by Jane Langton
Owen could have wept. The injustice of Providence smote him. How could fate have taken Catherine away from him and left Harvey saddled with Eunice Jane?
At last he made his escape and hung up the phone. Something fell with a crash. A heavy piece of furniture was squealing across the floor, hitting the other side of the wall with a jarring thud.
Leaping to his feet, Owen threw open the door. Two middle-aged men were flailing at each other in the outer office, tripping over the coatrack, plunging heavily this way and that in the small space between the windows and the door to the hall.
One of the combatants was Dombey Dell, chairman of the English department, administrator of one hundred and eighty-six separate sections of literature and composition and a teaching staff of seventy-five, to say nothing of an army of teaching assistants. As Owen watched in astonishment, Dombey landed a punch in the other man’s solar plexus, then lost his balance and catapulted into Winifred Gaw’s big potted plant.
“Oof,” said the other man, swinging wildly at empty air. It was Owen’s old friend from Concord, Homer Kelly, distinguished Thoreau scholar and professor of American literature, and ex-lieutenant detective for Middlesex County. Owen was chagrined to observe that Homer didn’t seem to have any pugilistic know-how, in spite of his early background as a policeman. Homer was throwing his long arms around Dombey Dell in a bear hug and hanging on with all his strength.
“You lying alphabetarian,” gasped, Dombey, struggling to get his arms free. “You philological sneak!”
“Good heavens, gentlemen,” cried Owen. “What’s this all about?” Stepping bravely into the fray, he took Homer by the shoulders and dragged him away from Dombey Dell.
Dombey and Homer glared at each other, breathing hard. Then Homer turned to Owen angrily, and shrugged himself back into his jacket. “I think Professor Dell is troubled by a letter I wrote in the Proceedings of the Modern Language Association, disagreeing with some of his premises on nineteenth-century American usage. He seems to prefer fisticuffs to scholarly discourse.”
Once again Dombey flung himself at Homer. Taken by surprise, Homer stumbled into Owen, who lost his balance and floundered backward through his office door. Together the three of them fell in a jumble against Owen’s desk. “Look here,” said Owen, his voice muffled under Homer, “why don’t you people join me in a cup of coffee?”
Grumpily, Dombey and Homer stood up, and then Owen, struggling to his feet, began bustling around among his cupboards and shelves. “Sorry, but I don’t seem to have anything to go with the coffee but these—ah—pretzels? I’m afraid they’re two years old.”
Dombey and Owen sat down sullenly, but Owen’s clumsy hospitality soon broke the ice. Before long, Dombey was chaffing Owen about his terrible coffee and explaining what he had come for.
“We took a vote. The entire English faculty. I warned you, Owen. That girl has got to go. Winifred Gaw is no longer an employee of the English department. She is no longer a candidate for the doctor’s degree. She leaves today, you hear that, Owen? You and your lame ducks.”
Owen was dismayed. Picturing the scene with Winnie, he passed his hand over his eyes. How was he going to tell her? It would be an ordeal of the most harrowing kind.
But Dombey had no mercy. He turned to Homer. “You should see this Winnie Gaw. What a slob. You know what, Owen? If I looked like Winifred Gaw, I hope I’d have the grace to shoot myself.” Then Dombey snickered, and gestured at the picture on the wall, Owen’s precious copy of the daguerreotype of the young Emily Dickinson. “I must admit that’s what troubles me about our famous local poet. Look at the woman! That’s one plain little lady.”
Homer Kelly was outraged. “My God, Dombey, that’s the stupidest thing I ever heard. Listen, you dumb cluck, what difference does it make what a great poet looks like?”
Hostility was boiling up again. Swiftly, Owen pulled the envelope from Peter Wiggins out of his bookbag and waved it at Dombey and Homer. “But perhaps she was truly good-looking after all! I have a letter this morning from a man named Peter Wiggins in Arizona. He owns that controversial photograph of Emily Dickinson. He claims he can prove it’s authentic. He wants to come and give a speech.”
“Well, good for him,” said Dombey, settling back in his chair. “Because, listen, Owen, I’m telling you a solemn fact. If Emily Dickinson was as homely as that picture on your wall, I hold it against her. I’m sorry to admit it, but it’s something in my glands.”
Homer said something rude about Dombey’s glands, and Dombey snarled. Owen hastened to intervene. “My dear Dombey, how can it possibly matter? It was all so long ago.”
And then Owen made his fatal mistake.
“After all,” he said, “Emily Dickinson has been dead for a hundred years. Homer’s perfectly correct. It’s the poetry that counts. Nothing else.”
“That’s right,” growled Homer self-righteously.
But Dombey was no longer listening. He was calculating under his breath. “It’s true. It will be a hundred years next May.” His eyes brightened. He grinned. “Say, listen, that gives me a superb idea. You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to organize an Emily Dickinson Centennial Symposium on the hundredth anniversary of her death, and invite people from all over the country.” Dombey threw his arms wide and shouted, “All over the world!” Raising his fist, he brought it down on Owen’s desk with a crash. Owen’s books bounced. His coffee cup jiggled. “A hundred years dead! By God, I’ll drag the woman out of her grave! And afterwards, when anybody thinks of Emily Dickinson, who will they think of first? Dombey Dell, that’s who.” Dombey smirked. “Me, in short. In person.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Dombey,” said Homer, exasperated. “If they think of anybody now and forevermore, it will be Professor Owen Kraznik, you big jerk.”
“No, no, please, no.” Owen shook his head and closed his eyes in silent suffering. It was the kind of talk that pained him most. He was repelled by Dombey’s display of scholarly megalomania. He knew exactly what would happen. Dombey would organize his conference and prance around on the platform and make himself famous, and at the same time he would say condescending things about the poet. Not only would he be important in his own right, he would be more important than Emily Dickinson herself. It was sickening.
But Dombey was throwing back his head in a paroxysm of self-congratulation. “Oh, this is going to be a lovely, lovely symposium. We’ll all get a chance to show off. You, too, Owen. You, too, Homer. And we’ll get Tom Perry in on it. The University of Massachusetts and Amherst College, we’ll run it jointly. And I’ll get hold of that guy in Arizona. He can talk about his picture. Oh, wow, isn’t this great. I’ve never had a whole entire conference to call my own. The Emily Dickinson Centennial Symposium, brainchild of Professor Dombey Dudley Dell, founder, guiding star, principal factotum, and distinguished majordomo.”
“Oh, Dombey, you big ass,” said Homer.
But Dombey was jumping out of his chair. “Well, say, I’d better get right to work before somebody else thinks of the same thing. Get out my pick and shovel, start digging the woman up.” Dombey jumped over Homer’s huge shins, then paused in the doorway. “Metaphorically speaking, of course,” he said, simpering. “I mean, just as a figure of speech.”
He was gone, slamming the door behind him.
Owen stared at Homer, shaken to the core.
Homer stood up and tore angrily at his hair. “You know, Owen, the man scares me. He’s dangerous. A conference like that is unhealthy. I mean it, speaking as an ex-cop. What you’ll get is a collection of snarling tigers. Everything at a fever pitch of ambition and jealousy and character assassination. All those professors, they look so mild and easygoing on the surface, but underneath it’s the law of the jungle. Violence, that’s what you’ll get! I mean, look what that fool did, Dombey Dell.” Homer displayed the torn sleeve of his jacket. “He jumped me from the rear. A savage attack.”
“Oh, yes, I know,” murmured Owen, sinking hi
s head into his hands. “And the man does have such an unfortunate way of expressing himself.”
“You mean, all that stuff about digging Emily Dickinson out of her grave? Listen, Owen, I’ll tell you what it’s like. Remember those people who discovered the tomb of King Tut? You know, they broke the seals and burst in and took away all the mummies and the gold and everything? You know what happened to them? Death and destruction!”
4
… love got peevish, watching—
Homer helped himself to another petrified pretzel and told Owen his amazing news. He was living in Amherst now. “Renting a room on Route Nine. You know, Owen, bachelor quarters. It’s got a kitchen. I’m cooking my own supper.”
“Bachelor quarters?” Owen was dismayed. His fingers trembled with concern. “No trouble between you and your good wife, I hope?” he said anxiously, coming to the point at once.
Homer snorted in horror. “Good God, no. I rush home to Concord every weekend. I’m a guest lecturer at Mount Holyoke for the academic year. They wanted Mary too, but she’s committed to that course we taught a couple of years ago in Memorial Hall at Harvard. Remember? All that hoopla with the music, and the explosion, and the poor chap who was buried alive?”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Owen smiled. “The papers were full of it, even in this remote corner of the world. You attained a good deal of celebrity, as I recall.”
“Notoriety is more like it,” grumbled Homer. “Anyway, I’m supposed to tell you Mary sends her love.” Homer cocked his great doggy head and looked wisely at Owen. “Wasn’t it this month, two years ago, that Catherine—?”
“Yes, it was. Two years ago tomorrow. Thank you, Homer, for remembering.”
Homer rumbled sympathetically, and thought how attractive the man was. There he sat, the great Owen Kraznik, looking like a child behind his big desk, his narrow chest concave beneath his shirt, his shirt cuffs nearly engulfing his small hands, his eyes wet—Owen was famous for bursting into tears at moments of emotion. Taken all in all, decided Homer admiringly, Owen was the very opposite of the popular image of the desirable American male, that cool, expressionless, jut-jawed hero. Jut-jawed! Owen didn’t even have a chin. His face sort of disappeared into his collar. Nor did he, thank God, share Dombey Dell’s cruel macho sense of humor. In fact, wondered Homer, did Owen have any sense of humor at all? Perhaps not, at least in the ordinary sense of the phrase. But it wasn’t because something important was lacking in his makeup. It was simply his sober attention to the true terrors of the world.
“You’re still living on Spring Street?” said Homer. “In that same big house?”
“Oh, yes. I know it’s ridiculous. I just don’t have the heart to leave it.” Then Owen brightened, and he looked at Homer eagerly. “Why, Homer, of course, I should have thought of it at once. You must stay with me. There I am, all alone, standing up at the stove for meals, eggs for breakfast, eggs for supper. How about it? We could share the cooking, enjoy each other’s company.”
“Why, of course, I’d love to.” Homer was delighted. “And listen, Owen, I’m developing a flair for gourmet cooking. Wait till you taste my salad dressing—corn oil, mayonnaise, mustard and ketchup.” Homer smacked his lips and made a circle with thumb and forefinger. “I accept your offer. That’s really great. I’ll be on your doorstep Monday morning.” Homer stood up to go, then leaned forward and tapped Owen’s desk. “Listen, Owen, I should warn you about Dombey Dell. He’ll want to rope you into that symposium of his as the central fixture and ornament. So watch out.”
“Well, I won’t do it,” said Owen firmly. “And, anyway, everybody’s sick of listening to me. There are plenty of people Dombey can call on. How about you, Homer?”
“Who, me? Do you think I want to watch Dombey swagger around, saying mean things about Emily Dickinson? Not on your life.” Homer took Owen’s small hand in his huge paw, shook it warmly, and walked out, shutting the door, behind him.
In the outer office a pretty girl was waiting. The, furniture was still askew. Homer smiled at the girl and righted the furniture. Then he looked at his watch. Good God, he would be late for his morning class in South Hadley. Charging at the door to the corridor, he collided with someone coming in.
Thump. Recoiling, Homer found himself enmeshed in the fringes of a giant shawl and the buckled strap of a mighty pocketbook. “Oh, sorry,” he said, trying to disengage himself. He was belly to bosom with an immense woman. “Excuse me. All my fault. Oh, ha ha, whoops, is this your scarf? Just a sec. We seem to be entwined. Our rigging is entangled. I’ve been dismasted. There, now, are we squared away? Farewell, then. Ships that pass in the night!”
Winifred Gaw stared as Homer Kelly whisked away around the corner. But the man hardly registered on her consciousness. It was the pretty girl who had all of Winnie’s attention. Winnie knew the girl’s name. She was Alison Grove, a sophomore English major. She lived in Coolidge Hall. She was an enemy.
“What do you want?” said Winnie, hanging her coat on the coatrack. (Alison would see that Winnie belonged here.)
Alison Grove looked up at the huge girl in the tentlike jumper. “I’m just applying for a job,” she said carefully.
“A job? What job? Have you got an appointment?”
“No, but Dombey said—I mean, Professor Dell—well, I mean, really it was Tom. You know, Professor Perry at Amherst College—”
“You can’t see Professor Kraznik without an appointment. He’s all booked up until January. There aren’t any jobs anyway, okay?” Turning away from Alison Grove, Winnie wallowed across the floor, slapping down her sponge-soled wedgies, her thighs slubbing against each other under her dress. Opening the door to Professor Kraznik’s cramped little office, she went in and shut the door behind her with a slam.
Professor Kraznik jerked and looked up. “Oh, good morning, Winnie. A little early, aren’t you?”
“I just thought you might need me,” said Winnie sweetly. “I just had this sort of a feeling.” Winnie said nothing about Alison Grove, waiting in the outer office. Alison looked like a threat to the longing in Winnie’s heart.
For Winifred Gaw knew love. Winnie was one hundred pounds overweight, but her love for Professor Kraznik was as powerful as if she had been slender and lovely, like the girl on the other side of the office door. Deep down inside, as a matter of fact, Winnie felt small and delicate, sort of like Emily Dickinson. The truth was, Winnie felt a special bond of closeness to Emily Dickinson. Actually, Winnie was more interested in Emily as a person than as a poet. Emily Dickinson had loved somebody, just like Winnie, and she had hoped and longed, just like Winnie, and she was homely to look at, sort of, the way Winnie was fat. The two of them had a bond in common, Winnie and Emily. Sometimes Winnie thought she was the only one who understood what Emily Dickinson had really been like, deep down inside.
So of course that gave her a special bond with Professor Kraznik, who was the top Dickinson scholar in the world. And he had seen it, her special closeness to Emily, because he had agreed to let Winnie be his personal assistant. She was one of his inner circle. She was almost in charge!
Now, squeezing past Professor Kraznik’s chair, Winnie crouched down, wheezing with effort, and reached past his knees to inspect his wastebasket. It was empty. She bent over his chair, pillowing his shoulders with her huge bosom, and flipped up the back of the book he was reading, to see if it needed to be renewed. It didn’t. Plucking the pencil out of his hand, she took it to the sharpener on the wall, ground it noisily to a point, and gave it back. Then Winnie took a tiny camera out of the pocket of her jumper—photography was Winnie’s hobby—and backed up to get a good angle for a candid shot of her beloved professor.
There was a great flash of light. Professor Kraznik yelped. Leaning back in his chair, he put his hands over his eyes. Then he stood up and looked at Winifred Gaw with tortured wrinkles in his forehead. “Winnie,” he said, “I’m afraid I have bad news.”
Kindly but resolutely, he told her the
decision of the faculty. She was no longer to be an employee of the English department. From now on she was not a candidate for the doctor’s degree.
Owen had known the interview would be painful, but it was even worse than he had expected. He was astonished by the violence of Winnie’s response. Hurling herself at him, she hung upon his neck, sobbing and beseeching. Owen had to stagger backward to keep his balance.
“I’ll kill myself,” said Winnie.
It was the worst day of Winnie’s life. Well, as for worst days, it would have been difficult to discriminate among worst days. Sealed up in a bleeding package in Winnie’s memory was the day she had lost the little finger on her left hand. “Paper cutter,” she would say shortly, whenever anyone was bold enough to ask. But it had not been a paper cutter. And there had been a thousand other days in Winnie’s childhood that could compete with this one for general misery. But Winnie had put them out of her mind. It was the kind of knowledge that tucked itself into hidden crevices in her layers of fat, deep down in the creases of her neck, or in the chubby folds of her knees.
“You’re from around here, Winnie?” Professor Kraznik had asked her one day in kind inquiry.
“Oh, sure, I live in Ware. My father works at the Quabbin Reservoir. And we have, like, a farm.”
And then Professor Kraznik had smiled at her and admitted her as a candidate for the master’s degree—knowing full. well he shouldn’t do it.
It was out of pity, of course, pity for the immense pudgy body, pity for the doglike appeal in the brown eyes. And of course Owen had regretted it. He was fully aware of the fecklessness of his kindness, which made him do things that wasted his time, obliterated his leisure, and destroyed his peace of mind. Sometimes Owen thought he must emit some kind of odor that attracted pitiful human beings from miles away. Looking over a new class at the beginning of a term, his heart would sink as he recognized yet another sorry case. Their eyes would meet, a flash of terrible understanding would pass between them, and before long the tyrant would have fallen upon its greedy knees at his feet, demanding rescue.
