The Westfield Gardener: Part 2
The saga continues...
The following is not a standalone piece of fiction, written in a first-person narrator style and placed in a contemporary setting. You can read Part 1 of The Westfield Gardener here.
***
Every time the older man’s eyes turn my direction, they seem to penetrate me, as though I were a hollowed out husk. He had strolled into the conference room a few minutes past the appointed hour and since then has only stopped speaking long enough to tilt his head and feign warm interest at questions he deems relevant enough to answer.
It didn’t take me long to recognize his name either: Todd Franklin. Or his face, though it’s a touch more worn and gray than I recall from his glossy mailers of years past. Why is a former Congressman making a pitch for Westfield College to accept a generous endowment? I mean, he made a short career out of handing out tax dollars like candy. But these dollars clearly come from somewhere else.
I must confess to not knowing what to expect when the provost summoned me here on late notice. But the mystery didn’t last long. At least part of it. The Callinicus Foundation and its young, attractive program officer are not at all familiar to me.
Franklin’s companion says less but is easier to look at. Not just Zara’s glistening dark hair with the hint of a curl, but also her ramrod poise and natural, warm demeanor. She looks polished and put together. My curiosity is piqued—and piqued again.
I glance from Zara over to Dr. Hunt, Westfield’s new president. He hasn’t been around long enough for me to feel comfortable playing poker with him. Not that I’m sure he even plays. But I can’t tell if he thinks this foundation endowment is a royal flush or a beer hand.
And no one’s opinion in this conference room matters more. A look down at my wrist. The resting heart rate isn’t great, makes me think it’s been too long since I’ve been on the treadmill.
9:37. My mind wanders from the papers I have to grade to the rare books I spied online, to Tori’s feisty words, to wondering whether Josh’s team will be ready to execute an effective zone defense this afternoon.
I keep wondering why Cynthia felt it necessary to include me in this confab. Then she earnestly interjects, her hands tightly folded on the finished oak table, a nod in my direction.
“Dr. Gardener here would welcome the reinforcements, but I’m sure you all would welcome his input too.” She has a way of conveying a strong suggestion that sounds like a question.
Zara swoops in from prolonged silence with a magnanimous gesture. “Of course, of course. Your equal partnership in this venture is not just desirable—but essential.”
Her companion flexes his mastery of cordial command, skipping no beat between her sentence and his. Must have been a stroke of bad luck that erased the title of Congressman from Todd Franklin. No student could get away with stepping on my words like that.
I’m taken back to 2010, a Franklin campaign event. I was never more politically active. The Tea Party rallies, the guys wearing the tricorn hats, a little bit of the Spirit of ‘76 to entice your resident early America scholar. Mind you, I wasn’t one of the guys in the tricorn hats, but it still gives me a smirk to recall that. The girls, though. So little then, garnered a lot of attention in their red, white, and blue outfits.
Franklin was a local businessman. Construction contractor? Car dealer? I can’t say for sure. Looking at him now, the political novice is all used up. The Swamp won. I was all in for his election back in ‘10. Well, I didn’t put a campaign sticker on the car, not while I was still working to get tenure anyway.
Shaking his hand now won’t bring the same uplifting sense as it did then. Those were heady days. You can’t blame a man, much less a student of history, for holding a much dimmer view now. I mean, my eyes have been open, haven’t they? A former federal office holder, taking a gig to represent this foundation—is he in dire financial straits, in some kind of blackmail arrangement?
“It’s good to see you.” Mere pleasantries.
Whoa, whoa. Maybe I’m getting too cynical. The handshake isn’t that slimy. And fortunately, if the endowment is finalized, it looks like our department will be working more closely with Zara. I certainly can use more intrigue in my pedestrian life.
***
Not sure why, but I opt to drive the longer way home, through the back road that winds past Redeemer church. Even more inexplicably, I slow down the Honda and pull over to the broad shoulder. Through a small patch of trees, my eyes catch sight of a half-dozen cars dotted throughout the church parking lot.
“Brian’s still there,” I mutter. A glance at my watch suggests the prayer breakfast should be over. They must not have much to do on this lazy February morning. On my list? Fix the handle on the cabinet drawer, clean out the closet, and take Josh to his basketball game. Maybe throw together some chili in the crockpot, if time allows.
My shoulders heave with a sigh. Why am I still sitting here? Another glance at the watch. The white noise of the idling engine is too much. Some nervous energy, and a flick of the stereo. AM radio comes on. What am I listening to?
The voice of some second-rate talk show host fills the car. Covering the local weekend shift, maybe a chance to make his big break. And he's using the opportunity to imitate the shock jocks on cable TV. (Or maybe it's homage to an obscure rage podcaster. Who can keep up?)
There's always been a need to filter the truth from popular voices on the airwaves. Back in those heady Tea Party days, I could swear that listening to talk radio felt like tuning into the modern equivalent of Tom Paine—a rambunctious, popular voice kindling the revolutionary spirit.
Technically speaking, more of the population today is functionally literate. But noble causes only feel farther away. “Nobility,” I chuckle. Could I conjure up a concept more foreign to the spirit of the age?
Glad these ruminations almost exclusively live on my solo car rides. Because this is the kind of rambling that could permanently tar-and-feather me as a crank.
The drive home, radio off, is serene. But short. Chores and outings await. Proof of life.
***
“Don't dribble into the corner.” My thoughts form into barely audible speech, as I glance at the scoreboard from my seat in the gym. Saturday afternoon
The game is out of reach for our team. Again. Josh is the least troubled of us by the course of the season. Maybe it's because I'm the one who drives the 90-minute round trips to these contests.
Back in my day, less than glorious as it was, we rode the bus to our away games. My folks seldom if ever attended one, though to their credit, they faithfully showed up when my team played at home. After all, I mostly rode the pine in my limited JV and varsity career. I never fooled myself into thinking there was an athletic scholarship waiting for me.
If Josh were playing for a traditional school team, he’d probably also ride the bus. But the local homeschool club team we found for him relies on parent transportation, not to mention other volunteer responsibilities. Like stepping in as assistant coach for some games. That fact might explain the atrocious record as much as anything. While the Chargers may have won a game or two, that didn’t happen during any of my coaching.
Basketball is in this state’s bloodstream. To be fair, a subpar transplant like me never had a chance. Poor Josh. He loves the game so much, after all.
“Pass it off!” I yell this time, though rightly expecting the instruction to disappear into the ether.
An awkward shot, a clanging brick. In the end, a picture-perfect swish would only make the final margin a little closer. The fourth-quarter clock is winding down. It's all about gumption and character-building at this point.
Still, I'm surprised to hear Jeff, the head coach, randomly remark about current political events, something related to immigration enforcement. I resist the urge to make a nuanced retort and instead nod agreeably.
“Keep your chins up, boys!”
My employer's new partnership with the Callinicus Foundation certainly has my chin up.
To be continued…
***