At some point you just gotta start living the truth.
In his heart Erik knew it was time. He didn’t ask why, he didn’t think it to death. He just got in his car and drove to Lancaster.
It was Monday of Thanksgiving week. The campus seemed subdued. Erik parked in the visitor lot and heeded the posted sign: All visitors must report to the Security Office in the Wayne Administration Building.
The office was a tiny nook in the lobby of Wayne, manned by a young man with a black watch cap and a soul patch. His nametag read Charlie. “Help you?”
“I was a student here,” Erik said. “I was just in the area. Would it be all right if I walked around?”
“Sure,” Charlie said, scooting his chair over to a computer console. “What’s your name?”
Erik gave it and spelled it, handed over his driver’s license. Charlie tapped a few keys, made a few mouse clicks.
“What class?”
“1993, but I didn’t graduate.”
Charlie grunted, typed, and then, thankfully, he smiled. “Well, you’re right here, class of ‘93. Fill this out and I’ll print you up a badge.” He passed a form on a clipboard over the counter and Erik began filling it out. As he did, another security guard came in through a back door. He was a much older guy, silver hair and mustache, an impressive beer belly. Erik glanced at his nametag, Stan.
“Whaddya got, Charlie,” Stan mumbled, dropping his walkie-talkie into a charger.
“Just an alumni visitor pass.”
Stan glanced over Charlie’s shoulder at the computer screen, then stooped and looked again, putting his hands on the back of Charlie’s chair. “Erik Fiskare,” he said. “I remember you.”
Erik looked up, startled. “I’m sorry?” His mind raced through a gallery of his not-so-finest collegiate moments. He couldn’t remember an offense so notorious, it would stay planted in a security guard’s memory for over a decade.
Stan straightened up, adjusting the belt holding up his considerable girth. “Well, you might not remember,” he said. “It was in Mallory Hall right after the shooting.”
“Holy shit.” Charlie swiveled around to look at Erik. “Class of ‘93. You were there?”
“I was,” Erik said to him. Then to Stan, “You were?”
“Sure was. You were in a bit of a tug-o-war. Police wanted to question you but your girlfriend was being wheeled out on a gurney. I talked you into staying.”
“Wow.” Erik blinked. He tried hard, but could only summon the general recollection of security’s presence in the theater. No faces. He recalled the agony of letting them take Daisy without him, but nobody named Stan who had acted as a voice of reason and helped him make the decision. “I don’t remember a whole lot from that day,” he said.
“Well I can’t blame you,” Stan said. “You were one scared kid. I tell you, Charlie, this poor guy was covered in blood and had a look in his eye I hadn’t seen since I was in Vietnam.”
“No kidding,” Charlie said. His tone was amused tolerance but his eyes on Erik were awed and respectful.
“A real thousand-yard stare. His whole heart was heading out in the ambulance. He wouldn’t let go of her. I told him to stay and talk to police first. Otherwise they’d only come looking for him later, wondering why he was reluctant to talk.”
Erik’s eyes drifted up and to his left, to the place of memory. “You know,” he said. “Hearing you talk right now, it starts to… I remember your voice.”
“You said all right but they still had to peel your hand out of your girl’s. Typical, right? We think we’re men and then a woman brings us to our knees.” Stan’s laugh started as a wheeze and then burst in a bubbling guffaw.
“She make it?” Charlie asked under the chortling.
Erik nodded at him. “She made it. She’s all right.” He turned back to Stan. “Talking to the police first definitely was the right choice to make. I don’t remember you steering me, but thank you.”