by Cynthia Kuhn
“I understand. That reminds me—you seemed upset when you came out of Roland’s office the other day.”
“The day he died?”
I nodded.
“That was bad timing, wasn’t it?” He grimaced. “The detective seemed to find it very significant as well. In fact, with that incident plus last year’s tenure battle, I’m surprised they haven’t hauled me into jail yet. If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect myself too.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
“But back to Roland’s office, it was nothing. I gave him a copy of my book, he insulted me, and I left.”
“Congratulations on the book!” I applauded him briefly. “Is it on Defoe?”
“Yes,” he said, cheering up. “Came out this summer. It was actually in the editing stages when I went up for tenure last year, but Roland wouldn’t let me count it because it wasn’t published yet.”
“That seems unfair,” I said. “Don’t they usually count books in process for tenure if you have a contract?”
“Not at Stonedale, evidently. Or at least in our department. Anyway, professors are expected to give the department a copy to display on the bookshelf in the main office. So I handed it to him and he made some comment about how the university press that had published it had fallen in stature. He followed that up with a jab about how no one was really working on Defoe anymore.”
“What a jerk,” I said, remembering how Roland had flung the book onto Millicent’s desk and told her to file it. I’d been surprised he threw it—not usual behavior from people who love literature. But now it made more sense: not only was he going to disrespect the book, but also Tad himself by not including it in the front office display.
Tad shrugged. “Par for the Roland Higgins course. I just hope the detective puts it into proper perspective.”
“I had an argument with Roland too, right after you.” It was more of a standoff than an argument, technically, but still.
“I heard about that. Good for you. What did the detective say?”
“He didn’t understand why I would keep researching something my boss didn’t approve of.”
“He doesn’t understand academia, then,” said Tad, with an eye roll.
“Clearly not,” I agreed. “What are you teaching today?”
He brightened. “A Journal of the Plague Year.”
“Oh, and Defoe is your person, so there’s that.”
“True indeed. Will you be able to teach your, um, person this semester?”
“Isabella? Hadn’t thought of doing that, but perhaps I should. I didn’t assign her books—they are way out of print—but I could project excerpts and introduce her work to my Gothic Lit class. Thanks, Tad.”
“Happy to help.”
When we reached Crandall, he bid me goodbye, but not before telling me to be careful. I knew what he meant; with two English professor attacks in a row, probably the entire faculty was on edge right about now.
After my classes and office hours, I headed over to the hospital. This time, the nurse at the desk gave me Judith’s room number. As I walked down the blindingly white hallway, I sniffed the wildflowers I’d brought with me, trying to block the antiseptic tang in the air. At the sign for room 240, I knocked on the door.
“Come in,” called Judith. Her voice sounded cheerful and strong—not what I’d expected at all.
I walked around the curtain and found her propped up by several pillows, surrounded by books and papers. She smiled and gestured to an empty chair next to her bed.
I sat down and handed her the flowers.
She put the bouquet to her nose. “How sweet of you. These are exquisite and have lifted my spirits already. Now tell me how you are doing.”
“No, I want to hear about you. How are you?” Her color seemed normal, which I was glad to see, and her natural elegance made the hospital gown almost graceful.
“Pshaw,” she said, waving dismissively. “I’m absolutely fine. In fact, I’m going home in a few hours. They just wanted to keep me here for observation given the,” she leaned forward and said in a mocking tone, “seriousness of the attack.”
“But Judith, it was serious. Someone hurt you.”
“I know, I shouldn’t jest, but it was a book, not an ax.”
“A heavy book.”
“And probably symbolic, though I can’t imagine who would want me to be knocked out by my own research topic.” She chuckled. “Then again, Virginia has always been able to get under the skin of some people.”
I squeezed her hand briefly. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
“Thank you, dear, I do appreciate your concern.”
“Did you see who hit you?”
“No…I can’t remember anything after walking into the room. Don’t even remember why I went into the room in the first place.” She patted my hand. “But don’t worry yourself about it.”
“I can’t help worrying, Judith.”
“I would certainly be worrying far more if they hadn’t given me some divine medicine that has whisked my cares away,” she said.
I suppose that explained her current state of serenity, which I found somewhat unsettling. “Do you mind if I ask you something about the book?”
“Not at all.”
“There was a symbol embossed in the front—with thorns or something.”
“How interesting.”
“Do you know what it means?”
“Sorry, dear. It wasn’t my book.”
“But it was Woolf.”
“Nonetheless,” Judith said. “It wasn’t mine. People all over the world own Virginia’s books. And it is a fine and glorious thing that they do.”
“Of course. I’m just trying to…connect the dots.”
Judith plucked at a seam on the hospital blanket thoughtfully. Eventually, she looked up and smiled at me kindly. “I’m sure the police will make sense of it.”
Although I had never found Judith to be anything but forthright, I couldn’t help but feel that she was holding something back.
Chapter 9
A few weeks later, we were all gathered in the department library again for the monthly faculty meeting. As I waited for the meeting to be called to order, I surveyed the roomful of my new colleagues, wondering if one of them could possibly be a murderer. It was almost intolerable to imagine, but someone had killed Roland and attacked Judith. Fighting a deep sense of unease, I tried to read the minutes from our last meeting, but the words didn’t organize themselves into any sort of meaning.
Spencer consulted the agenda in front of him. “I’d like to begin by welcoming Dr. Eldon Higgins, who will be teaching Roland’s Shakespeare course for the remainder of the term. We are most grateful to you, Dr. Higgins, for coming to our assistance. Your brother, as you know, was an active and important member of our department, and we gladly anticipate getting to know you better over the coming months.”
We all murmured welcomes in Eldon’s direction, and he produced a pained squint and a slight dip of the head in response. I wondered how Eldon and Roland had developed such an air of self-importance. Or perhaps it was a defense mechanism—I’d met enough academics to know that pomposity often grew from a carefully buried sense of worthlessness. On the other hand, some professors did actually believe in their own intellectual superiority. It was difficult to sort out who belonged to which category.
Willa, resplendent in a gleaming steel-colored tunic and armful of silver bangles, addressed Spencer. “Are we ready to vote on the History of Drama course?”
“Thanks for the reminder, Willa. Let’s review the materials.”
She passed around a pile of handouts and invited us to read them. “This is a revised version of the syllabus we discussed at length last spring. Thanks for your suggestions—you’ll see we have incorporated many of them.”
Eldon, clad in the same tweedy garb his brother had favored, wiggled his fingers delicately. “May I ask what some of the changes are?”
“Of course.” Willa walked him through the list of assigned texts.
“There are, if you don’t mind my saying so, more female authors on here than I’ve seen in traditional survey courses,” said Eldon.
Willa nodded. “That was one of our goals, actually—more diversity in terms of gender and ethnicity.”
“But certainly we needn’t add female playwrights simply because they are female. I see you’ve only included one play each by some of the more prominent male playwrights, and obviously that’s problematic.”
“Well, Eldon,” Willa said, “putting aside for now the reductive quality of your objection, that a writer would be added ‘simply,’ as you say, because of their gendered position, let us proceed on the understanding that we wanted the course to be more inclusive.”
He snorted. “Typical. My brother was always quite indignant about the clamoring to celebrate every Jill or Jane who picked up a pen. But, and I have to say I agree with him, that would do an injustice to the illustrious genius of the existing members of the canon.”
Calista shook her head, but she remained quiet amidst the mutters around the table.
Willa ventured forward with a steady approach. “Dr. Higgins, feminist scholarship has an important place in our curricular goals.”
“I’ve heard all the arguments, Willa. And I’m extraordinarily tired of the need to harp on such things—”
“Speaking is not harping,” Willa interjected calmly.
Eldon waved at that, as if shooing a fly. “An unfortunate choice of words, then. But let us acknowledge there are statistics—”
“Yes, we all have statistics, but I predict you will posit that mine are somehow flawed and yours are not.” She stared him down.
“It’s not a matter of gender,” Eldon said, “but a question of significance, as my brother used to say.”
Willa tapped the table briskly. “That’s part of the problem. It can be about gender. Too often, we are served up literary forefathers for the main course, and when a woman writer is discussed, she is presented as the soufflé that fell a little flat: she is too sentimental, too realistic, too restrained, too strident—it’s always too something.”
Eldon shifted in his chair and brushed a small speck off of his vest. “Perhaps you need to be more objective, Willa. If some of the women writers simply aren’t as good, then we shouldn’t feel bad that we prefer the men.”
“Just because you ‘prefer’ certain writers doesn’t mean that everyone else is unnecessary.” Willa was gripping the edge of the conference table so hard that her knuckles were white. “At least admit that a general lack of representation has been an issue. I’m not saying ignore the men—I’m saying include the women.”
He leaned back, looking smug. “It’s an outdated stand. We’re in an era of post-feminism now. Hasn’t the news reached the west?”
“Post-post feminism,” Norton chimed in gleefully.
Eldon nodded at the contribution.
Willa threw up her hands, the bracelets jangling atonally. “Anyone can make pronouncements. Meanwhile, women are out in the world, experiencing what people claim is not happening, which is one of the most dangerous aspects of this mess.”
Her glare was fierce.
Eldon’s left eye twitched.
Judith called for a vote on the matter at hand. The course passed, with everyone voting for it except Eldon and Norton. No surprise there, though I was taken aback at the sheer audacity of Eldon’s decision to make a political attack on the curriculum in front of the entire faculty. Chancellor Wellington must have assured him that the forthcoming donation granted him an immunity of sorts. Otherwise, I couldn’t imagine a new colleague, however temporary, taking such a chance.
Outside, on the bench in front of Crandall Hall, I asked Calista and Nate if they had any ideas about why Spencer, as interim department chair, hadn’t stepped in to take control of the escalating situation.
She rolled her eyes. “I know, right? What was that about?”
Nate looked thoughtful.
“Maybe he didn’t want to embarrass Eldon on his first day. And don’t forget—there is the donation factor, which secured Eldon the job, by all accounts.”
“But still, he just let him go on and on—” Calista broke off upon the realization that Willa had joined us and leaped up to hug her. “How are you? That was just awful. But you were absolutely amazing in there.”
I agreed enthusiastically.
“Bravo,” said Nate. “You sure know how to command a room.”
Willa laughed. “Thank you all. Rest assured, I’ve been involved in worse battles. At least the course was passed and Eldon showed us where he stands. I will claim it as a victory.”
The door opened, and I could hear low voices. Norton and Eldon emerged, deep in conversation.
“Time to leave,” Willa said, and we did.
An hour later, Calista and I were sitting on her back porch in a pair of brown wicker chairs topped with soft yellow cushions. I took another drink of the pomegranate concoction she’d made in the blender and sighed happily. It was tangy and cold and hit the proverbial spot. We were making short work of the platter of crackers and cheese on the small wicker table between us as we watched the sun go down over her back fence.
“Do you have a lot of grading to do this weekend?” she asked.
“Heaps. But could we talk about the department meeting? What was Eldon thinking?”
“Don’t know. I think we were all in shock. Otherwise Judith probably would have spoken up. She’s usually superb at defusing angry situations.”
“She is?”
“Seriously gifted. Last year, Judith and I were talking in my office when Spencer and Roland had the loudest argument in the hallway—I don’t know what it was about because they were yelling at the same time so it was hard to distinguish words. Judith heard the ruckus, excused herself and within two minutes, the three of them were laughing together about something. Then she returned and we took up where we left off, as if nothing had happened.”
I was impressed. “What, did she cast a spell?”
She laughed. “Hmm. If Judith were a witch, it would explain a lot.”
“What do you mean?”
Calista shrugged. “She’s just a very powerful woman.”
A loud knock at the front door startled us both. She sighed and put down her drink. I stayed where I was as she went to answer, enjoying the sight of the sky over the Rocky Mountains, which comprised varying shades of blue and red tinged with gold.
Noticing that my glass was empty, I wandered into the house to seek a refill. Stepping through her sliding glass door, I stopped short. Police were everywhere, searching through cabinets and drawers. Calista was sitting on her sofa, talking with Detective Archer. I headed straight for them.
“What’s going on?”
Calista looked up, her expression grim. “They’re searching my house. And arresting me.”
“For what?” My head swiveled towards the detective, whose mouth was set in a straight line. “This is a mistake. She didn’t do anything,” I said to him, directly. I didn’t care what he did to me for speaking up.
“I’m going to have to ask you to sit over there, Dr. Maclean. I’ll be with you shortly.” He pointed at a chair in the dining area.
I did as he said, watching the police personnel come and go. A half hour passed, during which they carried out Calista’s laptop, briefcase, and several boxes of files. At one point, Cady shot across the room and hid under the legs of my chair. I picked up the cat and cradled her in my arms, making soothing sounds.
Eventually, two officers went over to Calista and asked her to stand up. She followed their directions, turni
ng around so that they could apply the handcuffs. As they took her out to the patrol car, she yelled for me to take care of Cady.
Detective Archer approached me, all business, tucking the small notepad into his chest pocket. I stayed in the chair and focused on petting the cat slowly to ground myself against the lurching of my stomach. Also to ignore him for as long as possible.
He leaned his arms on the table.
“We’re done here,” he said softly. “Can you lock up?”
“Yes. What happens now?”
“She’ll be processed. I wouldn’t expect to hear anything today, but you’ll be able to see her soon enough. By Monday at the latest.”
I nodded.
“You’ll be responsible for the cat?”
I was battling a potent cocktail of anger and disbelief, and I couldn’t seem to get my thoughts straight. “Yes.”
He studied my face, assessing something, I didn’t know what, then left.
The house seemed especially quiet in comparison to the recent chaos. I went around closing drawers, picking up and righting things. It only took a few minutes to locate the cat carrier and food in the garage, but a good twenty more to cajole Cady out from under Calista’s bed, where she had retreated after the police left. Thank goodness for the tempting powers of catnip.
Cady meowed when I scooped her up, but she didn’t claw me. I explained that she was going to stay with me for a while, then set her carefully inside the carrier. I’d heard many stories about cats protesting their carriers, but Cady curled up neatly and stared impassively through the bars of the door. I couldn’t help noting the symbolism and hoped Calista was as calm about her own incarceration, though I doubted it.
Chapter 10
On Saturday, I drove first to the Stonedale police station, then to the jail, trying to get some answers, but no one would let me see Calista.
All weekend, I phoned the jail for more information—each time, they told me to be patient, to wait to hear from her. I tried to prepare classes and grade, but the worry shattered my ability to concentrate, and I resorted to pacing around my house and talking to my mother on my cell. She checked for updates every few hours, and we speculated until we both felt sick. On Sunday evening, Calista finally called and said I could visit her the next day.