with even a temporary member of the department. Your tenure decision comes up in a year or two. Think of the position such a … a questionable professional history would put you in when your senior colleagues vote on—”
Ordinarily I would have stormed away from such an intrusion into my privacy, but I had a misbegotten notion that if only I could clarify what had actually happened, I could staunch this gossip before it bled me to death. “Harriet, there’s no involvement! Nothing happened!”
This time she heard me. “But he was there? At your house? At six A.M. ?” She frowned. “And
nothing happened?”
“It’s not what you think. He was just dr—”
Miles Jewell pushed open the door at the top of the stairs. He was followed by Jake Fenton and three other stragglers. From the sudden fire that flashed in Harriet’s eyes when Jake came into view, I realized why she and I were having this conversation. And I knew instantly why the white streak in Harriet’s hair had vanished.
Jake nodded at us. I hadn’t seen or heard from the writer since I’d put him to bed, bombed, on my couch during the wee hours Friday morning. I clamped my mouth shut on the word
drunk
. With an eyebrow-puckering frown at Harriet, who was smirking at Jake, I followed the entourage into the English Department lounge.
T wenty colleagues were already gathered around the long table in the center of the room. My eyes scanned the group: Ralph Emerson Brooke, current occupant of the Palaver Chair of Literary Studies; Kenneth Beatty, Shakespeare; Ned Hilton, seventeenth century; Latisha Mohammed, African American; Sally Chenille, coappointment with Comp Lit; Nicole Gottesman, queer theory; Edmund Friendly, the Puritans; Anne McQuade, Shakespeare; Joe Gagliardi, postmodernism; Stanford Franks, postcolonialism; Bob Banks, post-Shakespeare; Deborah Minter, eighteenth century; Michael Dunkerling, animality; the newcomer Craig Markoff, neo-Shakespeare; and on and on. The usual crew.
Jake Fenton pulled out the chair next to Ralph Brooke. He sat, stroked his sexy three-day beard contemplatively,then leaned over, and whispered something in the older man’s ear. Ralph turned to him, whipped off his clunky glasses, and stared. Jake smiled a snarky smile, whispered again. Ralph choked and went bone pale. Odd. But before I could observe the two further, Miles called the meeting to order. Under the influence of the chairman’s mind-numbing tones, I sank into a deep funk, furious at Jake for putting me in such an awkward position vis-à-vis the college community, furious at the college community for the titillated gossip that was bound to fly around campus like wild fire.
I don’t remember a thing that transpired during that meeting. I know I signed the attendance sheet, voted on measures brought up for voting, dutifully watched my colleagues’ mouths open and shut in eloquent debate, but my mind had vacated the room and was back in the corridor with Harriet Person. All the biting things I should have said goose-stepped into my mind like a platoon of storm troopers. I felt my face grow hot and my jaw set into a truculent jut.
A person can’t even have a goddamned private life around this place without her goddamned colleagues playing Big Brother. Goddamned full professors, nothing but a goddamned bunch of goddamned fucking fascist thugs
.… I wanted nothing more than to jump out of my seat and launch into a diatribe against this intrusion into my personal freedom. Thank God for Robert’s Rules of Order, or I might have scuttled my hard-won career right there and then.
T wenty minutes after the department meeting ended, Jake Fenton sauntered into my office. Behind him, Monica lurked in the hallway, four-squareand solid in chinos and a red cotton sweater with a pattern of gray diamonds. She caught my eye and grinned. Before I could muster up a scowl—or stick my tongue out at her, I was in such an evil mood—Jake pushed my office door shut, and
Ordinarily I would have stormed away from such an intrusion into my privacy, but I had a misbegotten notion that if only I could clarify what had actually happened, I could staunch this gossip before it bled me to death. “Harriet, there’s no involvement! Nothing happened!”
This time she heard me. “But he was there? At your house? At six A.M. ?” She frowned. “And
nothing happened?”
“It’s not what you think. He was just dr—”
Miles Jewell pushed open the door at the top of the stairs. He was followed by Jake Fenton and three other stragglers. From the sudden fire that flashed in Harriet’s eyes when Jake came into view, I realized why she and I were having this conversation. And I knew instantly why the white streak in Harriet’s hair had vanished.
Jake nodded at us. I hadn’t seen or heard from the writer since I’d put him to bed, bombed, on my couch during the wee hours Friday morning. I clamped my mouth shut on the word
drunk
. With an eyebrow-puckering frown at Harriet, who was smirking at Jake, I followed the entourage into the English Department lounge.
T wenty colleagues were already gathered around the long table in the center of the room. My eyes scanned the group: Ralph Emerson Brooke, current occupant of the Palaver Chair of Literary Studies; Kenneth Beatty, Shakespeare; Ned Hilton, seventeenth century; Latisha Mohammed, African American; Sally Chenille, coappointment with Comp Lit; Nicole Gottesman, queer theory; Edmund Friendly, the Puritans; Anne McQuade, Shakespeare; Joe Gagliardi, postmodernism; Stanford Franks, postcolonialism; Bob Banks, post-Shakespeare; Deborah Minter, eighteenth century; Michael Dunkerling, animality; the newcomer Craig Markoff, neo-Shakespeare; and on and on. The usual crew.
Jake Fenton pulled out the chair next to Ralph Brooke. He sat, stroked his sexy three-day beard contemplatively,then leaned over, and whispered something in the older man’s ear. Ralph turned to him, whipped off his clunky glasses, and stared. Jake smiled a snarky smile, whispered again. Ralph choked and went bone pale. Odd. But before I could observe the two further, Miles called the meeting to order. Under the influence of the chairman’s mind-numbing tones, I sank into a deep funk, furious at Jake for putting me in such an awkward position vis-à-vis the college community, furious at the college community for the titillated gossip that was bound to fly around campus like wild fire.
I don’t remember a thing that transpired during that meeting. I know I signed the attendance sheet, voted on measures brought up for voting, dutifully watched my colleagues’ mouths open and shut in eloquent debate, but my mind had vacated the room and was back in the corridor with Harriet Person. All the biting things I should have said goose-stepped into my mind like a platoon of storm troopers. I felt my face grow hot and my jaw set into a truculent jut.
A person can’t even have a goddamned private life around this place without her goddamned colleagues playing Big Brother. Goddamned full professors, nothing but a goddamned bunch of goddamned fucking fascist thugs
.… I wanted nothing more than to jump out of my seat and launch into a diatribe against this intrusion into my personal freedom. Thank God for Robert’s Rules of Order, or I might have scuttled my hard-won career right there and then.
T wenty minutes after the department meeting ended, Jake Fenton sauntered into my office. Behind him, Monica lurked in the hallway, four-squareand solid in chinos and a red cotton sweater with a pattern of gray diamonds. She caught my eye and grinned. Before I could muster up a scowl—or stick my tongue out at her, I was in such an evil mood—Jake pushed my office door shut, and
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