The caption running along the bottom of the photo read:
Captain S. Heffernan of U-Tenn Campus Security congratulates Tony Eddington, who saved the life of famous visiting author Scott Landon only seconds before this photo was taken. "He's an authentic hero," said Capt. Heffernan. "No one else was close enough to take a hand." (Additional coverage p. 4, p.9)
Running up the lefthand side was a fairly lengthy message in handwriting she didn't recognize. Running up the righthand side were two lines of Scott's sprawly handwriting, the first line slightly larger than the second . . . and a little arrow, by God, pointing to the shoe! She knew what the arrow meant; he had recognized it for what it was. Coupled with his wife's story - call it Lisey and the Madman, a thrilling tale of true adventure - he had understood everything. And was he furious? No. Because he had known his wife would not be furious. He had known she'd think it was funny, and it was funny, a smucking riot, so why was she on the verge of crying? Never in her whole life had she been so surprised, tricked, and overtrumped by her emotions as in these last few days.
Chapter 2
Lisey dropped the news clipping on top of the book, afraid a sudden flood of tears might actually dissolve it the way saliva dissolves a mouthful of cotton candy. She cupped her palms over her eyes and waited. When she was sure the tears weren't going to overflow, she picked up the clipping and read what Scott had written:
Must show to Lisey! How she will LAUGH! But will she understand? (Our survey says YES)
He had turned the big exclamation point into a sunny Seventies-style smiley-face, as if telling her to have a nice day. And Lisey did understand. Eighteen years late, but so what? Memory was relative.
Very zen, grasshoppah, Scott might have said.
"Zen, schmen. I wonder how Tony's doing these days, that's what I wonder. Saviour of the famous Scott Landon." She laughed, and the tears that had still been standing in her eyes spilled down her cheeks.
Now she turned the photo widdershins and read the other, longer note.
8-18-88
Dear Scott (If I may): I thought you would want this photograph of C. Anthony ("Tony") Eddington III, the young grad student who saved your life. UTenn will be honouring him, of course; we felt you might also want to be in touch.
His address is 748 Coldview Avenue, Nashville North, Nashville, Tennessee 37235. Mr Eddington, "Poor but Proud," comes from a fine Southern Tennesse family and is an excellent student poet. You will of course want to thank (and perhaps reward) him in your own way.
Respectfully, sir, I remain, Roger C. Dashmiel Assoc. Prof., English Dept. University of Tennessee, Nashville
Lisey read this over once, twice ("three times a laaaa-dy," Scott would have sung at this point), still smiling, but now with a sour combination of amazement and final comprehension. Roger Dashmiel was probably as ignorant of what had actually happened as the campus cop. Which meant there were only two people in the whole round world who knew the truth about that afternoon: Lisey Landon and Tony Eddington, the fellow who would be rahtin it up for the year-end review. It was possible that even "Toneh" himself didn't realize what had happened after the ceremonial first spadeful of earth had been turned. Maybe he'd been in a fear-injected blackout. Dig it: he might really believe he had saved Scott Landon from death.
No. She didn't think so. What she thought was that this clipping and the jotted, fulsome note were Dashmiel's petty revenge on Scott for . . . for what?
For just being polite?
For looking at Monsieur de Literature Dashmiel and not seeing him?
For being a rich creative snotbucket who was going to make a fifteen-thousand-dollar payday for saying a few uplifting words and turning a single spadeful of earth? Pre-loosened earth at that?
All those things. And more. Lisey thought Dashmiel had somehow believed their positions would have been reversed in a truer, fairer world; that he, Roger Dashmiel, would have been the focus of the intellectual interest and student adulation, while Scott Landon - not to mention his mousy little wouldn't-fart-if-her-life-depended-on-it wife - would be the ones toiling in the campus vineyards, always currying favour, testing the winds of departmental politics, and scurrying to make that next pay-grade.
"Whatever it was, he didn't like Scott and this was his revenge," she marvelled to the empty, sunny rooms above the long barn. "This . . . poison-pen clipping."