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Dr. William Baker’s office intimidated students, other professors, and even the administration. Most of the faculty at Samuels University had state-issued furniture – false wood veneer on beige, sheet metal desks; pleather desk chairs for the professor; and one or two plastic, stackable chairs for visiting students. William’s replica of the Resolute desk—complete with the university seal where the US president’s would be—had been commissioned by his late mother when he took the position. After William earned tenure, his late father had replaced the state-issued seating with high-backed leather chairs—one with wheels for William and two without for students. Mrs. Baker had been a high school English teacher, and Mr. Baker had served twenty years in the Army before a second career as a locksmith. The furniture was more than they could really afford, and it clashed with William’s workmanlike persona. He couldn’t insult his parents by refusing the gifts, though, and he honored their memory by making the most of them each day.
He sat at his desk grading a paper from one of his American literature sections. The student who wrote the essay had no such honor for his parents’ investment, William thought. He turned the pages with his left hand and made notes with the pen in his right. In spite of the use of several online essays as sources, some cited but most plagiarized, junior business major Matthew Gibbard was under the impression Edgar Allan Poe had written the short story “A&P.” The paper even included a paragraph entirely devoted to speculation that the title grocery store had been named for this author. To mistake an author that way was unforgivable in any class, but William had talked at length about Poe in the first weeks of the course. His doctoral dissertation had examined Poe’s influence on twentieth century American perceptions of violence. He knew just about everything there was to know about Poe, and he dumped a great deal of that information on his students. In his second year as a professor, an obsequious student had presented him with a framed poster illustrating Poe’s “The Raven.” William liked the poster, but the blatant brown-nosing rubbed him the wrong way. He hung the poster, but he also cut out a picture of Baltimore linebacker Ray Lewis and taped it to the bottom, drawing a speech bubble around the final “Nevermore.” Other posters followed, usually for novels or plays he taught, and he hung them too.
William drew an X over the offending paragraph. He couldn’t muster the patience to elaborate. He required students to come during office hours at least twice during the semester, and he would grade a paper in front of the student, pausing to discuss errors of fact, logic, or grammar as he read. After fourteen years, he no longer had any faith that students would read the comments on their papers, especially when the essays were graded online. The university administration and the better students appreciated the extra one-on-one instruction. The worst students hated him for it. Gibbard had missed his original appointment and was now late for this one, so the grading was started without him.
William didn’t look up when he heard a knock at the door. He expected to hear, “I’m sorry, Dr. Baker, but…” followed by a long and ill-conceived excuse, and he didn’t want to listen to it. He wanted to finish grading the paper and never think of it again. If he tried to divide his attention, he would end up having to read at least some of the paper again, and it didn’t contain a single sentence worthy of the first read, much less a second—not even in the plagiarized sections.
“Hey, Billy, how ya doin’?”
William stopped reading, but he didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. He knew that voice. There was a thick Southern drawl, even though the man speaking didn’t move to the South until he was twelve years old. William had worked hard to drop his Southern accent. His older brother had made a point of developing one. William put the paper down and capped his pen, laying it on the paper. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he looked up.
“Jimmy, what are you doing here?”
“Four years, and I don’t even get a hello? That’s cold, little brother.” Jimmy shivered and pulled his arms into his Hawaiian-style, jungle-print shirt.
“It’s been four years for a reason. What do you want?”
Jimmy pulled his arms out and stepped through the doorway. He pulled back one of the chairs in front of William’s desk—the chair Matthew Gibbard was supposed to be occupying—and sat down. “I need to talk to you about something,” Jimmy said.
“You should have called.”
“I was pretty sure you wouldn’t answer.”
“If I’d known it was you, I wouldn’t have.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“You couldn’t just leave a voicemail?”
“This ain’t a voicemail kind of issue.”
“If you’re looking for money—”
“I know better than to ask you.”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t need money,” Jimmy said. He leaned forward and pulled up his pants leg. He wore faded jeans and military surplus combat boots. He pulled a roll of cash from his left boot and waved it in front of William to illustrate his point. He returned the money, dropped his pant leg over the boot, and sat back.
William shook his head. Jimmy with a roll of cash usually meant someone had been robbed. William hated what his brother did, in part because it was illegal and immoral, but mostly because Jimmy was so often caught. It was embarrassing. It reflected poorly on their parents. Ian Baker had raised them to do honest work and to do it well. If Jimmy insisted on being a criminal, the least he could do was be good at it. William didn’t like talking about his brother, but he found himself doing it all too often.
“What does your brother do?” a friend or colleague would ask.
“Time.”
“What?”
“He’s in prison.”
“What did he do?” They always asked the question in a tone that made William feel like the expected answer was murder. Always murder.
“Breaking and entering,” he would say.
William had learned not to use the word “thief” in these conversations. It gave people the wrong idea. Film and television had given the average person a specific image of the career thief: a man clad in black, using small tools to pick a lock, cut a hole in a window, or disable a security system. The thief slips in quietly and places small, valuable items in a soft, black bag or a stainless steel briefcase. The thief then disappears into the night with silent stealth.
Jimmy Baker was not a thief. William was pretty sure he had never executed a skillful heist, made a big score, or deceived a wily investigator. Jimmy Baker was a B&E conviction waiting to happen. He picked a home on the outskirts of a town, somewhere with as few neighbors as possible—no one who might see him and call the police. He arrived mid-morning when people are most likely to be at work, dressed in the uniform of his chosen profession: combat boots, jeans, a busy shirt, and an ostentatious hat. “Folks remember the outfit, not the face,” Jimmy had said. William was never there for any of this, but he had heard the details more times than he could remember. |
