Chapter 12
Tuesday night’s vigil is being held on Schenley’s quad, a relatively flat stretch of grass in the center of campus. Remnants of snow litter the lawn and roofs and crunch under Charles’ boots as he follows Piper to the little circle of candles that are guttering in the cold winter night. Julian walks beside him, scarf bundled tight and head down, eyes not meeting Charles’, or anyone else’s, for that matter. Tyler, dressed in a cream-colored knit hat and dark red coat, is walking next to Piper, his arm through theirs. Charles wonders if he would be such a source of support for Piper if Lu were still around, or if Lu would be the one Piper was walking arm-in-arm with. Has Tyler stepped into her spot perhaps too quickly?
He considers whispering this thought to Julian, but the detective seems on edge. Charles can’t help but worry it’s because of their kiss, which they are still conspicuously not talking about. But the more reasonable part of him wonders if in fact it’s that Julian is nervous about showing up here tonight. They are outsiders, and not only that, unwelcome ones, if Isabel Ortiz has anything to say about it. He doesn’t suppose the news that a homeless person allegedly killed Jack will soften her to questions about Lu; the department will likely close ranks even further after this, especially until the killer is caught.
The sky is cloudy tonight, keeping the temperature a little warmer than it has been. The wind is cold, though, biting at Charles’ nose and cheeks. The campus feels ominous tonight—maybe it’s the low sky and old stone buildings, the mostly empty pathways and unlit windows; or maybe it’s the knowledge of why they are gathered here. A man has been murdered—a real person who was really, actually killed. He had been living and breathing and thinking and writing a dissertation and worrying about the job market and fighting to defend the mode of scholarship he believed was best, and then someone decided to slice a knife across his throat and let the blood pour out. Charles shivers at the sobering thought, then feels a little guilty for being sad and disturbed by the death of someone he’s never met when that person’s friends and colleagues are gathering around the candles, some of them already weeping.
They stop at the edge of the crowd. Now that Charles knows how divided the department is, he can easily recognize the way two smaller groups have formed, even though the battle lines are less defined on such an occasion. He sees Isabel Ortiz standing in the middle of a cluster of people. Her face looks drawn and a little blank with the shock of recent events. She’s wearing a heavy purple shawl instead of a coat, and she looks rather like a bedraggled bird of prey who’s gotten lost in the cold.
“Who’s next to Dr. Ortiz?” Julian murmurs to Piper.
They glance over. “The other presentist professors. That’s Sarah Rasmussen in the puffy green coat, and Jordan James with the short hair. And that’s Fatima Amir. She’s the one I was with when we saw the body.” They nod in the direction of a slight woman with a headscarf who’s talking in a low voice to Isabel. “They’re all professors. And those are my friends Phoebe and Katie and Antonio.”
Julian indicates the other small group of people. “And them?”
“Francis Pace is the one in the middle, in the tweed—the head historicist professor. He does Victorian stuff, sexuality studies. And those are his colleagues, Marco Spina, who does interwar stuff, big Marxist, and Arla Catlin, who does transatlantic Black lit. The two who are—um…” Piper trailed off. A pair of mourners, a man and a woman around Piper’s age, are quietly holding hands as tears trickle down their faces. “That’s Kevin and Karen. Grad students. They were Jack’s best friends in the program.”
Again, Charles feels guilty at his presence there. It seems inappropriate in a way that detective work rarely does in books—it seems invasive, in fact, and not in the heroic, getting-to-the-bottom-of-it mode that sends private eyes and police into funeral services and the parlors of grieving (but possibly guilty) loved ones. He just feels foolish.
Perhaps to distract from his guilt, he gestures in the direction of another small clump of people who are approaching from the direction of the humanities building. “What about them?”
“Oh. That’s Christopher Maynard and his single solitary grad student, Todd Burns. Maynard’s the one I mentioned before—the professor who’s really old school. Works on Milton and Shakespeare, but like, in the most boring way possible. I think he was teaching Intro to Brit Lit just now. They’re probably all coming from the lecture hall. Those are English majors, that group of girls. Undergrads, I mean.” The rest of the crowd, it seems, are members of the university community—administrators and staff and concerned students.
“What’s happening there?” Julian asks, voice low.
Piper glances at an older white man who has just arrived. He’s talking to both the presentist and historicist professors, and Isabel and Francis have suddenly taken up positions right next to each other, conversing cordially, as if no division has ever come between them.
“That’s the dean,” Piper whispers. “Hanley. I suppose he’ll want to say something.”
Dean Hanley, who is dressed in a suit and sports a short grey beard, steps forward and clears his throat. “Excuse me, everyone,” he says, and the crowd falls silent. “Thank you all for being here tonight. I want to open with a few words about this tragic event.” His voice is deep and very official-sounding. “First of all, we want to extend our deepest sympathies to the loved ones of Jack Hart. He was a bright young man, a real shining example of the best of Schenley. For those of you who are grieving, know that we are all grieving with you.”
He pauses. “Something like this has never happened at Schenley before. Our friendly, safe community has been intruded upon. We may feel shocked, saddened, disturbed, even frightened. As you all know, police have been working tirelessly to locate the man they believe is responsible. He is a member of Pittsburgh’s homeless community who was suffering from some serious mental health issues. If you have any knowledge about the whereabouts of Deon Cole, please get in touch with them immediately. We are all hoping to close the book on this terrible situation as soon as possible and restore our sense of safety and security. In the meantime, it is more important than ever that we come together as a community now. This is a time for everyone at Schenley—students, faculty, and staff alike—to support each other, to reach out to those who are hurting. The Counseling Center is open during weekdays, and a grief counselor will be available by phone after hours.
“There will in due time be a memorial service for Mr. Hart. His family is flying tonight, and we will let you all know about the arrangements as they are made.”
The dean gives a solemn tilt of the head in Francis Pace’s direction. “Mr. Hart’s advisor and mentor will now say a few words about our departed colleague.”
Francis Pace steps forward. Now that he is illuminated by the gold glow of the candles, Charles can see that he is younger than he’d thought, somewhere in his late thirties or early forties. He has a shock of red hair and a round, not unhandsome face. His tweed jacket is tailored sharply to fit his rather heavy body; he wears a dark T-shirt underneath. He looks stylish—and shell-shocked.
“Thank you all for coming tonight,” he says. His voice is a smooth, soothing tenor. He runs a hand through his red hair in an unconscious, lost sort of way, like he’s not sure what to do with his body. “Um. This is—this is truly a shock to all of us. Jack—it’s incredible to think that Jack is no longer with us. He sat in my office just the other day, talking about publication opportunities. He had an article he wanted to put forward, and now—”
Pace takes a breath. “I’m sorry. When I speak at events it’s usually reading conference papers aloud. Devastatingly eloquent conference papers, of course.” He gives a weak smile. “This is very different. But at least no one has to suffer through a Q and A afterwards.”
A couple of people laugh, watery sounds that fall flat in the night air. “Well,” Pace says. “I tried to write something down in advance, but for once I can’t find anything to say. So I’ve decided to plagiarize, like the best of us.” He offers another wry smile. “Jack was passionate about his work—about Victorian culture, about disability studies—and he was passionate about moving beyond the canon to amplify the words of those who have traditionally received less attention by academia. But he did have a guilty pleasure, one he didn’t ever write about but that he adored reading. Jack was a big lover of Tennyson. Shocking, I know—very staid, very standard. But, um—god, I know it’s got to be the biggest cliche, reading ‘In Memoriam’ at a Victorianist’s memorial, but, uh…I don’t think I really have a choice here.” There are a few laughs, more robust this time. Pace unfolds a piece of paper, clears his throat, and reads:
Calm is the morn without a sound,
Calm as to suit a calmer grief,
And only thro’ the faded leaf
The chestnut pattering to the ground:
Calm and deep peace on this high wold,
And on these dews that drench the furze,
And all the silvery gossamers
That twinkle into green and gold:
Calm and still light on yon great plain
That sweeps with all its autumn bowers,
And crowded farms and lessening towers,
To mingle with the bounding main:
Calm and deep peace in this wide air,
These leaves that redden to the fall;
And in my heart, if calm at all,
If any calm, a calm despair:
Calm on the seas, and silver sleep,
And waves that sway themselves in rest,
And dead calm in that noble breast
Which heaves but with the heaving deep.
Pace sobs once, quietly, tearlessly, after he finishes reading, then folds up the paper and returns it to his jacket pocket. A blanket of stillness has settled over the mourners. Charles sees Fatima brush a tear from her eye; Karen and Kevin, Jack’s grad student friends, are both quietly wiping their faces. If any calm, a calm despair.
Francis Pace starts to step away, to fade back into the crowd. But then he pauses.
“If I could just—” He takes a breath as the mourners’ eyes settle again on his face. “I feel like I’d be doing Jack a disservice if I didn’t talk about his work, too. Jack was an incredibly dedicated student and scholar, a really important emerging figure in the field of nineteenth-century disability studies. We are mourning the loss of his contributions to academia tonight, as well—all that he might have brought to the table, with his dissertation and beyond it.”
Charles thinks that perhaps there is a slight, a very slight, shift in the group standing around Isabel.
“Jack knew a tremendous amount about disability in the Victorian period. His specialization was physical disabilities that limited subjects’ mobility, and it was incredibly important to him to understand precisely what disabled Victorians would have gone through: the obstacles they would have faced, the technologies they might have used, how they would have made sense of themselves within a complex matrix of medicine, heredity, faith, and beliefs about deviance. Jack believed that understanding these things allows us to honor those who, in their own time, were often cast aside. He was not only as meticulous and conscientious a scholar as I’d ever seen; he was also among the most compassionate.”
A peculiar energy has definitely invaded a part of the crowd now. Isabel is frowning, staring at Pace; the professors around her, Sarah and Jordan and Fatima, are looking uncomfortable, annoyed, or both. The grad students, Phoebe, Kate, and Antonio, have their heads bent together; one of them is whispering something Charles is too far away to hear.
“Jack was a wonderful literary critic as well,” Pace continues. “He was thoughtful and analytical. He used his extensive knowledge of Victorian disability to perform fascinating readings of Victorian texts, from Conan Doyle to Thomas Hardy to the photographs of Eadward Muybridge. He teased out surprising insights about what Victorian readers might have understood about disability—and he could have told you the precise class dynamics surrounding the Sedan Chair’s replacement by the Bath Chair as the wheelchair of choice for more affluent users.”
“Jesus,” Piper mutters. “What a time to be pushing his agenda.” Charles looks at them, startled, then searches the faces of the crowd. Most people are listening attentively, even nodding and smiling, but the cluster around Isabel is restive. Murmurs travel between them, none loud enough to be disruptive, but noticeable all the same. A couple of them are staring at Pace, seemingly transfixed; others are looking uncomfortably away, at their feet or the ground or each other.
Suddenly, Charles notices that one of the young men standing near Pace—Kevin, Piper said his name was—is staring at the group of presentists. His black eyebrows are drawn in fury, his hands clenching at his sides.
One of Isabel’s group murmurs something, almost loud enough to be heard over Pace’s closing comments. And suddenly Kevin steps forward, hands shaking, and confronts them.
“Why are you here?” he demands. “Did you come to gloat? To disrespect Jack? We know you’re only pretending to care to keep up appearances. Just leave! No one wants you here!”
Karen is standing with him in solidarity, chin up, face shining with tears. Pace stumbles to a halt, eyes widening as he takes in what’s happening. Then he seems to shake himself.
“Kevin,” he says, hurrying over to his student and taking him gently by the arm. “Kevin, you’re upset, of course, but this isn’t the time—” Charles sees him glance over at the dean, who is standing, shocked, staring at the unfolding scene.
“Fuck you,” Kevin says to Isabel’s group, and then lets Pace hurry him away from the crowd, glaring backwards, eyes nearly overflowing.
Murmurs drift through the onlookers. Piper’s face is drawn, eyes wide. Their gaze travels to their group of friends, and they hover on the spot, looking unsure whether they should go and join them. Charles watches Tyler lean over and put an arm around Piper. He sees Julian watching, too, intent as his gaze moves from face to face.
Restless, the rest of the mourners shift and mutter, several exclamations of dismay and disapproval rising into the cold night. Dean Hanley, who clearly wants to intervene, is being held captive by a fellow administrator who is gesticulating sharply as she talks in a low voice. After a few moments of rising noise, the older man Piper identified as Christopher Maynard—the out-of-touch professor who had arrived at the vigil with the group of undergraduates—clears his throat, stepping into the circle of light around the candles.
“Excuse me, everyone. Emotions seem to be running high tonight. Many apologies to anyone who has been disturbed or upset.” He takes a deep breath. “I think it would be best if we all took a moment of silence for our departed colleague.”
The crowd goes quiet. For a long minute, Maynard holds himself still, head bowed. Charles can see that the dean looks relieved. A little guiltily, he forgoes bowing his own head and instead moves his eyes from person to person, searching their faces. The onlookers from the general campus community look just as he’d expect them to: upset, sad, a little scared. But the people from the English department seem bleaker and angrier. The graduate students stand in clusters around their respective professors now, like troops awaiting orders. Even the single English grad student who, according to Piper, is neither a presentist nor a historicist—Todd Burns—is watching Maynard, his own advisor, with an attentive, ready-for-anything look. Then, as Maynard breaks the silence with a dignified murmur, Todd gives a small, pleased smile.
“We should go,” Piper says quietly. They squeeze Tyler’s hand as they nod to their friends, making no move, however, to join them.
Charles is itching to find out what Julian has made of the whole event, but Julian’s face is impassive. Charles wants to take the top of his head off and look inside.
As they start to walk away, Charles notices Maynard making his way over to the dean. He hears the words “so sorry” and “disgraceful” travel just a little too loudly through the night.
Later that night, Piper sends Charles an excerpt from a conference paper Lu delivered in 2014. They write, Maybe this will help explain things.
From “Releasing the Straightjacket: Towards a Queer Presentism”:
The debates in PMLA over the last few years about temporality, teleology, and historicism in queer studies make evident how crucial it is that we adopt a methodology robust enough to accommodate all the messiness and complexity of what it is to be queer. Madhavi Menon is right: we need a methodology that acknowledges how “identities, texts, peoples, ideas register across time, slide backward, crawl forward, repeat themselves” (784). Those who call ourselves presentists acknowledge the impossibility of removing ourselves from the equation, of getting to the “reality” of history without letting our own present-day concerns, politics, and desires intrude. We know we are always there, getting our hands dirty in the mudpie of queer existence. To pretend the past is entirely separable from the present, that the scholar is separable from the scholarship, is to deny how central desires and feelings and personal experiences are to everything we study and write. Denying desire and feelings is a classic move of white male scholarship for hundreds of years: we mustn’t fall into that trap.
But we need to go further, even, then that. If presentism encourages us to draw connections between past and present, to purposely constellate an ahistorical array of queer figures despite the radically different ways in which their queerness was registered in their own time—Sappho with her trailing gown and dazzling eyes reaching out a hand to touch Hedwig with her French-flip curls and perfume magazines, Hedwig who gazes benevolently down upon Anne Shirley and Diana Barry lying in the long grass with their hair mingled fire and earth—if presentism asks us to envision a queerer and more intimate temporality, it implores us as well to cast off the straightjacket of disciplinary boundaries and professionalized scholarship. For how can we truly say we are playing with time and embracing desire unless we really allow our scholarship to slip free of all its institutionalized strictures?
Notes
Lu quotes Madhavi Menon in her conference paper. This writing from Menon comes from a debate in PMLA in 2013 between a variety of queer scholars on the subject of “historicism” and “unhistoricism” within queer studies. In this very same letter to the editor, Menon also writes,“Positing unhistoricism as the opposite of historicism merely repeats the binary logic that has long plagued both historicism and sexuality. Rather than create a battle between the two, we need to accept that ongoing theorization and critique of dominant concepts is a necessary intellectual enterprise” (782-783). Just putting that out there.
And here’s a citation: Menon, Madhavi. “To the Editor.” “Historicism and Unhistoricism in Queer Studies.” PMLA Volume 128, Number 3, May 2013, pp. 782-784. You can read the whole thing on JSTOR.
Here’s Tennyson’s In Memoriam in case you want the whole thing (it’s very long lol).
And one more note: One of the members of my dissertation committee, George Haggerty, passed away in 2023. He was a wonderful mentor and someone whose writings on queerness and the Gothic really influenced my academic life. His essay about queer grief and the loss of his partner, “Love and Loss: An Elegy” (GLQ, 2004), is beautiful and moving. You can find it here.