by Libby Malin
Hallows shuffled through some note pages. After a quick scan, he looked up and smiled. “No need, Tom. Q.T. will handle it.”
Beewater shot to his feet and came to the podium. “Of course, the students’ investigation will only corroborate your own thorough research on the poet,” Beewater said. “Andrew tells me he'll be distributing excerpts from your thesis for examination by the class. What was the title of our friend Aefle's keystone work again?”
“My Heart is a Turnip in God's Cellar,” Thomas mumbled. It was hard to think straight in the drenched claustrophobia of the seminar room, but among the mist-encased jargon, Thomas could distinguish two things with undeniable clarity: his life's work was being challenged, and that Hallows idiot had called Aefle's poetry a “text.” He had a notion to just leave the room and deal with Beewater privately, but he stayed put, mindful of the need to show respect to his peers, regardless how silly their ruminations could become.
“What we envisioned,” said Hallows, “was bringing in other faculty to discuss aspects of the text.”
Who was this “we,” Thomas wondered.
“Well then, why didn’t you ask me?”
“You just indicated scheduling might be a problem. And you didn’t respond to Q.T.’s email on the courses, so I just took the ball and ran with it. Q.T. will do a fine job on Aefle.”
A forceful woman’s voice came from the back of the room. “Tom, I’ll share my time with you. We can demonstrate scholarly debate.”
This offered no reassurance. The voice came from Heather Whitstone, head of Women’s Studies. Heather, a tall, angular woman with gray frizzy hair that cascaded around her head like Medusian snakes, questioned the validity of Aefle. Gloria had told Thomas.
Heather never questioned the authenticity of texts, oh no. She always questioned validity, however -- of everything, not just texts. The woman was a font of relativism. She would question the validity of her own birth if it would prove a theory she espoused.
Thomas knew from Gloria that Heather thought Aefle’s attitudes toward women, as indicated by his scant references to the fairer sex in his poetry, were “anachronistic.” Aefle, it seemed, hinted at the idea that all God’s creatures -- both men and women -- were capable of equally high levels of thought and were therefore complete equals in God and man’s sight, unlike the common medieval view of women as “imperfect men.” Thomas attributed this ahead-of-his-time view to Aefle’s own downtrodden position in his monastery. It gave him an empathy for other people in similar positions. Gloria and Heather disagreed.
Thomas’s face warmed. He clenched his teeth. Did Heather think Aefle was a hoax, a literary scam perpetrated on the ages? Did she intend to use this course to prove her point? She might talk about “validity,” but to the general university population, it would become a question of “authenticity.” What a coward, he thought. If you question Aefle, confront me directly. Don’t hide behind undergraduate students, using them to do your dirty work.
As if reading his mind, Heather was quick to add: “These courses are designed as explorations, to give students a sense of how a subject can be viewed from a thousand different ways with different results each time. It’s not about knowing things. It’s about teaching them to yearn to know things.”
Yearning to know things—I’m sure you want students to yearn to know your things, Heather, and your “exploration” will be structured accordingly.
Thomas’s T-shirt clung to his back in the densely humid atmosphere. He needed air. He needed a glass of water. He needed to go somewhere to clear his head.
He glanced around the room again, looking for answers. There in the opposite corner from Gloria and Heather sat Jonathan Belcamp, a new hire in the history department who specialized in late medieval, early renaissance art and history. Belcamp leaned back, cool and dry, turning pages to keep up with the talk.
Of course. Beewater had played a big role in hiring Jonathan and was extremely proud of this new catch, a young professor come over from Cambridge because his wife, an American doctor, was chief of cardiology at the university’s hospital. Now it was clear. Beewater was going to fast-track Jonathan’s tenure climb. Someone would have to be bumped out of the way for it. Thomas would be the bumpee.
His anger rose. As he was about to say something impolitic, his cell phone vibrated in its belt case. He didn’t even look at the number, glad for the interruption. It would provide a welcome excuse for him to leave the meeting and calm down. He pulled it out and held it up as he made for the door. Beewater didn’t let him leave without a joke, however. “Carolus Magnus, you’re not turning into Carolus Timidus now, are you—running away from your colleagues as soon as they want to talk about your Aefle?”
***
Had Beewater just called him Timid Tommy in Latin?
Thomas breathed deeply as he brought the phone up to his ear and said hello.
“Tommy, is that you? I almost hung up.” DeeDee’s voice crackled over the line, sounding angry. It didn’t matter -- his heart soared as soon as he recognized her. What a cool balm after the horrible discussion in that sweltering room.
“Sorry. I was in a meeting.” But he was free of it now, stepping out into the sunshine of a green quad. He headed for a shady bench and sat down, ready to enjoy the conversation with her, to renew his hero status, if only in his own mind. “Is everything okay? I’m so glad you called. I was worried about you. You must still be recovering. I was thinking of calling later to--”
“He put up a fucking billboard, Tommy!”
A billboard. Who put one up and why was she telling him? And why was she calling him Tommy, as in Timid Tommy? Softly, he said, “Would you mind calling me Thomas? Or at least Tom? No one calls me Tommy anymore.”
“It’s right on Route 301 and it says: Buck Bewley Used Cars: Buck Won’t Give You Any Crap! And it has a picture of me throwing my shoes at him when we were being chased down Main Street! He had the ad company do a rush job. That fucking asshole! That lying bastard!”
Thomas pushed his glasses up and rubbed his eyes, taking another deep breath to calm himself. He had to be strong for DeeDee. He had to help her. She’d reached out to him, which was a good sign. “Was it Photoshopped?”
“Huh?”
“The picture. If it’s a real photo of you with no alteration, it’s the truth.” She had, after all, left the altar and thrown the shoes. It was better for her to accept the truth of the incident, and then find a solution to this latest challenge. “Maybe it will help your own business, DeeDee,” he said, trying to find a silver lining that would offer her some comfort. “What is it they say about publicity -- even bad publicity is really good--”
“It’s defamation of character, Tom! That’s what my lawyer called it when I talked to her this morning, and I agree. Everybody knows who I am, and they know what he’s really saying-- he’s saying my dealership sells crap. Junk. Lemons.”
“It’s an American car dealership, right?” That reminded Thomas -- he’d meant to talk to Megan about giving her their dad’s SUV so he could shop for a SmartCar for himself. Just for around town. He'd heard they tended to become slightly airborne at highway speeds. A Vespa would be easier to park...
He thought he heard her growl.
“Good lord, you’re not one of those Hondanistas, are you? One of those self-loathing anti-American car jerks? I am so, so sick of that. You should see the quality reports on American vehicles versus Honda. Oh, hell, why am I arguing with you? I’m just calling to let you know I’m countersuing Buck, and you could be named as a witness.”
“What?” Did she just say “countersuing”? Did she just say he was a witness?
“It’s not just the billboard. You should see what he’s saying on Facebook, too. It’s… it’s… unspeakable.”
His brows furrowed. Okay, he could do this -- find something that would help her and cool things down. He was a problem-solver now. He’d saved her from a bad marriage. Surely this issue would be far less intract
able. Of course, she was upset. Being treated so poorly by thuggish Buck. And she’d called him. He had to rise to the occasion, live up to her expectations. “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry. I’m sure after he thinks better of it, he’ll forget all about it and things will settle --”
“My lawyer will want to get a deposition from you. You stole me from the altar.”
It's not like he stole her from a department store! A deposition? That hadn’t been what he’d had in mind. He’d thought of an arm around her shoulder. Maybe at night. On a sofa. In private. He’d thought of whispering soothing words in her ear. Then nibbling on it.
He couldn’t afford to be involved in a sordid lawsuit right now. It would probably consume enormous amounts of time, and he needed to be fully focused on his academic life as he pursued his tenure quest.
“Uh, but, DeeDee, to be precise, you actually left the altar on your own volition, as you told me, and you were the one driving the car when we left town,” he said using his quiet voice of reason, the same tone he’d used with that grad student who’d been late with a paper. “So, in terms of running away, one could argue -- a lawyer could argue, that is -- that you are, well, for want of a better phrase, equally guilty.”
Why was running away such a theme in his life?
DeeDee just cursed. “There you go with that ‘one’ stuff again.”
Despite irritation rising in his throat, he kept his voice calm. “You said you’re countersuing him. What’s the original suit?”
“Intentional misrepresentation of contract, fraud, and emotional distress. He filed it today. I found out when I called my lawyer about the billboard,” she said. “Oh, you’ll probably have to give a deposition in that, too. Just a heads up. Do you know a good lawyer? I can recommend one, but you’d have to come to Oyster Point.”
Thomas closed his eyes and muttered his own silent curses. This was not at all what he’d imagined when thinking of the new connection with DeeDee. This substantially altered his vision of her as a modern-day goddess on his arm at the faculty party. A car dealership-owning runaway bride whose language could make a sailor blush was not part of that picture at all. He’d forgotten just how blunt she could be. “That’s okay. I know someone.” His sister Megan, to be exact. A suitable payback to her for luring him to their cousin’s wedding -- she could get him through this awful process, pro bono. And make sure that not a breath of it reached the university where Beewater and Belcamp would be quick to use it against him.
“Well, give me his number, okay? I think my lawyer will want to set something up pronto. Any chance you could head to Oyster Point for the weekend? Buck’s pushing to get in front of a judge real quick and he knows people in this town to make it happen.”
“Uh, well, let me check some things,” he mumbled. Just a few minutes ago, an invitation from DeeDee would have set his heart -- and other body parts -- on fire. But now it turned his stomach. A lawsuit involving a runaway bride? It was cartoonish, the stuff his colleagues would find childish and low-class, maybe even evidence of his lack of seriousness.
Memories of the less appealing parts of their romance returned. DeeDee had little sense of decorum. He recalled more than one occasion on a date when she’d let her feelings be known, rather loudly, about something she found inadequate -- from food to seating to price.
Had it really been kismet to wander into her wedding -- or had it been incredibly bad luck?
Whatever it was, he had to straighten this out. He’d go to Oyster Point. Maybe he could convince DeeDee to give up the suit, to make peace.
He gave DeeDee Megan’s number, hung up, and phoned his sister himself.
***
“What?” That very afternoon Thomas stared at his sister across the big conference room table in her firm’s downtown office. He’d spoken with her several times already as she’d made contact with DeeDee’s lawyer and tried to get Thomas out of the legal picture entirely, to no avail.
He thought she’d called him in merely to go over his deposition-- or rather, to prepare for it -- and now Megan had gobsmacked him with more bad news.
“It’s called Tortious Interference with a Contract,” she said, sliding legal papers toward him. “Buck Bewley is saying you interfered with his contract to marry DeeDee.”
Thomas inwardly growled and looked over the papers, which to him were as incomprehensible as medieval English to others outside his area of expertise.
“So this is part of the suit against DeeDee?” he asked.
Megan shook her head, looking at her brother with a creased brow. “No. This is a separate lawsuit against you.”
He stared at her wild-eyed. “I can’t have a lawsuit filed against me. Not now!” He stood and paced to the window.
“Tom, I think you should have thought of that before you…” She stopped herself. “This guy means business. As soon as he discovered I was your attorney, I got this from him.”
“What do I do to make it go away?” he asked, not looking at her.
“I think it would help to convince DeeDee to drop her countersuit.”
“I thought of that.” And the more he’d thought of it today, the more difficult he’d realized it would be. He’d yet to tell her, after all, that he’d stopped the wedding as a joke. It was all too complicated now -- and his idea of starting a new relationship with DeeDee had soured as he’d contemplated all the possibilities. What had he been thinking?
“You convinced her to leave the altar.”
“That was different.” She’d already intended to do that, after all.
“It’s worth a try.”
Thomas turned to face her, his hands in his jeans pockets, his face ashen. “So what do I do?”
“Take her out to dinner. Sweet talk her.”
He snorted out a laugh. “Like I know how to do that.”
Megan smiled at her brother. “Stop being so...”
He grimaced, waiting for the word “timid.”
“... modest,” Megan said. “You’re a good-looking man. You’re successful. Cultured. A gentleman. You saved her from a bad situation. And the two of you did have a thing at one time, remember? You might be more persuasive than you think. Look, you work that angle and I’ll get your deposition postponed. A deal?”
He sighed. He had nothing on his schedule the next day. A long weekend. He’d been hoping to get together with Gloria to grill her on what she knew about Jonathan Belcamp and this whole interdisciplinary course thing. And then he’d looked forward to a long, warm phone call with DeeDee to solidify the new connection they’d made -- but that had been before this litigious dam had broken.
“Okay. I’ll visit Dad while I’m there.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE GOOD NEWS was that DeeDee responded quickly to his phone calls. The better news was that she agreed to meet with him for lunch on Saturday. The bad news -- she was still out of sorts about the lawsuit and seemed to include Tom in her grump. She’d not talked with him much beyond setting up the when and where of their meeting.
As he packed the next morning, Tom was in a deep funk. Ever since the wedding, he’d been sailing on a high, thinking of talking to DeeDee, looking forward to the semester’s end and some new research he was about to dive into, contemplating how his future would be better once he secured tenure. Life had seemed filled with sunny possibilities -- respect, love, even more money, once he grasped tenure and moved up the academic ladder.
Now all that was changed. And yet, it all seemed so familiar. Thomas wasn’t used to getting the prize -- he’d been bullied so often throughout his life, that he’d grown used to diminished expectations.
That’s what made the faculty meeting yesterday so troubling. The one area in Thomas’s life that rarely disappointed was his position in academe. There he had respect. There he had admiration. There he had… safety, security, even, at times, affection from the dreamy-eyed coeds who occasionally developed a crush on him.
But in yesterday’s departmental powwow, Thomas had
begun to feel -- for flashes of moments -- as if he were back in high school again, and someone was about to pull the chair out from under him.
Gloria. She would know what was up and if Belcamp was gunning for his position. He’d give her a call before he left.
He quickly dialed her number, and a few rings later, a throaty voice came on the line. Not Gloria’s. But a familiar voice, nonetheless -- Heather’s!
“Uh…” Thomas sputtered. What was Heather doing with Gloria’s phone?
“Hello?” Heather repeated.
“Uh… is Gloria there?” My god, he sounded like a teen talking to his girlfriend’s mom.
“Mmm… yeah.”
He heard Heather walking and then saying: “I picked up your phone. Sounds like Tom.”
“Hi, Tom,” Gloria said a second later.
His buoyant optimism gone, Tom said nothing at first.
“Tom?”
“I’m here. Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “I was wondering… well, I’m headed to the Eastern Shore on business and wanted to talk to you before I left.”
“Oh?” She sounded confused. As confused as he felt. He couldn’t grill her if Heather was there. Heather might overhear. Or Gloria might even share what he said with her. My god, Gloria was sleeping with the enemy! Why had he thought she was a dating possibility for him?
“Tom?” she asked. “You still there?”
“Yes, yes. I just, well, I, I wasn’t sure after yesterday’s meeting if, I…” Oh, hell. What should he say now? “I just wanted to say that, I’m seeing someone.”
Did she just laugh?
“That’s wonderful.” He could hear the smile in her voice.
“I mean, I know you and I went out occasionally, but I’ve been meaning to tell you that…”
“No need. That’s all right.”
Was she laughing at him? Damn, he couldn’t tell on the phone.
“Anyway, I hope it doesn’t interfere with any collaboration we might do, uh, on the interdepartmental coursework we, uh, talked about yesterday.”
