Dante's Indiana

1

RIDING THROUGH THE valley, I looked up and lost my way.

From the ground, my bike beside me, I caught my breath and bent my legs. Nothing cracked or snapped or stung. I pushed up, on my elbows. It was midday in Toronto. Late November. A Thursday.

People pedalled and jogged past. Families fanned out along the path with food bags and strollers and toddlers leashed at the wrist. A few people waved, to make sure that I was okay. I waved back. Loose dogs approached, curious, their tails whipping around. Their owners called out treats and punishments and they turned away from me. I slipped back down.

I was alone in the city.

I blinked a few times. Beyond the pencilled high branches, the heavens looked like the greywhite of rainwater in an empty swimming pool.

I was alone in the city.

The demon was still there. It was beside me. The creature squatted on a plinth wedged between the bike path and the murky river. It had bat wings and a dog face. The Thursday before, it hadn’t been here; I was certain of that, at least, and had stared at it for far too long. Mid-pedal past. My front wheel went off the path into a slurry of pea gravel. Small stones dug into my skin. Pushing into the earth made them go away. The ground was damp and forgiving.

I looked at the gargoyle again. The battered creature must have been dumped out of some lately condo’d church. Smashed-up bramble and bush ended near its base, rutted lines of dried-out mud that led across the path and up to the main road. Tire tracks. Someone had driven it down from the city proper, unloaded it, right-side up, and left.

A statement? A warning? A joke?

Had I taken a wrong turn, higher up the path?

If they were here with me, we wouldn’t lay down and blink and stare. We’d climb and call out and conquer.

Molly left in July, with the children. To stay with her family for the summer. She took their winter clothes.

Leave you here?

The driver dropped me in front of the glass-boxed front of my old Catholic college. It was now a condominium and assisted-living complex called The New U.

I walked through the airy vestibule built in front of the chipped-brick building. The old hardscape had been torn up and replaced by paving tiles; pitted and silver-grey, they gave off a sheen like old trophies and tea services and baby cups, spoons, shoes in which first steps were taken, decades ago.

Prin, has the condo board changed the rules and nobody told the guy who has to enforce them? Am I really going to let you go up the elevator with that bike, like that? said Marcus.

I went over to his desk. The monitors and phones and cardiac-arrest kits were concealed by slatted lengths of amber wood—warm like honey and candlelight, like honey in candlelight. The desk softened the rest of the building’s otherwise cold bright bare beginning.

Marcus was a retired soldier. He lined the top of his desk with potted cactuses, a tribute to his late wife, and was beloved by the building’s residents for settling daily disputes about party-room bookings and guest-parking.

Where am I supposed to go then? I said.

Others were watching and listening. They were always in the lobby, fixed in their places like the unsecured umbrella stands. They carried tablets and e-readers, in case you asked any direct questions.

Marcus tapped and checked a screen. He checked his watch.

Go to Underground 2. You might hop in the tub with your bike. You have about ten minutes before they start coming back from their dog walks. I’ll text you the code. Hurry up so you’re not ambushed.

I was too late.

So, what do you got there? Poodle-Harley mix?

The other dog-walkers laughed at the old man’s joke. I waited.

When I eventually left the dog-washing room, I discovered that I wasn’t the only one waiting. The building’s elevators, programmed to reach each resident’s floor via face-recognition software, weren’t working. At every face, the screen flashed The Terraces.

This had to be an error message.

They all looked to me. I was the youngest resident in the building. I knew computer. I did have the code for the utility elevator, so I offered to bring everyone back to the lobby. Certain dogs didn’t get along. Multiple trips were necessary. I had to make each one. No one believed the code would work for anyone else. No one would chance a trip to The Terraces, the condominium’s medical wing.

Thank yous were offered.

Standing in the lobby, I looked through the condo’s glass facade. Traffic and the faces of people in traffic; behind them, above them, more condominiums. The sky was endlessly the same. As if grey clouds had worsted the heavens.

Overcast until evening, then cooler. The same’s in the forecast tomorrow, said a voice from the unsecured umbrella stand.

I had to leave the lobby.

Four o’clock was too early for dinner.

For the microwave.

For pepperoncini or hot mustard on the reheated joint.

2

CLASSES WERE JUST getting out on The New U’s second floor. The condo’s test kitchen was at the far end of a hall that was lined with scholarly books arranged by binding colour.

More than a year earlier, the college had announced it was shutting down—after its plan to open a satellite campus in the Middle East ended with its visiting delegation caught in a terrorist attack at the airport. Two people were killed—a Chinese real-estate developer and a university business consultant, my ex-girlfriend from graduate school. Two survived: the consultant’s assistant, a Chinese woman who had since become the condominium’s exclusive sales agent, and an English professor.

I remembered very little about the attack.

Flashes of light. Shattering. Footfall. Quiet voices in the dark.

Secret voices.

Not just mine.

Smashing. Yelling, calling, screaming.

A final brightness.

Angry men and ringing phones and crying children. A bandage pressed against my bleeding forehead. A blanket that made me shiver. That made me realize I was shivering. Molly, on a phone held to my ear by a gloved hand, crying so hard it sounded like she was laughing. Finally asking her what was so funny. Forgiven that.

I had been pensioned and granted emeritus status at the age of forty-one. And while our house was being renovated, I was given temporary use of a free unit in the building, where my divorced parents were also now living. They had quickly established themselves as major players.

Which meant I wasn’t just that professor; I was also his son, her son, their son. The son.

Wasn’t he also married to that sweet American girl? Didn’t they have all of those wonderful little girls? Where were they?

I was spared direct questions.

My parents must have told them something.

Sins of the heart, sins of the mind, mouth, hands. Yes. Yes to all. But despair is the greatest sin of all. And so solo bike rides and daily dinnertime calls, it was just easier. It was just easier: isn’t this the surest commandment for any marriage well into its middle age? It doesn’t have to mean despair. We weren’t there yet.

The other professors at the college were given two options: they could accept a modest buyout from the board and framed final blessing from Father-President, or they could accept a radically reduced salary, access presale pricing for their own units, and also free storage for their personal libraries—provided they offered lifelong learning seminars to fellow residents.

I saw some of them now, in the hallway.

Prin? What are you doing here, Prin? said one of my old colleagues.

Professor, is that an example of chiasmus?

She didn’t wait to answer her student’s question. She couldn’t. The momentum was too much. She kept pushing on to the elevator like her other exiting colleagues, surrounded by their personal libraries and by grey students asking detailed questions. They would continue with this, day after day, year after year, until they stopped receiving balance-owing statements from the college’s loan officer, who was now its only employee.

I reached the end of the hallway, where the books changed from brown to green. The walls around the corner looked burnt orange. Fresh bread was baking. The test kitchen, one of the college’s original refectories, was quiet.

The cooking class that my mother and Kareem, her newish, Muslim-ish second husband, were taking involved condo members sharing recipes and stories. Today, the class was led by an older Italian couple, hale and well-dressed. The man had the face of someone who worked with his hands. The woman was splendid. Cadmium hair, down to her shoulders. Her face glowed. Slipping in at the back of the room, I noticed it was shining with tears.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry, everyone.

She turned to her husband, who held out his hands, smiling and looking sorry.

Useless.

It’s just that, this recipe, it really brings me back, you know? But next year will be our fortieth, and we have seven grandchildren, with another on the way. Things worked out in the end. They worked out wonderfully, she said.

The room was quiet and stayed quiet. But then came a loud crack, and some jumped in their seats. Kareem and my mother were clapping. Others joined in, including the husband. Everyone came to the front and thanked the couple for the baking lesson and wrapped their loaves before taking them upstairs to their units.

I held back, but Lizzie and Kareem saw me. Waving, fanning, they made their approach.

Ah!

Hi Mum—

Aahh!

Mum, I just—

AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!

Prin, your mother said AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!

I rolled my eyes. I sighed. I shrugged my shoulders. None of it worked. It wasn’t supposed to work. This was old theatre between us. And it had been a while. And so I opened my mouth and, while the watchers cheered, my wild-winking mother fed me hot tufts of focaccia until I couldn’t say anything at all.

And then she nodded, cordially, and left.

She dropped her mother-face and left?

I didn’t get the chance to fail to avoid telling her about falling off my bike in the valley?

And since when did my mother have a face to drop?

You like the bread? said Kareem.

He’d stayed back.

I swallowed.

Where’s my mother going? I said.

Oh, Prin, you know, she’s very busy, said Kareem.

Busy?

That’s right! Just really busy, you know, with, with—

With retirement? I said.

You got it! But do you want me to text her for you? You want some more lamb? Maybe mint sauce this time?

I can come get it—

Just text me first, okay?

I can call my mother directly, Kareem. And I can visit her when I want.

Then go ahead. Call her. Go ahead. Visit her. Kareem?

So you do want me to tell her you’re coming now?

No.

Okay Prin.

***

The hallway was empty now. I took the orange way to the elevators. After I’d first come back from Dragomans, my mother had counted my fingers and toes every time she saw me like when I was first born, as she told me and everyone else. Kareem had worn a fanny pack full of her prescriptions, just for dealing with everything. But after Molly and the children moved to Milwaukee my mother had only nodded, barely, at my explanations (The New U didn’t offer family-style suites for temporary residents; I needed to be here to check in on our home renovation; it was easier to homeschool in America; it was just easier). In front of others, she was, as ever, the mother: fighting back tears of pride and sorrow, Sri Lankan Tiger-Balm-Mom supreme. Otherwise? She had become cordial. My mother: Cordial.

Of course she’d answer if I called her.

It was a little nearer to five now. I took the elevator down to the gym.

Six thousand!

Kingsley was standing at centre court, pickleball racquets in both hands, giving instructions. His red warm-up suit looked a little baggy, or at least a little baggier than the last time I’d seen him wearing it. I waved. He came over.

What are you doing here?

Hi Dad. I thought I’d see if—

But you’re not supposed to be here. You’re supposed to be … aren’t you supposed to be somewhere else today?

Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen. Hi, Prin. Listen, Kingsley, Luca’s varicose veins are killing him. We need a sixth to complete the rung on court three. Can your son join us?

Sure. I can do that. Could I borrow a—

No. He can’t, said Kingsley.

The other players fell back.

Dad, I can play for a while before—

Before what? Before you take another bike ride? At least a kid delivers the papers.

I’m taking a break, actually. I had a fall, earlier today. I’m fine. Anyway, I just thought I’d say hi. You know, before—

Before what? Before you do more of your ‘research’? A man your age, Prin, even after what happened, what happened to you … but this isn’t …

Dad, I know what you’re trying to say. And you know I’m not allowed to teach as part of the settlement, I said.

They’ve been down there for months! You can use my car if you want.

Dad, I’ve told you, we discussed this before they moved. I’m going for Christmas, I’m definitely going for Christmas, and I’m thinking of asking her—

Molly! Her name is Molly!

I know my wife’s name.

"Okay. I’ll pay for the gas … and the oil."

Dad, I appreciate what you’re trying to do.

Yeah. Okay. Centre court is waiting for me.

Okay then. I’ll come by later to watch the 6:30 news, I said.

Dinner?

Mom already fed me.

She fed you? Or Halal Caesar fed you?

I’m not hungry. Just a beer. Did you put them in the fridge this morning?

Yes. Help me bag the empties when you come.

Okay.

You know what I think, Prin?

No.

I’m your father! I can tell!

You can tell what?

Something’s wrong.

I’m going for Christmas! I’m renovating the house for them!

No. You like it this way.

What? I like it this way? I like this?

His lips trembled. He walked away.

Ten thousand steps! I did it! an old voice called out from the track above us.

No! The winning number is one thousand! It’s just one thousand steps to chapel! called out another, a new one.

Sister Contra Melanchthon used to teach English and Latin, and when the college closed she moved to a religious house north of the city. She didn’t drive, but somehow came to The New U by three o’clock every afternoon, Monday to Friday. She visited with a rolling black suitcase full of metaphysical poetry and shortbread. Every day she would walk through the building, harrying everyone to the 5:15 Mass.

By now, dinner in Milwaukee would be finished. Arguments would have started, about pie now or pie after the dishes. Both. Bets about whether Uncle Patrick would wake up from the dog licking the bacon out of his fingernails.

Kingsley had no idea.

How could I like this?

I left my bike against the handrail outside the chapel, in between two walkers. When the college closed, most of the pews were sold to prop companies and salvage shops. I saw in a magazine that a few ended up as Come to Jesus benches scattered around the beanbag lounge of a startup. The nave had been reduced to half its size, and a brick stack had been built directly over the Holy of Holies to protect the unleavened Godhead from seven storeys of padded feet.

An old priest was napping under a Boston Red Sox cap on the front bench. I didn’t look up to see the flame flickering in the red globe mounted between the bricked and bronzed boxes. I knelt for the briefest touch.

I sat and listened to Sister’s shuffling in the sacristy, to the priest’s sleeping.

Prin, would you like to serve the Mass? Do the readings? Carry the gifts? she said.

I’m not really dressed for it, Sister. And it’s just the three of us. Also, do you really think Father needs the help?

It’s not him I’m thinking about, Prin.

I think Father wants to begin, I said.

Eighteen murmuring minutes later, on my way out of the chapel, she called after me.

The altar candles flickered behind her as she smiled, then jumped when her phone buzzed. She made a motion for me to wait as she squinched her face and tapped on the screen. I knelt to touch the grey-dark tile. I held it a moment, pressing down, grinding a little to see if there was any pain. If so, I’d hold it until they came home!

No I wouldn’t.

But I went upstairs and called. I was eventually called back and passed around the Thanksgiving table.

3

THE FOLLOWING WEEK, I sacrificed my bike ride. I had to go check on our house. The contractor needed to show me something in person, and to discuss the budget.

An Italian builders’ association was providing us with a new home. The offer came a few months after I’d been in the news.

The English professor who survived the terrorist attack.

Theirs was the only offer I’d accepted. For about a month after I returned from Dragomans, assistants to movie producers and interns at motivational-speaker firms and assistant interns from literary agencies contacted me. More than a year later, only one agent was still checking in: Kyle from New York. But he was easy to ignore. They all were. Fending off my parents, my parents then, was work enough. And I didn’t want to be a disaster celebrity. I wanted to be at home, near Molly and the children, in-between my appointments—trauma counselling, dental work, hearing tests, plastic surgeon. I was also given prescriptions to help with travel and other things. These ranged in need and repair from temporary to permanent, optional to necessary, spoken to unspoken.

Before I could think about money, the university sent its legal counsel to the house.

He was an older lawyer with a boiled, ruddy face and thick flaps of faded blonde hair.

The man looks like St. Patrick’s Day dinner, said my youngest, Pippa.

The children were sent to another room. This was not easy. When I came back from the Middle East, they treated me like I was just learning to walk. Molly treated me like an astronaut. Eventually, she called me an astronaut. Not the hero returned, but the guy still out there, orbiting. I told her it didn’t feel that way to me. I told her, in fact, that it felt like I’d fallen to earth. A hard fall. She nodded. She didn’t acknowledge that I’d extended her own metaphor to explain myself. She didn’t acknowledge that I was trying.

What a wonderful family! I am here—is this loud enough? Can you hear me? Just nod. Good. Thank you. Here’s my card. And unless you’re my sainted mother, ignore all the extra O’s and I’s and shamrocks on the letters and just call me Simon. So, to begin, I am here, on instructions from the Board, to inform you that, first of all, the Board is glad for your safety and sends blessings and best wishes. The Board seeks nothing in exchange for its steadfast promise of continued prayers and good wishes other than your full recovery so that you’re happy and whole. Also, until you are informed otherwise, for your safety and that of your colleagues, you are not to communicate with any Board member or employee of the university except me, or through me. Third of all, the Board asserts it is not liable for anything that happened while you were travelling on university business.

The university takes no responsibility for what happened to him? said Molly. You know that everyone thought he was dead? Do you have any sense of what that was like for us?

Well, funny you say that. I’ve been a widower since—

How can someone do something like this and not take responsibility? said Molly.

She turned. I was watching the lawyer pull papers from his boxy black hearse-bag.

Professor? Is this your signature? Hello? Can you hear me? Is this your husband’s signature? he said.

No. It’s a little computerized checkmark in a box, Molly said.

He pulled out another sheaf of papers.

Is this your husband’s signature? he said.

It looks like it, yes, Molly said.

"And that signature, which he provided when he accepted his position with the university, confirms