The Shakespeare Requirement

by Julie Schumacher

  “Let me show you.” Lincoln pulled out a phone and diddled with its screen, then held the device in front of Cassovan, who beheld a video of a student pulling up his shirt to reveal an undecipherable slogan lipsticked in red on the plank of his chest.

  Here was the future, Cassovan thought. Out with considered argument and nuance; in with publicity stunts, competitive righteousness, and the thrill of rage. He stood up and tested the grips on his shoes, which could sometimes be slippery indoors. “I’ve had a change of heart about our conference submission,” he said.

  Lincoln tucked his phone into his pocket. He was standing in front of a bulletin board covered with thousands of multicolored slips of paper that advertised clothing swaps, rideshares, essays-for-hire, recovery groups, athletic clubs, tutoring services, cultural awakenings, bike sales, nature walks, political forums, drum circles, religious and pagan ceremonies, and prevention programs for venereal disease. How did students find time for academic work, Cassovan wondered, while they were at college?

  A change? That was okay, Lincoln said. He had a few last-minute thoughts of his own. He was considering, for example, the idea that he should rewrite his bio. Had Professor Cassovan read the one he had written? Was it too long? And what about the edits Lincoln had suggested to the final section of their paper? He had meant to send the clarifications Professor Cassovan had requested; but, in the meantime, what did he think?

  They had walked down the hall to the exit. Hand on the handrail, Cassovan summoned the conference paper—“The Problem of Augury in Titus Andronicus”—into his mind. Lincoln’s edits, belatedly submitted, were either negligible or fallacious, and Cassovan had lacked the time to set them to rights. It was his book, Anamnesis in Three Roman Plays, and not the conference paper that mattered. The paper was irrelevant, or at least incidental. The book—he could envision the first chapter now (only when he was away from it did it assume a cogent shape in his imagination)—had to be the object of his remaining energies. He might never see it in print (even as a much younger scholar, he had been afraid that he would die before seeing his book through to publication), but he knew that almost everything else in his life had become a distraction he could no longer afford.

  “I’m withdrawing the paper,” he said. “I thought I should tell you in person.”

  Lincoln had just swigged the last of a cup of coffee and tossed the empty container—wasn’t Styrofoam banned on campus?—into the trash. “The paper?” He stopped abruptly in the doorway. “But it’s already submitted. Our names are both on the program.”

  “It’s better not to submit than to have your name on something subpar,” Cassovan said. “It’s not good enough.”

  “But I can work on it over the weekend,” Lincoln said. “We still have almost three weeks. We can—”

  “No,” Cassovan said. The first chapter of Anamnesis in Three Roman Plays flared to life like a phantom at the back of his brain. Perhaps if he moved those troublesome paragraphs from what had once been the middle section to the preface…“You’re still free to attend the conference,” he said. “I’ll cover your registration fee. But I’m going to cancel my flight and hotel. Perhaps we can try again another year.”

  Lincoln Young was dumbfounded. He understood that Professor Cassovan had reservations; but wasn’t that what a conference was for? To ask for feedback from other scholars? Besides, it wasn’t just about the paper anymore. Didn’t the professor want to find out about curricular battles being fought at other universities? To learn whether other schools were doing away with their Shakespeare requirements, or considering the idea of teaching Shakespeare in departments other than English?

  “Who spoke to you about Shakespeare being taught outside English?” Cassovan asked.

  Lincoln lifted his lip in a half snarl. “No one,” he said. Given budget cuts, it was just an idea that he assumed scholars were batting around.

  Outside, the wind was gusting between buildings (The air bites shrewdly, Cassovan thought), bringing a sparkling new veil of snow. After watching Lincoln Young thrash his way across the quad in the direction of the facilities plant—one of the few areas where smoking was allowed on campus, and where a cluster of nicotine users could often be found huddled, like lepers, beneath a shelter—Cassovan walked alone in the other direction, testing the path ahead of him with a walking stick he had been assured by the woman who’d sold it to him was not a cane. He was eager to get home so that he could think more clearly about his book. Its discussion of memory and commemoration, he thought, was insufficient. Perhaps he could spend a few hours before going to bed— But of course the briefcase in his hand held fifty-five freshman and sophomore papers. Much of Cassovan’s life had been spent grading papers, his career a never-ending attempt to inspire in undergraduates the idea that logically developing and clearly explaining an original argument—supported via relevant detail—was a desirable and significant skill.

  He shuddered against the cold; it was early evening, but darkness had already thrown a cloak over the campus. He walked past the statue of Cyril Payne (attired in cowboy chaps and pleather vest) and ended up on the narrow sidewalk, flanked by lopsided pines, behind Willard Hall.

  And here it was again: the sound, or strong impression, behind him, of footsteps. Cassovan knew that, in general, the campus was safe and, at his age, he was more vulnerable to a stroke or a fall in the tub than to the plot of an anti-Shakespearean. But the sense of a presence or a person following—a dagger of the mind, a false creation?—was vividly real.

  The path narrowed ahead before opening into a tiny clearing that housed the blue emergency beacon. How often, Cassovan wondered, had some troubled student pressed the knob, fearful, asking for help? It was the unknown that most often frightened. Looking backward was sometimes painful; but only looking forward did one experience the dread and apprehension of the empty page. A flashlight’s beam swept the path behind him and was quickly extinguished. Did he hear someone approaching? Or was that the hammering of blood in his veins? He slipped on a nugget of ice, then regained his footing and continued up the slope toward the beacon, a lovely blue lighthouse surrounded by snow.

  * * *

  —

  Patience was not one of Roland Gladwell’s primary virtues, so he had periodically to remind himself that Rome was not built in a day, and that even among economists, no undertaking could be perfect, glitches attaching themselves to the most well-considered plans. He had hoped to have Fitger and his department out of Willard (or at least shunted into the basement) by the end of the year, but delays dogged his efforts: the provost, according to Wu, his assistant, was still “considering” QUAP’s recommendations, and President Hoffman was stagnation in human form. Dennis Cassovan was an additional source of annoyance: despite the carrots dangled in front of him and the sticks applied smartingly from behind, he had not yet agreed to Roland’s plan.

  But Roland had an ace in his pocket and therefore a reason to be optimistic. Following a grueling, yearlong series of meetings, which culminated in a visit to Manuela Pratt’s oceanfront estate in West Palm Beach, he had secured a very sizeable gift—in fact, one of the largest in Payne’s history—to be bestowed upon the Department of Economics at the end of the year. The combined largesse of Manuela Pratt and William Fixx (one widowed, the other divorced, they had met at an “Alumni of Distinction” gathering several years before) would be revealed to the campus and the public via a celebratory announcement early in May. The funds would secure the approbation of the president and the provost and would elevate Roland’s department above all others, enabling the removal of the word ENGLISH from the facade of Willard Hall.

  Roland strolled out of his office and into the reception area for a little chat about the Pratt-Fixx event with Marilyn Hoopes. The posters had gone up and the media had been notified, well in advance. Had she checked the VIP list? Provost Rutledge (provided he could be located) and President
Hoffman would be seated, of course, with the families of the donors. Catering should be lavish—but without alcohol because of the students. And he would need an extra pair of eyes to proofread his speech, though he wasn’t yet certain that—

  Marilyn Hoopes interrupted. “There’s a problem with the event,” she said.

  “What kind of problem?”

  She coughed politely, twice—a signal—and waited until the other women in the office stopped what they were doing and walked out the door. Manuela Pratt had called an hour ago, she said. She had offered apologies but said that she needed to change the date of the announcement: she had a grandchild who was competing in a water polo tournament, and she had promised him she would attend.

  “Water polo?” Roland asked.

  Yes. And Manuela had already compared her availability with that of Big Bill Fixx, and there was only one week when they would both be in town.

  “We agreed on this date in September,” Roland said.

  Yes, Marilyn Hoopes was aware. But apparently the grandchild had gotten confused about his schedule, and Manuela had promised to fly to California to see him compete.

  The announcement of a multimillion-dollar endowment displaced by a seventeen-year-old who didn’t know how to read a fucking calendar: Roland waited for his indignation to subside. “All right,” he said. “During which week does her grandson’s schedule allow her to be here?”

  “The second week of April.” All the arrangements and the invitations would have to be changed. Even more important, Marilyn Hoopes pointed out, the paperwork associated with the gift wouldn’t yet be complete.

  “We’ll put a rush on it,” Roland said. “We don’t have a choice.” It would be ridiculously inconvenient, but they would change the date; they would find a way to make it work.

  “I’ve been trying to make it work,” said Marilyn Hoopes. She scrolled through a document on her computer. “I can’t get a venue. The auditorium is booked.”

  Roland loomed like a thunderhead over her shoulder. “It’s booked every day?”

  “Every afternoon and evening that week. The only venue I can get is the gym.”

  He took the mouse from her hand and scrolled through the website. “Who reserved the auditorium? Who are these people? Are they student groups?”

  It appeared that they were. The groups were Payne’s Somali-American Cultural Society, the Future Millionaires’ Forum, the Organization for Pregnant and Parenting Students, Banjos and Zithers Anonymous, and the university’s chapter of Zombies vs. Radioactive Squid.

  “These people don’t need an auditorium,” Roland said. “All they need is half a classroom. And they can meet any week of the year. Can’t we shift them around?”

  Marilyn Hoopes said she’d been trying to do so, but it was difficult to track down the members of the groups who had actually made the reservations. It was interesting, though: the groups had all handled their bookings within a few hours, on the very same day.

  “What the hell does that mean?” Roland asked.

  Marilyn Hoopes didn’t know; but she was going to find out.

  * * *

  —

  Fitger gave the Caesar salad episode several weeks’ worth of an insomniac’s careful attention. Janet had chosen the restaurant and made the reservation. And she had asked, again, about Marie Eland. Perhaps she wasn’t planning to marry the bloviator, Hinckler. Was it possible, or faintly conceivable, that he and Janet…Should he call her? Invent a reason to swing by her office? At some time in the fall, she had called him charming. He sent her an e-mail. Neither of them had ordered dessert after their anniversary dinner, he wrote: Could he treat her to a crème brulay or choclate tart?

  Several days went by before she answered. Was she ignoring him, or pondering? At work, trying not to think about the fact that he had invited a children’s entertainer to campus, Fitger paced back and forth and checked his e-mail every ten minutes. Finally the response came: I don’t mind eating things that are mispelled. Marvelous woman: she deliberately omitted the second “s.”

  He quickly replied: Later this week? I’m free tomorrow.

  Again the delay before she answered. No. Thanks.

  He subjected the “thanks” to a few days of scrutiny—the tone was encouraging—before trying again. It was important that he not sound overeager, that he strike a note somewhere between jocular and sincere. I appreciated the heads-up about Angela, he wrote. I know you’re busy at this time of year, but we could do dessert for lunch someday instead of saving it for after dinner. Apple Brown Betty? Funnel cake? What are you doing this weekend?

  My father’s coming to town for a visit.

  Fitger’s relationship with his former father-in-law, “Bulldog” Matthias, had consisted mainly of a concerted effort to stay out of his way. So the weekend was probably out, but Janet hadn’t given him a categorical refusal. Before he could formulate a reply, she e-mailed again. Have you talked to Angela?

  Fitger slumped in front of the keyboard. It was baffling, he thought, that anyone would consider him to be the appropriate person to sit down with a pregnant eighteen-year-old and debate the idea of giving a baby up for adoption versus bringing it with her to school. But because Janet had charged him with this task, he had in fact made an effort, speaking to Angela twice, in his office. During their first conversation, he had spoken about the trajectory of her life in the context of the course syllabus: it was a narrative and, though not entirely in charge, she was its author. Even this indirect approach made the poor girl blush. During the second, they had ended up talking mainly about Treasure Island, a novel that thoroughly flummoxed most of his students despite the fact that it had been enjoyed, a century or so earlier, by ten-year-old boys.

  I’ve tried, he wrote. She *is* getting married.

  I know. I’ve got the date on my calendar.

  Fitger glanced at the copy of Orest Weisel’s Blue-Bellied Baboon—available in board book format as well as hardcover—that Fran had left on his desk. In preparation for his childhood friend’s visit, Kentrell had taken to stopping by on a near-daily basis to confer about the event’s many details: Weisel always flew first-class, he said, and the hotel on University Avenue was preferable; they served tea and muffins in the lobby every afternoon.

  Fitger obscured the book under a stack of files and reread, again, his e-mail correspondence with Janet. Let me know if you need an escape hatch or a distraction while your father’s in town, he wrote. I can be that needy, annoying friend you have to meet for a drink.

  No response. But two days later he got an e-mail the subject line of which read, Drink Saturday night?

  Definitely, he answered. How is your father?

  Dead.

  What? He looked more carefully at the e-mail. It was from Marie Eland.

  8:00 at your house, she wrote. I will see you then.

  * * *

  —

  For reasons that, in Fitger’s mind, remained somewhat obscure, Fran had impressed upon him the need for him to take care of Rogaine over the weekend. First she had mentioned something about a friend from out of town who didn’t like dogs; then the story had shifted, involving a handyman repairing her kitchen floor.

  Were there no kennels available? Fitger had asked.

  A kennel was completely out of the question, Fran said. The dog needed to learn trust, and he was familiar with Fitger; sending him to a kennel would set him back weeks in his rehabilitation.

  “You’d better behave yourself, you rock-headed varmint,” Fitger said to the dog, when Marie Eland rang the doorbell on Saturday night. Rogaine had spent the afternoon deconstructing a new pair of shoes.

  Marie Eland kissed Fitger on one cheek and then the other. “So you have a bodyguard,” she said, looking at Rogaine and handing over a bottle of expensive-looking wine. “Things are so dangerous now in your depa
rtment.”

  “Yes,” Fitger said. “Anyone who comes within ten feet of me is in danger of mange.”

  They went into the kitchen, leaving the dog to grind its butt across the rug, presumably releasing some sort of larvae onto the floor.

  While Marie Eland opened the wine and lit a cigarette simultaneously, Fitger offered condolences (a decade late, it turned out) on her father’s demise. He wasn’t sure what they should discuss, so they talked about death for a little while. Fitger’s father had died fairly young, and his mother’s (unfulfilled) last wish had been that she be embalmed and displayed in the window of Nordstrom, her favorite store.

  Marie Eland clinked her glass against his. They sat down on the couch. “It’s very clever—and brave, also—what you are doing.” She tapped the ash from her cigarette into a potted plant. “A campus visitor, and a public event in the auditorium.”

  Fitger murmured something about the English Department’s commitment to the non-university community and to K–12 education. “I don’t know about ‘brave,’ ” he said. “Orest Weisel is…” He wasn’t able to finish his sentence.

  “It is definitely brave.” Marie Eland sipped her wine and considered him. “Brave but foolish. You are thinking, My department is strong. I can play this dangerous game by myself. But you are mistaken. You will need allies.”

  “Allies,” Fitger said.

  “Yes.” She drew her bare feet up onto the couch. “You have locked your friend the gladiator from the auditorium. He is so angry.”

  “Roland is locked out of the auditorium?”

  The couch was old and soft; its cushions caused her to migrate gradually toward him. One of her breasts grazed the back of his hand. “Consolidated Languages would like to partner with you,” she said.

  “Partner?” he asked. “I’m not sure that—”