CHAPTER EIGHT
"Babysitter"
Beadles rose at six and did three miles on the green streets of Creighton. At thirty-eight, he was determined not to slide into middle-aged professorship like the well-fed burghers who surrounded him. He entered through the kitchen door puffing.
Betty was giving Lars his breakfast. "My turn. Can you watch Lars while I go to the gym?"
"Sure. Just let me take a quick shower."
Beadles showered and dressed in slacks, sandals, and a guayabera he'd purchased in Guatemala. It was a typical early May morning, temperatures in the sixties and expected to hit the mid-seventies. When he returned Lars was strolling the living room hanging onto the furniture and gurgling.
Beadles retrieved his backpack from the entryway, sat on the sofa and removed a stack of term-end papers. Minutes later Betty breezed through in a Bruce Lee jumpsuit and blew him a kiss.
"Back by noon. You want anything from the deli?"
"Bring me a club sandwich."
"Love you."
"Love you," Beadles said. He placed the stack of papers on the coffee table while Lars amused himself with a primary-color Lightning McQueen that burped aphorisms. "Life is like a highway. You've got to stay on the road."
Lars gurgled in delight.
"Lars, you are one swell kid," Beadles said.
He picked up the first paper, "Did Mongolians Discover America?," and started to read. Every year at least five papers about Asians crossing over into the Americas via the Alaskan land bridge, each student reinventing the wheel. Not that this was a knock--it was becoming increasingly difficult for students to come up with fresh antrhropological angles. Beadles didn't know whether it was the times or the students. There would be at least a dozen papers every year on the Vikings discovering America. Several maintained ancient aliens sowed the seeds of civilization. Erik Von Daniken was very popular. Invariably Beadles gave these papers low grades. He had little patience for ancient aliens.
One student had turned in a paper claiming 7th century Druids had not only discovered America, they had deposited a despised wizard as far inland as Wisconsin. The student had spent his summer searching for the grave. Beadles suggested he switch his major to creative writing.
Beadles got through six papers before Lars confronted him and said with the utmost seriousness, "Daddy I have to go poop now."
Beadles set the papers aside and scooped Lars up. "All right little man. Let's get 'er done."
They spent a little time in the back yard and when they came in Lars was down for a nap. Beadles returned to the living room and phoned Rob Whitfield. It rang five times before he got the recording.
"Rob, it's Vaughan Beadles. Give me a call when you get this."
He phoned the hospital. Whitfield had been discharged last evening shortly after Beadles had left. He would not shed a tiny spasm of anxiety until he heard from Whitfield himself.
Beadles went back to grading papers. Betty returned at three, fresh-faced, pumped, and toting a big paper bag from Norm's Deli. "Ran into Liz Maroukis at the gym. She wants me to try out for Taming of the Shrew."
Both Betty and Liz were members of the Hometown Players' Theater Guild. Betty had played a small part in last year's production of The Crucible, and had been active in high school and college drama.
"Do you have time to do that?" Beadles said from the couch.
"I don't know."
"Do you want to do that?"
Betty gave him a wide-eyed look and a Bronx cheer. "Do I want to do it? Of course I want to do it! Shakespeare! The big time! But I don't have time. I barely have time to do my job and take care of you two. Where's little man?"
"Down for the count."
"Mommie!" squealed in. Betty dropped the paper bag on the table and went down the hall. Beadles took his lunch out on the front porch and ate it there, sitting in an Adirondack chair he'd purchased from Lowes. School had just let out. Beadles watched the kids heading home on foot, skateboard and bicycle, some chauffeured from Montossori school in their parents' SUVs. The air was sweet with honeysuckle
Yet that one nagging little doubt kept Beadles from fully savoring the afternoon.
His phone chimed "Baba O'Riley." He scooped it up and looked at the panel.
Thank God.
"Professor, it's Rob. What's up?"
"How are you feeling, Rob?"
"A little sluggish but I think that's the anti-inflammatory they gave me. Otherwise I feel fine. The swelling's virtually disappeared and now it just itches like hell."
"That's great, Rob. That's great. Listen. If you haven't already told anyone about this…"
"No problem, Professor. It was wrong of me to wheedle my way in there."
"Bike ride next week?"
"You bet. I'll call you."
Beadles hung up with a vast sense of relief like a long-dried lake bed suddenly filling with rain. That left Anatole, the campus cop, the orderly, Dr. Musgrove, and whoever else had treated Rob at the hospital. They would be unaware of the protocol.
Hopefully that was the end of it.
"Professor Beadles?"
A young woman stood on the sidewalk wearing a backpack, shapeless in an oversized Banshees T-shirt and baggy slacks with a round head, a Beatles cut, and round sunglasses. She looked vaguely familiar. She held the handlebars of a mountain bike with a dished frame and knobby tires.
"I'm Stephanie Byrd. I took your course 'Populating the Americas' last year."
"Of course." He was surprised he remembered her at all. She hadn't asked a single question all semester and he could barely remember their two personal consultations, which he held with every student.
"I spoke to your wife earlier. I'm your baby-sitter."
"Of course! Come in. Come in."
Beadles stood and glanced at his watch. It was almost five. They were due at the University Club at six. It was a good thing the girl had come by. He led her into the house. Stehanie hoisted the bike effortlessly to her shoulder and carried it up the steps.
"May I leave this here?"
"Of course. Betty! The baby-sitter's here!"
"Just a minute!" came back from the hall.
Beadles gestured to the living room. "Make yourself at home. There's the TV. Help yourself to whatever you fancy in the fridge. Would you like something to drink?"
Byrd set her backpack on the coffee table with a thump. It was designed to look like an Ewok with furry head, ears and little limbs clutching forward. Something a 7th grader might cherish.
"May I use the bathroom?"
"Down the hall, first door on the right."
While Beadles was in the bedroom changing his clothes he heard Betty sorting things away.
"Now you have both our cell phone numbers. Don't hesitate to call if anything happens."
"Nothing's going to happen, Betty. I've been baby-sitting half my life."
Beadles emerged waring a crisp white short-sleeved sport shirt with arrow collars and creased cream-colored Calvin Klein trousers. Betty was a knockout in a little black cocktail dress that stopped at mid-thigh, her long auburn hair done up in a wave, simple gray pearl earrings. With her high cheekbones, turned-up nose, and wide, generous mouth she was cover girl worthy, every man's dream of a sexy tomboy.
Byrd talked nonsense to Lars on the sofa. Lars laughed, giggle and squealed.
As they pulled out in the Ford Beadles said, "Who are the Banshees?"
"Oh some awful heavy metal band. At least it's not rap."
Betty rolled down her window and lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke out.
***