ONE

“We need to prank him,” said Buddy to Bunny as she walked through the den on her way to the kitchen. “Frank’s moping around like a dead dog, what with Becky out of the nest and a dead-end job that’s as boring as hell.” Buddy was in his usual spot, half watching a golf game from his favorite recliner.

Bunny stopped and looked at her husband. In the shadows, the light from the TV reflecting on his balding head, just visible over the back of the couch, created an odd effect, like a gibbous moon resting on the horizon. “I don’t think the dead are much good at moping, or anything else.” Bunny never missed a chance to skewer Buddy’s mangled metaphors. “And who said hell was boring?”

“You know what I mean. We need to do something to get him out of his funk. I swear it’s worse every time I see him.”

“How’s Cathy doing?” asked Bunny, her voice softening. “You never say anything about her.”

“Oh, she seems fine, I guess,” replied Buddy. “But what Frank needs is some kind of shock treatment. Wake up the old Frank. You know, like that epic prank I pulled at the U of O that set the two of them up in the first place.”

“Not this again.” Bunny rolled her eyes. She had heard Buddy wax fondly over this hallowed incident so many times she could recite it from memory. “How exactly are you going to recreate something that took place on a college campus thirty years ago? And aren’t you forgetting some of the details? You didn’t exactly set them up. Whatever—just leave me out of your harebrained schemes. Meanwhile, I think I’ll go do something useful.” She stalked into the kitchen.

Buddy slouched back in his leather recliner. Bunny was right. It would be hard to recreate that moment of inspiration back at the old U of O. His mind drifted back to those golden-hued days—yes, he didn’t mind the cliché—the good old days. Life was simpler then. More fun. You knew what was what. In spite of his gloomy mood, a shadow of a smile crossed his face.

Why had Frank left his final paper for Poli-Sci 325 lying on his desk in plain view that day? It wasn’t like him, Buddy mused. They were both juniors, both majoring in political science, often taking the same classes at the same time. Frank always got better grades, but he didn’t like talking about it. He was funny that way. Very private. Buddy had never even glimpsed one of his graded assignments before. Did Frank want him to see that particular paper? It wasn’t like him to be careless. Maybe he was mad at him about something—wouldn’t be the first time. And to be honest, I was a little peeved myself that day, Buddy admitted to himself.

The night before, in the cafeteria, Frank had cracked a joke about Buddy that managed to penetrate even Buddy’s thick skin. That was also not Frank’s style. The usual gang had been sitting around the table as Buddy approached with his plate and pulled up a chair. “Where’s Bunny?” Frank had said. “Still waiting for you at the library?” This was a reference to a well-publicized incident the previous weekend when Buddy had completely forgotten he was supposed to take Bunny out to dinner. She had fumed for an hour, until eventually she found him playing pool in the student center, literally a stone’s throw from their planned meeting point at the library entrance. In truth, Bunny was still pissed, and that was, in fact, why Buddy was by himself in the cafeteria on a Friday night. Buddy had laughed with the rest of them, but it had stung all the same.

And so, he had picked up the paper off Frank’s desk (“The Implications of Republican Gerrymandering on Voting Patterns in Essex County”) and seen the professor’s comment scrawled in red pencil under the A+. “Great job, Frank—one of the best analyses I’ve seen since I started teaching this class eight years ago. Definitely a strong candidate for the SP.” The SP was the coveted Spencer Prize, awarded annually by the Political Science Department for the best undergraduate research paper. It was a big deal—not only for the prestige, but it came with $1,000 in cash. Buddy could never dream of coming close to such a prize, but he wasn’t surprised to learn Frank was in the running. Buddy carefully put the paper down exactly as he had found it. An idea was beginning to germinate deep in his brain.

That Monday, he strolled into the office of the Political Science Department. He knew the dates of upcoming faculty meetings would be posted on the bulletin board. He was in luck. The next meeting was in exactly one week: next Monday from two to four in the Faculty Senate Room. The department chair was Professor Henry F. Jackson, a formidable and imposing personality, famous for once being listed on Ronald Reagan’s so-called “Black List” of subversive academics. Buddy had never met him, and he doubted Frank had either. Old Jackson was not the type to hang out with lowly undergraduates.

Now Buddy just needed an accomplice, and he knew exactly who to ask.