My Dearest Friend

by Nancy Thayer

  Women, then, are only children of a larger growth; they have an entertaining tattle, and sometimes wit; but for solid reasoning, good sense, I never knew in my life one that had it, or who reasoned or acted consequentially for four-and-twenty hours together. … A man of sense only trifles with them, plays with them, humors and flatters them, as he does with a sprightly, forward child; but he neither consults them about, nor trusts them with, serious matters; though he often makes them believe that he does both.…

  Right on, Chesty, Jack thought. Women. Then he went back to his saner self. This essay would provoke discussion; and then they could go back to Defoe’s essay on the education of women, which was advanced and liberated for that day and age, and would make his class more tolerant of and disposed toward reading Robinson Crusoe.

  Jack kept hard at work all day. Perhaps his anger and his frustration were fueling him, but ideas for his classes came fast and easily now, so that he scribbled and typed and forgot to eat lunch. When he finally leaned back in his chair and rubbed his neck, he saw that already the sun was setting in the sky—but they had just passed the winter solstice; it was only about four o’clock. He grabbed up his papers and went down the hall to see if any secretary was around. Someday everyone in the department would have word processors to work on; this much had been promised, but until then, it would be a secretary who would have to transmit his scribbles into crisp Xerox-copied order.

  Now, as he walked through the warren of offices, he heard very little. These days, with no students here, everyone went home early, eager to snuggle up with a spouse or at least a hot video and forget the dreary life-denying day. Jack’s stomach rumbled inside him and his shoulders cramped. He’d have a good workout in the gym, buy a feast at the local deli, then hide out in his house like a teenager, drinking beer, eating, watching anything and everything on the tube.

  He passed the history-department offices, Daphne’s realm, which already were dark and empty. He crossed the hall and entered the main office of the English department. Through the windows the sky stretched out forever, gravestone gray. The golden points of lights that glimmered in the distance seemed worlds away. Daphne was at the main desk, working at a computer, wearing a dress in cherry-red wool. She turned and looked up at him and smiled, no embarrassment, a purely friendly smile.

  “Hi, Jack. If you’re looking for Hudson, I’m afraid you’ve missed him. He’s just left. Everyone’s left but me, I think. It’s that kind of day. Half the office has flu and the other half is coming down with it. I have to finish a paper for Fred Van Lieu, and my computer’s down, wouldn’t you know it. Hudson said I could use this one. His secretary’s not in today.”

  Jack looked at Daphne. “I need a draft of this syllabus typed up,” he said. “Just one copy. But it can wait. No hurry.”

  “Sure? I could type it up for you after I finish Fred’s.”

  “No, no. I can wait.” Was it his imagination or did Daphne feel as awkward as he did?

  “Is that it?” Daphne asked, leaning over the desk to look at the sheaf of scribbled papers in his hand. “Listen, I’ll leave a note for someone to type it up tomorrow. Otherwise it will get lost in the shuffle. Let me get a folder for it.”

  Daphne rose from her desk and crossed the room to take a file folder from the supplies shelf. She moved through Jack’s field of vision like a cardinal flashing its colors, its signal of intense bird-bright heat in a cold world. Daphne stretched her arms, reaching for the file folder, and the red wool dress rose too, holding to her form. Cherries, roses, apples, wine: health and heat against the grave. Jack went to her and put his arms around her. In response, she dropped her arms to her sides and lowered her head slightly, as if in surrender, and he kissed the back of her neck many times, nuzzling kisses, breathing in her scent as he kissed her. Daphne stood there, seeming passive, but he could feel her response against his body, he could feel how she was melting against him, and he pressed his torso against her back, and she leaned back into him, still holding her arms quietly at her sides.

  Jack moved one hand down to press against her crotch. With his other hand he slowly stroked the front of her neck and then her shoulders and then finally, slowly, he moved his hand and arm down to the shelf of her breasts. Through the layers of wool and brassiere he felt her nipples harden. He hardened in response. Her breasts were as soft as pillows, but heavy, bulky. He held them in his hands and was surprised at their warm mass. He thought of her white flesh beneath the red dress. He moved his hands from her breasts to raise her skirt.

  Such good luck. Daphne was wearing high boots with knee-high cotton socks, and a long slip and underpants, but no panty hose. So when Jack had slid the dress up in a bunch around her hips, he could feel the warm bare skin of her thighs, and her cushiony buttocks, intersected by the triangle of silky underwear. Her skin was as smooth and as white as milk. He slid his hand around to her belly and Daphne shuddered against him and caught her breath. She was leaning against him, still passive, letting him do what he wanted, sighing. Jack slid his hand down so that his finger slipped into her pubic hairs, which were wiry and coarse to feel in contrast to her smooth skin. He raised one hand to fondle a breast, with the other deftly crept between her legs and discovered that what he guessed was true: white luxuriant Daphne was made of cream. She cried out, a low-caught cry, and tried to turn in his arms.

  There was a noise from somewhere behind them. Someone was strangling? Jack turned slightly and saw Hudson Jennings standing there, clearing his throat wildly. The suddenness of it—his superior there, the embodiment of propriety—sent alarm zinging through Jack’s body, which was still, even now, pressing for sexual satisfaction. A strange clanging of feelings set off within Jack’s body, and he wanted to laugh and at the same time slug someone. God damn Hudson Jennings!

  Daphne was struggling to get her dress down. Her face was as red as her dress. Jack backed away from her, taking deep breaths. He leaned against the office wall, not looking directly at Hudson.

  “This would be a fine scene for our students to come upon,” Hudson said coldly.

  “It’s vacation,” Jack said, his voice embarrassingly husky.

  “And that excuses this display?” Hudson said, not really asking a question.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Hudson,” Daphne said. “You could at least have had the dignity and kindness simply to shut the door and go away and leave us alone.”

  Jack felt his eyes bulge from his head like a cartoon character’s. How did Daphne dare talk to Hudson that way? He looked sideways at Hudson to see how he was taking it. Hudson was nearly vibrating with anger.

  “Mr. Hamilton, I’ll see you in my office at nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” Hudson said, looking at Jack. Hudson turned to Daphne. “And you, Mrs. Miller, may consider yourself dismissed. I’ll have Paula deal with the paperwork; I believe you have some sick leave and vacation time coming to you.”

  “Hudson,” Daphne said, moving toward him. “What are you saying?” She was still smiling, as if this were a joke.

  “Mrs. Miller,” Hudson said. “I’ll put it to you quite clearly. You are fired.” He drew himself up haughtily. “And don’t think that our past friendship will be of aid in making me change my mind. The college’s policies on moral turpitude are and always have been firm. I’m sure Fred Van Lieu will concur.”

  “Hudson!” Daphne said, her smile leaving her face. “You’re kidding.”

  Jack looked from Hudson to Daphne and back again. What was the matter with Hudson? The man looked as if he were about to die of pain. Was he going to have a heart attack? Jack almost wished he would.

  “I think the two of you should leave now,” Hudson said. “Mrs. Miller, you may come back tomorrow when there are other secretaries here, to get whatever personal things you have in the office.”

  “Hudson,” Daphne said, angry now, “don’t you see what you’re doing? You’re punishing us for doing what you want to do and won’t!”

  Hudson turned
red, then did an about-face and walked off down the hall. For a moment Daphne and Jack stood in silence, letting it all settle about them.

  “Do you think he meant what he said?” Jack asked.

  Daphne was white-faced. “Yes,” she said. “I think he meant what he said.” She moved around the room quickly, gathering up her coat and purse.

  “Let me …” Jack began, but didn’t know how to finish. Let him help? How? “Are you going home? At least we can have dinner together, a drink—discuss what to do?”

  Daphne looked at Jack. Her eyes glittered; her face was flushed. She was shaking. “There’s nothing to discuss,” she said. “I’m fired. You’ll have to deal with Hudson, but at least you can be sure he won’t spread this around. He’s many things but not a gossip. So you won’t have to worry that Carey Ann will find out. You’ll be okay, Jack.”

  Jack moved toward Daphne, reached out his hand to touch her shoulder. “But you—” he began.

  “I’ve got to keep away from you, that’s the first thing,” Daphne said, smiling. Then her facade crumbled and she burst into tears, her face a terrifying sight of raw emotions: fear and anger and grief.

  She hurried from the room, down the hall, down all the flights of stairs.

  11

  By nine-thirty that night, Jack thought he would lose his mind. He so badly needed to talk to someone, anyone, about what had happened, that if Carey Ann had been there, he would have told her, even though one of his main instincts now, clanging through his system like a fire alarm, was that Carey Ann never know, never find out what had happened. He wanted to protect Carey Ann. He didn’t want to lose her, he wanted their marriage.

  God, what a hell of a mess! And it was all his fault. There was no way around it, it was all his fault. He felt sick with guilt. Somehow he had to help Daphne. Because of him, she had lost her job—which she had had for … what, fourteen years? He knew how rocky her life had been lately, how hard times were for her, how little money she had, how little family, how the college in many ways was her home, and now because of his stupidity she had lost her means of making a living and access to the world that was her home. He had to do something.

  But what? He couldn’t reach her. He had driven home in a rage at Hudson (and in a physical rage at being sexually frustrated in the middle of what had been nearly a dream of pleasure), talking to himself in the car, cursing, hitting the steering wheel, wondering out loud what to do next. The minute he was in the door he had dialed Daphne’s home number, but she hadn’t answered. He had paced around the house like a maniac, dialing her number every ten minutes, but no answer, no answer. He fixed himself several Scotches, and at eight o’clock stuffed some crackers in his mouth to soak up the booze. His throat had revolted against the dry food. He almost could not swallow. He wasn’t hungry. He was so full of guilt and anger and worry, his body seemed stuffed to the bursting point.

  Why wasn’t Daphne home? Where had she gone? She wouldn’t do anything stupid, would she—she wouldn’t commit suicide, would she? But why wouldn’t she? She had just lost everything. Her job, her reputation, her means of support. Still, Daphne was not the suicidal type.

  But where was she? At nine-thirty Jack made a decision. He would call Pauline White and go talk to her about all this. If he didn’t, if he tried to make it through the night, he’d go mad, he wouldn’t be able to sleep, he’d end up pounding on someone’s door and yelling out his problems to anyone. Pauline White was Daphne’s closest friend. At least Jack thought she was, and she was a kind and sensible woman. Jack dialed her number and asked if he could come over now to talk to her about an urgent problem. Pauline told him to come.

  Pauline and Douglas met him together at their front door. Both of them were wearing robes—matching tartan plaid wool robes, and the same kind of deerskin fleece-lined slippers. What a salt-and-pepper set they were, Jack thought, almost laughing at the sight of them, and then thought: Am I getting hysterical? Men don’t get hysterical.

  “Look,” Jack said, “I’m sorry to bother you. A terrible thing has happened. With Daphne. To Daphne. It’s my fault. And I can’t reach Daphne.”

  They let him into their warm gracious living room and gave him yet another Scotch and drank Scotch themselves while they listened. To Jack’s relief, Pauline seemed almost amused, until Jack told them Hudson had fired Daphne.

  “What worries me most is that I can’t reach Daphne,” Jack said. “On the way here I drove to her house and pounded on the door. No lights are on. I know she’s not there.”

  “Well, you know, her daughter’s in town,” Pauline said. “Daphne wouldn’t do anything rash with Cynthia in town. So don’t envision scenes of Daphne slitting her wrists in the tub.” She thought a moment. “I’ll call Cyn’s friend Donna. She might know where Daphne is.”

  Very quickly Jack’s worries were abated and replaced by bafflement when Pauline hung up the phone. “Donna said that Cyn called to tell her that her mother was taking her to Boston for a whirlwind trip. Donna’s mother talked to Daphne. Daphne said she had some vacation days with pay and she was going to live it up with Cynthia. They’re going to stay at the Ritz, do the museums, go shopping, be wild.”

  “Oh,” Jack said. He felt oddly deflated, somehow shunned.

  “This is how Daphne does things,” Pauline said, putting her hand on Jack’s shoulder as if consoling him. “She is the soul of serenity until there’s a crisis in her life, and then she jumps on a broomstick and flies off in a fury against the wind. She bought her Vermont cottage a week after she knew Cynthia was going to live with her father. It’s her way of coping.”

  “But this … this is different,” Jack said.

  “Yes,” Pauline agreed. Again she sat quietly thinking.

  “Hudson’s a damned fool,” Douglas said gruffly. “Fool to let her go. The history department will be chaos. Fred will be furious.”

  “I think I know what will happen,” Pauline said. “Daphne will be back from Boston with all the local newspapers in her hands and all the want ads and apartments for rent circled. Yes, I’ll bet that’s just what she’ll do.”

  “But that’s terrible!” Jack said. “That she should have to move. Leave her friends, her home, her life! All because of a stupid mistake I made.”

  “Look, Jack,” Pauline said, and the tone of her voice made it seem as though she had really said, “Look, buster.” “Daphne could have stopped you. She could have said, ‘Don’t.’ She could have slugged you. You didn’t have her bound and gagged. She’s responsible too.”

  “And Hudson is right,” Douglas said in his gruff voice. “That was a damn-fool thing to do in an office. In Hudson’s office. With the door wide open. You’d think she wanted to get caught.”

  “Well, it was the end of the day. We both thought everyone had gone home. The halls were empty, the offices were empty. The thing is”—Jack turned toward Douglas, this man he hardly knew, as if supplicating—“I don’t know why I did it at all. I mean, Daphne’s an attractive woman, but I love my wife. I really do love Carey Ann. I guess I’ve been lonely and depressed with her gone, but that doesn’t explain my lack of … judgment.”

  Douglas grinned, a grimace more than a smile. “If you have to have an explanation, blame it on the academic ego,” he said. He was looking across the room at his wife, and Jack remembered that Daphne had told him that Pauline had once had an affair with another professor. Douglas went on. “In our pathetic ingrown toenail of a profession, we are always longing for admiration and attention of any kind from anyone. Every professor you meet is the same. Because we know we don’t really matter in the world. We don’t make anything useful, not cars or food or houses. If we’re really good at what we do, only thirty-two people on the planet can appreciate it, and thirty of those thirty-two hate us for doing it better or first. It’s lonely, being a professor. That’s all.” Douglas leaned forward toward Jack. “This won’t be the last time you’ll be tempted to be embraced by another woman, but if you’re sm
art it will be the last time you’ll succumb. If you’re smart, you won’t let Carey Ann know about this, and you’ll find another way to deal with your needs.” Douglas laughed, a short honk of a laugh. “Get a dog. Take up jogging.”

  “I do jog,” Jack said.

  “Did you jog today?” Douglas asked. “Should have.”

  “Well, I’m going to go talk to Hudson tomorrow,” Pauline said. “I’d call him tonight, but it’s after ten, and he and Claire go to bed early, the old farts.”

  “You are?” Jack looked at Pauline and was filled with hope. “Do you think you can reason with him?”

  “I honestly don’t know what I can do with him, but I can make him know how blasted angry everyone will be if he gets rid of Daphne.”

  “I can count on not getting tenure here,” Jack said woefully, the reality of his own situation now dawning on him. He looked at Douglas and Pauline to see if they agreed. “That much is for sure.” He waited.

  Pauline scrutinized Jack. “Would that break your heart? Not getting tenure?”

  “It’s been my dream, all my life, to teach here,” Jack said.

  “But I haven’t thought you were particularly happy here.”

  Jack shifted in his chair and drank more Scotch. “You’re right, I haven’t been,” he admitted. “Though I guess I haven’t understood that till right now. Part of it is they’ve got me teaching a period I hate—the neoclassic; it’s so deadly dull—when I want to teach twentieth-century.”

  “You’re a junior professor,” Pauline said. “You’re just paying your dues. You know you won’t be teaching that forever.”

  “It’s Hudson, too,” Jack said. “He’s so rigid. He’s so proper and so … constipated with all his damned old rules.”

  “Lots of parents pay lots of money to send their kids to a school that abides by those damned old rules,” Pauline said. “There are reasons for his rules. If you’re in a fine old prestigious Ivy League institution, you don’t go changing things easily. Hudson has a reputation to uphold. And he’s not out of bounds in firing Daphne, you know. Secretaries oughtn’t to screw around with married junior professors in the middle of the day right out in open view.”