Joe was grinning.
“So the professor agrees and the farmer hauls off and gives him one helluva kick in the groin. The professor doubles over and groans.” Joe doubles over and rolls on the floor groaning. I was laughing.
“Finally, after ten minutes of agony, the professor stops groaning. He staggers to his feet and approaches the farmer, ready to take his turn. And the farmer says, ‘You can have the duck.’”
I roared.
My kitchen felt cozy and warm. Very warm.
I hated to break the spell. “Should we talk about George?”
“Not now. Later, maybe.”
I got up to refill our wine glasses and Joe was behind me in an instant. He unclipped my hair. I turned to him as he said, “You spent too much time on your hair.”
“It’s a bit wild.”
“I like it wild.” He ran his hand through my hair. “Your hair is beautiful. Thick and curly, the color of Cabernet.” He kissed my forehead.
“I like your nose, too,” he continued, “especially the freckles on the bridge.” He kissed my nose. Then my mouth, a firm intrusive kiss.
I looked up at his face. He had shaved close and his skin gleamed smooth. His green eyes were dark and smoky. We both knew what was going to happen. His hands left my hair and traveled down over my breasts to the sash of my robe.
Making love had always been uncertain for me. At times warm and comforting, at other times an empty exercise that left me feeling alone and used. I was rarely aroused by the sight of my lover’s nakedness and although my body responded to the right touch in the right place, my mind often drifted and I had to force myself to focus on the man, his weight, his smell, the sounds he made. I usually pretended to respond to overcome my passivity. I tried to be skillful at making men happy. I tried to seem passionate. Sometimes it worked. But, when I was being honest with myself, I had to admit sex was never so much a source of pleasure as the price I paid to feel closeness, to be the recipient rather than the giver of love.
For reasons I could not have explained, I knew that night with Joe Morgan would be different. As we climbed the stairs to my bedroom, I felt an excitement that was novel, a pure physical urgency to connect with him. No, more than connect, to merge, to be touched, to be tasted, to be known.
The first morning light found us dozing and warm together. Then we heard the bedroom door bang open and there was a loud thump on the bed.
My dog stood astride Joe, his golden head burrowing into Joe’s armpit. Joe sat up and took the dog’s head between his hands.
Looking deep into the dog’s eyes, Joe said, “You need a name, pal. Charlie. That’s your name. Charlie.” The dog stared back, then looked down averting his eyes from Joe’s insistent gaze.
“Charlie, go. Go downstairs and guard the house.”
The dog jumped off the bed and looked back at Joe. “Charlie, go downstairs,” said Joe, leaning forward and displaying impressive muscles in his back. The light from a bedside lamp played over his skin. The dog hesitated. “Charlie, go,” he said. Charlie turned and went through the doorway. I could hear his toenails on the stairs.
“How do you do that?” I ran my fingers across his shoulders and down his spine. He turned to me and stretched his arm, sliding it under my back.
“Dogs are pack animals. You know that. You probably also know they defer to the largest male in the place.”
“That would be you,” I said.
“That would be me.”
“I thought we had to wait until after the case...”
“I couldn’t wait longer. And when you called tonight, I knew I would have to come over and be with you. Did I take you by surprise?”
“Yes. But I like your surprises.”
He smiled and kissed me again.
I wanted nothing to break the mood. But my damned curiosity got the better of me.
“Have you ever been married?” I asked.
“Didn’t Elaine tell you?”
Oh, God. He was once married, or deeply in love, and she died. Or still married? Please don’t let it be that.
“No. Elaine never talked about your past.”
“I was engaged in college. After my fiancée found out my roommate’s father was a dot-com millionaire, I was no longer engaged to her. My roommate was, poor bastard.”
“And others?”
“Yes, of course there were others. But no one I wanted to marry.”
“Any regrets?”
He looked at me. “Hell, no.” He leaned into me, kissing my neck, “If I was married to any one of them, I’d have to commit adultery with you.”
“Have to?”
“Absolutely, have to.”
He got out of bed and walked over to the dresser. A naked athlete with long sinewy legs, defined bicep muscles, and a sculptured butt was getting dressed in my bedroom. A thirty-seven year old cop still occupying the body of a college basketball player. Bliss.
“Do you have to go?”
“Will I be invited back?”
Bet on it.
At the last faculty meeting of the fall semester, Larry Coleman was wearing a suit and tie, looking like a man about to enter a courtroom.
He sat staring intently at what appeared to be a pile of notes. He didn’t raise his eyes when Edwin started to speak. As Edwin worked his way through a statement he didn’t want to make, it became clear that the fear of receivership had taken effect. Larry Coleman continued to stare at the papers in front of him and to make occasional notes.
“I am indeed sorry Dr. Coleman’s graduate students took a casual remark of mine to mean that I did not respect Dr. Coleman and that I did not recommend his class,” said Edwin. Larry said nothing and didn’t look up.
“And if discussing Dr. Coleman’s tenure qualifications with other members of the faculty was premature, I’m sorry. But I presumed we were all going to discuss the tenure application sooner or later.” George simply can’t admit to doing wrong so I guessed this was as close to an apology Larry was going to get from him. Larry continued to gaze at his papers.
“We discuss tenure matters in a formal meeting of the tenured faculty, not in the hallways,” I interjected.
“Yes, we get that,” said Edwin. Simon grunted.
The apologies were inadequate, but I hoped for the best.
“I trust this will suffice, Meredith,” said Edwin, addressing me.
Larry was now staring at the wall.
“And that Dr. Coleman will forget about filing a grievance,’” said Simon.
I looked at Larry. His gaze did not leave the wall. The others in the faculty stirred restlessly in their chairs. Elaine took out her notebook. Phyllis rested her fingers on the edge of her open laptop. Max looked at Simon through hooded eyes. Ardith tried not to look at anyone. Her eyes darted from one window to the other. Still no one spoke.
At length, I said, “It’s clear this is all the faculty meeting we’re going to have today. Our next meeting will be at the January retreat. Be prepared to consider a presentation on the new courses to add to the curriculum. Nell will send out agendas before then. If I don’t see you before the end of the week, I wish you all happy holidays.”
The faculty rose and started to shuffle out of the room. Some murmured to one another as they gathered their papers and winter coats.
I waited until everyone except Larry Coleman had left. Then I said, “Well Larry, what do you think?”
His jaw hardened. “I think if I don’t get a unanimous vote for tenure next month, I will do whatever it takes to bring those fuckers down.”
Chapter 19
Joe slept soundly, his head near mine. I could hear his breathing. Beside my side of the bed on the floor, Charlie breathed in perfect sync with Joe.
I eased out of the bed, trying to avoid the sleeping dog. I tried to keep my sq
ueaking stairs from waking anyone, but Charlie hears everything and soon was padding down behind me.
A cup of tea later, I lit a fire and sat, wrapped in a heavy fake fur throw, trying to think my way through what had kept me awake.
Joe.
A great lover, an imaginative cook, and a thoughtful friend. What more could I want? Yet something nagged at me. Not about Joe—about me. My history with men was not promising. Every time I had gotten close to the possibility of a relationship, I’d screwed things up. My therapist back in Ohio suggested I was afraid of being deserted by men, so I always contrived to dump them first.
In my first semester of graduate school in New York, I’d fallen in love with an assistant professor who taught one of my courses. Unlike some of my current faculty, he was conscientious—he wouldn’t date me while I was his student. The attraction was intense but we played by the rules.
The day of his last class we met at a hotel bar near campus. Fifteen minutes later we were in a room upstairs. We undressed each other in record time. The sex was not great, but the relief was tremendous. And, in the weeks that followed, the sex got better. I loved and admired him although I never felt the deep passion I expected to characterize my first adult love affair.
We got engaged the day before my mother crashed into a tree and killed herself.
I went home to Ohio and switched to a graduate program there to be near my grieving father. My fiancé came to visit several times; he was always kind and understanding. But, as time passed, I returned his kindness with complaints about his unwillingness to leave a very good position and move to Ohio. Six months later he called to say he thought we should start seeing other people. I didn’t blame him. I blamed me. My therapist suggested that, sooner or later, I probably would have found some reason to push him away, and I agreed with her.
The attorney I went to bed with the following year was a different matter. He was fifteen years older than I, rich and self-centered. One night he made me so angry I threw a lamp at his head and left him sitting on the floor of his enormous bedroom nursing a significant cut on his forehead. After that, I never saw him again.
Since taking the job at Mountain State, I’d tried two relationships, one with a professor in biology and another with a man who wanted to be my stockbroker, but I ended both. I don’t see a therapist anymore but I was sure my old friend in Ohio could have provided some sage insights into why I had so much trouble bonding with men. Even though I felt warm and safe with Joe, I felt surer of his feelings for me than of mine for him.
“What’s the matter with me?” I said out loud to Charlie. The dog got up and put his head in my lap. “This is the first man I have been able to really talk to. We trust each other. Why am I afraid of messing up with the one guy who could be the right guy?”
Inevitably morning came and, even though everyone else had left for winter break, the dean’s office would remain open until the day before Christmas. Nell was the only one in the outer office when I arrived at school. She and I had planned to catch up on all the work we had neglected during the semester.
For the first time since she and I had started working together, Nell actually looked relaxed and happy to see me. “Good morning Red,” she said, smoothing the curls that frame her face, “there are messages on your desk. You might want to start with Mr. Howard who wants to reschedule the meeting you missed.”
Benjamin Howard was our primary benefactor. I had cancelled our original meeting to go to Celeste’s hospital room. He had been gracious at the time, according to Nell, but today his secretary had said this week before Christmas would be the last opportunity for a meeting until late spring. He had given millions to journalism schools all over the country, but Mountain State seemed to be his favorite. I returned the call and was put through to Ben immediately.
“I was wondering if we could have dinner tonight,” he began.
I was surprised. I had thought lunch would be more convenient for both of us. “I know it’s short notice, Dr. Solaris—may I call you Meredith? But my schedule is packed this week and I leave on Friday.”
“I could meet for dinner. Thank you.”
“Splendid. I hope you like Japanese food. If so, we can meet at seven at Kyoto’s on Fourth Street. Would that be all right?”
“That would be fine,” I heard myself say, thinking about the pot roast Joe had promised to make for us tonight. After I hung up, I wondered why I felt nervous. I’d met Ben Howard twice at school parties hosted by Henry. I recalled Ben as a big man with a ready laugh and a good sense of humor. He was tall and self-confident. His face was tan, his hands were strong and brown from sun. His suits were beautifully tailored. I found him appealing. Maybe that was why I felt uneasy about calling Joe to say I wouldn’t join him for dinner.
“Of course I understand,” Joe said. “Ben Howard’s your biggest benefactor. You blew him off to see your alcoholic student. I hope you persuade him to give the school another big gift so the university will know what a sensational fundraiser you are. I’ll meet you at your house later if you like.”
Of course I liked. Intelligent, self-confident Joe. Why had I worried?
Another message was from a Dr. Alistair Shaw, a name that was familiar but I couldn’t quite place it. Shaw answered on the second ring.
“I wanted to express my deepest sorrow over the loss of Henry Brooks, Dean Solaris.”
“Thank you, Dr. Shaw. I appreciate the call. So will the faculty.”
“I was also hoping you could help me with another matter but I wanted to wait a respectful time before asking.”
“I’d be happy to accommodate you if I can,” I replied, now remembering that Alistair Shaw was a distinguished retired professor who had taught at the top journalism schools in the country and had written several books, three of which faced me in Henry’s bookcase across from my desk.
“Henry sent me some pages written, I think, by one of your faculty although Henry did not provide the author’s name. He asked me to review the pages and give him an opinion as to their pedagogic value to the journalism profession.”
“I see. Is there a problem?”
“Well, Dr. Solaris, it appears there is. About half of what I read, which I presumed to be part of a larger work, was—how shall I say this—directly taken from a book I have been writing over the past two years.” Shaw paused. His voice sounded old. “Without any attribution to me, I fear.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Indeed. I don’t know who wrote the document Henry sent me, but I do recall reading that same material from my book at a symposium last summer. Henry and several of your faculty attended and I handed out copies of what I presented.”
“And you believe someone on our faculty plagiarized your writing in his or her work?”
Students are not the only sinners and Henry’s little note in the suitcase now made sense.
“I don’t know with any certainty that the person is on your faculty, Dr. Solaris, but Henry returned the pages to me with a note across the first page that read: ‘Don’t worry, Al. I’ll put a stop to this. My apologies, Henry.’”
“I’m sure he was devastated by this discovery,” I said, trying to cover my own anger with sympathy for the aging Alistair Shaw who, I thought, must have been close to ninety.
“Yes, well, Henry did try to reach me by phone before he sent this. I guess to prepare me for it. But I was in the hospital at the time and didn’t open the packet until I came home. By that time, Henry was dead.”
“I hope you’re all right now.”
“Oh, I’m fine, Dr. Solaris. But I would be most grateful if you could follow up on this. It’s so distressing to think a colleague would copy my work and not give attribution. I would, you know, be happy to allow for the quote even though it runs to several pages of my book—if the writer had just asked.”
I promised Shaw I would investigate.
>
Fortunately, the afternoon was quieter. Nell and I got through a small mountain of forms and paper procedures.
“Nell, do you know who on the faculty is currently writing a book?”
Nell looked up, again that small glimmer of contempt in her eyes. “Who isn’t?” she said. “I’m aware of at least three of them because they keep pestering my student assistants to make copies and mail out stuff.”
“Who are they?”
Nell squinted her eyes. “Hmm. Phyllis Baker, Edwin Cartwell, George Weinstein. Weinstein’s the worst of all. Treats my staff as if they were here to work exclusively for him. Oh, and Dr. Worthington sent something out yesterday, but he tends to take care of his own copying and mailing.”
“How about Simon?”
Nell blew out her lower lip. “That man hasn’t written anything for fifteen years.”
So, four books. When would I have time to examine four books? Maybe Nell could help me with a shortcut.
“Do you remember sending out any of the manuscripts or sections of manuscripts to Dr. Alistair Shaw?” She did.
“Did you make a copy of what you sent?” She did not. The envelope was sealed when Henry gave it to her. No point in telling her more. It would just upset her and, even though Nell is discreet, I couldn’t risk faculty plagiarism becoming staff gossip.
“Please call Alistair Shaw back and ask him to send me the document Dean Henry mailed to him last month. I’m going home to change for my dinner with Ben Howard. ”
“Have a good time,” said Nell with an unusually merry smile. “Now there’s a man I really like.”
“The man or his money, Nell?”
“Nothing wrong with a man being rich and charming,” she said. “You behave yourself, hear? That man has a way about him.”
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