The Semester of Our Discontent

by Cynthia Kuhn

  Norton Smythe, his comb-over bobbing vigorously as he hurried towards us, waved his antique pipe of polished honey-colored wood curving gradually into a brown handle. He was a fiftyish medieval scholar who, like Spencer, had also spoken at the service, painting a glowing picture of Roland’s qualities. His bronze medallion tie was askew, granting him a slightly unbalanced air.

  I began to compliment him on his tribute to Roland, but he interrupted me.

  “You shouldn’t have murdered my friend.” Norton’s lips were pulled back into a snarl as he spat the words. He jabbed the pipe in Calista’s direction. She began slowly edging backwards.

  I stepped between them as he tilted forward, hitting me with a cloud of fetid breath.

  “Stop right there.” I raised my right hand, palm out in front of me like a cop directing traffic, and raised my voice, hoping to attract the attention of any nearby individual. Calista pushed the door open and went outside.

  His features seemed to rearrange themselves into something malevolent and grotesque.

  “I know you did it, Calista!” he called after her, clenching his empty hand into a fist.

  “I don’t know why you think that, but it’s not true, Norton,” I said.

  “She did. I saw the knife in her office. And she’ll pay for what she’s done,” he hissed, his face suddenly mere inches from mine.

  I spun around, threw my body onto the pressure bar of the door, and slipped through the opening. As I ran down the stairs into the cool twilight, I could hear him laughing.

  Norton’s aggressiveness had shaken us both. Neither one of us thought he had seemed drunk—just furious. Calista and I compared notes on his behavior as we walked the five blocks to Crescent Street. By the time we arrived at Calista’s, I was feeling somewhat normal again.

  Her house, like my own—just a few blocks away—was a single-floor bungalow, probably built in the 1920s, but hers was painted a rosy peach. The red shutters and white trim provided a lively contrast, as did the bright purple of her Russian Sage, which held their color even into the fall. I wanted to buy some for my own front garden straightaway.

  “Come in and have some dinner, Lila. I could use the company.”

  “Sure,” I said, following her up the stone steps.

  The inside of her home was as cheery as the outside, with soft yellow walls and an assortment of art prints creating a warm and inviting space. She directed me to the purple sofa accented with batik pillows, disappeared through an archway to the kitchen, and called back over her shoulder. “Just have to get some food warmed up—leftovers, okay?—and pour some wine. Big glasses of wine, obviously.”

  “Obviously.”

  She returned with two full-to-the-brim goblets. Clearly, we weren’t going to pretend to savor the bouquet; tonight, we were drinking for medicinal purposes. I welcomed anything that would help me relax. I still felt jittery from Norton’s accusations.

  We both took sips and settled back.

  “What was Norton talking about? That was so weird,” I asked.

  A strange look crossed her face. She traced the rim of the wine glass with her finger.

  “Cal, tell me. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing is going on,” she said quickly. “But he wasn’t lying—I did have a knife in my office. And it disappeared.” She took a large drink of her wine.

  “What do you mean you had a knife in your office? Who keeps a knife in their office? Why was it there?”

  “It’s…decorative.” Calista set her glass carefully on the dark wood coffee table, then got up and began to pace back and forth across the kilim rug. “About a week ago, Norton happened to stop by when the knife was on my desk. He didn’t mention a thing about it then, but clearly he saw it because—well, you heard what he said.” She whirled around to face me. “The thing is, someone stole it.”

  “Stole it?”

  “Yes. And I’m worried it’s the same knife that was used to kill Roland.”

  I stared at Calista.

  She slid back onto the sofa, looking pale and defeated.

  “It can’t be the same knife. You said it was just for decoration.”

  “True,” she said, “but it still had a blade.”

  “You weren’t questioned by the police or anything?”

  “Not yet,” she said. “But my fingerprints are all over it. I don’t know what to do, Lila. Should I call and tell them my knife is probably the one that killed Roland?”

  “Well, not like that, exactly,” I said. “Maybe just report that it’s missing?”

  “Of course. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.” She flashed me a grateful smile, and some color came back into her cheeks.

  “They might still question you—especially if it is the murder weapon.”

  “I know,” she said. “But I don’t have anything to hide.”

  “Are you sure the knife isn’t just lost? When’s the last time you saw it?”

  “That day. And yes, I’m sure. I tore my office apart. Anyway, have I mentioned how glad I am that you’re here? Thanks for the advice.”

  “Just doing my cousinly duty,” I said, patting her arm.

  “Speaking of, how’s Aunt Vi?”

  “Busy as ever.”

  “Seems like it, judging from her Twitter feed.” Calista snapped her fingers. “And I almost forgot about feeding you, Lil. Let me bring out our dinner.”

  She bustled into the kitchen and I sank deeper into the cushions of the extraordinarily comfortable sofa. I’d probably fall asleep if I tried to grade on it.

  A brown cat with huge yellow eyes sidled into the room. I held my hand out for her to sniff, which she did delicately. Calista had named her after the famous suffragist Elizabeth Cady Stanton because she was a fierce and scrappy kitten. It appeared she’d grown calmer since then—rather than boomeranging through the room swatting at anything that got in her way, as she used to do, Cady settled carefully on my feet and started purring.

  My gaze landed on the framed photos on Calista’s bookshelves, most of them pictures from our childhood. My mother and aunt were both artists, and we’d all lived in a small upstate New York town so they could collaborate on projects. I studied the familiar scenes, lingering on one I’d snapped of Mom, Aunt Rose, and Uncle Paul on the shore of Lake Ontario—the three of them arm in arm, squinting in the bright sun. I could practically hear the waves crashing behind them. It had been our last summer together; my aunt and uncle had been killed in a car accident when Calista was ten. My cousin had come to live with my mother and me—I had never known who my father was—from that day forward. Mom believed the best way to outpace the grief was to keep moving, so she applied for all kinds of art grants, fellowships, colonies, and various teaching positions. That created a whole different set of issues for Calista and me, though, like always being the new kids at yet another in a long blur of schools. Coming to Stonedale felt a little like that all over again.

  My meandering thoughts were interrupted when Calista arrived, setting down a tray with utensils and two plates filled with red pepper quiche, sautéed ginger broccoli with almonds, and spinach salad with cranberries and feta cheese.

  “My dining table is my desk, so we’ll have to picnic here on the coffee table.”

  “Fine with me. This looks delicious, thank you.”

  We ate in companionable quiet for a few minutes.

  I waved my fork over the table. “You know, your leftovers are fancier than my freshly baked—by which I mean heated in the microwave—dinners.”

  She laughed. “I do love to mess around in the kitchen. It satisfies some creative urge I can’t get to through my poetry.”

  “Didn’t you want to be a chef at one point?”

  Calista grinned. “Yes. One of my many almost-careers, along with graphic design and public relations. Thank goodness I trie
d the MFA program—from day one, I knew I was in the right place.”

  “It must have been, because now you’re up for tenure.”

  “Yes, which means I have to be careful.” She sighed. “And Norton is already not a fan, if you know what I mean. He has made his disdain for me very clear.”

  “You mean, aside from what he did today?” I put my fork down and faced her.

  “Yes. He’s always making little negative comments here and there. Roland has done it too.”

  “Why?”

  She nudged my shoulder with hers.

  “Aw, you have so much to learn, sweetie. They don’t need to have a reason.”

  “Could people like that prevent you from getting tenure?” I had heard that any grievance whatsoever—no matter how minor or unfairly held—could arise, phoenix-like, at any point, but I didn’t understand how that translated into blocking a tenure bid.

  “Technically yes,” she said, settling back against the pillows and drawing up her knees. “Before the term started, I submitted a dossier documenting all the work I’ve done, which will be evaluated at multiple levels.” She ticked them off on her fingers as she counted. “Department, chair, dean, college, provost, faculty senate, chancellor, board of trustees. And they all get a vote.”

  “I hadn’t realized so many people were involved in the process.”

  “Yes, and because it’s decided by votes, all someone has to do is cast enough doubt with whatever so-called evidence they think demonstrates my unworthiness and convince others to vote against me. And so far, it’s not going well. The letter from the committee, which Norton chairs, supported me overall but did question the university press with which I published my first book because they’ve since gone under. The committee letter left the door open for Roland to make a bigger deal of that than it deserves. That’s what the meeting was about the other day—he said he wanted clarification on a few things before finalizing his letter. But he also implied the letter was negative. Now it all depends on how the other levels interpret or agree with Roland’s assessment. And so on.”

  “That sounds totally unfair.”

  “That would be it, you know. Once you are denied tenure, you’re probably finished. Done. Goodbye, academia.” She shrugged. “But it’s out of my hands at this point.”

  I admired her calmness. “Would you have any method of protest after a decision is made?”

  “You could always fight it. Hire a lawyer, bring a lawsuit against the school. Very expensive and, even if you won, which is rare, those battles tend to…taint things,” she said slowly.

  “You deserve tenure,” I said firmly. “Presses go under all the time, and it doesn’t reflect unfavorably on the author. Seems like a flimsy reason. I have to believe the other levels will dismiss that complaint.”

  “Maybe.” She looked thoughtful. “Whatever the result, at least it will be over this spring.”

  Time to change the subject. “I just re-read your book before moving out here. How in the world did you produce an epic poem about the maiden/mother/crone archetype? It’s amazing.”

  Calista brightened. “You are so kind—though extraordinarily biased.”

  “Your writing is incredible. I was thinking about assigning an excerpt in American Lit. Would you be willing to come in and talk to the students about it?”

  “Absolutely. I’d be honored.”

  “Good, that’s settled, then. The students will love it. What’s the book you’re working on now?”

  “A collection of sestinas about the mythological goddesses.”

  “Aren’t sestinas one of the hardest forms in which to write?”

  She laughed. “That’s why I chose them. I figured if I could do an entire book of sestinas, I’d never be afraid to launch a new collection again.”

  One thing I knew for sure: Calista wasn’t the type to be afraid of anything.

  Chapter 4

  Monday morning, as I inserted my office key, the next door—with its poster of Nathaniel Hawthorne peering stiffly ahead as if his collar were too tight—swung open. I took in the faded polo shirt, cargo pants, longish brown hair, and bright blue eyes that brought to mind an eager puppy: Nate Clayton.

  “When’s your first class? Would you like to get a cup of coffee?” He smiled, his teeth white against his sunburned face, no doubt earned via a recent mountain climb or hike. “They brought a Starbucks to campus, praise be.”

  I consulted my watch. “My first class is in two hours.”

  “Perfect. Let’s go to the union and, on the way, visit the fountain for good luck. It’s a Stonedale tradition.”

  I pulled the door shut again, somewhat reluctantly, as I was inexplicably excited to spend time in my new office. But his enthusiasm was contagious, and I knew the office giddiness would wear off soon enough.

  We headed out of Crandall Hall and kept to the outer perimeter sidewalk, passing Randsworth, the colossal building that housed the chancellor and other administrative VIPs. Crandall’s columns, while moderately impressive, were nothing compared to the embellishments of Randsworth, which could have been a cathedral with its lavish turrets, spires, and other ornamentations. Presiding over campus directly across the circle from the entry gates, Randsworth announced its own importance.

  I stopped and squinted. How interesting. Hadn’t noticed before that it was topped with gargoyles.

  “I know, right?” Nate said.

  “What?”

  “You said ‘gargoyles.’”

  “Out loud? That’s embarrassing.”

  “I won’t tell anyone. But you should know this campus is full of mysterious things. One of the gargoyles, it’s said, changes expressions every ten years. And supposedly there are secret tunnels between certain buildings. And you know that statue of the woman holding the bird?”

  “What statue?”

  “It’s halfway between Crandall and Randsworth—you can’t see it now because it’s around the corner and tucked under that big elm tree. Anyway, it simply appeared one day, and no one knows why or who she is.”

  “How wonderfully Gothic,” I said.

  “I knew we were on the same page the instant we met,” he said. We turned onto one of the short walkways leading to the fountain embedded within the large circular expanse of well-manicured lawn at the center of campus. The achievement of healthy grass was no small feat given the dry Colorado climate, not to mention the thousands of shoes trodding on it regularly. “And here we are.”

  An immense sculpture of a man holding a book in one hand and a rifle in the other was surrounded by radiant arcs of splashing water. There were the usual coins on the bottom, despite the signs forbidding it. Nate plunged his hand into the clear water and invited me to do the same.

  “So what are we doing here?”

  I sat on the marble bench that ringed the pool.

  “At the beginning of every term, we humbly request Jeremiah Randsworth’s blessing so we might make it through the semester in one piece.” He winked.

  “Nice.” I peered up at the statue. “Is that the man himself?”

  “Yes, our illustrious university founder, circa 1850. Rugged settler and avid reader, as you can see from the not-so-subtle symbolism. Now, close your eyes and ask for protection. C’mon.”

  I submerged my hand.

  “Try not to think of the many drunken fraternity pledges who have plunged naked into these same icy waters.”

  “Oh!” I hastily withdrew my hand.

  He laughed. “Just kidding. Except not really because this fountain has seen its share of hazing, even though we at Stonedale are officially against it. As is every university.”

  “Of course.”

  He jumped up. “Let’s get that coffee.”

  At a table in the corner of the student union with our steaming drinks before us, we compared educationa
l backgrounds—he described the program at the University of Kansas, which he had enjoyed, and I recollected my years at NYU in kind.

  “And now here we both are, out west to stake our proverbial claims.” Nate blew on his coffee. “Don’t you think it’s somewhat shocking that we are the only Americanists here? I’m part one and you’re part two. How well can the two of us really cover all of it?”

  “I’m just grateful to have a job.” That was the customary answer for any new hire, the correct response to practically any potentially political question.

  “Right, right. I am too,” he said quickly.

  “Sorry,” I said, meaning it. “That sounded a little prim, didn’t it?”

  “It’s good practice for when we need to say it, though,” said Nate, who suddenly resembled my idea of Huckleberry Finn: mischievous but compelling.

  We smiled at each other.

  “Have you met Simone Raleigh yet? She was also hired this year,” Nate said.

  “No. What’s she like?”

  Nate tilted his head and considered this. “Don’t know yet. Seems smart.”

  “Okay.” I should make an effort to find her. Perhaps she was feeling some of the same anxieties about being the new kid on the block—we could commiserate.

  “Have you met everyone else? I assume you have studied the professor list on the faculty website in order to hit the ground running.”

  I laughed. “In fact I have.”

  “Excellent. All wise newbies do their research. And make no mistake, people do note whether or not you’ve done your homework around here.” He produced a meaningful look.

  “Good tip,” I said.

  He fixed his blue eyes on mine. “I heard you found Roland. How are you holding up?”

  I shrugged.

  Nate reached around the table and touched my arm lightly. “I can’t imagine how awful this has been for you. It’s hard enough to be the new person. If you want to talk about it, I’m here.”