by Amanda Cross
“Do you happen to know anything about the MLA conventions?” Kate asked her after a while. Her companion opened her blue eyes very wide and stopped chewing.
“A question only you could ask,” she finally said. “Don’t you even get involved in hiring people?”
“Naturally. But mostly I’m involved with hiring tenured people, and that’s usually done in cozy lunches or less cozy dinners on the home front, which is to say the Faculty Club. Is that all one goes for?”
“One goes to give papers, to hear papers, to meet one’s distant friends, to have an occasional fling, circumstances permitting, and in my case, to get away from the children in the worst season of the year. None of which, I am to conclude, has ever tempted you.”
“I thought one clung to one’s children at Christmas, exchanging gifts and humming on about the three wise men.”
“Very amusing. Those without children are, I’ve noticed, honor bound not to reflect on the felicity of their condition; it might discourage the troops. Christmas is hell, and I think they originally scheduled conventions then so that the men, who did the planning, could leave wife with kids, go discuss literature, and carry on in a wonderfully nondomestic and adult way. When the wives started working too, that complicated things. Josh and I alternate: he goes one year, I go the other. We once tried taking the kids, and our marriage barely held, not that they don’t encourage this by letting you bring the kids to the hotel free, an influence, as with so much else, of the new, conservative, pro-family administration in Washington. Some, of course, are clever enough to have husbands or wives in academic disciplines like religion that meet another time of year. What were we talking about?”
“MLA conventions.”
“So we were. And you stay home between Christmas and New Year’s, having nothing but peace and quiet surrounding you.”
“And Reed. That turned out to be his best time of year. Even if someone takes to mass murders, the D.A. manages to put it on hold until the new year dawns. Also, I hate conventions. One seems always to be bumping into the wrong people and missing the others. I did go once, you see, years and years ago. The meetings were all the same: some aged (as it seemed to me then) male professor delivered pompous conclusions while his chosen disciples read papers of unimpeachable boredom. I felt that if someone said something interesting, the whole structure might collapse in a heap. And there was never anywhere to get a drink or a sandwich, or go to the bathroom, unless you went back to your room, which required the use of elevators all going up and never coming down. Did I get the wrong impression?”
“The elevators haven’t changed, but everything else has. Those old-type professors complain all the time that their sessions are unattended because placed at the wrong hour or at the same time as one on black autobiography or lesbian poetry in Texas.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“That’s just what they say. But the newer subjects are exciting as hell, and the old guard is rather put out. They have even—and here you must lower your voice if there are women in the room—they have even been heard to mutter despairingly that there are sessions on the failure of marriages in literature, if you can believe it. Why this sudden interest, anyway? Have they asked you to serve on the program committee?”
“Hardly. But you have inspired me, Susan. Are you telling me that there might have been a session on a minor woman writer such as, for example, Charlotte Stanton?”
“The one who writes all the yummy novels on ancient Greece? Very likely, my dear, though you might try the Popular Culture Association. They don’t meet at Christmas, and they have sessions on wonderful things like pornography and poker. I think the police in a southern city actually attended one of their pornography sessions and were plainly seen to fall asleep, having expected filthy pictures and not deconstruction.”
“Charlotte Stanton would spin in her grave at the very idea. Though I suppose the Popular Culture types have plastic holders too.”
“I gather we are on the bloodhound trail.”
“We are. Though it’s the merest will-o’-the-wisp. How can I find out what the MLA has had sessions on?”
“Well, you could go to the library and look through the PMLA files; the last volume in each year contains the program of that year’s convention. Or, being rich and lazy, you could hire someone to do it for you. Or you could go down to the MLA offices and throw yourself on the mercy of the convention folk there. Why not try the latter? It’ll give you a sense of the place. But beware: they may think you look promising, and suggest you for a committee.”
“Don’t people want to serve on their committees?”
“My dear, panting to, for the most part. You get wafted from darkest Kansas or Missouri to New York, put up at a hotel, and locked up in committee rooms at MLA headquarters only for the daylight hours. If you live in New York these temptations are somewhat easier to resist, but never, of course, the temptation to serve the profession.”
“And where is French psychoanalytic theory,” Kate asked, “with Lacan dead?”
“All the masters, save Derrida, are dead,” Susan said. “We are looking to Iragaray and Cixous and Kristeva for great things. Shall we have a bit more wine?”
The headquarters of the Modern Language Association resembles more than anything else the quarters of a large publishing firm or a large legal firm, occupying, as it does, two floors, all with the latest electronic equipment housed in the best of modern taste. Here, as in those similar firms, one steps from the elevator into the presence of a receptionist. It is usual, with lawyers and publishers, for this figure simultaneously to emit feminine comehitherness and all the welcoming qualities of a guard dog. The MLA, having members rather than clients, becomingly altered this stance with a cheery woman who assumed good intentions, if not always good will—for even members complain—on the part of those who confronted her. For the first time in her encounters with slick offices, Kate did not immediately feel either like a tax auditor or the purveyor of a thousand-page biography of Calvin Coolidge. “Hi,” the receptionist said. “What can I do for you?”
“Is it possible to find out about the programs at the conventions in the last few years?”
“Have a seat,” the receptionist said. “I like your dress. Someone will help you in a minute.”
Kate, sitting down, contemplated the publications displayed. It appeared that, without the bad manners of a publishing firm, this organization went in for publishing. Odd, Kate thought, how in New York one is constantly stumbling on other worlds one knew nothing about, which have been continuing with great energy and influence wholly unaware of one. Is that why I can live nowhere else? Does the good life require the possibility of surprise?
The woman who at this point presented herself to Kate had obviously long since concluded that life, at least in this office, consisted almost wholly of surprises, most of them unpleasant. Her face beautifully combined wariness and concern. “You wanted to ask something about the conventions?” she said, sitting down next to Kate. She had a nice smile.
“Not exactly. I just wondered if you could help me. I’m eager to know if by any chance there was a session on Charlotte Stanton the novelist at a convention in the last few years. If you want to tell me to go off to the library, I won’t blame you. I’m afraid I’m an inveterate taker of shortcuts, which usually means someone else does the work.”
“No problem at all,” the woman said, rising to her feet with an alacrity that suggested she had expected to be asked, for profound reasons, to move next year’s convention to Terre Haute, Indiana. “Come along with me.”
She led Kate through a somewhat labyrinthian route to her own office, where there were shelved rows of the journal of the MLA. These were mainly blue. “The brown numbers,” Elmira (so she had introduced herself) explained, “come out twice a year: in September, with a directory of members, and in November, with the convention program
. You are looking for a meeting in the last few years?”
“I don’t even know that,” Kate said. “Let’s say, starting in 1980 or ‘81.”
“In that case,” Elmira said, with a certain expert cheerfulness that made Kate feel guilty—she should have gone to the library—“we take down all the convention programs for the eighties, and look under the section titled ‘Subject Index to All Meetings.’ ”
“And just see if there’s a listing for Stanton, Charlotte,” Kate hopefully concluded.
“Not exactly. Subjects in a broader sense, I’m afraid. If, for example, you wondered if there had been a session on ‘Intratextual Repetition: Uses of Doubling and Reiteration,’ you would find that under the subheading ‘Literary Criticism and Theory,’ and then go to the number indicated for details. Which,” Elmira said, rapidly flipping pages, “would tell you . . . well, who was giving papers, who was running the session, and where you could send—or could have sent, I should say—for copies of the papers. That was just an example, of course,” she added with, Kate sensed, a faint echo of wonder.
Kate encouraged her. “So if I wondered if there was a session on Charlotte Stanton I would look under . . . er . . . ‘Twentieth-Century English Literature.’ Is that right?”
“That’s the idea. Except it’s British literature, including the Irish and so forth, but excluding—they have their own category—literature in English other than British or American, and here, under ‘Twentieth Century’ we find, well, no Charlotte Stanton I’m afraid. But there is ‘Jean Rhys: A Commemorative Colloquium,’ ” she offered, with the air of one trying to make amends. Kate could not but feel that in decency she should have settled for Jean Rhys, not that Elmira, used to dealing with scholars, would have expected any such thing.
“If you’ll allow me,” Kate said, “I think I’ve got the idea, and could look through the brown November numbers myself. That is, if I wouldn’t be in your way.”
“Not at all,” Elmira said. “But you understand, there may never have been a session devoted entirely to Charlotte Stanton.”
“Alas, yes,” Kate said.
“That doesn’t mean, of course, that she wouldn’t have been the subject of a paper which might have come under some other heading.”
“I see what you mean,” Kate said. “The subject listed might be ‘Modern British or American Authors Writing in English Who Used Greek Settings for Novels of a Popular Persuasion.’ That would require rather more careful investigating. I do see that.”
“Well,” Elmira said, “make yourself at home. I think you’ll find this table comfortable; here are the programs for all the conventions since 1980. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
Several cups of coffee and several more convention programs later, Kate had determined that there had not been a session on Charlotte Stanton, that, she growled to herself, would have been too easy. There had, however, been several sessions in which Charlotte Stanton might have been included, and one in which she was definitely included: that is, her name was listed in the title of one of the papers given under the subject “Oxford Novelists.” Since Kate had decided to work backward from the present, she was not even mildly surprised to hit on this session in the earliest (and last) catalogue she examined, 1980. That convention had been held in Houston. She took her discovery, and the few catalogues holding sessions that might have included Charlotte Stanton, over to Elmira, who smiled and looked helpful.
“If I might just make copies of these,” Kate said, “I shall go away and try not to bother you anymore. Unless,” she added, “you’d care to have lunch with me. I am a member in good standing.”
Elmira smiled. “I’ve already determined that,” she said. “I also know a little about you. You’ve been recommended several times to the executive council for positions on some commission or committee, but the impression seems to be that you would turn it down. In fact, I think you have.”
“Guilty as charged,” Kate said. “But I do support the association as a voice for the humanities in these parlous times. There is that. Let me persuade you to have lunch and you can try to persuade me to do something for the MLA.”
“I have to eat lunch anyway,” Elmira said, “so it will be a pleasure.”
They ended up, after Kate had made her copies and all necessary notes, at a publike restaurant on University Place.
“Do you work all year round on the convention,” Kate asked, when they had ordered, “like those people who paint the George Washington Bridge and begin all over again at the other end when they’ve finished?”
“That’s about it,” Elmira said. “Except, of course, for attending meetings of the executive council and the directors, and talking to people about past conventions.”
“Like me, I know. I’m sorry to be a nuisance, particularly since it may all be in vain; in fact, it very probably is.”
“Please don’t apologize. In the first place, helping members is my job, and I’m glad to do it. We don’t see enough of members, except when they’re elected to some committee, or have a complaint. It really is pleasant to talk with someone who isn’t indignant because his session was scheduled at eight in the morning, or because she thinks New York hotels’ charges for drinks and checking coats are outrageous. As it happens, we agree with the latter, but hardly control the unions and other New York problems. I sometimes think members from out of town blame us for the weather, if bad, and the graffiti in the subway. A request from someone trying to find a paper on a special subject is almost a treat.”
“Frankly,” Kate said, “I’m less in search of a paper than a person. The person who delivered the paper. And the fact is,” she added, “I’m not really interested in that person, but in whether he or she happened to meet someone else.”
“Perhaps if the other person is a member of the MLA, I might—”
“But I’m pretty sure she isn’t. In fact, I know she isn’t. That,” Kate said with a certain wistfulness, “would be too easy. And, to be honest, wholly unexpected. It’s not,” she continued, “that I’m not eager to see the paper; I am. In fact, I’m eager to read everything I can about Charlotte Stanton. But I’m looking for someone who might have attended a session on Charlotte Stanton, who might even have registered, though that seems doubtful.”
“I take it you can’t just ask her?”
“No,” Kate said regretfully. “That’s the problem. She’s disappeared altogether.”
“Ah,” Elmira said. “Well, I don’t know how I can help, though if any other plans for sessions concerning Charlotte Stanton are submitted, I’ll be glad to let you know. That, of course, wouldn’t be for some months yet. We’ve this year’s convention to get through.”
“Who chooses the sessions that are accepted?”
“The program committee. You could, you know, take out an advertisement in the MLA Newsletter; I think one’s due to go to press any day now. You’d have to inquire from the head of publications. Then, if someone knew something, perhaps you could meet at the convention this year; it’s in New York.”
“Is it indeed?” Kate said. “Is it in New York often?”
“Oh yes. That’s our most successful meeting place. People always like to visit New York, you see, and we get them special plane rates and hotel rates.”
“How many usually come to the convention?”
“In New York, about ten thousand.”
“So the extra odd person could certainly escape notice, if he or she wanted to.”
“Certainly. On the other hand, one never knows whom one will meet there.”
“And nonmembers can register at the convention and get a name tag?” Elmira nodded. “Is there any other way of getting a name tag, or at least one of those plastic holders?”
“Well, we scarcely like to talk about it, but of course the plastic holders are given away, simply piled up in a basket at the registration desk, and s
omeone can certainly put something other than one’s own badge into the holder.”
“Someone else’s badge, for example.”
“At the MLA, we prefer not to dwell upon such things.”
Kate smiled back. “If I come, I promise to wear my own badge.”
“If you preregister, as members can, it will cost less,” Elmira said. “Do let me know if there’s any more I can do. I seem to remember hearing that you sometimes detect things. Is that what you’re doing now?”
“What I’m doing now,” Kate said, “is floundering.”
Chapter Nine
The following morning Kate had a consultation with Leighton. She, Kate, had been brooding on the whole Watson business, and felt disinclined, for her sake and Leighton’s, to encourage a caper that could only delay Leighton’s commitment to something resembling her eventual life work. At the same time, Kate caught herself up for falling into her brothers’ trap: the conviction that one must slot oneself into life before one was too far into one’s twenties. If Leighton wanted to drift for a while, perhaps that was right for Leighton. Watson might not be the perfect role for her, but, on the other hand, doing some research on Charlotte Stanton was hardly less fulfilling than word processing in a law firm. Considering the anxieties inherent in aunthood, Kate was glad she had not taken on any more demanding relationship to the young. Motherhood, she suspected, was worse in that one was less capable of cool attitudes. Kate had noticed that parents found it almost impossible to remain unemotional in their advice to their young, and even attitudes of disinterested concern immediately incurred emotional charges from the long-standing parental bank account. Watson and Holmes, not being related, were better able to keep their minds on their jobs.
