The minister had asked her a question and seemed to be waiting.
When Angela had met with Professor Fitger in his office, he had told her that she might think of her life as a book, with herself as its author. She had told him that she couldn’t imagine writing a book, and he had said that lesser people than she had done it, and she wrote very well. She looked past Trevor, who had been clutching his tie for the past ten minutes, and toward the pews on the left side of the church. There was Professor Stang, with her typewriter necklace; Professor Cassovan in his black suit with the handkerchief peeping out of his breast pocket; there were Ms. Matthias and Ashkir and Fran. The thing Angela had worried about had begun to happen: they were all waiting for her to say or do something, but she couldn’t speak. And when the minister repeated his question and Angela saw that the daisies on her dress had begun to shake as if to remove themselves from the fabric, Professor Fitger stepped into the aisle and asked if she would like to sit down or take a moment—because it would be fine if she needed to do so; she was in charge, but he would walk with her, if she liked, back down the aisle and out of the chapel. He came toward her and extended his arm.
The minister, starched in his cassock, looked at Fitger, who was wearing an ill-fitting jacket and had dog vomit splattered over one of his shoes. “You presume to advise this young woman?” he asked.
Fitger said, “I do.”
FIFTEEN
MAJOR GIFT TO THE DEPARTMENT OF ECONOMICS ANNOUNCED
—by L. R. Young
The Campus Scribe (April 11, 2011): Roland Gladwell, Professor and Chair of Economics, will announce a major gift to his department this week, during an event which is open to the public and the Payne community. Gladwell, reached in his office, was tight-lipped about the amount of the gift and the use to which it will be put, but claimed it will be a “game changer” for his department, located on the second floor of Willard Hall.
“It is deeply gratifying,” Gladwell said, “when donors from industry and the community recognize the excellence of our teaching and scholarship.”
President Nyla Hoffman echoed Professor Gladwell’s sentiments and encouraged Payne’s students, staff, and faculty to attend the announcement, which will be followed by a special recognition of Professor Gladwell’s work on behalf of the university.
“The Department of Economics is clearly superlative,” Hoffman said. “I know that everyone at Payne will share in the pleasure of its success.”
Tossing the Scribe into the recycling bin in the hall, Fran wondered whether “sharing in the pleasure of Econ’s success” might include access to their women’s bathroom, which sported a sign asking faculty and students in English to use their own facility on the lower floor. Econ’s plan (Roland hadn’t bothered to obscure it) was to evict English from Willard and—like a fat man in an airplane seat—to spread into the space rightfully belonging to someone else. And where was English supposed to go when it was pushed out of Willard? To the racquetball courts? Fran imagined her office turned into a dressing room for Marilyn Hoopes. On a flyer on the mailroom door, she was confronted by Roland Gladwell’s smug expression; his face was plastered on glossy posters everywhere around campus. But every advertisement for Econ’s announcement of the Pratt-Fixx gift bore a corrective banner: NEW DATE AND LOCATION! Thank you, Ashkir, Fran thought. The event would unfold—in fact, was unfolding right now—against a backdrop of socks and deodorant, in the gym.
It was Friday afternoon and the building was quiet, the students preparing for their evening inebriations and the Econ faculty and staff having strolled off in a self-congratulatory cluster to learn of the riches that would soon rain down upon them from above. Fitger had left the office with Rogaine, muttering something about not wanting to hear, from his window, the roars of bloodlust coming from the gym.
She reentered the English Department suite. A few minutes later Angela came in, her final essay for Fitger’s class in her hand.
“Look at that,” Fran said. “So you finished, huh? And ahead of schedule.”
Angela gave her the essay—“Ambiguous Role Models in Adventure Literature, by Angela B. Vackrey.” She told Fran that she needed to get everything done early. “I’m going home today,” she said. “I have to be on partial bed rest, my doctor says.” They stood in the anteroom together; Angela looked at the closed door of Fitger’s office. “He isn’t in?”
“I’m not sure where he’s wandered off to,” Fran said, dropping the essay into the slot on his door. “He’s been hard to find since the Orest Weisel performance on Tuesday. I don’t think it fit very well with his self-image.”
“It was fun to see all those little kids in the auditorium, though,” Angela said. “They were so excited. And Professor Fitger was a good sport in that skit at the end.”
“Yeah, I never expected to see him dressed as a peppermint tree. But every day here at Payne I learn something new. Speaking of which: Do you want to see the new animal I’ve got in my office? Someone abandoned her, the poor thing.”
Together they peered through the narrow window in Fran’s office door.
“Wow. What is it?”
“Monitor lizard,” Fran said. “She’s not full-grown; otherwise it would be hard to bring her to work. But she’s adjusting; I set up a heat lamp there in the corner.” The animal—almost three feet long, with a dust-colored mountain range that extended down the length of its spine—turned away from a food dish full of what appeared to be sizeable insects and, with a sociopathic expression, lunged for the door.
“Not family-friendly yet,” Fran said. The lizard clawed itself upright and glared at them with a mineral eye through the window. “But think about how far Rogaine has come. I’m willing to bet he’ll have an owner by the end of next week.” She put her hand against the glass. “Well, enough about me. How are you feeling these days? Are you getting enough sleep? You’re taking vitamins?”
“Yeah.” Angela scratched at her stomach. “Mostly I feel hot. And big. My feet are huge.”
They both looked at her feet, in a pair of white sneakers. Next to Fran’s feet, in their rubber sandals, they looked tidy and elegant, almost demure.
“You look wonderful; I mean it,” Fran said. “I want you to let me know if you need anything—baby clothes, books, whatever.”
Angela thanked her. “I still haven’t—I know it probably seems late, but—” She looked at Fran. “I’m still not sure if I’m going to keep it. To keep him. That sounds strange, doesn’t it? I found out it’s a boy. Obviously I need to decide soon. I can’t wait until—well, I don’t know exactly how long I can wait.”
Fran asked if she needed a lawyer—Ms. Matthias would definitely find one for her—or if she wanted help extracting money or maybe some pints of blood or a testicle from Trevor L. Thurley.
“No. Actually, Trevor has decided to transfer,” Angela said. “He’s going to Saint Silas next year.”
Fran limited herself to a subtle murmur of response, quelling what otherwise would have been a thorough condemnation of the sanctimonious son of a bitch who had knocked Angela up, then tried to bully her into a misogynistic excuse for a wedding.
“His mother is still angry,” Angela said. “She told Trevor she won’t pay tuition for a secular university where the teachers are atheists and no one has values.” Besides, Trevor would be happier at Saint Silas, she said. He had asked Angela (without telling his mother) to transfer also—though he had cautioned her that it was a very strictly faith-based school.
“Amazing that he felt confident enough of his own moral standing to be able to advise you,” Fran said. She resisted the urge to suggest that every mile Angela could insert between herself and the father of her future child would be a boon. It was a three-hour drive between Payne and the incorruptibles at Saint Silas; Fran indulged in a brief agnostic prayer that Trevor would be denied access to any and all modes of t
ransportation—cars, vans, buses, bicycles, camels, scooters—and that any contact between his family and Angela’s would consist only of generous, regular installments of cash.
“I wouldn’t want to go to Saint Silas anyway,” Angela said. “And I wouldn’t have a scholarship there.”
“So you’ll be coming back to Payne in the fall?”
“I’m not sure yet. But I haven’t withdrawn. Will you still be here, Fran?”
“Me? I’ve ordered a manacle so I can be fastened by the leg to my desk. Hey, that reminds me. Professor Fitger and I got you something.” She went into Fitger’s adjoining office and came back with a small paper bag. “I didn’t wrap these yet, because I didn’t know you’d be coming by.”
Angela opened the bag and held up two T-shirts, one a medium adult and the other a newborn. Both were emblazoned with the word PAYNE. She held the newborn shirt in front of her. “I love them. Thank you. Would you tell Professor Fitger goodbye for me?”
Fran said she would. “Is someone coming to get you?”
Angela looked at her watch. “My mother and grandmother. They’ll be here in an hour.”
Fran gave her an apple. “A snack for the road,” she said. “Do you want me to hide in the trunk of their car? Or in a suitcase? I could probably fit.”
No. Things were calmer now, Angela said, between herself and her mother; she was almost looking forward to being at home. “Tell Professor Fitger I’ll write him a thank-you note,” she said. “I mean, for the T-shirts. And for advising me. And for standing up at the wedding and walking outside with me and saying it didn’t matter if everyone was in there waiting, Trevor and his mother and the minister and Professor Cassovan and you and Professor Stang and everyone else. He said, ‘Let them wait’—and we sat and talked for almost an hour! And I told him I didn’t know what I was doing, I’ve been so confused all year, and then we talked about Robert Louis Stevenson, because I didn’t come to college to get married, I came to get an education, and to—”
“It’s all right,” Fran said. “It’s okay; don’t cry.”
Angela wiped her eyes on the T-shirts and put them away. She thanked Fran again. “When you see Professor Fitger,” she said, “please tell him how lucky I feel, that I drew his name as my adviser at the start of the year.”
* * *
—
Outside the gymnasium, which Marilyn Hoopes had done her utmost to refresh and disguise, Roland Gladwell was getting ready to make the most significant speech of his academic career. At one end of the gym, students eagerly shouted back and forth (a free buffet would follow the announcement of the Pratt-Fixx gift) and thumped their feet in the wooden bleachers; faculty and VIPs were seating themselves in chairs, facing the hastily erected platform at the other end. A blue-and-white Payne banner hung from the ceiling over the podium. Manuela Pratt and William Fixx and their families had taken their places and were chatting with President Hoffman in the front row.
Roland conferred briefly with Marilyn Hoopes and his other assistants. This was the moment when the Department of Economics would forever distinguish itself from the quagmire that was Payne. Roland would soon be chairing a unit that would attract and hire illustrious scholars. For the price of a few curricular tweaks that would steer both faculty and students toward a greater appreciation of the market economy, the department would become a magnet for excellence: even better, the donation from Manuela Pratt and William Fixx (he would be sure to pronounce their names slowly) would enable him to begin the process of ejecting Fitger and his riffraff colleagues from Willard Hall.
Was everything ready? Roland’s speech was in his breast pocket, and President Hoffman had taken her seat, accompanied by a potpourri of deans. Of course the auditorium (currently in use by seven members of Banjos and Zithers Anonymous) would have been a much more appropriate venue; but given Manuela Pratt’s water polo appointments, the gym would suffice. Roland felt uneasy about the paperwork: because of the last-minute change to the date and the slothlike pace at which everything occurred over in Legal, the final documents hadn’t been signed. But Marilyn Hoopes assured him that the ink would be more than dry by the following week.
Marilyn opened the door closest to the dais and touched his shoulder by way of a go-ahead. The podium was stocked with three bottles of water and the mic was live, so he should simply follow the red carpet on his way to the stage, remembering to—
“Wait. What is that?” Roland asked.
Jouncing up and down on its furry haunches beside the podium—in fact, now summoning Roland with the mindless joie de vivre of a game-show host—was Payne’s mascot, Pup-Dog, cheered by the crowd.
“Pup-Dog comes with the venue,” Marilyn said.
“What do you mean, he comes with the venue?” Roland asked. “Does he live in the gym? This is his home?”
“There’s nothing I can do about it,” Marilyn said. “All public events in the gym involve the mascot.”
On the dais, Pup-Dog dropped into a squat and did some push-ups, then leapt to his feet again, beckoning to Roland. In the bleachers, the students yipped and rollicked and made digging gestures in the air with their hands.
“I can’t make a speech with that thing prancing around,” Roland said, as Pup-Dog swung his hips from side to side and mimed the delivery of remarks at the mic. “How do we get him to leave the stage?”
“I have no authority over the mascot,” Marilyn said.
Sweat dampened the collar of Roland’s shirt. What kind of sense did it make, at an institution as hierarchical as Payne, for an undergraduate in a rodent costume to be overseen by no one, a free agent entirely lacking in supervision? Roland followed the red carpet onto the stage. Did he have his speech? Yes, it was in his pocket. He simply needed to—On impulse, he veered from the podium and approached the mascot, who—perhaps startled—spun his polyester head in a circle, then darted away.
“Hold still,” Roland growled.
Pup-Dog spun his head in the other direction and kept the podium between them. The students laughed.
Roland signaled for Marilyn Hoopes to bring a chair, which she did—setting it up a few feet from where Roland was to give his speech. Pup-Dog started toward the chair but before he could sit in it, Roland pushed it farther from the podium, toward the edge of the dais. Pup-Dog briefly looked dejected, then sat down, as if sulking, with his back to Roland. On the gym floor below, a reporter was taking pictures with a flash.
Roland went back to the microphone and unfolded his speech. Was someone supposed to have introduced him? No; he should probably introduce himself. In the first row, President Hoffman said something to Manuela Fixx; that is, to Manuela Pratt. Roland barreled through his opening paragraph. As Chairman of the Department of Economics here at Payne, I take great pride and pleasure in…The filthy mascot had straddled the folding chair and scooched a bit closer to the podium. Very few universities are fortunate enough to…Damn. Roland had accidentally omitted a sentence. With the mascot leering in his direction, he cleared his throat and began again.
* * *
—
In an empty classroom in Willard, Jason Fitger sat in a lopsided wooden chair, defeated, with Rogaine (exiled from Fran’s office by an overgrown lizard) asleep at his feet. Fran claimed the dog had taken a shine to him; had Fitger read the articles she had sent him about the benefits of the human–animal bond? Fitger didn’t mind if Rogaine accompanied him around campus—sometimes the dog even followed him into the men’s room, helping himself to liquid refreshment—but he wasn’t prepared to become the animal’s forever home.
It was four-fifteen. By now, Roland would have made his announcement and would be writing eviction notices and getting ready for the tar-and-feather ceremony for English. “Prepare yourself; it’s not going to be pretty,” Fitger said, running the sole of his shoe over Rogaine’s mottled fur; the dog enjoyed anything that invo
lved human feet. “The first thing they’ll do is push us out of the first floor into the basement,” Fitger said. “And when they run out of storage space for their new money, they’ll probably convert the basement into a vault.”
He looked out the window. The weather was dismal. The statue of Cyril Payne, appropriately dressed in lime-green swimming trunks and a snorkel, had presided over three days of rain that had left the sidewalks crosshatched with worms. Fitger had distributed yet another version of the SOV with a ballot attached but was not optimistic. Cassovan had apparently been bribed with promises of his own free-wheeling Shakespearean kingdom, and Roland continued to offer retirement incentives to both Tyne and Glenk (Glenk was suffering an expensive year with the miniature donkeys, what with laminitis infecting the herd).
One way or the other—this thought cheered him somewhat—the semester would be over soon, and the Payne campus would resemble a sparsely attended park. With the students gone, he would be able to work part-time at home, taking an inventory of his remaining teeth and asking himself whether it would be preferable to chop off both of his hands with an axe or continue to serve as department chair. Again he looked out the window, expecting at any moment to hear riotous pecuniary huzzahs or to see Roland’s likeness etched into the heavens by skywriting planes above the gym.
Rogaine wagged his stump of a tail and emitted a flatulent groan of contentment.
“You are disgusting.” Fitger picked up the leash. “Do you think it’s time to go back to the office?”
Rogaine did. Together they walked down the hall past the W LC ME O ENGLI H sign and, opening the door, found Janet, in a blue raincoat, talking to Fran. Fitger stared. Water dripped from his ex-wife’s raincoat onto the floor.
“There you are,” Fran said. “We were just talking about the Orest Weisel event. I told Janet it was definitely a hit with the preschool crowd. We even made money on the visit.”
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