LITMIR.BIZ

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to the limit of its ability to whack words onto paper while avoiding an apocalyptic snarl of steel and inky ribbon, and examined the framed pictures of James Connor on the walls: a young Connor kissing a boxing trophy, a mature Connor shaking hands with Senator Lyndon Baines Johnson, the same grip with Senator Spessard Holland, Connor breaking ground for a new building with a golden shovel in his hand and a steel hard hat raked across his brow, and Connor standing beside a railroad track with his arm slung over the shoulder of Charley Johns, who had risen from railroad conductor on a stretch of track near Starke to president of the Florida Senate. It all fits, thought Stall, who was an English professor but no snob. Stall had fled from the House of War to the House of Examined Lives, but he knew that money flowed only in one direction. It was the way of the world, and better to embrace the world as it was than to worry too much about changing it. Stall was proud to have a man like Connor as his president, a man who had rolled up his sleeves and stalked into the arena, as Teddy Roosevelt had famously said, there to be bloodied but unbowed, his face marred by dust and sweat, and from thence to return to the groves of academe with cash in one fist and hard-won worldly knowledge in the other.

      While he waited, Stall opened the envelope Sophie Green had given him.

       Dear Professor Stall,

       I hope you won’t think me too forward if I offer to teach one of Professor Leaf’s courses in American literature. I wrote my master’s thesis on The Leatherstocking Tales, and, though I later moved on to specialize in Chaucer (a lot of distance between those two!), I remember a good bit about American Romanticism, and I will certainly bone up on it if you repose faith in me to take over the course. I’m new and untried, I know, but I want to be helpful if I can in this sad time.

       Sincerely,

       Sophie Green

      Stall watched Mrs. Flying Fingers exercise her calling and considered proposing to Amos Harding that Sophie Green take over Jack Leaf’s American Romanticism course. His Bad Angel whispered to him that he could present it as his own idea while holding the ace to his vest, that Professor Green had already agreed to do it. He imagined himself saying to Sophie Green, Professor Harding is very grateful to you for agreeing to teach the class, and, of course, I am too. I’ll be happy to help you with it in any way I can.

      As it usually did, Stall’s Good Angel flogged his Bad One back into its dark lair, and he decided to tell Harding the truth: Professor Green had offered, and he, Stall, was merely delivering her message.

      President Connor came through the door like a . . . yes, by God, like a boxer answering the bell. Everybody stood, Mrs. B. behind her desk with a look of maternal affection for the president, and Stall in front of his chair and tugging at his sodden collar, with a look, he hoped, of proper respect. Connor tossed an old-fashioned panama at the hat tree in the corner (direct hit), saluted Mrs. Braithwaite smartly, and, as he passed, smacked Stall on the shoulder. Stall took this to mean, Follow me.

      In the inner room, Connor went to his desk, opened a drawer, and stared down into it thoughtfully. Stall stood at attention, then at parade rest on the carpet in front of the desk. Connor sat, leaned forward with more energy than the move required, and dropped both hands flat onto the blotter with a sound like Stall’s mother using a mallet to tenderize a cheap cut of beef. “Whew,” Connor huffed, “tough meeting!”

      Yes, Stall thought, that five iron to the tenth green, with the big pine leaning ominously over the bunker, is probably the toughest shot on the entire eighteen. But he only looked patiently, intelligently, inquisitively at his president.

      “Hell of a day for news,” Connor muttered. He looked at Stall for confirmation.

      Stall assumed he meant Jack Leaf’s unfortunate walk in the air, but that was yesterday. Well, Stall thought, we don’t hold this man to certain forms of precision. He’s busy. Stall’s confusion must have showed.

      “What?” Connor said. “You haven’t heard?”

      Stall could only stare, a new sheen of perspiration breaking out on his forehead.

      Connor shook his head slowly, not, Stall hoped, at the English professor’s dullness. Then the president rose from his chair and reached into his inside coat pocket. Out came a copy of the Tallahassee Democrat. Connor spread the paper on the desktop, turned it to toward Stall, and waved him forward. The banner headline read: “McCarty Dies of Apparent Heart Attack. Johns Sworn in As Governor.”

      Stall bent over the paper long enough to read a few lines about Charley Johns. The handsome and probably corrupt McCarty was now history. Johns would be a force. The article said:

       Senate President Charley Johns swore to uphold the laws of the State of Florida and to protect and defend the Constitution of the United States from all enemies foreign and domestic this afternoon at 4:00 in the chambers of Florida Supreme Court Justice John R. Mathews, Sr., in front of legislators from both parties and his wife Thelma. A grief-stricken Mrs. Dan McCarty was also present in a gesture of goodwill to her husband’s successor. The State Capitol building was draped with black bunting, and flags hung at half-mast today in honor of the deceased thirty-first governor of Florida.

      There was a grainy photo of Charley Johns, the former railroad conductor, rumored to be almost illiterate, who hailed from Bradford County, one of the most backward in the state. A place where the Klan marched in broad daylight.

      When Stall looked up from the paper, Connor sat and folded his beefy arms across his chest. “It’s a shock, is it not?”

      “Yes sir.” Stall backed up until his calves hit a chair and he sat in it.

      Connor’s voice was suddenly full of emotion: “So, we lose one of our own, Professor Leaf, and the governor of our state in the space of two days.”

      “Yes sir.” Stall shook his head in astonishment and sorrow. Seconds passed while Connor seemed to master his feelings.

      “I called you in here this morning to thank you, Tom, for what you did yesterday.”

      “Oh, well . . .” Christ, why hadn’t Stall prepared something to say? He had known there’d be mystery in this visit to the president’s office, but he’d also known that a simple thank you would be a part of it. He managed, “I only did what any man would do.”

      Connor shook his head sadly. “I only wish that were true. What, uh, what caused you to be there just then, Tom?”

      Stall told the story of the strange sound drifting through his window and how he had risen to it, as though to a voice calling him, and hurried to the place where the young coed had stood looking down at dead Jack Leaf.

      “I understand that you covered the man with your coat?”

      “Yes sir.”

      “We’ll, uh, we’ll take care of the expense of—”

      “Oh, no sir, that won’t be—”

      Connor waved his hand as though such things were done as gentlemen did them. No need for further discussion. He cleared his throat and made a church and steeple of his hands.

      Stall remembered Jack Leaf’s fingers curling into fists as though, from across the divide, he wanted to fight someone.

      Connor said, “What do you think happened, Tom?”

      “I think he jumped. One of the students saw it. She seemed like a credible kid. She said he just stepped out into the air.”

      Connor shook his head again and his eyes widened as, Stall supposed, he pictured what Jack Leaf had done. He raised a hand to the side of his head and made a vague sign. “Was he . . . ?”

      “No sir, I don’t think so. We weren’t close, but Jack always seemed as balanced as the next guy, if you know what I mean.”

      Connor looked at Stall with the eyes of an attorney, a judge.

      Stall continued:

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