by Alison Lurie
Jane sighed almost audibly. Very possibly, Delia Delaney was going to be this year’s problem Fellow. “And how long do her migraines last?”
“Oh, that varies too. Sometimes only a few hours, sometimes up to two days.”
“That’s too bad,” Jane said. “I hope she won’t have them on Tuesdays and Thursdays.” In exchange for a generous salary, free secretarial service, free campus parking, and what most of them considered luxury accommodations, all the Fellows were expected to hold office hours and make themselves available to students and faculty with a special interest in their subject. They were also expected to attend the two public lectures or readings each of them would give, and the informal weekly lunches to which selected members of the faculty would be invited.
“Unfortunately, they’re not scheduled in advance.” Henry sat casually on the edge of the leather-topped oak desk, which had once belonged to Matthew Unger himself. “I’m sure she’ll come in when she can.”
“It’s important, you know,” Jane said, beginning to be irritated by his manner, which somehow suggested that his wife was doing Corinth University a favor instead of the reverse. “Really.”
“Really?” He raised one eyebrow slightly.
“Yes, it is. You know, a few years ago we had a Fellow who only showed up once a week to get his mail and use the copy machine. It turned out that most of the time he was in New York. He didn’t understand that if he wanted to collect his paycheck he had to be in residence, the way it said in the contract he signed.”
“So what happened?” Henry smiled as if this cautionary tale were a joke.
“Oh, well. Eventually he understood,” Jane said in what she hoped was a meaningful way. “I’m afraid I have to leave now,” she added. “If you have any more questions you can call me here tomorrow afternoon.”
“Yes. Thank you.” Henry Hull’s tone was subdued; finally he seemed to have gotten the message. He followed Jane out into the wide, elegant upstairs hall, where the big stained-glass window over the entrance cast a confetti of color on the flourishing indoor plants and the pale Chinese carpet. He glanced out at the view, then into the office opposite his wife’s, which looked north and west.
“Oh, look! There’s a sofa in here,” he said with an air of happy discovery. “It should be easy to move it into Delia’s office. Or,” he added, walking into the room, “why not just switch rooms? The light’s not so glaring here too, that would be better for her.” He pointed toward the bay window, where a magnificent copper beech tempered the hot afternoon sun.
“I’m sorry,” Jane said in a not-sorry tone of voice, “but the offices have already been assigned.”
“Yeah, but nobody’s moved in yet.”
Jane did not reply. A vision had come to her of Alan lying on the sofa at home in pain, waiting for his prescription, while she was chatting, almost flirting, with a stranger. You may be attractive, she thought, looking at Henry, but I’m not going to give your wife Alan’s office, and I’m not going to give her Alan’s sofa. “Anyhow,” she said, “the professor who’s using this room needs a sofa.” Then, realizing that inevitably Alan’s identity would come out, she added rather lamely, “It’s my husband, he has a serious back condition and he can really only work lying down.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” Henry said. “Your husband?” He smiled in a way that Jane somehow did not like.
“Yes. Alan Mackenzie. He’s an architectural historian.”
“Ah?” Henry spoke as if this were news to him. Clearly, he had not read any of the material Jane had sent.
“Yes.” Jane had an impulse to elaborate on this information, mentioning Alan’s fame as a teacher, the books he had published, the awards he had won; but something told her that none of this would impress Henry Hull much. Instead she looked at her watch meaningfully. “I really must close up the building now,” she said, and headed for the stairs.
“Okay, sorry.”
They descended the stairs in silence.
“Hey, look,” Henry said, stopping and glancing into the downstairs rooms as they passed. “This place is full of sofas.” In fact, there were four sofas in the principal rooms, including a picturesque but horsehair-hard little Victorian one with mahogany arms and back carved with lumpy wooden fruit. “I bet somebody could arrange for Delia to have one of them.”
He’s going to go over my head if I don’t stop him, Jane thought, and a feeling near to rage came over her. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said, giving the horsehair sofa a quick meaningful look, and Henry a cool smile.
“Thanks so much.” His smile, in contrast, was warm and friendly.
Jane collected her handbag from the office and led him outside. She rounded the building to the parking lot, with Henry Hull following her, and stood by her car. “So, I’ll see you again, probably,” she said, uneasily aware that this was something she wanted.
“I’m sure you will.” He smiled again; then, without warning, put his hand on her bare shoulder, causing a tremor to run down her arm. “You’re very pretty, you know that?” he said.
Jane, who in a sense knew this, but had not actually considered the matter for some time, since it was no longer relevant to her life, did not answer. Don’t you try to sweet-talk me, she thought; and without speaking, she got into the car, slammed the door, and started up the engine.
FOUR
On Labor Day, in the big bedroom that he now only occasionally shared with his wife, Alan Mackenzie stood at the window looking down over his back lawn, which sloped gently toward the woods and the silvery lake beyond. Usually empty, today the scene would soon be crowded. Students from the University Catering Service, whose truck was parked in Alan’s driveway, had just set up two long folding tables and were covering them with white cloths. Next they carried in a large cut-glass punch bowl, plastic plates and glasses, buckets of ice, and bins of soda and juice bottles. Then came plates of cheese and vegetables covered in plastic wrap, and containers of crackers and dips. One of the students, as she crossed the bristly grass that had just been cut that morning, stumbled in her high heels and fell, dropping a bowl of potato chips. Alan winced; every accident now reminded him of his own accident, his own disability and constant pain. Was the girl hurt, would she too soon become a wretched invalid? Apparently not. She rose, stooped gracefully to pick up the bowl, and hurried on, leaving a spray of yellow chips like broken flowers on the grass.
“How’re you doing?” Jane said, coming into the room behind him. She was wearing faded jeans and a T-shirt, and looked a little worn.
“Not too great,” Alan replied, half turning around. “I’ve got that pain in my shoulder again.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t think those goddamn exercises have helped at all; in fact I think they’ve made it worse.” He rotated his arm, wincing.
“Maybe you should stop doing them, then.”
“I’ve got to do something. I can’t go on like this, I can hardly type anymore. I probably never should have gone to that new physical therapist. She seemed so eager to help, but I didn’t trust her from the start. I’m not sure she even understood my X-rays.”
“It could be.”
“I told her there was a bone spur, but I don’t think she really listened. I should have waited until the other woman got back from vacation, the one I saw before. Or at least until I talked to the doctor again.”
Jane, who was standing in the walk-in closet changing her clothes, did not reply. Probably she too hadn’t really been listening, he thought. More and more often, she didn’t listen to him, or didn’t listen carefully. In a way he didn’t blame her: what he had to say was usually unpleasant and often monotonous. But in a way he did blame her. Impatient, troubled, he moved toward her.
“What I want to know is, am I ever going to get better,” he demanded loudly and suddenly. “What do you think?”
“I—I don’t know,” Jane stuttered, clearly frightened by his tone, clutching a white silk slip
against her naked body.
“Yes, but what do you think, honestly?” he insisted, moving nearer.
“I don’t know, how could I know?” she said. “I mean, most people do; that’s—that’s what everyone says.”
“And some people don’t get better. I’m sorry,” he added, realizing that Jane had burst into tears. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” He put his arm around her, touching her smooth bare back for the first time in weeks. “Of course you can’t know. Come on. Stop crying. Get dressed and go on down to your party.”
“It’s not just my party, it’s yours too,” Jane said, her sobs beginning to subside.
“Whatever.” Alan gave a sigh and moved toward the window. “I still don’t see why you had to have it here, though,” he said presently, looking down again at the lawn, over which the caterers were now distributing white plastic chairs.
“But we talked about it already, we agreed,” Jane said, now in almost a normal tone of voice. “We’re having it here so you don’t have to spend any more time socializing than is comfortable for you. You can come in and lie down whenever you feel tired.”
“I feel tired already,” said Alan. “I always feel tired.”
“You only need to put in an appearance—speak to the people on the Council, meet the other new Fellows—” Jane, now wearing a tan shirtwaist dress and low-heeled white sandals, came to look out of the window beside him. “Do you think the tables are too close together?” she asked.
He made no comment.
“And why are they setting the chairs in rows? We’re not having a lecture. I told them already—I’ve got to go down. Come whenever you can.”
Alan did not move. In fact, he understood very well why the Matthew Unger Center reception was being held at his house: it was not for his convenience, but because Jane was determined that he should appear at it, demonstrating proper gratitude for his faculty fellowship. She knew that if the party had taken place anywhere else he would probably have refused to come, or would have wanted to be driven home early. Or, possibly, he would have gotten drunk. Alcohol cut his pain, though only briefly, and if he drank enough to make any real difference he would begin to feel dizzy and sick and behave badly.
Alan was only minimally grateful for his fellowship. For one thing, he was convinced that it had been Jane’s idea, though she denied this. In the eagerness of his colleagues to recommend him he saw mainly self-interest, for it meant that they would not have to fill in when he was too ill to meet a class, and would not have to see or hear about his pain and disability. On the other hand, he was grateful that he would not have to see them so often and experience their condescending pity.
Alan Mackenzie was a proud man, and in the past his pride had been of the sort known as “proper,” meaning that it had been well grounded in fact. It was grounded, for example, in his professional success, his health and good looks and athletic prowess; his attractive, affectionate, and intelligent wife; and his beautiful hundred-and-fifty-year-old house with its view of the lake. He had never called attention to these advantages—rather, he often spoke freely and humorously of his disadvantages: his lack of skill at golf, his failure to graduate from Yale with honors. Nevertheless, one or two envious friends and colleagues had sometimes mockingly referred to him as The Mackenzie, as if he were a Scottish clan chieftain. Now, of course, it was no longer necessary for him to deflect envy, since his friends and colleagues pitied rather than en-vied him.
The move to the Unger Center last week had been difficult. Jane and a team from Buildings and Grounds had packed and transported Alan’s books and papers, his computer and printer, and the drafting table he now used as a desk because he could not sit down to work. But he had had to select what was to be moved and organize the packing and unpacking. Presently, becoming impatient with the process, he had joined in, and had wrenched his shoulder again.
And even after everything was in place at the Center Alan hadn’t been able to get down to work. It was really too soon to start his book on religious architecture in America: his research wasn’t complete. Nearly half the buildings he wanted to discuss hadn’t been photographed right, and until he got well they never would be. If he ever got well. “But you can write up the material you have, can’t you?” Jane had asked. She didn’t understand that it didn’t work that way. The ideas and the research had to come first, then the outline, and then finally the writing.
Alan had always been interested in religion, once maybe too interested for his own good. But his main feeling now was relief that he had gotten over his early beliefs at college. If he still had faith he would have had to consider the spiritual meaning of the last sixteen months of severe, unrelenting pain. Was he being punished, and if so, for what? His life had not been blameless, but he had never been guilty of murder or plagiarism, never cheated on his taxes. He had not stolen anything since sixth grade, and it was years since he had committed adultery. On the other hand, he had not been so good that God would have been tempted to test his faith as he had Job’s.
Outside, the lawn was beginning to fill with guests, among whom presumably were the four other Fellows, whom Alan had not yet met. Sighing, he took up his cane and went down to join them. I’ll give it half an hour, Jane will have to be satisfied with that, he decided, clenching his teeth as he descended the staircase, one agonizing step at a time.
Twenty-five minutes later he had drunk two glasses of semi-alcoholic pink grapefruit punch, which only dulled the pain slightly. He had eaten too much Brie and crackers, spoken to the five members of the Humanities Council and three of their wives, and met three of the four other Fellows. Only Delia Delaney, this year’s star, was missing, and already her absence was beginning to be unfavorably commented on. From time to time Alan had observed Jane looking at him, her expression a mixture of encouragement and concern, and given her a small, ironic nod or wave. See? I’m doing what you wanted me to do, okay? it conveyed.
His back hurt worse and worse. He was about to excuse himself, and had turned to set down his empty plastic wineglass, when he saw an extraordinarily beautiful woman approaching. She was tall and fair, with masses of heavy red-gold hair, elaborately arranged in a series of braids and puffs and tendrils in the manner of Botticelli’s Simonetta, whom she strongly resembled.
“You must be Alan Mackenzie, who’s won all those prizes,” she said. Her voice was low, vibrating, breathy, with a warm Southern accent; her gauzy white dress was cut low, revealing full rose-pink breasts.
“So they tell me,” he admitted. It was true that two of his books, both now out of print, had been given awards.
“I’m Delia Delaney.” She smiled and looked up at him,
Of course, Alan almost said. He had seen a black and white photo somewhere, but it hadn’t revealed Delia’s spectacular coloring, including the satiny rose-flushed skin and the silver-gray eyes that matched her lacy shawl.
“I’m so happy to be here.” She sighed as if with actual happiness. “And now I want to see your famous folly, I’ve heard so much about it.”
“That’s it, over there.” Alan pointed to where, beyond the last curve of the flower bed, a gray stone arch was partly visible. “Help yourself.”
“But I want you to show it to me.” Delia put a warm hand on his arm.
Phrases of polite but honest refusal passed through Alan’s mind. I’m sorry, but I have a bad back, I can’t walk that far. I was just about to go lie down. But pride and good manners and Delia’s touch on his arm outweighed them, and he allowed himself to be led painfully down the lawn toward the miniature triumphal arch he had constructed three years ago to celebrate the publication of British Ruins and Follies . He had to admit that it still looked good—maybe even better now that ivy covered one side of the arch and a velvety dark-green moss had spread over the lowest stones.
“But I know it!” Delia exclaimed, laughing. “It’s the arch in Washington Square, isn’t that right?”
“Yeah,” Alan agreed. “About one-qua
rter the size, of course.”
“It’s wonderful,” she breathed.
“Thank you.”
“Most people don’t recognize it.” And they don’t always think it’s wonderful, either, he remembered. Jane, for instance, did not think so. When he had first shown her the drawings, she had seen them as a mildly entertaining joke, but once she realized that he was actually going to build the thing in their back yard she was clearly puzzled and dismayed, though she had never openly said so.
“I knew it at once,” Delia said. “My best friend in school moved to New York when I was about seven, and she sent me a postcard of that arch. I had it up on my wall at home for the longest time. I used to imagine I was a princess going to my coronation, and I would drive through Washington Square and under the arch in my golden coach.” She looked up at Alan with an uneven smile, as if she were about to weep. Then, blinking her long-lashed gray eyes, she glanced down.
“Oh, look at all these delicious little white flowers growing in the grass,” she said. “What are they called?”
“I haven’t any idea,” Alan admitted. “Jane would know. My wife. Have you met her?”
“Oh yes,” Delia said, smiling, and somehow this time her smile conveyed the idea that this had not been an especially exciting meeting.
“She could tell you their Latin name.”
“I don’t want to know their Latin name,” Delia said. “It’s bad enough knowing that my Latin name is Homo sapiens. I try to forget that sort of thing as fast as I can.” She began to walk around the arch, admiring it from all angles, trailing her gauzy skirts and silver net shawl in the long flowery grass. Alan, steadying himself with his cane, followed.
“Marvelous,” she murmured. “Are there any others? Someone told me there was at least one other.”
Alan hesitated. There was another folly, the ruined chapel, but except for Jane and the graduate students who had helped him, almost nobody had seen it. He had wanted to present it formally, as a completed project, and had often refused to allow spectators. “Well, there is one,” he admitted, not wanting to lie. “But I can’t show it to anyone yet, it’s not finished. I hurt my back, and then—”
