The Semester of Our Discontent

by Cynthia Kuhn

Near the end of the meeting, Judith raised her hand. “As most of you know, Spencer and I host a gathering every year at our house during fall term. This year, in light of recent events, it seems especially important for us to come together. But I wanted to ask if you felt it would be appropriate. What do you think?” After a brief pause, heads around the table began to nod. “Good. Please try to join us: eight o’clock Sunday, 410 Fox Hollow Drive.”

  I crested the circular driveway in front of Judith’s house—which was massive enough to warrant the title “mansion”—and handed over the keys for my twelve-year-old Honda Accord to a young man in a red vest. Probably a student hired for the event, he was polite and refrained from commenting on the state of my ancient ride. I smoothed my wine-colored secondhand Eileen Fisher jacket, hoping I was channeling appropriate professor-at-fancy-party vibes, and climbed the stone stairs into an entrance hall that was larger than my entire rented bungalow. People from the department were congregated before a long, curving stairway with wrought-iron banisters; a hallway on the right led to the kitchen, presumably, since a server with a tray pushed on a swinging door with her back and disappeared inside. I headed into the spacious, well-appointed room to the left. Millicent was bristling with her usual frostiness on one of the velvet couches, so I aimed instead for the wing chairs facing the fireplace. Tad was sitting in one of them, staring morosely into the fire.

  “Enjoying the party, Tad?”

  He adjusted the tasteful paisley tie he wore with his double-breasted blue suit. “Trying. And how are you this fine evening? Sorry I talked your ear off the other night.”

  I felt a surge of sympathy for him.

  “Please don’t apologize. It was illuminating, though I’m sorry you had to go through it.”

  “Thanks for your understanding.” His face relaxed perceptibly. “Now on to a more exciting topic: did you bring a date tonight?”

  “No.” I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d been on a proper date. How depressing. “Did you?”

  Tad sighed. “I’m currently between boyfriends. Alas.”

  “Me too,” I said, smiling at him.

  “Well, we can keep each other company. I was just about to fetch myself another drink. Would you like one?”

  I requested red wine and took his place in the extremely comfortable velvet chair. As I sat relaxing before the fire, I could hear snippets of conversation behind me surface from among the general buzzing.

  “…why do students think attendance on the first day of class doesn’t count…”

  “…the classroom was so small, we were practically sitting on each other’s laps…”

  “…then he said, ‘Why can’t you just add one more person to the roster? I am paying for this education, after all’…”

  “Mind if I join you?” Calista, evoking Audrey Hepburn in a little black dress accessorized with long white gloves, slid into the vacant seat next to me. “What a cozy place to hide.”

  “I’m not hiding. I’m easing in gently.”

  “Well, I’m hiding. Millicent gave me the dirtiest look the instant I arrived. Cross-listing courses increases her workload, and she blames me for it.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “I don’t know what to say, other than, hello, we’re trying to fight the good fight here. If the university would just approve a Gender Studies department, I could hire someone else to take care of it.”

  “Do you think that will happen?”

  “Eventually.” She made a fist and shook it at the ceiling in the manner of Scarlett O’Hara. “As the Goddess is my witness.”

  Willa sailed up, layered in various shades of purple, with a scarf over a vest over a tunic over a skirt over stockings.

  Calista squealed, jumping up to hug her. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Willa said, in her melodious English accent.

  Tad reappeared, holding two glasses of wine, one of which he handed to me. “Here you go, Lila. Calista, Willa, are you in need of libation?” Willa shook her head and Calista held up her own glass in response.

  “Lila Maclean.” I recognized Simone Raleigh’s cultured purr behind me. She wore a slim pink sheath with a single strand of pearls, her blonde hair in a chignon—very Rich-Girl Barbie. “Would you be so kind as to introduce me?” She phrased it as if I’d forgotten my manners, the very moment before I had intended to display them. I went around the circle, identifying our colleagues, some of whom she had already met, but who was I to remind her of that? She gave a charming little wave. “Hello. I’m Simone.”

  “Our new Victorianist,” said Tad, looking interested.

  “Yes,” she said, giving him a dazzling smile.

  “Tad Ruthersford, Early British,” he said, grinning broadly. “And where did you come from?”

  She opened her flawlessly lipsticked mouth. “Harvard. The chancellor is a close friend of my mother’s, who also went to Harvard and used to teach here at Stonedale. He urged me to apply when the opportunity arose, and”—her slim hand performed an elegant flourish—“voilà!”

  A chorus of welcomes erupted. By the way everyone was beaming at her, it appeared they were already smitten.

  “Did you and Lila know each other before?” Tad asked.

  “We met at the mentoring meeting,” said Simone, regarding me as if we were long-lost friends. She punctuated this by resting an arm around my shoulder. Since the situation called for it, I mustered up a smile, but I was baffled. Simone seemed to have undergone a personality transplant since the last time we spoke.

  Willa turned to me. “Calista tells me you wrote a dissertation on an American author named Isabella Dare—what sorts of things did she write? I confess that I’m not familiar with her work. I’m sorry to have missed your interview presentation, by the way—I was giving a paper in London that week.”

  “She’s a mystery writer, published in the 1970s, but it was a small press run, and she seems to have escaped scholarly notice. I have not found any articles or books on her at all. In fact, I had to backtrack through her publisher just to find biographical information beyond what was included with her books in the Library of Congress. Luckily, her publisher still had a file on her somewhere deep in their archives, so that was a good starting point.”

  “How did you come across her work?” Willa cocked her head inquisitively.

  “I was at a used bookstore in New York City, searching for some out-of-print thing—I forget what now—and I came across a dusty box in the back of the store. The bookstore owner said the box had just come in from an estate sale, and she hadn’t had a chance to shelve anything yet. She told me I could check inside if I wanted. There I found all three of Dare’s books in perfect condition.”

  Willa shook her head sadly. “One wonders how many other works by unknown sisters are languishing in boxes around the world. I’m glad your director saw fit to approve the topic.”

  “So intriguing. How did you convince your committee to allow you to write on her?” Tad asked.

  “She’s a compelling storyteller, first of all. Think Agatha Christie meets Shirley Jackson, with a twist. My director Avery felt that claiming a critical space for Dare was a worthy pursuit for a dissertation, so she championed the topic.”

  “I would love to read them,” said Calista.

  “Happy to loan them to you, but they are my only copies—so you have to promise to return them.”

  “I swear,” Calista said solemnly. “Plus, you know where I live.”

  Willa raised a finger. “Perhaps you should consider trying to obtain the necessary permissions to publish them in critical editions, to make them available to new readers.”

  “Isn’t that usually done by established scholars?”

  “Well, if no one else is doing it…” She raised her eyebrows.

  “Good point.�
�� I had considered something along those lines but never dared to say it out loud.

  Simone simpered. “So brave of you, Lila, to take on such an unknown author. I chose a regular old traditional writer.”

  “Who was that?” Willa asked.

  “Charlotte Brontë,” Simone said. “I couldn’t help myself.” She blushed prettily. “I’m just back from Haworth, where I immersed myself in all things Brontë-related and I could go on and on about it, but I won’t. Obviously, it isn’t as groundbreaking as what Lila’s doing,” she said brightly, “but I guess I’m just an old-fashioned scholar.”

  “Haworth?” Willa asked, twinkling at Simone. “I’m from a village very close by.”

  The two of them had a rapid conversation full of landmarks with which I was wholly unfamiliar. Willa asked about the research, and Simone’s overview of her Jane Eyre project was received with polite interest from the group.

  “Well, I love your topic,” Tad said firmly. “The truly great never go out of style.”

  “I think so too,” said Simone. “Although it is challenging to find something new to say about someone who has been written about in such volume. It must be far less daunting to write about a brand new author. Don’t you agree, Lila?”

  A satisfied look flashed across her face.

  Whatever.

  “And how did you come to your topic?” Simone pressed, apparently not finished with me. “Was it because of your mother?”

  That was a surprise. She must have done some research.

  “Your mother?” Tad asked, intrigued.

  “Yes, her mother is Violet O.” Simone looked around the circle. “You know, the artist who specializes in the macabre.” I was probably the only one who detected the hint of mockery in her emphasis, but I’d been down this road before.

  My mother’s provocative show, “True Confessions of the Femme Fatales” had catapulted her into the history books. She often used mystery tropes to explore issues of gender and identity. Initially, my mother’s work had been described by critics as “disturbing” and “hysterical,” but once she’d made a name for herself, they called it “incisive” and “revolutionary.” Take for example her installation, Cursed: an enormous silver revolver balanced on black-stockinged legs, looming over a triangular fountain of dark red liquid, surrounded by circular mirrors on which the word “bitch” was scrawled many times in crimson lipstick. Then there was The Dame Knows Too Much, a wall-sized canvas of a black and white still from some forgotten noir film, which displayed a victimized woman screaming her head off. Only in my mother’s rendition, the woman’s head is literally coming off, tilting down from the canvas “in an effort to resist the male gaze,” explained my mother to reporters. The lurid soundtrack running nonstop at full volume—combined with the unnatural angle of the woman’s broken neck—gave me nightmares for months.

  Expressions of surprise and a barrage of questions came straight at me.

  Yes, she was The Famous Artist. Yes, her recent Trench Coat Grotesques had been the talk of the art world. Yes, she was the one who just gave that controversial interview in The New York Times. I went into answer mode until the queries finally—thankfully—subsided.

  Simone studied me. I held my breath, expecting her to delve more into the subject of my mother’s work. I’d hoped to settle in here at Stonedale, establish myself on my own terms, before having conversations about my mother. I was proud of her, but I’d spent my life to date answering questions about Violet O and her art. Didn’t seem to matter that I wasn’t the one who made the radical statements: my mother did. But some people felt as though they needed to make a statement about her statements, and Simone had all the characteristics of just such a critic. Instead, however, Simone swerved to the left, launching into an enthusiastic description of how much she already loved the campus, ending with “I’m just so thrilled to be here.” Despite my frustration, I was amused by her sugary tone—one degree sweeter and cotton candy might fly out of her mouth.

  “What was that about?” Calista said under her breath, squeezing my arm. “I was about to jump in and school Simone on the importance of Aunt Vi’s work, but you handled it beautifully, Lil.”

  She gave me a quick hug and went in search of a drink refill. Willa excused herself to find Judith. Simone drifted away, presumably to ingratiate herself with more Stonedale community members. I took a much-needed gulp of red wine.

  Nate walked up, in the process of rolling the sleeves of his yellow button-down shirt. “How goes it, my colleagues?”

  Tad eyed him affectionately. “Nate, you seem as ebullient as ever. What’s your secret? I am in the process of transforming my Byronic brooding into something more socially acceptable and could use some pointers.”

  Nate grinned and slung an arm around Tad’s shoulder. “Just be yourself, man.” He gestured to the side table. “And pass the cheese tray. I find that cheese holds the answers to many of life’s obstacles.”

  Tad handed over the small porcelain platter, and Nate speared a few cubes. “See, cheddar is good for when you need a break from grading. And this one here,” he peered closely at it, “so gourmet I don’t even know what it’s called, is very useful when you are in possession of information not widely known yet and are trying not to say anything.” He popped it into his mouth and chewed while we badgered him to go on.

  Finally, he swallowed and said, “The chancellor came into the department library right after our meeting and said he’d received Spencer’s note and would be happy to rearrange the budget for the line so as to hire a temporary replacement for Roland.”

  That didn’t seem quite worth the suspenseful buildup. Tad appeared disappointed as well.

  “Yeah, but here’s the thing: guess who will be teaching his Shakespeare class?”

  We both waited.

  “His brother.” Nate laughed. “You should see your faces.”

  “His brother?” Tad repeated, looking stunned.

  “Turns out Eldon is a Shakespeare scholar too. Ph.D. from Northwestern, I think.” Nate ate another cube of cheese. “The chancellor said that in light of Eldon’s forthcoming donation to the university, having him take over the class seemed like a grand idea.”

  “Even so,” said Tad, “I think I need another glass of wine to sip slowly and ponder. Anyone else?”

  The two of them trundled across the room to the caterer’s bar as I drifted nearer to the main entrance hall, smiling at several of my new colleagues while keeping an eye out for Judith. Perhaps she could offer more insight into this turn of events. Finally, I spotted her beside the staircase. Willa was talking intently and Judith was shaking her head, clearly not agreeing with whatever was being said. I wandered back into the room to give them some privacy and was descended upon at once by Addison, who wore a vague air of abandonment, in contrast to the cheery red bowtie he sported. He inquired about how I was settling in, and we chatted for about ten minutes until Willa invited us to help ourselves to the buffet. Addison joined the line of diners, but I excused myself and went back in quest of Judith.

  The hall was empty this time, thankfully. Socializing with new colleagues—no matter how much I liked them—was an exhausting task, and I welcomed the brief moment of respite. I hadn’t yet become accustomed to being “on” in the expected way at faculty gatherings. In fact, the transition from grad student, when one could scurry about and not worry about being noticed, to professor, when every gesture, word, or facial expression could potentially disqualify one from obtaining tenure, was fraught with peril.

  I hated having to worry about tenure so much, but all new professors did, out of necessity—and there’s a constant performance element required. Which made Simone Raleigh rather dangerous. She was unmistakably out for blood, but I didn’t have a clue as to why. We barely knew each other. What could I possibly have done to have earned her wrath already?

  Willa’s e
ncouragement to propose scholarly editions of Isabella Dare’s work ran through my mind, and I instinctively grabbed the place where my satchel usually hangs, then glanced around for a pen and slip of paper to jot down some thoughts about securing permissions. I headed down the hallway, pausing at the first door on my right, which was cracked just enough that I could see a bookshelf. Knocking gently, I pushed it open and went into the room. A large desk with a banker’s light was directly ahead, and all four walls were lined with bookcases. I let out a whistle of appreciation and moved towards the back wall to read the titles of the books filling every inch of the shelves. After tripping on something and checking to see what it was, I heard a scream and realized dully that it was my own. There, sprawled face down on the luxuriously thick carpet, was Judith.

  Chapter 8

  Once again, I was seated across from Detective Archer. Only this time, we were in Judith’s living room with a claw-footed antique table between us. Coffee in bone china cups and saucers with a delicate floral pattern further contributed to the illusion that we were having a chummy social visit. The light seemed overly bright, my head was pounding, and my hands shook. I observed them curiously, wondering if they would stop moving soon.

  “Let’s begin, Dr. Maclean. I need to take a statement from you.” He tapped his pen on the same small black leather pad from our first interview. No first name use today, I noted.

  “Have you heard anything about Judith yet?” Although she had still been breathing when the paramedics arrived and loaded her into the back of the ambulance, she didn’t seem conscious. The sight of her strapped onto the stretcher filled me with a sense of helplessness.

  “She’s been stabilized.”

  Relief coursed through my veins. “What happened?”

  “Can we talk about what you saw, please?” He practically thrummed with pent-up energy, though that was probably to be expected, given they hadn’t yet caught Roland’s murderer and now someone else had been attacked.