The Northbury Papers

by Joanne Dobson

  “Perhaps June fourteen or fifteen,” she speculated, as she brushed a thin, beringed hand over the quarter-inch pink stubble that bristled from her skull, “if the Sonya Live thing doesn’t come through. Other than that, Miles, I don’t know when I can find time. I’m a very busy woman; what can I say?”

  I knew what I could say, and if I’d been tenured, I probably would have said it. But junior faculty walk a very fine line between discretion and integrity, and I was learning to go with discretion. One never knew who’d be sitting on the College Executive Committee when one came up for tenure. And, in meetings like this, one found oneself using words like one a hell of a lot more than one would care to; maybe it was time for one—me—to begin rethinking one’s—my—career.

  So I was well behaved—for the most part. But when Sally overrode Latisha’s motion to schedule the meeting for later this week, saying scornfully, “Well, that’s all right for ordinary faculty, who have no other obligations, but distinguished professors can’t be expected to linger on campus after classes are over,” I lost it.

  “Sally,” I said, jumping up from my seat, and mother’s milk would have curdled at my tone, “surely we undistinguished members of the Enfield faculty—” But a hand on my arm brought me to a halt. Avery stood at my side with an amused glint in his eye.

  “Karen,” he said, “may I have a word?” As we walked over to the window alcove, he muttered, “Believe me, Karen; I understand the impulse. But, around here, you’ve got to watch your back, and our distinguished colleague has some powerful allies.” Startled by his uncharacteristic frankness, I stared up at him speechlessly. He laughed. “What? What’s that look all about? You didn’t hear me say anything; I’m the soul of discretion. But, seriously, we need to confer about the Northbury Center. There are a multitude of complications—as you can imagine.” I glanced over Avery’s shoulder to where Thibault Brewster glowered at us from the doorway. Yes, I could imagine. After that one shocked exclamation during the reading of Edith’s will, Thibault had stalked out of the room, trailed silently by Joyce and Tibby. I wondered if Avery’s “complications” might not eventually include a lawsuit contesting the will. But Avery continued without alluding directly to Brewster.

  “I know how surprised you were by the bequest—and by the stipulation that you direct the center. And now is not the moment to discuss that. But once I begin to address the—ah—complications, I want to take you out for a long, working dinner—somewhere quite special. Surely the college owes you that much.” He reached for the date book on his desk, and the amused glint returned to his eyes. “That is, Karen, if you can find the time in your busy schedule.”

  God, he was charming, and there was nothing I would like better than a long, lingering dinner with him, somewhere special, but I sensed I was being manipulated into something I wasn’t at all certain I wanted to do.

  “Avery, I do know that now is not the time to talk, but I need to make it clear that I’m not happy about this situation. Yes, I liked and admired Edith Hart, and, yes, I’m thrilled about the center, but I’ve got to say I resent being thrown into this position without being consulted. I’m no administrator—”

  “I know, Karen.” Avery had turned so he could keep an eye on the dispersing group of colleagues. “You made that very clear as we were leaving Meadowbrook.”

  “And my feelings haven’t changed.”

  “But the terms of the bequest stipulate—”

  “And there was something very high-handed about that. I never agreed—”

  “We’ll talk about this further, Karen.” His guarded expression told me I was compounding an already “complicated” situation. “And please remember that this bequest has not yet been publicly announced—” We spoke in undertones, and Avery was still keeping a watchful lookout on our fellow committee members. “So, discretion …” His eyes hardened as Thibault Brewster moved to within hearing distance. “Thibault,” he said, and his greeting would have frozen molten lava.

  Why is Sally Chenille following Jill? I wondered, as I exited Emerson Hall. From my vantage point at the top of the flight of limestone steps, I couldn’t help but notice my celebrated colleague’s odd behavior. As Jill crossed the campus common, lugging a commodious canvas bag loaded with books, Sally trailed after her, pink hair a bright beacon. When Jill paused to shift the bookbag from one hand to another, Sally loitered before a poster affixed to an outdoor bulletin board. When Jill halted to pull a small notebook from her pocket and consult it, Sally dawdled in front of the art museum, checking out the list of exhibitions. When Jill picked up her pace and headed in the direction of the Sociology offices, Sally quick-stepped after her. I’d been planning on going directly to the library, but something about this scenario didn’t sit right. I flashed on the memory of Sally lurking by the gate of the President’s House as Jill came down the steps.

  “Jill!” I yelled. Both women jerked around, startled by my voice. “Jill,” I called again, bustling after my friend. “Hey, Jill! How about a cup of coffee before we get to work?”

  Sally changed her course, veering off abruptly toward the parking lot.

  Later that afternoon, I found myself the sole occupant of the gleaming oak tables in the Enfield College Library Special Collections Reading Room. With classes over, I was eager to begin the biography. And I could think of no better place to start researching than right here, where Edith Hart had deposited the Pinkworth family papers. After the librarian brought me three large gray pasteboard manuscript boxes and a pile of shabby books, she must have gone on an extended afternoon coffee break; I’d seen no sign in at least fifteen minutes of her comfortable figure in its gray cardigan and denim wraparound skirt. I was in my element here, surrounded by these ancient books and papers. After a long assessing look at the daguerreotype of the Rev. Edmund Pinkworth, I had propped it against a volume of his published sermons; when I needed a reminder of just whose letters I was reading, I could glance up from the precise, angular handwriting for a glimpse of the tight, thin lips, the heavy brow puckered into what appeared to be an immutable frown, and the wild graying hair. As Edith had told me, Reverend Eddie looked like an ogre. I could well imagine how Pinkworth’s disapproving scowl would have intimidated little girls. It intimidated me, and I was far from being a child. But perhaps it was the minister’s resemblance to Thibault Brewster that unsettled me the most. The straight nose and chiseled jaw had been genetically transmitted from generation to generation for a century and a half.

  I’d come to the library hoping to escape into a kinder, gentler era by reading through the papers of Serena Northbury’s illustrious father. But there was nothing either kind or gentle about the man I discovered in these letters and journals. No one knows better than a historical researcher how superior the present is to the past, but even I at times succumbed to the mythologizing of the past as a Golden Era of good times and good people. Once again the human records were disabusing me of that notion.

  Daughter,

  [read the Reverend Pinkworth’s letter of 11 October, 1836,] It is with the utmost dismay and disapproval that I find you again insistent upon following your willful Desire to attain an educational level suitable only to the Superior Sex. I cannot render strongly enough the Dangerous Position in which you place yourself by such overweening Ambition. Where have I Failed in my Duty to you, my Only Child? Our dear Saviour alone knows how many long, perilous nights I have struggled in prayer with your obdurate and selfish Disobedience. As I have relayed to you on far too many occasions, Providence has approved for you only such aspirations as Divine Providence itself has rendered Appropriate to the weak and vulnerable Female Disposition. Now I feel myself driven to extreme actions. I must inform you, Daughter, that if you do not cease—

  “Interesting reading?” inquired a deep voice, and Thibault Brewster slid into a chair across the table from me. I glanced up, startled, and for a single heartbeat it seemed as if the writer of the missive in my hand had returned from the grave to
confront me: same long nose, same square jaw, same scowling brow. I shuddered and dropped the letter as if it were crawling with maggots.

  “Mr. Brewster. How are you?” I tried for a level tone.

  “So,” he leaned across the table, his hands folded in a parody of paternal benevolence. “So, Professor Pelletier …” The word Professor was stressed scornfully, as if my claim to the title were something of a joke. “My Aunt Edith seems to have taken a great liking to you.”

  Brewster’s slate-gray eyes examined me. I wasn’t prepared for the disdain I saw there, and it unsettled me. I swallowed hard and kept my gaze steady. “As I did to her,” I responded, evenly.

  “I’ll bet you did.” His condescension was laced with sarcasm. Thibault Brewster sat back in his chair, stretching his legs under the wide table until I was forced to shift my feet in order to make room for his. This school was his, goddammit, and he’d take up as much space as he wanted. When I didn’t drop my eyes in face of his penetrating stare, he went on.

  “So, tell me—what mode of undue coercion did you use on my senile and vulnerable relative in order to entice her to leave the family fortune to some fly-by-night pseudo-academic venture?”

  I laughed. I didn’t do it on purpose, but Thibault Brewster flushed, and I knew immediately this was the most disconcerting response I could have made to his implicit threats. And it was funny. Undue coercion; senile and vulnerable relative; pseudo-academic venture: Brewster’s words had no relation to reality—my hesitant approach to Edith, her tough-minded willpower and intelligence, the much-needed scholarly resources the Northbury Center would provide. His language was the stuff of TV melodrama.

  He jerked himself upright in his chair, the motion surprisingly spasmodic for such a seemingly self-controlled man. “You think it’s funny, Professor? You won’t think so for long, not after my attorneys get through with you. Particularly after the pattern of harassment my son reports you’ve perpetuated against him, with absolutely no provocation.” Brewster’s right eye twitched. His voice squeaked twice, on the words harassment and provocation. Clearing his throat, he stood up as abruptly as he’d sat down. Then, both hands flat on the table, in control of himself again, he leaned toward me. I glanced around for the librarian. Nowhere to be seen. I sat forward, ready to spring out of my seat if I had to. That brought Brewster’s face even closer to mine.

  “The unfair course grade you gave Tibby—a student who’s never earned below a B-minus in his three years at the college—that’s documented evidence of persecution. For some reason, Ms. Pelletier, you have a grudge against our family. And now Aunt Edith’s rash and ill-judged bequest makes the origins of that grudge clear. But by the time I get through with you, Professor, you won’t have a leg to stand on. You won’t even have a job.”

  He straightened up, turned on his heel, and stalked out of the room, passing the returning librarian. She glanced at me curiously. “Everything okay, Professor? You look a little pale.”

  I nodded. Oh, yeah. Sure. Everything’s okay. Everything’s just dandy.

  Thirteen

  The wooded yard of the Samoorians’ multilevel contemporary on the outside of town was set up with long tables of food and drink; Greg and Irena were hosting their annual end-of-the-academic-year-monster-blowout-potluck picnic and barbecue. Friends and colleagues clustered in small groups on white plastic molded chairs, sipping wine and chatting; Neil Young sang “Transformer Man” just under the buzz of conversation; and faculty kids chased the Samoorians’ yellow Labrador pup, Misty, from one corner of the yard to the other. After the frenzied hassle of finishing up courses, reading papers, grading exams, and dealing with hysterical students, frazzled professors were delighted to have a little downtime. Greg only invited people he could tolerate, so we were a select group, and the mood was mellow, without the posturing that goes on at most College gatherings.

  A plate of ribs and potato salad on my lap, I relaxed on the deck, leaning back against the redwood siding of the house and basking in the late afternoon sun. Almost myself again, after the stress of end-of-semester pressures, the sadness of Edith’s death, and the nastiness of Thibault Brewster’s threats three days earlier, I guzzled a Sam Adams ale and laughed at one of Greg’s silly-student stories. Greg was a happy man; Irena’s pregnancy was no longer a secret, and a sonogram had confirmed that the couple was expecting twin girls. This party was a double celebration.

  Ned and Sara Hilton—Ned’s in the English Department—and George Herman from Anthropology joined Jill, Irena, and me on the deck, and Greg continued with his tale. “And then this young woman—would you believe it?—after not showing her face in class for a good eight weeks, has the nerve to appear on the last day of class with a final paper in her hand.”

  “Jeez,” George interjected.

  Greg held up a hand. “Oh, but it gets better. She says, ‘Professor Samoorian, my roommate said you’re looking for me?’ ‘Well, yes, Annie,’ I say. ‘You’ve missed more than half a semester of classes. I wondered what the problem was.’ ‘Oh, there’s no problem,’ Annie says, looking up at me with childlike eyes, trustingly certain I’ll sympathize with her dilemma. ‘You see, Professor, I just didn’t like the course.’”

  A roar of laughter greeted this statement. “What did you do?” Ned asked.

  “What did I do? I gave her an F, naturally—especially after I recognized the paper she turned in as one I’d read the previous year. It must have been circulating in the dorms.”

  I gnawed a remnant of sweet pork from one of the denuded ribs on my plate, slurped down the last of the ale, and sighed with contentment. Good food, good booze, good talk: What more could I want?

  Avery Mitchell strolled around the side of the house. He wore a navy-blue golf shirt and khaki shorts, and he carried a bottle of champagne in one hand.

  I snatched a handful of paper napkins to swipe the barbecue sauce from my mouth. Sitting next to me, Greg reached over with his own napkin and dabbed at my cheek. “You missed a spot, Karen.” He winked.

  Irena, glowingly beautiful in a loose denim jumper, rose to greet Avery. “Congratulations, you two,” Avery said, kissing her and greeting Greg with a slap on the back. “Why am I always the last to hear these things?”

  “It’s your exalted position, Mitchell,” Greg responded. “Gossip simply doesn’t pierce the higher levels of the academic stratosphere.”

  Avery chuckled. Greg was one of the few faculty members who felt comfortable joking with him, and the president seemed to like it. “Right,” he said, “sure.” He handed the champagne to Irena. “This is for after the babies are born.”

  “I know,” she said. Her honey blond curls haloed in the slanted late-afternoon sun, Irena radiated the aura of a Renaissance Madonna. Jill stared at her fixedly, no doubt fascinated by the image of maternal beauty. This party had to be difficult for Jill; as far as I knew, she had told no one but me about her pregnancy. Irena’s impending motherhood rated a public celebration, but Jill was still hiding hers, clutching it to her like an invisible scarlet letter. I took a closer look at her strained expression, realizing how lonely she must feel. I smiled at her and received a wan smirk in reply.

  Irena took Avery’s arm. “Let me get you a drink, oh mighty one,” she said with mock seductiveness. Avery grinned and rolled his eyes at Greg—hey, I’m only human—and allowed Irena to lead him toward the drinks table. I began to breathe again. Greg gave me a sharp sideways look.

  I jumped up from my bench against the sundrenched wall. “Anyone want dessert?”

  “I’ll come with you.” Jill, in black leggings and a loose open-weave cherry shirt over a black shell, laid a hand on my arm as we went down the steps. “Thanks for being such a pal, Karen. I’m not going to be able to keep this—well, you know, the kid—a secret much longer, but might as well let Greg and Irena bask in their glory for a while. Sophisticated as everyone claims to be around here, people are gonna kinda freak out when I announce my little unwed blessed event
.”

  She glanced back at the deck where Greg sprawled on a lounge and Irena stood, laughing with Avery, a glass of milk in her hand. “God, I envy them. Grown up and together. I’ve got a feeling me and the tadpole here are gonna be all by our lonesomes.”

  I stopped in the middle of the yard. “Where’s Gerry?”

  “Probably fishing.” Her tone was acerbic. “He doesn’t like social events. He’d rather spend his life in a boat on the Meadowbrook pond. A regular Tom Sawyer, Gerry Novak is.” In the background, Neil Young was crooning “Helpless.” The acerbic tone intensified to caustic. “Or else, he’s off with—”

  “What I mean is, where’s Gerry in the long run?”

  “I honest to God don’t know, Karen.” She nudged me toward the dessert table, and stacked a plate perilously high with lemon squares and chocolate fudge cookies.

  I chose a brownie and began nibbling at its corner. My jeans were starting to feel just a bit tight around the waist. “You guys break up?”

  Jill sampled an oatmeal cookie. “I don’t know if we were ever really together. I thought we were a couple, but then Gerry got so pissed when I showed up for Dr. Hart’s funeral.… All I wanted was to be there for him.” She looked wounded as she recounted the incident. “After the service he gave me hell. I cried all afternoon. And then—well—I haven’t seen him since.” Her eyes hardened. “I don’t need this shit, Karen. I didn’t even bother to remind him about this party tonight.”