hanger she said,
“Come on Elkins. You’ll look terrific in it.” She helped him into the jacket, then stood in front of him and straightened the collar. She kissed him, full on the mouth. “You’re a good man, Ray. Good men shouldn’t be wasted.” Taking him by the hand, she led him out of the house and across the lawn to her house. They pushed their way into the living room.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Scotch.”
Ray watched her fight to the bar. When she got back, she handed him two glasses and said, “Thought I better get you a couple of drinks while I was there.”
Elkins sipped one of the drinks. “This tastes like straight Scotch.”
“Shouldn’t ruin it with water. Besides, you’re behind the rest.”
Stephanie got a look of delight as she surveyed the crowd. “This party is something. Everyone comes, gets drunk, and forgets that they hate each other. I love seeing Clifford’s distinguished colleagues get all cleaned up and then act like a bunch of animals. Free food and booze makes them crazy.”
She pointed to two waiters, one clearing the way, the other carrying a large punch bowl filled with shrimp. Before they got to the serving table, people were reaching over and around one another, picking handfuls from the bowl. Eventually the waiters set the bowl on the table, but their retreat was made difficult because the crowd surged forward to snatch the last remnants from the bowl.“Note the blood frenzy,” continued Stephanie. “It’s common to sharks, piranhas, grizzly bears in heat, and down-at-the-heels humanities professors.”
“It’s quite astonishing.”
“The first few years I found this embarrassing, but now I’m amused.”
Reda Rudd slid her arm through Elkins’s and playfully bumped a hip against his. He noted that her party uniform was a far cry from her undergraduate, activist/editor garb. The Birkenstocks, T-shirt, and shorts had been replaced by a more sophisticated persona, chic and tailored. The Scotch was starting to hit. Elkins looked at the fashionable Reda, seeing her in a different way.
The sensation passed. Reda seemed to be with someone, older then her, but still quite young. She introduced the man, Gus Ginopolis, as a member of the English department. Over the noise he picked up bits and pieces of the conversation.
Stephanie liberated him from the triangle. With charm and skill she led him toward the kitchen. She was stopped along the way by a man who, in Italian, launched into a long, highly-animated speech; he was tall, thin, African-black, with James Baldwin eyes and hands that moved with each inflection. Stephanie rattled back in Italian; she smiled, but Elkins sensed that she was trying to extricate herself. She pulled someone new into the conversation, a woman—short, round, wrapped in brightly painted material, face layered with powder, chopsticks jutting from a gray-black bun. Once they’d started talking, she pulled Elkins away. He passed his drinks to a waiter.
From the kitchen, she guided him through the basement door. As they went down the steps Elkins asked, “Who were those people?
“Faculty. The woman’s Bobby Jo Hendrickson,” Stephanie replied.
Who was that man speaking Italian?”
“That was Seneca Carducci.”
“What does he do?”
She paused at the base of the steps and turned to him; she put her arms around his neck and leaned into him. “His dissertation was on the writers of the Harlem Renaissance. He was hired to expand an Afro-American lit program. But a few years after he got here he had a Fulbright in Italy. There he discovered—don’t ask me how—that his true ethnic heritage was Italian. When he came back he changed his name and refused to teach any more Black lit courses, saying he was being discriminated against. Now he says he’s a Dante and Nabokov specialist.”
“Interesting combination. And the Italian?”
“When he’s had a few drinks, he loses his capacity to speak English. He says that
“Come on Elkins. You’ll look terrific in it.” She helped him into the jacket, then stood in front of him and straightened the collar. She kissed him, full on the mouth. “You’re a good man, Ray. Good men shouldn’t be wasted.” Taking him by the hand, she led him out of the house and across the lawn to her house. They pushed their way into the living room.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Scotch.”
Ray watched her fight to the bar. When she got back, she handed him two glasses and said, “Thought I better get you a couple of drinks while I was there.”
Elkins sipped one of the drinks. “This tastes like straight Scotch.”
“Shouldn’t ruin it with water. Besides, you’re behind the rest.”
Stephanie got a look of delight as she surveyed the crowd. “This party is something. Everyone comes, gets drunk, and forgets that they hate each other. I love seeing Clifford’s distinguished colleagues get all cleaned up and then act like a bunch of animals. Free food and booze makes them crazy.”
She pointed to two waiters, one clearing the way, the other carrying a large punch bowl filled with shrimp. Before they got to the serving table, people were reaching over and around one another, picking handfuls from the bowl. Eventually the waiters set the bowl on the table, but their retreat was made difficult because the crowd surged forward to snatch the last remnants from the bowl.“Note the blood frenzy,” continued Stephanie. “It’s common to sharks, piranhas, grizzly bears in heat, and down-at-the-heels humanities professors.”
“It’s quite astonishing.”
“The first few years I found this embarrassing, but now I’m amused.”
Reda Rudd slid her arm through Elkins’s and playfully bumped a hip against his. He noted that her party uniform was a far cry from her undergraduate, activist/editor garb. The Birkenstocks, T-shirt, and shorts had been replaced by a more sophisticated persona, chic and tailored. The Scotch was starting to hit. Elkins looked at the fashionable Reda, seeing her in a different way.
The sensation passed. Reda seemed to be with someone, older then her, but still quite young. She introduced the man, Gus Ginopolis, as a member of the English department. Over the noise he picked up bits and pieces of the conversation.
Stephanie liberated him from the triangle. With charm and skill she led him toward the kitchen. She was stopped along the way by a man who, in Italian, launched into a long, highly-animated speech; he was tall, thin, African-black, with James Baldwin eyes and hands that moved with each inflection. Stephanie rattled back in Italian; she smiled, but Elkins sensed that she was trying to extricate herself. She pulled someone new into the conversation, a woman—short, round, wrapped in brightly painted material, face layered with powder, chopsticks jutting from a gray-black bun. Once they’d started talking, she pulled Elkins away. He passed his drinks to a waiter.
From the kitchen, she guided him through the basement door. As they went down the steps Elkins asked, “Who were those people?
“Faculty. The woman’s Bobby Jo Hendrickson,” Stephanie replied.
Who was that man speaking Italian?”
“That was Seneca Carducci.”
“What does he do?”
She paused at the base of the steps and turned to him; she put her arms around his neck and leaned into him. “His dissertation was on the writers of the Harlem Renaissance. He was hired to expand an Afro-American lit program. But a few years after he got here he had a Fulbright in Italy. There he discovered—don’t ask me how—that his true ethnic heritage was Italian. When he came back he changed his name and refused to teach any more Black lit courses, saying he was being discriminated against. Now he says he’s a Dante and Nabokov specialist.”
“Interesting combination. And the Italian?”
“When he’s had a few drinks, he loses his capacity to speak English. He says that
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