her eyes. “Yeah! You’re on!”
“First thing, once it warms up. We’ll sit in the living room or out in the Garden.”
* * *
After breakfast, Darby returned to the cottage. Neither the Martins, nor Donaldson and his witness had come down for prima colazione or le petit déjeuner. He guessed Linda would have to provide room service. She’d probably become accustomed to many mood swings, based on what little he had already observed. Darby looked about for some pads and pens in case Stephanie should follow through. He turned over a multiple slate of ideas for starters. Best to let her choose her own.
He stirred the embers in the fireplace, threw on a new log, and sat in the chair with a sigh. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.
He recognized his classroom. Students were staring at him. He opened his folder, but where was his lecture? Not a single sheet, note, or memo lay in the folder. What class was he in, anyway? Logic? Metaphysics? What day was it? Monday or Tuesday? Had he shown up at the wrong hall? The students looked familiar. O God! He had forgotten their test scores again. Nor had he graded their papers in weeks. What would he do if the Dean found out? He was already in enough hot water.
The bed! Look under your bed? Yes, the bed. Darby got down on his knees, threw up the bed’s coverlet, and pulled out a long plastic storage tub. Bundles of dusty ungraded papers lay in rubber-band-wrapped clumps. His heart sank! Someone was at the door. Quickly he slid the tub back under the bed and dropped the coverlet. Just in time, too. They were still knocking.
Darby woke up with a bolt. A subtle waft of perfume tingled the hairs in his nostrils. Its sillage would have awakened anyone. He opened his eyes. There stood Celeste! His neck felt cold and clammy, his face hot. “I must have been dreaming.”
“How about snoring!” she bent forward and kissed his cheek. “But just lightly! Wish I had been in the dream with you.” A far-off sadness flashed briefly across her eyes, then crept softly into her mouth. “We’re leaving now. Just wanted to say good-bye!”
Darby sat up, wiped the corners of his lips, and rose to his feet. She embraced him and kissed his mouth, quickly but hard. “I’ll be back! Take care of yourself,” she looked away. She stepped back and closed the door quietly behind her. Darby could hear her sharp heels on the pavement stones. The Lexus cranked up and drove off. The delicate scent of her perfume still lingered in the room.
Darby expelled a slow breath, slipped into his woolen jacket, and left the cottage. Halfway through the orchard he heard men’s voices along the road. He peered through the apple trees’ limbs, past the property’s fence and dried vines. Donaldson and Dominetti were strolling along. They appeared to be returning from the overlook. They seemed not to notice Darby. Dominetti was gesturing with his hands, while the marshal was listening.
At the overlook, Darby stared out across the bulky mountains. The foliage would soon be gone. A few hickories and oaks retained a smattering of citrus-brown leaves. So too, scarlet bunches of sumac emblazoned the slopes below. A cold wind stung his ears; a russet colored hawk spread its wings and cried overhead. The lonesome shriek pierced Darby’s soul.
Back at the Villa, Darby entered the living room in search of Stephanie. If she wouldn’t come to him, perhaps he should go to her.
Hettie, Garnett’s housekeeper, called to him as he shut the door. “Well, well, if it ain’t Mr. High-n-Mighty hisself! I figured Mr. Wilson would call on you. You ain’t still teachin’, are you?” She paused with dust cloth in hand to rest beside an end table. The tiny woman had bunched her red hair up in a bun. Her forearms were splotched with bruises and age-spots. The roots of her hair were turning gray. “I ain’t broke nothin’ yet,” she fretted. “I’d rather it’d be you than some shrink. They ain’t worth the prescriptions they scribble. Been to one and that’s all. He didn’t care a hoot for me or Curly. We was just white trash. Poor Curly’s losin’ it, Doc. He cain’t remember half the time who I am. He’s got dementia bad. He’s out there right now helping Jon Paul rig up that rusty tractor that ought-a been trashed years ago. Well! How are you?”
“Hettie, I’m alive, I suppose. You haven’t changed a bit. It’s good to be back. You look as fit as a fiddle.”
“Well, hell, I ought to be! I don’t do nothin’ but slave around and cook for that worthless husband of mine,” her face lit up with a frown. “Lord, I’d be lost without him. What cha lookin’ for? I ain’t never seen you when you wasn’t lookin’ for somethin’.”
“Stephanie. The young girl!”
“That one? With the sad eyes? She’s out there with Curly and Jon Paul. Like she’s gonna help ’em or something. Poor child.”
“Hettie, you’d make a good shrink yourself. Thanks for telling me.”
Once outside, Darby found Stephanie easily enough. The coughing, chugging, ear-popping sounds of the tractor’s exhaust gave their presence away. The sinewy, gnarled man next to her smiled as Darby approached. His brown brogans had long since lost their color, and the cuffs of his jeans had disintegrated into scruffy pale threads. Gray hairs poked from his ears, alongside a mole near his left chin.
“She’s doin’ right fair,” Curly commented as he looked up at Darby. “How’s yerself?” he asked. “We ain’t seen you in quite a while.”
“They’re letting me drive,” Stephanie exclaimed.
“Be careful!” Curly warned. “Don’t let up on that clutch so fast.”
Suddenly the tractor jolted as it rocked unwieldy forward. Stephanie gripped the steering wheel firmly and guided the huge tractor slowly toward the orchard, pocketed with its intermittent patches of grass.
So much for delving into critical thinking! Darby mused. If the girl were happy, wasn’t that therapy enough?
Following lunch, Darby returned to the cottage. He selected a few books to browse, namely, Plotinus’ Enneads and Nietzsche’s The Birth of Tragedy, and searched for the sunniest spot he could find in the Garden. He adjusted one of its metal chairs to face the sun, sank back, and, with closed eyes, raised his visage toward the orb’s warm rays. After indulging himself, he turned his attention to the Enneads. He hadn’t read the Neo-Platonist’s chapter “On Beauty” since assigning it last semester. Somehow the autumnal colors and Tunstan’s painting had reawakened an aesthetic undercurrent that wished to surface. He turned the pages slowly, noting the Greek text on the even-numbered pages and the English translation on the odd. The world of Neo-Platonism came back to him with nostalgia. The ascent of the soul from the material to the intellectual, and thence to the ideal, the good, and God, struck him as inconceivable anymore—especially in light of the immense intellectual distances that separated the modern era from the classical age.
What then is our way of escape, and how shall we find it? We shall put out to sea as Odysseus did, from the witch Circe . . . not content to stay though delighted by the eyes and the beauty of sense . . . For one must come to the sight with a seeing power made akin and like to what is seen . . . You must become first [of] all godlike and all beautiful if you intend to see God and beauty. First the soul will come in its ascent to intellect and there will know the Forms—all beautiful—and will affirm that these, the Ideas, are beauty. [For] that which is beyond we call the nature of the Good, which holds beauty as a screen.2
Darby closed the book and stared at the aurora about the sun’s outermost sheen. Its blinding glow forced
