The Semester of Our Discontent

by Cynthia Kuhn

  “Thanks.” I glanced around the room packed with chattering students. It was hard to believe that just a few days ago I’d come into such close contact with death on this very campus. The students, with their colorful t-shirts and backpacks, were so vibrantly alive. “Maybe another time.”

  He looked out of the window next to us, focused on something in the distance. “Did I hear correctly that Calista is your cousin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you close?”

  “We grew up together.”

  “Cool,” he said.

  “She’s the one who told me about the opening and encouraged me to apply. I never thought I’d get the job, though. You know what the market is like.”

  He nodded. “I think there were around four hundred candidates for your position.”

  “I had no idea. Now it seems even more like a miracle.” All the more reason not to mess this opportunity up.

  “Has Calista heard anything from the tenure committee yet?”

  “I think she received a letter, but I don’t really know the details,” I said. It was her news to tell, in any case.

  “I hope she has a better experience than Tad Ruthersford. Did you hear about that?”

  I shook my head. Tad was my next-door neighbor, but we hadn’t talked much.

  Nate leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I’ve never seen anything like it. We’ve all heard horrendous stories about going up for tenure, right? So-and-so hasn’t published enough, or hasn’t done enough service, or has angered the old guard and is therefore punished. And it’s usually clear beforehand that there might be problems. But here’s the thing: until Tad went up for tenure, Roland was always singing his praises, applauding Tad for the astuteness of his scholarship. But then Roland started making increasingly derisive comments about Tad’s work. I don’t know why.”

  “That sounds like a nightmare. Did he get tenure?”

  “Yeah, but he had a rough time of it. He’s been keeping a low profile ever since.”

  “Poor Tad.”

  “He’s a good guy.”

  I felt slightly ill just thinking about the fact that eventually I’d have to put myself on the proverbial chopping block. Especially since tenure-track candidates needed to master the art of appearing to be compliant, which would require some major effort on my part.

  “Just imagining it makes me queasy,” he said, as if reading my thoughts.

  “When do you go up?”

  “The year before you do.”

  I was surprised. “You came to Stonedale last fall?”

  “Yep,” he said, smiling.

  “But you seem so settled.” It was even more than that: an air of ease not typical of most “junior faculty,” a term that in and of itself displayed the academic power structure. It was a wonder they didn’t make us wear beanies with little helicopter spinners on top until we were granted tenure.

  “Well,” he said, “next year at this time, you’ll feel as though you’ve been here for eons.”

  “In a good way?”

  “Mostly,” he said. “A few things aside.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a lot of pressure to publish quickly,” he said. “I’d argue the expectation’s not realistic. Finding time to write is a struggle since teaching, advising, and serving on committees is already a tremendous amount of work. To publish well, we need time to write well.” He shrugged. “But no one’s asking me.”

  After completing my dissertation last spring, I’d needed a break from the deeply exhausting zone of intensity required to produce a lengthy piece of scholarly writing, but clearly I would need to get back to it. “What are you working on?”

  “I’m finishing up a book manuscript to send out this winter. Fingers crossed.”

  “That’s exciting. What’s your topic?”

  “Hawthorne. Specifically, The Blithedale Romance. I wrote about several of his novels in my dissertation, but I’ve since limited my focus. Managed to place one of the other chapters in a respectable journal and expanded the one on Blithedale into a book.”

  “I adore Blithedale. Absolutely love it.”

  “It’s great, isn’t it? Mesmerism, obsession, and secret love. It’s been snubbed, I think, aside from the perfunctory acknowledgment given all so-called ‘lesser works’ of an acclaimed author. Seven Gables and Scarlet Letter are powerful, of course, but Blithedale is nothing to sneeze at, as it manages to pull off some remarkable feats of its own. At least that’s the thrust of my argument, played out over three hundred pages and couched in terminology far more impressive and sophisticated than that.”

  “Sounds fascinating. I’d love to read it.”

  “You may be the only one who ever does.” We sipped our coffee in amiable silence. Glancing at my watch, I realized I only had twenty minutes before class started and gasped.

  Nate caught my eye. “Time to go? Where’s your class?”

  “Crandall.”

  “Our very own stomping grounds. Shall we head back?”

  When I was an adjunct, it seemed as though the classes were always scheduled at the opposite side of campus, and I’d become used to panicked cross-campus jogs. To be in the same building as my office? Heavenly. Thus, it was with a sense of minor jubilation that I accompanied Nate across the green.

  Chapter 5

  On Wednesday, I was climbing the marble stairs to the English department when Judith burst around the corner, caught sight of me, and fluttered her fingers. “Lila, I’ve just been to your office. We have a mentoring meeting this afternoon—there was a note in my box, but I just found it buried among a summer’s worth of mail. With everything that’s happened, I haven’t had a chance to go through it all until this morning. Are you free, dear? We only have five minutes to fly over to Randsworth Hall, if so.”

  “I’m supposed to have office hours—”

  “You can cancel them for these,” Judith interjected. “I’ve already informed Millicent for you. She’ll put a note on your door to let students know.”

  I’d hoped to use my office hours to do some reading for class, but I guess that would have to wait. There never seemed to be enough time in the day to catch up. I tried to arrange my face into what I hoped was an eager expression.

  As we hurried across the green, chatting about our classes, I caught sight of the stone gargoyles looming from the roof of Randsworth and felt a sudden chill. Although frightening away evil spirits was said to be one of their purposes, I had the impression the gray statues were sending something malicious towards us instead. I shook my head to clear the fanciful thoughts, and soon we had reached a seminar room on the second floor of Randsworth, where approximately twenty people sat around a collection of tables arranged in a U-shape. Judith and I claimed the last two seats with relief.

  During the introductions, I noticed a woman with a long blonde French braid tapping furiously on her cell phone. She wore a red fitted jacket with a black collar, which created a highly equestrian effect. I wondered if she planned to go riding—or even on a hunt—after this meeting. It wasn’t out of the question, given we were in Stonedale. She texted right up until it was her turn to speak, then gracefully slipped the phone onto the table.

  “Simone Raleigh,” she said. “English.”

  Ah, the elusive fellow newbie. I had been looking forward to meeting her.

  A few hours later, we had been thoroughly welcomed by Dean Okoye, a jovial spokesperson for the university’s many virtues. Chancellor Wellington had also made a lengthy plea for our efforts to uphold the “golden reputation of our beloved school” through our future achievements and invited us to contribute generously to the annual giving fund. All new professors had introduced ourselves and agreed to read through the faculty handbook—an epic tome certain to require many hours of deciphering small print—before the next me
ntoring meeting.

  Judith turned to me when we’d run out of speakers. “That’s all for now, it appears. Would you like a lift home?”

  “I would love a ride, thanks.”

  Simone strode up and hugged Judith.

  “Let me introduce you two before I have a quick word with the chancellor.” Judith repeated our names and left us facing one another.

  “Hello,” I said to Simone, smiling. “Happy to meet you.”

  She smoothed her shining hair back, an astonishingly large diamond on her engagement finger catching the light. “What department are you in again?” she inquired, her lips curved into a semblance of a smile, the kind plastered on as social nicety to cover sheer indifference.

  “English. With you.”

  “Really?” She sounded surprised, as if we all hadn’t just introduced ourselves in the meeting. She must not have been listening. “What’s your area?”

  “American.”

  She scowled. It seemed an odd reaction. Did she not like American literature?

  “Oh,” she said. After a prolonged silence, it was clear she had nothing else to add.

  “What’s yours?”

  “Victorian literature, with a specialty in Charlotte Brontë.”

  “I love Jane Eyre.”

  “Everybody does,” she said, with a hint of exasperation.

  I pretended not to notice. “What are you teaching this semester?”

  As she reeled off her courses, I listened carefully and made politely approving sounds when it seemed expected. I didn’t quite know what to make of Dr. Raleigh. She reminded me of a particularly self-satisfied cat I’d once known.

  Judith reappeared in a cloud of lavender scent. “Shall we go?”

  Gratefully, I accepted. We were making our way out of the meeting room when I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder.

  “Dr. Maclean, may I borrow you?” I recognized the well-modulated tones of Chancellor Wellington.

  “I’ll meet you downstairs,” said Judith.

  The chancellor bared his teeth in what I’m sure he imagined was a kindly smile but which came off more like a wolf staring at his supper.

  “How may I help you?” I asked.

  “Judith and I have already spoken about this matter, but I wanted to have a chat with you as well.” He paused for a long while, during which I tried to stand up a little straighter. “You’re one of the people who found Dr. Higgins, yes?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Must have been quite a shock. How are you handling it?”

  “I’m…managing, thank you.”

  He leaned against the wall next to the door and sniffed, clearly waiting for me to say something else. I wasn’t sure what else there was to say, so I remained silent, readjusting the heavy satchel strap digging into my shoulder.

  “Not good for the university, a murder. Not good at all,” he said.

  My mouth fell open. I snapped it shut.

  “We like our professors to keep a certain distance from unsavory events. I strongly suggest you try to avoid such unpleasantness in the future.” He watched my face closely.

  “Understood,” I said.

  “There’s not anything you need to tell me, is there, Dr. Maclean?”

  “About?” I seemed unable to form complete sentences.

  “About your involvement in Dr. Higgins’…ah…demise.” He looked away, as if to give me some privacy to work up a suitable confession.

  “No, sir.”

  After an extended pause, he nodded and marched through the doorway.

  I stumbled downstairs and was whisked in the luxurious comfort of Judith’s BMW to my doorstep. During the drive, she tried to alleviate my distress about the encounter I’d had with the chancellor.

  “He pretty much asked me outright if I’d killed Roland,” I said. “Did he ask you that?”

  She smiled. “No, dear. But he’s known me forever.”

  “So because I just got here, I’m the most likely murderer? Is that what everyone thinks?”

  “Some may think so, Lila.” At least she was honest. “People are looking for quick answers. They’re scared.”

  “Well, in that case, at least I’m not the only one being accused,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  I described Norton’s accusations about Calista and was gratified that Judith seemed almost as shocked as I had been.

  “How upsetting,” she said, as we made a right onto Haven Street. “Norton was probably displacing his grief on her. And the chancellor, well, he does have to think about the school’s reputation, though he was clumsy with you, to be sure. It’s unfair, but sentiments are always heightened in such situations.”

  “In both cases, it seemed more hostile than sad.”

  “Emotions don’t always translate clearly, dear. Not that I condone either one’s behaviors. I’m sorry Norton was so beastly. And I’m sorry the chancellor implied distrust of you. But please try not to think the worst of us here at Stonedale. You must remember that people don’t know you very well yet.”

  “True. But I don’t think being new should be treated like some kind of crime,” I said, a bit more huffily than I meant to.

  “You’re absolutely right,” she said, in a soothing tone. “I’m sorry you’ve been caught up in this whole situation. If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think you killed Roland.”

  What a surreal conversation.

  “Thanks, Judith. I appreciate that. Do you have any idea who might have done it?”

  She looked out the windshield. “I’ve been thinking about that quite a bit, dear. I wish I did.”

  “There haven’t been any particularly nasty political fights involving Roland?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Judith said, laughing. “There have been plenty—far more than I can count over the years, in fact. But none of them stands out.”

  I nodded, then opened the door to climb out, wondering if she knew more than she was saying and, if so, why she wouldn’t want to share it with me.

  After I waved goodbye to Judith, I turned to proceed up the short walkway to my house. I paused at the sight of someone sitting on my front steps. The evening shadows made it difficult to make out the person’s features.

  “Hello?” I called.

  “It’s me, Tad.” My neighbor slid forward with a graceful movement. The sudden spill of illumination across his face from a nearby street light accentuated his agreeable smile. “Where’ve you been?”

  “Mentoring meeting.”

  “Oh, how dreadful.” Tad and I had spoken a few times in the department once we’d discovered that we lived next door to each other, but not at any great length. I didn’t know much about him, other than that he taught early British Lit and had trouble with tenure last year, as Nate had mentioned. “Do you have time for a drink?”

  I hesitated, torn between collegial curiosity and a strong desire to go inside and put my feet up. “I should really do some class prep…”

  Tad smiled. “How about a very small and very quick one?”

  Curiosity won. “Okay.”

  “Right this way.” I followed him across the yard, through the front door, and into a sitting room on the left. It was furnished attractively in a Ralph Lauren sort of way, with a leather sofa and club chairs flanking an obviously expensive but slightly worn rug in front of a fireplace. “Be right back,” he said over his shoulder as he headed to the kitchen.

  I crossed the room to inspect a black frame hung above the fireplace, inside of which was a quotation rendered with elegant decorative script on cream parchment.

  “I saw the Cloud, tho’ I did not foresee the Storm.”

  Tad reappeared and handed me a glass of red wine. “Ah, you found my person. The writer with whom I spent all of my dissertation-writing
years and every manuscript-writing moment since. He comforts me.” He shrugged sheepishly.

  I smiled. “‘I am giving an account of what was, not of what ought or ought not to be.’”

  He laughed. “You’ve read Moll Flanders. You never know these days what’s covered at a given school. I am undoubtedly biased, but I think Daniel Defoe should be part of everyone’s curriculum—nay, he should be part of everyone’s décor!”

  Now it was my turn to laugh. “I understand completely. When I was writing my dissertation, I plastered my walls with quotations from Isabella Dare.”

  “Have you published on her?” He seemed genuinely interested.

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, I look forward to reading your words about her in the future.” He stepped close to the dark brown sofa. “Shall we make ourselves comfortable?”

  I settled into the buttery soft leather and tasted the wine, a black cherry cabernet with a hint of vanilla. “This is exquisite.”

  “My family’s label. I’m glad you like it.” Tad gave me a stunning smile as I tried to appear nonchalant about the fact that his family owned a vineyard or two. “In retrospect, I would have been better off framing Alexander Pope’s ‘Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed.’ It would have prepared me more for the experience with Roland. Shall I tell you the tale? You’ll hear about it sooner or later, and you might as well hear it directly from me.”

  I took another sip of the velvety wine and felt my shoulders relax ever so slightly. “Please.”

  His brown eyes seemed to darken—or was it a trick of the light? “To put it simply, he tried to kill me.”

  Chapter 6

  “Kill you?”

  Tad laughed bitterly. “Yes. That bastard did everything in his power to prevent me from getting tenure. Which would have slaughtered my career, as he bloody well knew.”

  “What happened?”

  “He told the committee the newer journals I’d published in weren’t of sufficient status and argued that those publications shouldn’t count.” He gripped his wine glass tightly. “If that weren’t enough, he circulated an email to the department, chastising us all for not setting our sights high enough, encouraging us to send our work to, and I quote, ‘the only acceptable journals, those with longstanding reputations.’ Roland never mentioned my name, but everyone knew whom he meant. I had to request additional letters of support from”—he used air quotes—“recognized scholars in the field.”