by Cynthia Kuhn
“Where were you before this?”
“I worked in the dean’s office at the University of Nebraska for twelve years, but my husband was hired to teach in the Criminal Justice department here, so I came with him.” She laughed and smoothed the side of her glossy brown hair, which was pulled back into a twist. “Obviously.”
“Welcome,” I said. “We’re glad to have you with us.”
Glynnis thanked me warmly and asked if she could be any help today. I explained that I was looking for plagiarism forms and she whirled around, opened a file cabinet, and plucked one out instantly.
At my look of surprise, she said, “I spent the better part of yesterday getting up to speed on where everything was.”
I planned right then and there to try and make her feel as welcome as possible. I could already tell how lucky we were to have her.
“I’m not going to get any points for this?” Stephanie was tilting forward in the chair next to my desk, staring at me incredulously.
“Right.”
“But I wrote it.”
“Well, it appears to have complete sections from other sources, which renders the whole thing problematic.”
“I did research,” she said. “I thought that’s what we’re supposed to do.”
“But research requires you to acknowledge your sources.”
She sputtered. “But isn’t The Wasteland about stealing other people’s things to make something new? So,” she said, thrusting out her chin, “I was doing that too.”
“That’s not exactly how I’d describe The Wasteland, but I understand what you mean about creating something new. In the poem, T.S. Eliot is making a point about a broken literary tradition after World War I and having to grasp at any fragments left in order not to be completely lost. It is transformative in its use of existing texts. And poets do refer to each other’s work, as you know, which is called allusion and is part of the art.”
She nodded, looking smug. “Exactly.”
“But in the art of the essay, although we may also certainly quote other writers, it’s a different genre, with different rules. We have a required system in place for documenting authors. For giving credit where credit is due. We need citations and a works cited list. And I don’t see that here at all in your paper.”
She looked somewhat less smug.
“How about we go over the rules for proper documentation,” I suggested, picking up the MLA handbook and beginning to open it.
“I already know how to do it,” she snapped.
“So you just chose not to do it this time?” I asked, as gently as I could.
That earned me a glare. “I forgot.”
“Okay. Well, please try to remember in the future.” I smiled, though I didn’t feel like it, and set the handbook back on my desk.
“Can’t I just add the citations now?”
“I’m sorry, but it’s too late on this assignment.”
After explaining to Stephanie she would be hearing from the student judicial committee, I handed back her essay. Glynnis had made a copy of it for me to go with the required paperwork, which was on its way to Randsworth via campus mail.
Stephanie grabbed her backpack and left in a huff.
This was probably my least favorite part of the job so far.
Chapter 8
Thursday before the panel was clear and bright: Colorado putting on its best weather for our guests seemed like a positive sign. I allowed a glimmer of hope to penetrate the cloud of anxiety that had surrounded me since I’d heard Damon Von Tussel would be coming to Stonedale. I’d hoped I wouldn’t be called upon to engage with him one on one, but the chancellor had made it clear that all members of the planning committee would be attending a small dinner at Judith and Spencer’s tonight in Damon’s honor, so even if he didn’t attend the panel I was facilitating, I would have to be in a small space with the man eventually. Oh well. My mother had forgiven him, so there was nothing between us which needed negotiating. I could simply be professional.
Francisco had asked me to come early to the five o’clock panel. I passed the administration building, Randsworth Hall, which dominated the north side of campus. The gargoyles perched on the edge of the upper levels appealed to my Gothic sensibilities. Though many found their existence baffling and inexplicable, my humble opinion was that they added a certain whimsical charm to the campus. The designer had been a close friend of the university founder, Jeremiah Randsworth, and had been given carte blanche. He was also responsible for the pair of stone gryphons positioned at Stonedale’s main gates as well as the underground passageways linking many of the buildings together—though not everyone knew about those.
When I’d almost reached Brynson Hall, which housed the auditorium where the panel would take place, I saw Francisco on the sidewalk speaking to our colleague Tad Ruthersford, who taught early British literature. Both held tall coffee cups—it was a miracle Francisco wasn’t spilling his all over, the way he was waving it around. As I drew closer, he caught my eye and frantically beckoned me over.
“Hi guys,” I said.
Tad turned his blond head in my direction. “Milady,” he said, toasting me with his paper cup. I smiled at him, glad to see my neighbor—we’d not had much of a chance to talk yet this semester because of opposing schedules.
“Are you ready to moderate the panel, Lila?” Francisco asked.
“Yes,” I said. I had spent the two days prior reviewing the biographies and abstracts Francisco had given me for the necessary introductions and skimming the published articles of the panelists which were, not surprisingly, heavy on theory. I’d taken some time to prepare questions to which I could refer if discussion lagged during the question-and-answer session too. I was as ready as I was ever going to be.
“Good,” Francisco said, “thanks.” He looked exhausted. He probably hadn’t been sleeping well—perfecting a presentation could be painstaking work. Especially when there was a chance the subject of your work might pop in and listen to what you’re saying about them.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“Well, Damon’s here,” he said glumly.
“Isn’t that good?”
“He hasn’t been able to drive him around yet,” Tad informed me, taking a sip of his coffee.
“Why not?”
Francisco tore off his black glasses and rubbed his eyes as he explained, “Jasper Haines is doing it. He rented a car.”
I recognized the name. “Jasper’s one of the panelists, right? The graduate student?” The others were assistant professors.
“Yes,” said Francisco. “Just about to defend his dissertation. He texted me this morning and said my services would not be needed.”
“That’s weird,” I said, taken aback. “Did he say it like that?”
“Yes, but it’s not weird at all if you know Jasper,” Francisco said bitterly.
Francisco’s chance to have the famous author to himself had been eliminated—and he’d been curtly dismissed to boot. That had to sting.
“Sorry, mate,” said Tad. “I know you were looking forward to it.”
Francisco started, embarrassed to be caught in a vulnerable moment. “Nothing to be sorry about. I’m relieved. Now I can just focus on my own presentation.” No one believed him but we smiled at him supportively. “I’ll see Damon at the dinner tonight anyway, so I’ll just talk to him then.”
Tad lightly clapped him on the back. “Good man. Roll with the punches.”
“How well do you know Jasper?” I asked.
“Just from the Von Tussel Society,” said Francisco, taking a sip of his coffee.
“Are you friends?” I persisted.
“No. More like acquaintances. We’re both officers of the society.”
“You’re the president, right?” Tad interjected.
“Yes.
He’s the historian,” Francisco said.
“Do you know if Damon will be at the presentation?”
Francisco looked even more weary, which I didn’t think was possible until that moment. “I have no idea. Can’t even worry about it. I’m more concerned right now about that email warning us not to let Damon read. You know the one I mean, Lila?”
“I do. Spencer also received one, and he said he would inform the proper authorities. Did he talk to you about it?”
“Yes. Everyone on the committee was sent the same email, apparently,” Francisco said, taking a few steps away to chuck his coffee cup into a bin nearby. “Crazy.”
Tad put his hand up, palm out, as if stopping traffic. “What are you talking about?”
We provided the details, and he shook his head. “And no reason was given for the emailer’s belief that Damon shouldn’t read?”
“No.” A thought struck, unnerving me further. “Do you guys think it’s related to the library incident? That would mean the person who emailed is already on campus, and it would ratchet up the danger level quite a bit.”
Francisco slid a hand over his mouth and rubbed his chin. “I prefer to think it’s just a crank. And I hope the manuscript is found. It’s an incredible loss to literary history otherwise.”
“Unbearable,” Tad agreed.
Francisco sighed. “In any case, there’s a panel to run. Let’s go inside…I need to make sure everything is set up correctly.”
We followed him into Brynson and down the short hallway to the double doors leading into the auditorium. I noticed he paused for a long moment to lean against the door before opening it. Gathering his thoughts, I imagined. Or—the thought occurred to me—trying to stay upright.
“Are you sure you’re feeling well?” I asked, somewhat concerned.
“Yes, Lila,” he shot over his shoulder. “I’m perfectly fine.” He clomped down the sloped floor toward the front of the auditorium, barking at the student at the lectern who had accidentally made the microphone screech during testing.
I followed, sending good thoughts in the unfortunate student’s direction.
An hour later, the panelists were sitting at the table set up center stage, ready to begin. I’d met them and shown them to their places, and now they were talking amongst themselves, with Jasper Haines dominating the conversation, gesticulating wildly. It looked as though he were holding court. At the end of the table, Francisco faced away from the rest of the group. I wondered if it indicated an intentional snub and, if so, who was snubbing whom?
I was in the wings fighting a surprisingly strong case of nerves by doing some calming deep breaths. The panelists didn’t even seem this nervous, I thought, annoyed at myself. Hearing the buzz of the crowd, I peeked around the red velvet curtains.
People were arriving—more students than I’d imagined, though I knew some professors had offered their classes extra credit points for attending. The auditorium was about half full so far.
Calista suddenly appeared next to me, resplendent in a deep purple dress and massive necklace of milky white stones set into a black intricate webbing; the effect was that of a shimmering spider web draped around her throat. “Just wanted to check in and see how you are. Ready?”
“No. Want to go instead?” I thrust the page of introductory notes I clutched in my damp palm toward her. “Feel free.”
She laughed and gave me a quick hug. “Just act like you know what you’re doing and roll with it.”
That was pretty much my whole routine these days. Being a new professor had a steep learning curve, to say the least.
As she walked away, she turned back around to add, “You’ve got this, sweetie.”
Peering out around the curtain edge, I watched more people arrive and take their seats. Most of my colleagues were there. I didn’t see Damon though. Perhaps he didn’t want to know what scholars said about his writing. Some writers—probably most of them, actually—were like that.
A soft touch on my arm caused me to shoot straight up in the air. I turned to find Spencer standing there, obviously amused. “A tad jumpy, are we?”
“Nerves,” I said, grimacing.
“You’ll be wonderful. Just wanted to check in, see how things are going.”
“The panelists are ready to go.”
“Fine, fine,” he said. “Oh, and the chancellor has IT on the case.”
I stared at him, confused. “IT?”
“Our tech people are trying to figure out who sent the email about Damon’s reading.”
Fingers crossed. It would be a huge relief to know who was responsible. It was starting to feel necessary to look over our shoulders every two seconds.
“It’s probably just someone who takes pleasure in wreaking havoc from afar, anonymously.”
“But if it’s related to the manuscript disappearing, it might mean that the emailer is already at Stonedale.”
His eyes widened, but he assumed a soothing tone nonetheless. “Excellent point, Lila. I’ll share that theory with the appropriate parties. But try not to worry about it too much.”
Easier said than done. And we both knew that part of his job in this situation was to try and keep faculty calm, no matter what was happening.
“Thanks, Spencer. Appreciate the update.”
He smiled and wished me luck before he left. I returned to the curtain. A few minutes later, the house lights went down, signaling that it was time to begin. I moved out to the wooden lectern on the side of the stage and switched on the microphone, tapping it gently to be sure it was on.
“Welcome,” I began. “Thank you for joining us today.” My voice tended to shake when I read in public, as I’d discovered to my horror at my first conference presentation. I’d learned by experience that I had to refrain from looking up until I got my bearings. “This panel has been sponsored by the Damon Von Tussel Society, dedicated to studying the writing of the author. Stonedale University will welcome Mr. Von Tussel himself, author of the award-winning novel The Medusa Variation, here on Saturday night as part of the Twenty-First Century Arts and Culture Series.” I went into information mode, and by the time I’d explained the particulars and thanked the generosity of the chancellor’s office and the trustees and everyone else who needed to be thanked for making it all possible, my voice was steady. I lifted my eyes to the crowd.
“All of the presenters today will focus on Mr. Von Tussel’s latest collection, In Medias Res. First, we have Dr. Alonzo Ferrara, of UCLA, who will be presenting a chapter from his book in progress, Damon Von Tussel: Suprafabulist.” That sounded like an album title, I thought but did not say. Plunging ahead, I read the bio paragraph, which he—like the other panelists—had provided himself. The biography showcased his degrees and publication history, which included a book on Von Tussel’s earlier novel. “Please join me in welcoming Dr. Ferrara.” The audience clapped politely.
A painfully thin assistant professor in a dark brown suit walked to the lectern. He looked nervous, and I held my breath while he arranged his papers, but he surprised me by launching into an exuberant discussion of Damon’s literary contributions by way of the “medion.”
Francisco had made a good choice in scheduling Alonzo first, as he provided a surprisingly coherent and engaging lecture on what he called “a new form,” giving examples from the collection as support. Any audience member who hadn’t read Damon’s book would at least have an idea of what the other panelists were talking about. He finished strong and was rewarded with the approval of the audience. As he passed my chair on the way back to his seat, he flashed me a wide smile.
After the applause died down, I introduced Dr. Gilles Valmont of Brown, a tidy assistant professor in a Ralph Lauren jacket; he, too, had published one book on Von Tussel and was working on a second. Between multiple readjustments of his horn-rimmed glasses, he explained his reading of the multiple c
haracters in the collection as fragments of one divided psyche which had been splintered by the oppressive forces of postmodernity, especially capitalism. The audience applauded at the conclusion of his thoughtful, if jargony, presentation.
Francisco walked up to the lectern after I’d read his biography aloud, which included an announcement of his own book in progress—Spectral Liminality in the Work of Damon Von Tussel. It sounded interesting, I reflected, as I returned to my chair, though you never knew with scholarly books if the content would be as interesting as the title.
Francisco paused dramatically, looking down at his notes before beginning. Just when the silence became uncomfortable, he smacked his hands together, the amplified sound reverberating around the auditorium. “That,” he said, “is an aural representation of the ability of Damon Von Tussel to startle and to shock us. Over and over again, he says what has not been said, what should not be said, what is unsayable.”
The man knew how to work a room.
“His characters are unable to escape their own longings, which take shape and function as unavoidable presences, hauntings.” He spun off from there into an energetic argument of the “literary catapult” theory popularized by Damon himself as played out in the collection as a form of what Francisco called “the unavoidable assault into the deepest desires of the human mind.” The audience stayed with him and gave him a deafening round of applause at the end. He bowed his head briefly, then returned to his seat.
“Our final reader is Jasper Haines,” I said, relieved to be nearing the home stretch. “Mr. Haines comes to us from Columbia, where he is completing a dissertation entitled Staring at Medusa: Damon Von Tussel and Infinite Play.”
“Which will be published next fall,” Jasper said into the microphone when I’d stepped aside. “There are flyers in the front row, in case you want to pre-order,” he added, running a hand over his spiky blond hair. There were a few chuckles from the crowd. He cleared his throat, wiped his brow, then began reading from the typed pages in front of him. “The omniplasticity of characters renders prototypical development obsolete—”