? Is that something any President would even know about? Seems beneath his scope of duties.”

Merrick took another drink of his beer. “Never underestimate the micromanagement of a person like Collins. I don’t know if he should have known, but I am betting he did. Even more importantly, he probably should have been more supportive of his donor and employee in that meeting. Instead, he clearly just blew Cheryl off, told her it was not that big of a deal, that the creative writing program needed to be cut anyway. He ranted that he couldn’t sell “creative writing” degrees anymore.”

“Bastard,” muttered Lindsay as she wiped thousand island dressing from the corner of her mouth, then adding a particularly loud gurgle.

“That is unfortunate,” offered Colasanti.

Merrick snorted, almost spewing pasta on the table. “Unfortunate?” He looked at Lindsay. “Do people really respond like this?”

Lindsay shrugged. ‘So, did you stop contributing at that point, Merrick?”

“No, Cheryl wanted it to continue for at least a couple more years to cover students already enrolled in the program.”

“That sounds like Cheryl.”

“Yea, she was the heart of this partnership. I wanted to cut it off right then.”

“So,” started Colasanti after a few seconds of silence, “Collins hardly endeared himself to you through those last few years between this and his restructuring of your staff while you were caring for your wife. I have to admit, I agree with Lindsay’s categorization of him as a bastard. I don’t blame you for staying completely clear of the college as you have, Merrick.”

Merrick, who was scraping the bottom of his bowl of pasta, grunted in agreement.

“So, why did you decide to do one more big donation? $25,000?”

Merrick pushed his bowl to the side and moved his beer to directly in front of him. There was about a quarter of the bottle left. He was determined to leave when the bottle was drained, regardless of the situation for the other two.. The night had ended up being more draining than he would have liked. “That was Cheryl’s last wish.”

“Why am I not surprised?” gurgled Lindsay.

“What was the specific wish, Merrick?” Colasanti had barely touched his salad.

“That the money could only be applied once Collins left.”

Colasanti snorted. “What?”

Lindsay gurgled. “How can that be? I don’t understand.”

Merrick just smiled. “Cheryl had dictated a letter in those last few days that her will had a clause that provided Hefford receive $25,000 toward student scholarships, but only once Collins was no longer associated with the college.”

Colasanti chortled. “That’s insane. A demand that he be fired or quit?”

“Of course, not. Cheryl knew it was only a matter of time before that smooth-talking son-of-a-bitch took a position elsewhere. Hefford had clearly become too small for him. She knew he was looking. She just appreciated getting a little dig in once he did leave. Sure enough, by the end of 2023, Collins had left for V.P.I. and the college got the donation close to the anniversary of her death. Of course, she didn’t live to get to celebrate the moment. I savored it all the more, especially since the coward never came to her funeral.”

“I think that explains why there was no documentation in Sykes’ files. In a way, this is all really fascinating.” Colasanti had drained his cola.

Karen had come by to clear plates. “You can take mine, too,” said Colasanti pushing the half-eaten salad away.

“Anyone interested in coffee or dessert?”

Colasanti looked at his two companions. “I’d like some coffee. You two?”

Lindsay looked at her phone to check the time. “I’ll take a quick coffee. I do need to hit the road soon.”

“None for me, Karen,” said Merrick, “it will keep me up all night. Besides, I think I am going to skedaddle soon.”

After Karen walked away, Colasanti reached over and grabbed Merrick’s left arm. Merrick began to recoil but told himself to relax.

“Merrick, I really appreciate you staying to chat with me, and I apologize if I ruined what you hoped would be a pleasant reunion with Lindsay. If you two decide to get together again, let me know. It will be on me. Just phone me to set it up.”

Lindsay peered at Colasanti through the bottom of her glasses. “I will take you up on that, Phil. Besides, Merrick, we really shouldn’t go four years between seeing each other. We owe that to Cheryl.”

“I know.” Merrick hung his head sheepishly.

“Look, Merrick, before you leave. I don’t blame you for the bitterness you feel toward Hefford. I really don’t. But Collins and Sykes are gone. Miranda sends her best, Katie Williams from my office says ‘hello,’ as do many others. The good work that you and Cheryl did never goes away. If you ever want to engage with the college again, you will be most welcomed.”

“Yeah. You just want my money.”

“Merrick, if you want to support the college, its mission or its students, I will be there to help you figure out the way to do it. However, if all you want to do is simply come back and see some folks, I would be the first to help support that. Everything is your choice from here on out, even if you go home and simply file this evening away.”

Merrick looked toward the front door. He could see it was raining outside. He was tired, more than normal, but was sure the beer had a lot to do with that. He’s have to let Donegan out in the rain, never a pleasant experience. “I’ll think about it. I need to get home to my dog.”

Lindsay stood up. “Give the big lug a hug for me. And thanks for being a good sport through all of this. I am sorry that we surprised you.” She gave him a big hug.

Colasanti held out his hand. “Thanks, Merrick. I am really glad we finally met.”

Merrick nodded to both of them, waved at Karen and Maureen and went out the door.

Back home, after peeing Donegan and getting pretty soaked despite the raincoat he put on, Merrick poured himself a small glass of scotch and sat down in his recliner. Donegan, still stinking from the rain, lay at his feet. He swirled the glass and thought about the night. He did feel a little better unloading some of the history. Since Jeremiah Watson had died, much of his bitterness had remained locked inside. Part of him, though, still felt put out by being ambushed, especially Lindsay’s role in it. He was tempted to write her an angry letter, but somewhere he could hear Cheryl telling him, “get over it.”

He looked around the room. He had his pictures of Cheryl, their books, Donegan, a house full of memories but not necessarily one of a future plan.

Sighing, he headed up the stairs to the bedroom, Donegan slowly following him.

As he got into bed, he looked upwards. “Oh, Cheryl,” he said to the empty room, “what do I do? I know you were so much more forgiving than I am. I need you to anchor me in times like this, otherwise I just bounce around on my sea of disappointment. I wish you were here to guide me.” Eyes filling with tears, he turned off the bedside light, Donegan panting at the foot of the bed. “C’mon, dummy, get on up here.” He thought about finishing The Color Purple, but decided to wait until tomorrow when he could concentrate more.

After a couple of seconds, he felt Donegan’s weight on the bed. Merrick shifted to his left, expecting to feel the dog’s warm body, but he felt nothing. He patted the middle of the bed with his hand, but still nothing. He turned over to switch his light back on. Turning back, he found Donegan snuggled up against the pillow where Cheryl would have slept. He growled contentedly.

“Well, what do you know?” Merrick smiled. He went to turn out the light again and paused, turning to look at the dog again. “What do you know, my old friend?” The dog stared back at him, wondering about the hesitation to their slumber. Merrick looked around the room at the decorations, the curtains, the artwork, the carpet, the bedspread, that had been entirely Cheryl’s doing. He glanced at his bedside table where The Color Purple rested. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

He vowed to make a few calls in the morning, then turned out the light.