I began looking around for someplace to put my feet up.
“Actually, there were five of them—don’t forget Zeppo and Gummo. I’m pretty sure the doctors wouldn’t overlook an extra three.”
He pulled a twelve-pack of paper towels down from a top shelf and set it where I could use it as a footstool.
“Thanks,” I said. “And humor me—let’s stick to doubles only.”
“So Winken and Blinken would be out, too.”
“Since two of the hyenas at the zoo are already named that, I think not. But we’re wandering. Back to the problem at hand. What do we do?”
“We can’t just jump in without thinking. We need a plan.”
And he was probably expecting me to help him formulate the plan. Normally, that was the sort of thing I was good at. Why did this crisis have to hit when I felt as if my brain was full of sludge?
Just then P squirmed, as if expressing his impatience, and non-P predictably delivered several thumping blows.
“Settle down and take a nap, kiddies,” I said, patting them. “Mommy needs to think.”
“More premature labor pains?” Michael asked. I’d been having something called Braxton-Hicks contractions for weeks now. After one late-night visit to the emergency room and several anxious calls to Dad and my ob-gyn, we’d stopped panicking.
“No,” I said. “Just the kids doing their calisthenics. Just as well, since if I were getting contractions now, they might not be false.”
Michael’s face took on the anxious look he always got at the thought of me going into labor.
“And that’s fine,” I reminded him. “Remember, the kids are big and healthy and nearly full term, and at my last appointment, Dr. Waldron said if they came anytime from then on it would be just fine. Though obviously it would be better if Gin and Tonic delayed their arrival until the current crisis is over.”
Michael took a deep breath.
“Sorry,” he said. “When the time comes, I will do my best not to behave like a stereotypical new father. And I shouldn’t be putting you under this much pressure right now.”
“You’re not, the prunes are,” I said. “And remember, a problem shared is a problem halved. Many hands make light work and all that nonsense. So, one plan coming up.”
I pulled out my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe, the worn notebook that serves me as a combination to-do list and address book. I started a new page and held my pen poised to begin making notes. Michael smiled, as if he found the appearance of the notebook as reassuring as I did, and took a comfortable position leaning against the pantry counter.
“So what kind of records do they keep in the English department about dissertations?” I asked. “Would Ramon’s proposal be on file there after it was signed, sealed, and approved?”
Michael’s smile disappeared.
“If he turned it in. He told me he did, but maybe I shouldn’t have taken his word for it. From now on—”
“From now on, you don’t trust your students on anything. They’re drama students, not bureaucrats. And frankly, that kind of nitpicking isn’t your forte, either, so why don’t you get someone who is good at organization to come up with a system to do it for all the drama students and professors?”
“Kathy Borgstrom,” he said. “She loves doing stuff like that, thank God.”
And Dr. Wright didn’t seem to like Kathy. Was that really because Kathy had no official position, or had Kathy managed to turn in papers the prunes would rather have seen lost?
“That’s good,” I said, scribbling a couple of items in my notebook. “But right now, we’ve got to find Ramon’s paperwork. Maybe it’s in the files and maybe it’s somewhere in his frozen room.”
“And maybe it’s in a landfill somewhere.” Michael sounded discouraged.
“Think positively,” I said. “I assume we can consider Kathy an ally?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “She’s militantly in the camp that thinks drama should be a separate department.”
“Let’s get her to see if the paperwork’s on file in the English department.”
“Excellent idea,” Michael said. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and began pushing numbers. “Kathy? Michael Waterston. We’ve got a problem here.”
While Michael explained what was going on, I scribbled a few more notes.
“Make sure she doesn’t let the prunes know what she’s up to,” I called over to Michael. “Or anyone else on the English department side of the rift.”
“She already said the same thing,” Michael said. “And she says she’s worried that they may already have gotten to the files.”
“You mean she thinks they might deliberately destroy Ramon’s paperwork if they got hold of it?”
“Kathy wouldn’t put it past them.”
“Trolls,” I muttered. “Can I talk to Kathy a sec?”
Michael handed the cell phone over.
“Hey, how are the babies?” she asked.
“As eager as I am to protect their daddy’s student,” I said. “Not to mention their daddy’s hopes of tenure. They start kicking the second they see the prunes. I mean, Dr. Blanco and Dr. Wright.”
“Prunes is better,” she said. “What can I do for you?”
I peered down at my notebook, and Michael shifted his position so he could see over my shoulder. I pushed the speaker button so he could hear too.
“Is there someplace outside the English department where the paperwork on dissertations would be kept?” I asked.
“Someplace the prunes can’t get at? Not until the department approves them.”
“So if someone doesn’t make the grade, only the English department has that person’s files?”
“Well, I have my files,” she said. “But no one considers them official. There’s no official record outside the department until after they’re approved.”
I heard Michael mutter a couple of words I hoped he’d stop using once the twins arrived.
“But the college has some central record of people who get doctorates?” I asked.
“Yes, that would be on file in the registrar’s office and the alumni office, and the dissertations are kept in the college library.”
“For the whole college? Great!” I said. “Can you get someone reliable down to the library and the registrar’s office to do some research?”
“What do you want?”
She sounded puzzled. For that matter, Michael looked puzzled. Maybe having a father who read detective novels by the bagful was rubbing off on me, just a little.
“It might be useful to have someone look at a whole lot of doctoral dissertations to establish that there’s a precedent for using foreign language material in dissertations. Especially in the English department, but precedents in history, philosophy, art, and so forth might help.”
“Gotcha.”
Michael nodded his agreement.
“And is there some way we could compile statistics on the percentage of drama department grad students who complete their master’s and doctoral degrees compared with other departments?”
“The attrition rate.” Michael said, leaning over my shoulder so Kathy could hear him.
Silence on the other end.
“Is that not something we can get?” I asked.
“You need to talk to Abe,” she said. “And Art.”
“They have attrition statistics?” Michael asked.
“Some,” she said. “They’ve been working on that as part of their campaign to secede from the English department. We’ve got statistics and they’re not pretty, and the prunes are going to fight like hell to explain them away. But maybe it’s time for the showdown.”
Michael and I looked at each other. We both knew that the ongoing tension between the drama faculty and certain powerful members of the English department was a volcano waiting to erupt. Was Ramon’s problem going to set off the eruption?
Michael squared his shoulders.
“I already called them about an
emergency meeting of Ramon’s dissertation committee,” he said to Kathy. “Maybe you could get hold of them and warn them to come armed with the attrition statistics, in case they feel it’s time to use them.”
“Can do,” Kathy said, and I could hear the tapping of keys. I suspected Kathy had an electronic equivalent of my notebook. “If they’ve already taken off, I can bring the papers out myself.”
“You’d be more than welcome,” Michael said. “We’ve got heat. And enough paella and sangria to feed the whole college.”
“I’m already on my way,” Kathy said. “I’ve been getting frostbite over here. Anything else?”
Michael shook his head.
“If we think of anything else, we’ll call,” I said.
“Up the rebels!” she said. “Death to the prunes!”
And with that she hung up.
Chapter 6
“I think I feel better already,” I said, as I made a few scribbles in my notebook. “What next? Should we try contacting the Spanish department?”
“Why?” Michael asked.
“Maybe we could enlist them to help in the battle?” I asked. “Surely someone there would be insulted at the slight to one of their most notable living dramatists.”
A slow grin spread over Michael’s face.
“Mendoza’s not exactly the Spanish Shakespeare,” he said. “More like the Spanish Three Stooges.”
“Oh, great,” I said. “Your tenure’s on the line for the Spanish equivalent of ‘Nyuck-nyuck-nyuck’.”
“Or maybe the Spanish Benny Hill,” Michael said. “There’s a lot of mildly suggestive stuff in it—the sort of thing that would amuse a teenage boy. Bathroom humor.”
“Benny Hill? This isn’t making me feel any better about defending him. Wait—is Mendoza’s play the one where all the actors keep hitting each other over the head with plastic zucchinis?”
Michael nodded. I closed my eyes and shuddered.
“They’ll be using real zucchini in the show,” he said. “And for tonight’s dress rehearsal. We just wanted to keep the zucchini budget as low as possible. See, we’ve got the real ones all ready.”
He pointed toward a shelf at the back of the pantry. I craned my neck and saw zucchinis, dozens of them, stacked, row upon row. Their deep-green skins had a curiously menacing sheen, like some kind of sinister organic arsenal.
Michael must have seen the dismayed look on my face.
“There’s political content, too,” he said. He leaned over, picked up a zucchini, and began tossing it from hand to hand like a beginning juggler. “All anti-Franco, anti-Fascist stuff. Which means it’s pretty obscure. Although I suppose Blanco and Wright could have picked up on the left-wing, antiauthoritarian tone and disliked that.”
“That’s assuming they even bothered to read it,” I said. “They could have just said ‘Oops, graduate drama student on the verge of actually completing a doctorate!”
“Quick, Dr. Blanco!” Michael struck a pose, holding the zucchini up as if using it as a sword to lead a charge. “ ‘We must act quickly to preserve the purity of our department!’ ”
I giggled in spite of myself.
“I think Art and Abe are right,” I said. “The drama department needs its independence. Wouldn’t most of the English department be happy to see you leave?”
“Ah, but there are budget issues,” Michael said. “They think we take up more than our share of the budget. Our expenditures are higher—putting on shows takes money.”
“The produce alone could bankrupt the department,” I said.
“What they can’t seem to get into their thick heads is that the shows also generate income.” He was suddenly serious, though since he was still gesticulating with the zucchini, I had to smother the urge to giggle. “Hell, they might even earn a profit for the college if our theater were a little larger. Right now we sell out every show, but there aren’t enough seats to cover expenses. With a bigger theater—which we’ll never get as long as we’re in the English department—that could change.”
“You could earn enough to pay for a new theater?” I asked.
“We could probably find a donor for the theater, and earn enough to cover ongoing expenses,” he said. “At least that’s what Abe thinks—he’s the closest thing we have to an expert on practical stuff like budget.”
“But getting back to the English department—if you’re such a drain on their budget, why wouldn’t they be happy to see you go?”
“Because then we’d be yet another department competing with them in the college budget process,” Michael said. “And they’re afraid we’re cool enough to wow the budget committee into giving us more than our share.”
“You are,” I said.
He smiled faintly and shook his head. I didn’t think he was disagreeing with me, just feeling bone weary of cutthroat academic politics.
“But all that can wait,” he said. “Right now, I should have a talk with Ramon. See how bad things are.”
He tossed the zucchini on the counter and turned toward the door.
“I’ll make sure the prunes are out of the way,” I said.
He helped me up from the stepladder and we slipped out of the pantry.
Out in the kitchen, groups of students were talking in small huddles.
I glanced out one of the back windows. Señor Mendoza was smoking a cigarette and deep in conversation with my grandfather. I tried not to worry about this.
My grandfather gestured, and the two of them strode off. Heading for the front porch, no doubt. Most of the student smokers had long ago figured out that the front porch was a lot more sheltered than the backyard, and they were even nice enough to stick to the far end.
I scowled at the barn. The thought of Blanco occupying my office annoyed me no end. And just for good measure, I scowled to the left, in the general direction of the library wing, although I couldn’t really see it—just a corner of the sunporch on the far end.
And then one of the twins gave a small kick, and I realized how silly I looked, scowling at invisible menaces. I patted them and turned back to tackle whatever was coming next. I saw Rose Noire was standing at the stove, holding a plate and scowling as darkly as I had been.
“What’s wrong?” I asked her.
“That woman,” she said.
“Dr. Wright?”
“I have never met anyone with such negative energy.”
“Neither have I,” I said.
“Her aura is dark brown, almost black,” Rose Noire said.
I could see a couple of the students gawking at the statement, but I’d become used to Rose Noire’s apparent ability to assess people’s auras as easily as their wardrobes.
“A person with an aura like that is capable of . . . well, anything,” Rose Noire continued. “Even murder.”
To say nothing of murdering the careers of Michael and his poor grad student.
“And do you know what she did?” Rose Noire went on.
I shook my head.
“She requested—no, demanded—that I bring her tea and toast. ‘And don’t let it steep too long’,” Rose Noire said, in a fair imitation of Dr. Wright’s precise, supercilious voice. “ ‘And be sure to bring it while it’s still hot. And be careful not to burn the toast.’ The nerve of some people. I was about to ask if she wanted anything—she didn’t have to be so . . . so . . . Oh!”
The toast popped out of the toaster, startling her. Rose Noire arranged the slices on a plate, then placed the plate neatly on a small tray already loaded with a teacup and saucer, a spoon, a sugar bowl, a tray of lemons, a butter dish, a marmalade jar, a butter knife, and a lacy starched napkin. I wondered if the elegant tray was intended to improve Dr. Wright’s aura or her mood, or whether Rose Noire was simply incapable of being as rude as I would have been to our guest.
“I’d have showed her the way to the kitchen and let her make her own weak tea and pale toast,” I said.
“But then we’d all have to put up with her
here,” Rose Noire said. “Her and her negative energy. I already need to do a cleansing in the house as soon as she leaves.”
“While you’re at it, have the place fumigated,” I said, blowing my nose. “That perfume of hers is driving me bonkers.”
“Some sort of ghastly artificial scent, no doubt,” Rose Noire said. “An essential oil would never do that to you. Where’s the teapot?”
It took a couple of minutes for her to locate the teapot—a student was cutting up onions on the counter where Rose Noire had left it, and another student was kneading dough in the place where the first student thought she’d put the teapot. It finally turned up on the floor near the basement door. Rose Noire hurried to whisk the tea infuser out.
“Do you think it’ll be too strong for her?” I asked.
“I only used about three tea leaves,” Rose Noire said with a sniff. “She’s more likely to mistake it for plain hot water.”
I noticed she’d used our black Wedgwood teapot and a matching cup and saucer—was that because they were among the few impressively expensive bits of china we owned, or because she thought they matched Dr. Wright’s poisonous aura?
She covered the pot with an incongruously cheerful quilted tea cozy and placed it on the tray. Dr. Wright would probably think Rose Noire was our housekeeper. In fact, I suspected she already thought that, which would account for her excessive rudeness.
Not a good idea to tell Rose Noire that. I just shook my head in sympathy and got a glass from the cabinet.
“Let me fix that,” Rose Noire said.
“You’ve got Dr. Wright to worry about,” I said.
“She can wait,” Rose Noire said. “Juice?”
“Some ginger ale,” I said. “My stomach’s a little unsettled. Probably just the excitement.”
“Damn, but that guy’s rude,” someone said behind me.
I turned to see a young woman bundled up like an arctic explorer coming in through the back door.
“You mean Dr. Blanco?” I asked.
She nodded. She pushed her hood back and I saw it was the young woman who’d arrived with Ramon and Señor Mendoza.
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