~ Night Of The Owl ~

by

Jane Toombs

Two

Sara Henderson crossed the dark parking area toward the lighted school buildings, not quite running. She’d almost decided not to come. The UCSD extension class was at a junior high school close to Balboa Park, right next to the zoo. And spring was still months away; this time of year the dark came early. But she’d convinced herself it was silly to worry about being attacked every time she went out alone at night. Or almost convinced herself.

She glanced to each side as she hurried, unhappy about the large hibiscus bushes lining the sidewalk. Impossible to spot someone hiding behind or between them. Fallen eucalyptus leaves crunched under her feet, covering the sound of possible footsteps behind her.

Increasing her pace, she resisted the urge to turn her head for a quick scan behind her. She wouldn’t be here if Dr. Zimmer hadn’t urged her to find a way to make contact with other people. Easy for him to say, he wasn’t a woman. Wasn’t a red-haired woman. He didn’t have to worry about anybody stalking him on a foggy autumn evening. Or any other time.

But it was partly her own fault. If she’d been on time she might have found others to walk with. Instead, she’d dithered about going or not going until almost too late.

She was breathless by the time she opened the door to Room 24 and slid into a seat. No way was she going to walk back to that parking lot alone after the class was over.

Sara wasn’t certain why she’d chosen a mythology course. An introduction to computers would’ve taught her a useful skill. Or she might have taken a refresher in her field of special education. What good would mythology be when she dredged up the courage to go job hunting?

"We all practice procrastination, Sara," Dr. Zimmer had said, "but reality can’t be postponed forever."

Her lips curled in wry amusement. Perhaps she’d chosen mythology because he stressed reality.

Why were the others in the room with her taking this class? She was looking them over when a man in a brown corduroy jacket with leather patches on the sleeves came up the aisle and leaned on the lectern.

"I’m Ralph MacDuffy," he announced, running a hand through his ginger hair, artfully disarranging the curls. His smile seemed a deliberate attempt to call attention to the contrast of even white teeth against tanned skin--to say nothing of the dimple in his right cheek.

Sara looked up at him with mixed appreciation and cynicism. There was certainly no question of his good looks or his awareness of them. Still, he seemed young to be an assistant professor, so he must have something going for him other than being a gorgeous hunk.

As she listened to Ralph MacDuffy extol the heroes of myths around the world, she grew more and more uncertain of her subject choice. Did she really want to wallow in legendary heroes after trying to live with one for seven years and failing miserably?

Sara shrugged. Heroes were the vaunted men in all civilizations, no one bothered to laud losers. Certainly C.W. had gotten his share of adulation--so much so that he came to believe he truly was as heroic as the media claimed he was.

"...and, of course, we must not neglect the Kalevala of the Finns," MacDuffy went on. "Longfellow, one of our early American moralists, thought it good enough to steal from for his Song Of Hiawatha. Meter, cadence--a direct theft." He raised his left eyebrow engagingly and paused for effect. Though competent in her own area, Sara had never felt herself to be an expert in any field whatsoever but she did know the Kalevala--Grandpa Saari used to recite it in Finn, yet--and she knew something about Chippewa Indians because she’d gone to school with them when she was growing up in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.

She raised her hand. "Mr. MacDuffy?"

"Ralph--we’re contemporaries, after all."

"Well, about ‘Hiawatha.’ Don’t you think Longfellow might have been struck by the resemblances in the myths of the American Indians and those of the Finns? Both emphasize magic and trickery. Perhaps he felt it was fitting to borrow the same method to tell about an Indian hero."

"My dear--what is your name?"

"Sara Henderson," she murmured, already sorry she’d spoken.

"My dear Sara, ‘Hiawatha’ is a fake from beginning to end. Gone With The Wind gives us a truer mythology of the Old South than ‘Hiawatha’ does of the Chippewas. Even the name of the hero comes from the Iroquois--deadly enemies of the Chippewa. Longfellow created a fake hero and coupled him with a direct steal from the Kalevala for his cadence. I’m sorry if it shocks you to think of him as a thief."

Some of the younger members of the class tittered and Sara felt her face burn. She shook her head and looked down at her hands, unable to defend her position but unwilling to agree. She’d never had any defense against ridicule. Her ex-husband, the famous, the wonderful Charles William Gallion, had discovered that fact early in their marriage.

"If you don’t want to be trampled on, stop being such a doormat," he’d say, while at the same time knocking her down verbally every time she tried to stand up to him. C.W., the legend in his own time.

"...a point here." Sara belatedly realized the voice didn’t belong to MacDuffy and raised her head to see who was speaking.

"I’m no authority on either the Finns or the Indians," the man went on, "but if they both used magic and trickery to explain the ways of nature, then how can you arbitrarily say Longfellow stole from the Kalevala? No reason the man couldn’t have borrowed a primitive verse form. Maybe he thought his readers would be smart enough to see why he’d used the meter and cadence and they’d praise his cleverness."

MacDuffy threw his arms heavenward in a dramatic gesture. "Unfortunately, he’s up there now, so we can’t ask, can we?" And he went on to other lands and other heroes. Sara eyed the tall man in the gray sweater and faded jeans who’d spoken for her. Championed her cause. He glanced her way and she managed a faint smile before she ducked her head again. Ridiculous to be so flustered at being put down by that ginger-haired egotist. After all, she’d been put down far more expertly in the past.

Never again, she told herself. No more being chivvied through life by an ex-pro halfback who had to trample down all competition on or off the field. Never again. MacDuffy was no C.W. but he was of the same breed. Weren’t all men if given half a chance?

She owed the man in the gray sweater, though. At the break she caught up to him on the way to the coffee machine. "Thanks for the support," she said.

He slowed and spoke without looking at her. "Our Ralphie is full of crap. Knows his stuff, they tell me, but demands center stage at all times. Don’t let him bother you. Besides, I think you were right." He glanced at her and smiled briefly. "I’m Ian Wilson."

"You’ve heard my name. It’s Sara without the ‘h’."

He raised his eyebrows slightly but said nothing.

She examined him more carefully. Rather an ugly man, actually. A few years older than her twenty-eight, face hilled and furrowed, nose slightly askew, possibly broken once. Defenseless brown eyes looked out at the world, at her. Eyes that didn’t seem to belong in the dour, craggy face. Sara turned away, conscious of staring.

"How do you like your coffee?" His voice was pleasant, almost soothing.

"Sugar only, thank you."

"You aren’t related to MacDuffy, are you?"

Sara was astonished. "Me? Good grief, no."

Ian waved an apologetic hand. "Well, your hair’s the same color as his. And there’s a general resemblance."

She blinked at him, rather dismayed at being linked with Ralph MacDuffy.

Ian handed her a coffee and asked, "Are you an English teacher like most of us?"

"No. That is, I’m a teacher--though not of English--but I’m not working at the moment." Involuntarily she touched her ringless finger, reminded of how C.W. refused to hear of her keeping her job once they were married.

"Don’t tell me you’re taking the class for pleasure."

Sara half-smiled. "I hadn’t thought of it as pleasure." More as therapy, though she wasn’t about to admit it. "Where do you teach?" she asked.

"I’m on a sabbatical until next fall." He answered readily enough but she had the impression her question had disturbed him and she wondered why.

She noticed the groups around the coffee machine were breaking up and thought, now or never.

"Please don’t think I’m crazy." She spoke quickly, wanting to get it all said before he had a chance to respond. "I’m really nervous about walking to the parking lot after class is over. Because of the strangler. We’re so close to the park and it’s so dark in the lot and I don’t know anyone to walk with yet. Would you mind--are you parked there, too?"

"Yes. I’ll walk with you." His words were abrupt, even begrudging.

Back in class, she fumed at herself. He must think she was coming on to him when, God knows, it was the last thing she intended. She should have asked one of the other women to walk with her.

"Get out of the house," Dr. Zimmer had said. "Find an outlet."

"The shrinks are crazier than the people who go to them," C.W. had insisted. "And you have to be pretty damn nutty to go to one in the first place."

C.W. was, of course, perfect.

So here she was out of the house, enrolled in, of all things, a mythology course and already one man had done his best to humiliate her and another thought she was chasing him. On top of it all, she might well be risking her life by walking alone so near the park at night. For what? To learn about heroes when she hated heroes.

What she should do is sell the house and rent an apartment. She’d thought she’d relish living alone but sometimes she felt afraid and isolated. Especially since the strangler. She had no friends; everyone she knew lived back east. In an apartment she’d meet others in the same complex. Make friends. But she loved the house as she loved San Diego. She treasured every Spanish tile in it, even liked the overgrown foliage in the yard. Besides, how could she keep her three cats in an apartment?

Ian Wilson walked with her to the parking lot after class. He didn’t speak and she found nothing to say that didn’t sound inane, so she, too, was silent. Don’t worry, I don’t want any part of you, she felt like telling him. Only the protection of your company on the way to my car. Only your presence so I don’t feel eyes in the dark watching me, waiting for a woman alone. A redheaded woman.