kidding with this?” Randall asked suddenly.
“What?” Kathryn asked, alarmed, but eager to know what had struck him.
“She’s holding a drink!” There was outrage in his voice. He turned the paper for her to see.
Yeah, she was holding a drink, Kathryn thought. So what?
“Did you read the article?” Randall persisted.
“I skimmed it.”
“She was a drunk,” Randall said darkly, turning the paper.
Kathryn remembered Randall’s mother hitting the sauce while his father was out of town on business, and fell silent.
“Shit,” he whispered. “I’ve got a lecture.”
“Bye,” Kathryn said, startled.
He patted the top of her head absently as he departed. She would have made fun of this small gesture if she thought he would have heard her call after him.
Throughout the lecture hall, conversations among the two hundred students in Foundations of Western Art. I were hushed. Randall guessed that most of them were showing respect for their grief-stricken professor, who might come striding down the aisle at any moment. If any of them had managed to catch the local news, they would have learned Eric had flown to Philadelphia, where Lisa would be laid to rest in her family’s plot. He sat in his usual seat in the second row, from which he had first stared up at Eric’s fine-boned face, watching Mitchell Seaver and Maria Klein whispering at the foot of the steps leading up to the stage. No doubt they were debating who should give the lecture in Eric’s absence. Randall knew them both to be the unspoken leaders of the course’s cadre of teaching assistants, and the rest of the group looked bored, slouched in their chairs, regarding the two prima donnas vying for the microphone.
Finally, at fifteen minutes past the starting time of lecture, Mitchell mounted the steps to the podium, and Maria returned to her seat. Randall held a quiet dislike for both graduate students. Maria was the leader of his discussion section (which he had only attended twice). Her coffee-colored hair, parted down the center, and the contrast of her gentle facial features with an olive complexion suggested a mixed ethnicity also represented by her first and last names. She had looked dressed for winter back in September, rarely appearing in class without a tweed jacket or a scarf. On the first day of discussion, Maria had exalted the Venus of Willendorf, with its bloated proportions, to be the true ideal of female physicality, before she went on to dissect the oppressive body ideals forced on women by the fashion magazines of the current era. Rather than hear great works of art periodically dumbed down by campus politics, Randall stopped attending.
Mitchell Seaver adjusted the microphone deliberately, and the metallic squelch brought about instant silence. Randall thought that underneath Mitchell’s shaggy pile of sandy hair, and behind the wire-rimmed spectacles he probably didn’t need, there was a reasonably attractive guy being lost to academic anemia. Generous brown eyes and a slightly pug nose gave him a boyish attractiveness, but his appeal disappeared as soon as he began speaking in his lightly nasal, flat, affectless voice, which occasionally rose to a shrill pitch as if he were being forced to talk over people only he could hear.
“I’m sure we’re all aware of the loss Dr. Eberman suffered this past weekend, and it should come as no surprise that he’s decided to take some time off to sort through personal matters,” Mitchell announced. “He has requested that in his absence we do our best to follow the syllabus. With the patience and cooperation of all of you, I hope we can do just that.”
Mitchell paused. Randall shot a glance at Maria, who had turned slightly in her seat as if expecting students to pop up from their chairs at the prospect of being lectured by TAs. The lecture hall was stone still.
“What?” Kathryn asked, alarmed, but eager to know what had struck him.
“She’s holding a drink!” There was outrage in his voice. He turned the paper for her to see.
Yeah, she was holding a drink, Kathryn thought. So what?
“Did you read the article?” Randall persisted.
“I skimmed it.”
“She was a drunk,” Randall said darkly, turning the paper.
Kathryn remembered Randall’s mother hitting the sauce while his father was out of town on business, and fell silent.
“Shit,” he whispered. “I’ve got a lecture.”
“Bye,” Kathryn said, startled.
He patted the top of her head absently as he departed. She would have made fun of this small gesture if she thought he would have heard her call after him.
Throughout the lecture hall, conversations among the two hundred students in Foundations of Western Art. I were hushed. Randall guessed that most of them were showing respect for their grief-stricken professor, who might come striding down the aisle at any moment. If any of them had managed to catch the local news, they would have learned Eric had flown to Philadelphia, where Lisa would be laid to rest in her family’s plot. He sat in his usual seat in the second row, from which he had first stared up at Eric’s fine-boned face, watching Mitchell Seaver and Maria Klein whispering at the foot of the steps leading up to the stage. No doubt they were debating who should give the lecture in Eric’s absence. Randall knew them both to be the unspoken leaders of the course’s cadre of teaching assistants, and the rest of the group looked bored, slouched in their chairs, regarding the two prima donnas vying for the microphone.
Finally, at fifteen minutes past the starting time of lecture, Mitchell mounted the steps to the podium, and Maria returned to her seat. Randall held a quiet dislike for both graduate students. Maria was the leader of his discussion section (which he had only attended twice). Her coffee-colored hair, parted down the center, and the contrast of her gentle facial features with an olive complexion suggested a mixed ethnicity also represented by her first and last names. She had looked dressed for winter back in September, rarely appearing in class without a tweed jacket or a scarf. On the first day of discussion, Maria had exalted the Venus of Willendorf, with its bloated proportions, to be the true ideal of female physicality, before she went on to dissect the oppressive body ideals forced on women by the fashion magazines of the current era. Rather than hear great works of art periodically dumbed down by campus politics, Randall stopped attending.
Mitchell Seaver adjusted the microphone deliberately, and the metallic squelch brought about instant silence. Randall thought that underneath Mitchell’s shaggy pile of sandy hair, and behind the wire-rimmed spectacles he probably didn’t need, there was a reasonably attractive guy being lost to academic anemia. Generous brown eyes and a slightly pug nose gave him a boyish attractiveness, but his appeal disappeared as soon as he began speaking in his lightly nasal, flat, affectless voice, which occasionally rose to a shrill pitch as if he were being forced to talk over people only he could hear.
“I’m sure we’re all aware of the loss Dr. Eberman suffered this past weekend, and it should come as no surprise that he’s decided to take some time off to sort through personal matters,” Mitchell announced. “He has requested that in his absence we do our best to follow the syllabus. With the patience and cooperation of all of you, I hope we can do just that.”
Mitchell paused. Randall shot a glance at Maria, who had turned slightly in her seat as if expecting students to pop up from their chairs at the prospect of being lectured by TAs. The lecture hall was stone still.
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