“Rumors abound from hints of homosexual tension, to Jung’s disagreement with Freud’s theories that sex was at the root of all human behavior. But most people agree that it was Jung’s Psychology of the Unconscious published in 1912 that was the final nail in the coffin. Jung’s fascination with the paranormal and his beliefs that psychic phenomenon could be brought into the purview of psychology were unacceptable to Freud.”
But almost as soon as she sat, Finley tuned out, spent the rest of the class doodling only to find after the hour had passed that she’d drawn the church and graveyard, overrun with wildflowers.
“Not much of a note taker.”
She looked up to see Jason standing beside her and the rest of the classroom empty.
“Hey,” she said.
“Don’t mind me saying,” he said. “But you look a little worse for wear. You okay?”
“Death in the family,” she said.
He lifted his chin and nodded. “Sorry to hear that,” he said. “My condolences.”
She stood and gathered up her things, wondering why she’d even bothered to come to class and if she would ever really return to the living. When she turned to leave, Jason was still there looking at her with concern.
“Can I walk you to your bike?”
“Sure,” she said. There was something about him, something calming. They walked down the hall and exited the building. The air had grown colder, and the sky had taken on a flat black-gray color again. The blue of earlier was gone.
“I’ve lost people, too,” he said. “I feel you.”
“Need a ride?” she said when they got to her bike.
“No. I’m good.” He nodded over toward a beat-up Toyota. “Another time.”
“Hey,” she said, digging into her bag for her phone. “Can I get your email? Would you mind sharing your notes from the last couple of weeks?”
But when she looked up, he was gone. Not walking off to his car, not heading back to class. Gone. The Toyota he’d nodded at was likewise not there. Other people from class were lingering in front of the building, climbing into their vehicles. But Jason was not among them. It took her a second to get it. He’d never been there at all.
*
Finley rode her bike from Sacred Heart College back into town. She drove past the precious town square, and turned off Main Street onto Jones Cooper’s block. She parked on the street and walked up his driveway, turning onto the path that led to his office. She knocked on the door, and he opened it for her as if he’d been expecting her.
He offered her coffee, which she accepted, and then sat on his couch while he lowered himself into the chair behind his desk.
“How are you holding up, kiddo?” he asked gently.
“Eh,” she said. “You?”
“I miss her,” he said, looking down at his nails. “She was a special lady. I learned things from her—which she would have been surprised to hear me admit.”
He laughed a little.
“She respected you and considered you a friend,” said Finley.
“A high compliment indeed,” he said. “Not necessarily deserved.”
They sat a moment, each lost in thought. Then, “I have a check for you.”
“I don’t want it,” she said. She assumed it was from the Gleason case.
“I refused payment from the Gleasons,” he said. “But Mr. Gleason sent money anyway, said we spared them a lifetime of wondering and waiting. I want you to have it.”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Well, it’s yours,” he said, tone brooking no further discussion. “You earned it. Lord knows I was no help.”
He took an envelope from the drawer and put it on the corner of his desk. Her name was written in a careful printed hand. She let it sit there. Anyway, she hadn’t come to talk about that.
“You know, Mr. Cooper,” she said. “I don’t remember what happened that night. I mean, what really happened after we followed Mimi into the tunnel.”
“It’s kind of a blur,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “And it was dark.”
“But you made a statement,” she said.
“I did,” he said. “Best I could.”
He had a habit of running his hand over the top of his head, of looking at you when he was listening—looking through you. He also tended to turn his eyes away when he was talking about himself, as if he wasn’t as interested in your reaction as he was in choosing the right words.
“Could you share it with me?”
He also had this way of releasing a breath before doing something he didn’t want to do but thought he should.
“Are you sure? Because maybe you remember just exactly what you need to remember. Maybe what you saw is all you want to see.”
She’d told him about the graveyard and the doorway, the things Eloise had said and how she’d looked. She did so not because she expected him to believe her, or because she needed him to. She did so to give him comfort when he’d broken down driving Finley home that night, when he’d pulled the car over and began to weep, big unapologetic sobs. She’d sat stone still for a time, afraid to move, not wanting to touch him, big tears falling down her own face. It was good to see an oak like Jones Cooper bend with sorrow; he’d been dealt a hard blow, they both had. Bend or break in the storm of this life, Eloise always said.