“How can you tell what he looks like without knowing if he has a face?”
Anna left her duties to come stand in the doorway. “I’m the seventh son of the seventh son.”
Pat was stooping over for a closer look; Rip Van Winkle needed a bath. “I’ve got a nickel that says you’ve met him.”
“Johnny and I are never wrong.”
“Johnny?”
“Rivers,” she explained.
When Pat’s face remained blank, she feigned sadness. “You’re too old to understand.”
“I think I’m glad.” Pat pulled back enough hair for Anna to see the guy’s face. “And I think you know Mr. Hugh Griffin.”
The girl’s mouth fell open. “Good gracious! What happened to him?”
“Ask Johnny.”
The man passed out on the floor of his boss’s office was a cum laude graduate of Stanford University and had recently received his master’s degree in philosophy from the same institution. Six months earlier, when Griffin applied to North Texas, Pat’s predecessor, Dr. Charles White, invited Pat to sit in on the interview. All three men wore dark suits for the meeting; Griffin’s hair had been browner and shorter. Dr. White, with Pat’s approval, offered Griffin a job commencing the first semester of summer school, and the young man accepted it.
Pat nudged the surfer with his toe and got a muffled grunt for his trouble.
Dr. Patterson smiled to himself then turned to Anna. “Get me the number for the university barbershop.”
The girl whirled around and practically skipped to her desk. She was giggling again.
When Griffin awoke, he pushed himself up so he was reclining against the nearest wall. Pat was in his place behind the desk; Bill Mann was nowhere to be seen.
Pat leaned forward and said to the doorway, “Coffee, please.”
Griffin worked his way up the wall until he was standing.
Anna was in the room seconds later. She gave Griffin a cup of coffee, two aspirin, and a bright smile; he gave her a frown. Neither spoke.
Griffin reached up to pull his hair aside but it wasn’t there. He put the cup and aspirin on the windowsill and ran both hands along the sides of his head. When he looked a question at Pat, Pat said, “You got your hair cut. I talked a friend of mine into making a house call.”
Griffin frowned. “That wasn’t my decision.”
“You weren’t here.”
Patterson caught Anna’s eye and she left the room.
Griffin glanced out the window. “What time is it?”
“Almost too late.” Pat leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on the desk. “When you came here for your interview, you passed yourself off as a reasonably well-groomed, well-mannered man. If you aren’t the man you professed yourself to be, you need to apply somewhere else.”
Griffin put the aspirin in his mouth and sipped the coffee. “Most places would give a new guy a chance to settle in.”
“I’m willing to give most men three chances myself,” said Pat. “I’m letting you have four.”
“Generous of you.” Griffin didn’t sound grateful.
“I think so, and you’ve used the first three.” Pat pushed his chair back and sat up. “One . . . you came in here drunk. Two . . . you look and smell as if you selected your wardrobe from a garbage heap. Three . . . and most importantly . . . you failed to thank the sweetest girl on the campus when she brought you that cup of coffee.”
“You’re cutting it close, aren’t you?”
“My prerogative.”
When Griffin didn’t respond, Pat stood up. “Be back here tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, and we’ll show you the schedule.”
After Griffin left, Pat walked down the hall to check on the other half of the joke. Bill Mann lay corpselike on a couch in the faculty lounge; a note pinned to the inert man’s shirt asked people to check with Pat before trying to rouse him. Tracing the cause of Mann’s stubborn refusal to wake up had been easy enough; the doctor said to expect him to sleep the clock around.
The receptionist entered her office at five till eight on Tuesday morning and found a handsome vase full of red roses in the center of her desk. A card tied to the vase said, “Thanks for the coffee and aspirin. Sincerely, Hugh Griffin.”
Pat walked in a minute later; Hugh Griffin was seconds behind him.
Pat’s eyebrows went up when Anna showed him the card, and he looked at Griffin. The new man was decked out in a gray blazer and navy slacks; he was wearing socks.
Pat nodded. “There may be hope after all.”
“Let’s hope so.” Griffin’s eyes were bloodshot, but he’d had a bath.
Anna smiled.
Griffin took a surreptitious second to note that Anna Gibson’s figure was doing astounding things for a plain straight skirt and starched blouse. Griffin liked his women slender and thought she’d look better if she lost five pounds—ten and she’d look pretty fair in a bikini.
Pat beckoned to Griffin. “Walk over here with me and we’ll get a cup of coffee and check on my friend.”
Mann was sleeping on his side, and Pat took that as a good sign. He bumped the couch with his knee, and Mann’s eyes came open.
“You planning on working today?”
It took Mann a full thirty seconds to prop himself up. When he was semi-vertical, he looked around. “How’d I get in here?”
“I hauled your sorry carcass over from the office.”
“What time is it?”
“Eight o’clock Tuesday morning. Nettie said she warned you not to take too much of that painkiller.”
“They were placebos.” He was staring at the floor, slowly massaging the back of his neck. “Do you need me for anything?”
“Not till Friday. Missy wants you and Hugh to come to the house for dinner.”
“’Kay.” He stretched out on the couch again and closed his eyes. “Who’s Hugh?”
Pat pointed at Griffin. “New instructor. Hugh, this is Bill Mann.”
Mann lifted a hand without bothering to open his eyes. “H’yah doin’, Hugh.”
Griffin forced a smile. “My pleasure.”
Mann moved his shoulders to a more comfortable position and said, “Wake me up in time to eat.”
Pat and Hugh filled their coffee cups and stepped into the hall.
When Pat excused himself and stepped into a nearby office, Griffin went back to the reception area to complete a more comprehensive appraisal of Anna Gibson’s figure. If she met his standards, he might take her to lunch.
He swore mildly to himself when he found her sitting behind her desk; the assessment would have to be postponed. But I might as well start laying the groundwork, just in case.
He kept his voice low when he asked, “That black guy that’s sacked out over in the lounge . . . is he on staff here?”
“Student . . . helps around the office.” She had a soft drawl.
“Oh.”
Anna flashed her trademark smile and added, “He may be the nicest guy I’ve ever met.”
Griffin didn’t care if the black guy was St. Francis of Assisi; he was captivated by Anna’s drawl and wanted to prolong the conversation. “He gets invited to dinner at Dr. Patterson’s house?”
“Teacher’s pet.” She smiled more brightly to allay any assumptions that she might harbor malice toward Mann. “Dr. Pat’s wife treats him like one of the family.”
Griffin was genuinely perplexed and mildly offended. “I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of a gofer socializing at the department-head level.”
“That’s ’cause you’ve never met Missy Patterson.”
“Is she supposed to be different?”
Anna, who had seen Missy in action more than once, was attacked by a fit of giggles. She tried to contain it, became more tickled, and ended up bursting out laughing.
Griffin watched her laugh, noting that her propensity for merriment was far from irritating—it was infectious. When Anna recovered to the point of being able to hear him, he smil
ed and said, “I can only assume the good doctor’s wife is a bit eccentric.”
“That’s not it.” Her smile probably seemed brighter because it reached all the way to her perfectly shaped molars. “Eccentric people are weird; Missy’s different because she’s . . . umm . . .” She tilted her head back and searched the ceiling for the word she wanted; straight brown hair fell back from her face, revealing a pair of tiny gold earrings. “. . . genuine.”
Griffin abandoned the conversation to watch how her dark tresses caught the light . . . not unlike iridescent silk.
Without thinking, he voiced his observation, “Un-pretentious.”
And she misinterpreted it. “That’s a good word.”
“What’s a good word?” asked Pat as he came through the door.
“Unpretentious,” Anna answered.
“Ah, yes,” said Pat. “Good for what?”
The girl shook her head, and the soft brown silk fell smoothly into place. “Sorry . . . can’t tell. Shoptalk among the underlings.”
Patterson looked at Griffin.
Griffin actually blushed and looked at his shoes.
Kids! thought the thirty-four-year-old department head. He started for his office, beckoning as he went. “C’mon, Griff, you’ll want to know how your life is going to shape up this summer.”
Patterson’s phone rang before he could sit down. “Hello.” He was smiling as he collapsed into his chair. He slipped off his shoes and propped his feet on the desk.
Griffin took one of the chairs in front of the desk.
Patterson waited for the other person to finish talking then said, “We managed to get a few words out of him before he rolled over and went back to sleep.”
Another pause, then Pat laughed and said, “Fairly normal, I’d say. He told me to wake him up in time for dinner.”
Pause, smile, wink at Griffin. “Yep, he’s sitting right here. What’s on the menu?”
Griffin watched Anna walk in to put a stack of mail on Pat’s desk. By the time she turned forty, she’d be bulging in all the wrong places, but for the next year or two she was definitely deserving of a place in his little black book.
Pat listened to the phone then looked at Griffin. “You’re invited to lunch today . . . our house. Interested?”
“Most certainly. Thank you.” Griffin’s stomach was beginning to recover from the abuse he’d subjected it to thirty-some-odd hours earlier. He was starving.
“Good choice.” Pat held his hand over the mouthpiece. “Sandwiches . . . cold roast beef or chicken salad?”
When Griffin hesitated, Anna drawled, “One of each, he probably hasn’t eaten since yesterday.”
Griffin half-smiled and kept his mouth shut; Pat gave the order to the phone.
Anna walked back to her desk as Pat was saying, “Me too, sweetheart.”
With the phone conversation over, Pat pulled out a copy of the pending schedule and passed it to Griffin. “You get one class each semester. It’s a reasonably light load, and it’ll give you a chance to get used to Texas.”
Griffin looked at the sheet. He would be in the classroom only ten hours a week for the entire summer. He wondered how far it was to the nearest lake.
Pat interrupted his thoughts. “C’mon. We’ll take a look at your office and give you a Cook’s tour of the campus.”
Griffin’s office was larger than he expected, and it had a window. Pat let him look over the office, then told him to leave his jacket and took him out to show him around the campus, pointing out a few of the classroom buildings, making small talk as they went. At the student center, Pat left Griffin on his own and told him they could meet back at the office just before noon.
Griffin bought a cup of coffee and sat down at an outside table to survey the coed crop. Thirty minutes later, the sun reminded him of his lingering hangover, and he went back to explore his office.
Patterson drove past the Denton Country Club and turned down a street that paralleled one of the fairways.
Griffin was impressed with the neighborhood; most of the homes they drove by would tax the income of a family making three times as much as a North Texas professor. His host pulled into a circular drive at the end of the street. The Pattersons’ home was not the smallest on the block.
Patterson reached into the backseat to pick up some papers then said, “Come on in.”
Griffin was on the front walk when the home’s front door opened and a petite lady in white tennis shorts and an NTSU golf shirt came down the walk toward them. She had skin the shade of a South American surfer girl and black hair, cut short. “Hey, y’all. Hungry?”
“Hi, kid.” Patterson took time to kiss her on the lips. “This is Hugh Griffin. Griff, this is my wife, Missy.”
The lady put out her hand and Griffin took it.
“Hello, Griff. Welcome to Texas.” Her voice was reminiscent of Lauren Bacall with a genuine Southern drawl.
“Hi,” Griffin said. “My pleasure.”
The California native, who had seen more than his share of movie stars, was comparing Missy to Anna Gibson while he mentally patted himself on the back for being cool enough to avoid drooling. Anna’s attractiveness might go unnoticed for a few seconds if a man were distracted— or badly hungover; Missy Patterson’s beauty was the lightning-strike variety. Her blue-black eyes, unlike any he’d ever seen, were appraising him calmly when he realized he was still holding her hand.
Mr. Cool grimaced and croaked, “Sorry.”
In a situation where Anna Gibson would be beaming, if not laughing out loud, Missy Patterson was barely smiling. If she cared what measure of effect she’d had on him, it didn’t show.
Griffin glanced at Patterson to get his reaction.
Patterson was standing by his wife, waiting patiently.
Griffin got control of his voice. “I guess it happens every time.”
“Blind men only have to deal with the voice,” Pat said. He was impressed by Griffin’s rapid recovery. “You came back more quickly than most.”
Missy, who was no more impressed with her own looks than she was with anyone else’s, saw where the conversation was going and led the way up the walk. “Okay, you two. Dinner’s waitin’.”
Griffin would’ve been content to skip lunch and stand in the sun—heat, hangover, and all—while they talked about how beautiful his boss’s wife was. He settled for allowing himself to say, “Wow.”
“Well said,” agreed Pat.
The mansion’s interior presented itself as a home, not a showplace—a blend of antiques and quality furnishings encouraging guests to come in and visit. The pervading aroma of freshly baked bread was an invitation to dine.
Missy went straight to the kitchen. Pat and Griffin trailed along behind.
“Who wants iced tea?” asked Missy.
Pat raised his hand, and Griffin said, “Two, please.”
Missy pointed at a pitcher by the refrigerator and told Griffin, “Make yourself useful. Plastic tumblers are in that cabinet.”
When everyone had a glass, Griffin took a sip and exclaimed, “It’s sweet!”
“Oops, sorry,” Missy laughed. “It’s a Miss’ippi thing, an’ I forgot to warn you. Would you rather have something else?”
He took another sip, licked his lips, and pronounced, “Never again. I can’t believe I wasted my youth on unsweetened tea.”
“Well, there may be hope for California yet. Y’all sit, an’ I’ll bring the plates to the table.”
Griffin told himself he could get used to the way Texas women talked, especially if they all sounded like Anna and Missy. The professor’s wife was easier to watch than any coed he’d seen that morning— or any other time—but he busied himself by taking in his immediate surroundings.
Lunch would be served in an atmosphere spanning the gamut from formal to picnic—chilled peaches in cut-crystal compotes, plastic tumblers for tea, sterling silver flatware, and paper towels for napkins. A fine china soup bowl holding pieces of a pale green
condiment, wooden salt and pepper shakers, and homemade mayonnaise in a plastic container collaborated to make up the table’s centerpiece.
Missy put a paper plate holding what appeared to be two loaves of bread in front of the guest. “One chicken salad an’ one roast beef.”
She pointed at the soup bowl in the center of the table and told Griffin, “Those are watermelon rind pickles. Help yourself.”
Griffin took a bite of the roast beef sandwich, and an involuntary Mmm! escaped from behind a mouthful of warm homemade bread.
“Good?” Missy asked.
“Oh, my gosh.” He knew he was talking with food in his mouth. “This is unbelievable.”
The best sandwich he’d ever tasted was on his plate, and the sweet tea changed what he would choose to drink for years to come. He was convinced anything the lady served him was worth a try.
Missy saw him eyeing the pickles and reached over to spear one. She put it on his plate and said, “My grandmother put these up. Nobody doesn’t like ’em.”
She watched his face while he shaved off a thin sliver and put it in his mouth. He closed his eyes when he tasted it and said, “In my next life, I want to be born in Mississippi.”
When he opened his eyes, Pat and Missy were smiling at him. His hosts had yet to take a bite.
“California’s loss,” said Pat, and took Missy’s hand. Missy motioned for Griffin to hold hers.
When Griffin caught on, Pat nodded at Missy. “Your turn.”
Missy already had her head bowed. “Father, nothing comes into our lives without Your sanction. Our hearts are grateful to You for our home, for our food, for this opportunity to fellowship, an’ for our new friend. Amen.”
Pat said, “Amen,” and glanced up at Griffin.
Griffin’s mouth was hanging open slightly; he was staring at Missy’s hand as she pulled it away. After a long pause, he sat up straighter and frowned at Pat. “This is wrong.”
Pat was preoccupied with wrapping his hands around one of his sandwiches. “Yeah? How’s that?”
The guest’s eyes went to Missy. “I’m sorry,” he said stiffly. “You’ve made a mistake.”
And If I Die Page 19