by Crider, Bill
"I wouldn't be bothered by rumors if I were you, Burns," he said. "Too many good men are brought down by nothing more than the animosity spread by idle tongues."
Burns wondered if Henderson had been involved in some recent incident that Fox hadn't gotten around to telling him about. It wasn't likely. Henderson was no doubt speaking from past experience.
"You're probably right," Burns said. "I shouldn't let things like that bother me."
"True. But if you're really bothered, the best thing to do is to get things out in the open. Don't be afraid of a confrontation."
Henderson certainly wasn't afraid of confrontations. In fact, he seemed to encourage them. Burns, however, wasn't that sort of person. He glanced at the bust of Freud. There was probably some deep-seated reason in Burns's childhood that had caused him to be basically non-confrontational, just as there was something in Henderson's that had made him enjoy conflicts with others to the point that he actually sought them.
Burns stood up. "Thanks, Tom," he said. "You're right. I think I'll just do my job and not worry about everything I hear."
"I'm sure that's best," Henderson said.
Burns was sure, too, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to call Barry Towson.
It was almost noon, and Burns drove home to make the call. He could have called from his office and paid with his credit card, since it wasn't really a business call, but he didn't want the call to go through the school switchboard.
He was lucky and caught Towson in his office. The Austamont operator connected them.
Towson remembered Burns well, and he was eager to talk about unknown paperback writers. He was not, however, eager to talk about Gwendolyn Partridge and the great letters of recommendation that had been sent to Hartley Gorman College.
"You know how things are," Towson said.
"I'm not sure that I do," Burns said. "That's why I called you."
"You can't be too careful these days," Towson said.
Burns didn't get it. "About what?" he asked.
"About anything. Everything. You can't be too careful."
"I wish you'd help me out a little here, Barry. I don't know what you're trying to tell me."
There was a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. Then Towson said, "I'm trying to tell you that you have to be careful in everything you do. Even in writing letters of recommendation. When did you get your degree, Burns?"
Burns didn't know what that had to do with anything, but he told him.
"How were the letters of recommendation handled?"
Burns had to think about that for a second. It had been a while. Finally he remembered. "I got the professors to write the letters, and they sent them directly to the school's placement office," he said.
"And were you allowed to see the letters?" Towson asked.
"No," Burns said. "I went to the placement office to be sure all the letters were in my file, but I wasn't allowed to see them. Not even a glimpse."
"Things are nothing like that now," Towson said. "Letters are open to the person being recommended, and if he or she doesn't like what he or she sees, he or she can sue the pants off you."
Burns didn't think he'd ever heard so many "he or shes" in one sentence before. Dr. Partridge had undoubtedly been quite influential at Austamont.
"So what can you do?" he asked.
"If you write a letter, you make negatives into positives. A contentious person has 'a strong personality,' for example. A bully is 'a good leader.' You see what I mean?"
"Are you telling me that Dr. Partridge is a contentious bully?"
"I'm doing nothing of the sort." Towson's tone was resentful. "Don't put words into my mouth."
"But there were problems with Dr. Partridge?"
"I didn't say that."
"I know you didn't. I did, but—"
"Let's just say that Dr. Partridge was very strong-minded. That she wanted to make a lot of changes here at Austamont that a lot of people weren't ready for."
"Political correctness," Burns said.
"In a nutshell, yes," Towson said. "Not that many of the changes weren't for the better, mind you. Most of them, even. But in a small, conservative community, well, some of them just didn't sit too well."
"So no one was sorry to see Dr. Partridge go?"
"I didn't say that."
"OK," Burns said. "You didn't say it. Let me ask you something easy. How did Dr. Partridge find out that there was an opening here at Hartley Gorman for an Academic Dean?"
There was a short silence. Towson cleared his throat and said, "I believe our president may have mentioned it to her. But I'm not certain about that."
Burns was. He could imagine the scene. Partridge goes into the president's office for a meeting or conference, and the talk turns to deanships. The president is sure she's administrative material, but there just never seem to be any openings at Austamont. However, the president has just noticed that there's a vacancy at good old Hartley Gorman College, "that fine little school down there in Texas. You're originally from Texas, aren't you, Dr. Partridge?" Her interest piqued, Dr. Partridge investigates, decides to apply, with the blessings and strong recommendation of her president, and gets the job. HGC gets a new dean, and Austamont gets rid of potential controversy.
"Thanks, Barry," Burns said. "You've been a big help. By the way, do you know Eric Holt, by any chance?"
"Who?"
"Eric Holt. You must have seen his articles. He's published in things like Modern Fiction Studies and The Journal of Popular Culture."
"Oh, sure. That Eric Holt. What about him?"
"Did he ever visit your campus, do a lecture there, anything like that?"
"No," Towson said. "Never. We don't get many visiting critics around here, especially not of Holt's caliber. Why do you ask?"
"He's working here now. I thought you might know him."
"I wish I did. It must be great to work with someone like that."
"Oh, it is," Burns lied. Then he changed the subject. "Now tell me. If you were making a list of the top ten paperback writers of the '50s and '60s, who'd be number one?"
That was a subject that Towson warmed to rapidly, and Burns, who had his own list, ran up quite a phone bill.
Chapter Four
That was almost the end of Burns's investigation, but then he decided that Tom Henderson had the right idea. The thing to do was to talk to Holt in person.
But first Burns looked over the list of paperback writers that Towson had come up with. Burns, who liked making lists, also liked comparing his list with those others made, especially when the two did not necessarily agree. Towson ranked Harry Whittington at the top, for example, and Burns thought that was a good choice, depending on the criteria you used. Burns could never really make up his mind among Whittington, Jim Thompson, Charles Williams, and John D. MacDonald. You could certainly make a case for Donald Hamilton, too, though Hamilton didn't really hit his stride until the early sixties.
Burns put the list in his desk and went back to school. It was nearly two o'clock, but there was no chance that he would miss Holt, who, unlike most members of the English Department, liked afternoon classes. In fact, he taught one class on Mondays and Wednesdays from three until four-thirty and another on Tuesdays and Thursdays from two-thirty until four. His other class met on Tuesday evenings. That way he had most of the day open for his scholarly writing.
Burns parked his 1967 Plymouth on the street in front of Main and got out. The car looked like some kind of dinosaur among the Toyotas and Hondas and Ford Escorts. Because of the dry, cold air, Burns received a mild static shock when he shut the door.
When he mounted the front steps, he was faced by a note taped to the door.
Burns didn't want to get on the bad side of Rose. No matter what anyone said about who was in control of things, no matter how the organizational charts read, the secretaries and the maids were the really essential people at the school. A department chair could be gone for a week and no one would no
tice; if a secretary missed a day, there was chaos. And it would be easier to move the Rock of Gibraltar than to get a faculty member to empty a wastebasket. Some of them didn't even flush the toilet in the men's room.
Burns went around the building to the east entrance. He went inside and walked down the hallway to the front of the building, where he encountered the wet floor. The other floors and the stairways were carpeted, but the first floor retained its original hardwood covering.
Rose was at the other end of the front hall, jamming a yellow-handled mop up and down in a green plastic bucket and talking to herself, no doubt muttering about how she would deal with anyone who walked on her newly-mopped floor. Burns thought she could do whatever she wanted to; she had broader shoulders than any member of the HGC football team.
He decided that he could evade her if he was careful and quiet. He tiptoed across the damp boards and catfooted it up the worn carpeting of the stairs without looking back.
He was out of breath when he reached the third floor, but that was only to be expected. The sixteen foot ceilings of Main meant that there was quite a distance to cover between floors. Even the members of the track team were winded by their climb to their English classes, a fact that bothered Dr. Partridge.
She didn't really care about the track team, of course. What bothered her was that Main was a quite politically incorrect building in that it posed formidable obstacles to the handicapped, which was a politically incorrect term, Burns knew, but he couldn't think of the right one. "Differently abled." That was it.
Because of the steps outside the building, it would be next to impossible for a person in, say, a wheelchair to get inside. If the person did get inside, the absence of an elevator meant that he (or she) would never be able to get above the first floor under his (or her) own power.
Burns had solved the problem on previous occasions in two different ways. One girl on crutches had been carried to the third floor by two football players, one of them carrying her from the first floor to the second, where the other took over and carried her the rest of the way. She hadn't weighed much, and Burns had convinced the football players that it was a good way to stay in shape during the off season.
For wheelchair students, Burns had simply taught the required classes in the math building, which, being much newer, was equipped with ramps and elevators and was accessible to everyone.
Now Dr. Partridge wanted to make Main equally accessible. Rumor (and Burns believed this one) had it that Franklin Miller had turned ghostly pale when told the cost of an elevator. It could not be installed in the proposed shaft, which would have eliminated both Burns's office and the History lounge. It would have to be installed on the outside of the building. And no one was sure the outside would hold up to the stress that an elevator would place on it. The entire building would somehow have to be reinforced. So far the plan to build an elevator had therefore been stalled in Miller's office, though that would probably not be the end of things if Dr. Partridge had her way.
Burns stood at the top of the stair until he caught his breath and then went to his office. There was no use talking to Holt now. It was nearly time for Holt's class to begin. The talk could wait until later. It was Tuesday, and since Burns and Holt both had evening classes, they could talk at four-thirty.
Burns could spend the time until then grading his developmental papers. It wasn't a job he expected to enjoy.
. . . and then Ill play basketball for like the rockets or
bulls make a buncha money then maybe make movies or be on
tv, like a lot of ballplayers they go on tv and make money
when they retire and get put up on a pedal-stool by there
fans that's why Im am in radio and tv so Ill have a trade
when I get out of sports except that if Im am in radio and
tv I wont reely be out of sports for all intensive purposes
but . . . .
Burns put the paper down, laid his red pen down on top of it, and rubbed his eyes. If you looked at it in a certain way there was an almost Joycean quality to "put up on a pedal-stool" and "for all intensive purposes." It was too bad he couldn't look at it that way.
He looked up at the ceiling instead. The acoustical tiles were still stained darkly with God knows what. Pigeon shit, for one thing. Probably dead pigeons, as well, considering the campaign to poison them that had been initiated in the fall semester. Mal Tomlin had sworn that no one would come to Burns's rescue if the ceiling ever fell in on him.
Burns looked down at the papers again and considered picking up his pen. Then he looked at his watch.
Twenty minutes until five. Time to talk to Holt. He didn't look forward to that, but anything would be better at the moment than reading more papers.
Burns left his own office and ran the maze of other offices and small classrooms that composed the front part of the third floor. There was no one there at that hour. Clem Nelson and Miss Darling had long since gone home, and the three virtually anonymous men known to all as Larry, Darryl, and Darryl were gone as well. They came to campus, taught their classes, kept their office hours and disappeared. Some of the other faculty members complained that the three didn't carry their share of the load, but Burns liked them. At least they didn't cause him any trouble.
Holt's office was really just around the corner from Burns's own. There were two flights of stairs leading to the third floor, and Holt had his office at the head of the stairs opposite the flight Burns had come up.
The door was open, and Holt was sitting at his desk, reading what looked like a comic book. There was only one window in the office, and the late afternoon sun slanted through it, giving a mellow glow to the fluorescent lighting and casting a long shadow from the potted aloe plant that sat on the wide window sill. The wall behind Holt was covered with lobby cards from old movie serials. Holt had put the cards in acrylic frames, and Burns couldn't fault the man's taste. Burns saw Linda Stirling as The Tiger Lady, George Marshall as Commander Cody in Radar Men from the Moon, Tom Tyler in his Captain Marvel suit, and Buster Crabbe in Space Soldiers Conquer the Universe.
There was also a poster that said YOU CAN BE ANYTHING YOU WANT TO BE in big red letters on a white background.
Burns, who at one time or another in his life had wanted to be linebacker for the Houston Oilers, to hit .400 in the major leagues, and to do brain surgery, thought the poster was pretty misleading. His student who wanted to be a lawyer would probably have believed it, though. Burns wondered if that was good or bad.
While Burns was looking silently at the poster, Holt sensed his presence. He put down the comic book and turned to look at Burns, who glanced at the title.
"Whiz Comics," Holt said.
"You don't see those around much," Burns said.
"Not in English departments," Holt said. He laid a hand on the comic book. "But popular culture is quite interesting. You'd be surprised what you can learn from something like this."
"For example?" Burns said, always willing to learn something new, especially if it came from Whiz Comics.
Holt flipped the pages. "You can learn a lot about prejudice, for one thing." He stopped and put a finger on a picture. "Look at this."
Burns walked into the office and looked down at the comic. Holt's finger was resting just under the figure of Steamboat Willie, Billy Batson's black serving man. He had thick, heavy lips and pop eyes.
"Feet don't fail me now," Burns said.
"That's about the size of it," Holt said.
"And that's what you're teaching in your classes?" Burns asked. "Prejudice in popular culture?"
"That, among other things," Holt said. But if you're interested, why don't you sit in some day. You could probably add a lot to the discussion."
"I might do that," Burns said.
Holt closed the copy of Whiz Comics. "I really wish you would," he said. "I think you and I share a lot of the same interests; I'd like to get to know you better."
Burns found himself warming
to Holt, with whom he did share some interests and who certainly didn't sound like a man who had come to take over the department. He sat down in the chair by Holt's desk.
"We can start now," he said. "I've been wanting to talk to you. How have your classes been going?"
They talked about Holt's classes and Burns told him about his developmental students. They talked about movies and books and television, and Burns found himself liking Holt more and more. Eventually he edged around to the real reason for his visit.
"How is it that you wound up here?" he asked. "Not that HGC isn't a great school, but we're not exactly known for the quality of our library or our scholarship."
Holt patted the comic book. "A lot of the things I write about don't require conventional research. And for the things that do, your library is perfectly adequate. You have a very good periodicals section, and all the important books of criticism are in the stacks. You, or someone, has done a good job of keeping up."
"Thanks," Burns said. He wanted to add that Holt had not exactly answered his question, but before he could, Holt went on.
"Going to the library here isn't exactly a chore, either. Miss Tanner is most helpful, and quite attractive."
Oh no, Burns thought. Not another rival.
"And there's always interlibrary loan," Holt said, distracting him. "I can get books from just about anywhere. But that's not answering your question. I came here because I was asked. As simple as that."
"But surely you've been asked to go to other schools. More prestigious schools."
"True," Holt said. "But that sort of thing has never appealed to me. I'm not an academic snob."
"A lot of people are," Burns said. "And then there's the money."
"Hartley Gorman isn't exactly going to make me rich," Holt said. "But I don't need a lot of money. I have a place to live, I have access to a library, I have an office and classes to teach. What does money really matter?"
Burns didn't know what to say to that one, so he changed directions. "Dr. Partridge seems to think highly of you."
