by Ada Madison
I’d deliberately spoken as if I assumed science and mathematics literacy on the part of anyone who deemed herself liberally educated. Or anyone who was a dean at a liberal arts college.
“He was there? At your party?”
I grunted—inaudibly, I hoped—though Dr. Underwood’s severe lack of appreciation for math and science was familiar to me. “No, he, uh, died about seventy years ago.” I fantasized Dean Underwood’s name on my class roster and marked it with a failing grade.
“Of course he did.” Dean Underwood’s pointy nose seemed to take off on its own, now with flaring nostrils, now curling upward toward her frown lines.
I wasn’t proud of this little tactic—putting someone in her place by trying to sound smarter. The truth was that, given the right teacher, anyone could learn mathematics. One of my greatest missions in life was to help students over hurdles that kept them thinking that there was a certain “science brain” or that only a select few had a “knack for math.”
I bristled as I recalled a report from Bruce’s niece, Melanie, that her fourth-grade teacher had promised, “If you behave yourselves this morning, boys and girls, we won’t have to do math this afternoon.”
Grrr. I could have gone on forever on this topic, even with no audience, but the dean was back on track, having straightened out her face.
“The complaint mentioned, in particular, bolts of lightning and fireworks.”
An image of Tesla came to me. Today we would have called him an outside-the-box thinker. One day he’d be experimenting with electromagnetism as a route to time travel, and the next he’d ply himself with enough current to discharge sparks that would make the crackling at our little Franklin party seem hardly worth the trouble.
I called up last Friday in my mind. Almost a week ago. We didn’t have fireworks exactly, but we did create a healthy display of static electricity. On my phone, I had a photo of one student with her long red hair standing out straight from her head. I thought it best not to show the dean.
“The physics majors put together a demonstration of one of Tesla’s experiments. It was spectacular, but harmless, really,” I told the dean.
I spent the next few minutes explaining our custom of monthly parties honoring mathematicians and scientists. I’d been through this description a number of times. Did this dean not listen? Was she too busy being the fashion police? Or did Dean Underwood simply have a short memory for practices she didn’t like?
I gave it my best, final shot. “There’s more to these gatherings than cake and loud noises. The science and math majors research the scientist or mathematician with the birthday of the month and present reports and demonstrations.” I waited for a response. There was none. “I guess this month’s meeting was especially animated,” I added.
I hoped for a compliment on what had been my own inspired idea. I could trace it back to my parents, who’d named me after the eighteenth century French mathematician, Sophie Germain. Sophie and I shared a birthday—April first. We celebrated together every year. How could we not share a love of mathematics?
“Try to keep a measure of decorum, Dr. Knowles,” the dean said finally, sending a loud, agonized breath my way. She stood up and I followed suit.
I wondered who shared a birthday with Dean Underwood. Someone with no sense of humor, I supposed.
On the way to my Ford Fusion, I thought of several brilliant responses I should have made to the dean’s reprimand. For one thing, I wished I’d invited her to the August seventeenth party, for Pierre de Fermat’s birthday. My math majors were preparing a skit about Fermat’s Last Theorem, which he had declared “remarkable,” but never proved. I’d been warned by my students that there was a limerick involved in their interpretation.
I knew I should have been relieved that I hadn’t crossed the line into sarcasm the dean might recognize. After all, my ranking was at stake. Still, it would have been fun to tell her she didn’t have to bring a present for Fermat. He wouldn’t be showing up.
I’d also neglected to mention to the dean that the next party wasn’t that far off. Tomorrow, in fact, the four Franklin Hall departments would be celebrating a brand new doctoral degree. Hal Bartholomew, the students’ favorite physics instructor, had completed all the requirements and would graduate at the end of the year from Massachusetts University.
It was common knowledge that Hal’s thesis had been rejected twice before by MU’s faculty committee. He’d been burdened with an uncooperative crystal to study and had had difficulty acquiring spectral data. He was also balancing his research time with his full teaching load and family life.
As I understood it, delays in collecting data occurred often to those in experimental physics. And anyone who’d ever been in grad school in any field sympathized with the setbacks on the way to an advanced degree.
Anyone except Keith Appleton, that is.
Keith took every opportunity to make a snide remark about Hal’s struggle. I’d never forget his comment when Hal sneezed at Henley’s baccalaureate dinner in June.
“Stay well, Hal,” Keith had said. “After waiting so long and after all those false starts, you don’t want to miss your graduation ceremony.”
To his credit, Hal smiled at the remark and ignored the chance to respond in kind. Gil, his wife, found a way to make a point, however: She put her arm around her husband’s shoulders and said, “Hal will be fine. He has me to take care of him.”
And you, Keith, those in earshot added silently, have no one.
Cheers for Gillian Bartholomew.
As I drove home I amused myself by conjuring ways to get even with Keith for not telling me himself that our Tesla party disrupted his . . . what? His quiet time? His life? Keith brought out the worst in me.
Then I remembered I’d promised to approach him, nicely, on Rachel’s behalf.
I wished there was a way to banish Keith Appleton from Franklin Hall. And Dean Underwood from the entire Henley campus.
CHAPTER 3
Let it be said: math and science majors know how to party.
To coincide with Hal’s research field, the physics majors had decorated the lounge with a sepia-colored poster featuring Nobelists in physics for the last fifty years, and another with a collage of pioneers in spectroscopy. They’d ordered the largest sheet cake they could afford from the local bakery—I recognized only a few of the equations written in blue icing just under the three-dimensional balloons in multicolored frosting. A nice touch.
My own math majors from my first year of teaching had contributed the gold lamé tablecloth that had graced every Franklin Hall party since. There were always so many drinks, bowls of snacks, and platters of dessert that the accumulated stains from previous parties were easily covered up.
Hal examined a greatly enlarged photograph of himself, looking at least a decade younger and situated on the wall between Albert Einstein and Isaac Newton. “Where did you ever find this?” he asked, scratching his prematurely balding scalp.
“On Google,” Liz Harrison and Pam Noonan, inseparable roommates and chemistry majors, said in unison.
“It’s from a loooong time ago,” Pam added.
“You sound like my son,” Hal laughed.
Most of us had spent many department picnics and holiday parties with Hal’s five-year-old son, Timothy, and Hal’s wife, Gillian, a flight nurse who worked at MAstar, Bruce’s employer. Ben Franklin Hall was nothing if not family friendly.
As usual when two or more were gathered, I’d placed copies of a draft brainteaser around the room. I counted myself very lucky that my students and colleagues enjoyed being beta testers as I, or rather, Margaret Stone, developed new puzzles for my magazine editors.
“Too many layers,” Rachel said of a word puzzle I’d devised. “If I even understand it. First you have to identify a bunch of images, make an appropriate anagram, take the last letters and add one, line up the initial letters”—She threw up her hands—“I’d give up in, like, three minutes.”
I frowned, never one to take criticism easily. “You’re exaggerating,” I said. “And, besides, it’s supposed to be a category five challenge.” Was that me whining?
“I agree with Rachel,” Fran Emerson, my department head said.
“Copy that,” came from Hal and a chorus of students.
More boos came from Robert Michaels, chemistry department chair and Judith Donohue, head of biology.
My public had spoken. I crumpled the sheet in my hand. Back to the drawing board.
The summer faculty crew was small in Franklin Hall, and the department heads’ representation down one. Hal’s physics department chair had arranged to spend six weeks doing research on a particle collider in Switzerland, prompting me to wish that differential equations—my field of mathematics—was more equipment-based. He’d sent greetings to Hal in the morning via Skype but didn’t guarantee he’d be free to electronically attend the party later.
Fran took on the responsibility of making the congratulatory speech to the gathering.
“I’m going to wait until Gil gets here,” Fran told us.
“She’ll be, like, a hundred years late,” Rachel muttered.
Apparently Rachel’s nasty mood hadn’t improved with a night’s sleep.
Gil Bartholomew arrived well within the century mark, toting a large basket of sunflowers, tiger lilies, and the reddest bee balm I’d ever seen. At one time or another, we were all the beneficiaries of Gil’s extraordinary gardening talent. She moved aside platters of sweets and placed the basket on the center of the table.
“That’s better, isn’t it? Sorry I’m late, guys.”
After some talk of bad traffic and worse weather, Fran called us to order.
I was impressed that Fran had dressed up for the occasion—Dean Underwood would have been pleased. Fran was tall enough to pull off the long, flowing outfit: a pale blue silk pantsuit with a matching scarf that would have dragged on the floor if I’d been wearing it. She praised Hal’s excellent teaching record, hard work, and affable personality.
She ended with, “It gives me great pleasure to announce the promotion of Dr. Harold Bartholomew from instructor to assistant professor.” Fran’s voice carried a deep ring of authority, though the official announcement from the dean wouldn’t come until the first faculty meeting in the fall semester.
“Let’s make some noise here,” she said.
I cringed at first, thinking of the dean, but then clapped loudly.
The cheers that followed from about thirty students and faculty members were a tribute to the popularity and the high regard Hal enjoyed.
Rachel came up to me and handed me a fresh bottle of sparkling water. “You’re next for a promotion,” she said.
“Could be,” I said, casting my eyes down in fake modesty.
“I’ll take care of the cake that day. I can see it now. ‘PROFESSOR KNOWLES’ in lavender icing, all caps,” Rachel said.
If I knew birthdays, Rachel knew everyone’s color preferences.
In fact, I’d already allowed myself the fantasy of hearing my own name mentioned in the rolls of faculty promotions this year: Dr. Sophie Knowles from associate professor to full professor, I fantasized. After yesterday’s meeting with Dean Underwood I wondered if the dream would become reality. I might be able to manage to keep the noise level down at Franklin Hall parties, but who knew what else stood in the way of my promotion. I was never any good at academic politics. All I knew was that if I wanted to reach the next level of recognition in my field, I couldn’t spend another year as an associate professor.
“Where’s Keith?” Fran asked me.
I heard, “Who cares?” from someone in a nearby cluster of students. Rachel?
It hadn’t been lost on me that Keith was missing from the festivities. Maybe a higher power (I pictured an exponent in the sky) had heeded my wish, that Keith Appleton be banished from Franklin Hall.
“We haven’t seen him at all today, but his Beemer’s here,” Pam said, gesturing toward the parking lot next to the tennis courts.
“Apep is probably upstairs being antisocial as usual,” Casey Tremel said. She folded her bracelet-laden hands, prayerlike. “Gazing at that new Fellow award on his wall.” Casey had her own problems with Keith. She was a scholarship student, the one with the neon green “Used” sticker on all her texts. She needed a B to keep her standing; a looming D in organic chemistry could derail the funding for her education.
“Maybe he ran out of rude comments about Dr. Bartholomew,” said Liz.
“Who wants him at a party anyway?” Rachel’s voice. No doubt this time.
I pulled Rachel aside, unobtrusively, I hoped. “This is not like you at all, Rachel. You need to dial it back. We’re at a gathering of the Franklin Hall family and that kind of disrespect is not appropriate.”
“Everyone’s insulting him, not just me,” Rachel said, with a slight pout that was unbecoming a teaching assistant.
“These are undergraduates. You’re supposed to be modeling professional behavior, among other things. It’s one thing to complain to me, but I can’t support this lack of self-control.”
I knew I sounded like a scolding parent or a grade school teacher, but I didn’t see another way to get through to Rachel.
Rachel looked contrite. “I’m really sorry, Dr. Knowles. You’re totally right.”
“Did someone say ‘Dr. Bartholomew?’ I like the sound of that,” Gil said, giving her husband a kiss on his cheek.
I was glad she’d found a way to diffuse the awkwardness of Rachel’s incivility, as well as all the other anti-Appleton remarks.
I glanced around the room. Fran had maintained a neutral expression, notwithstanding her beef with Keith over the set of amended bylaws he’d proposed for Distinguished Professor status. Robert and Judith also behaved themselves, as befitted department chairs, though I knew them to have been overpowered and outvoted more than once by Keith. Lucy Bronson, a new instructor hired for one chemistry class this summer, with a full load in the fall, looked from one to the other of us, understandably distressed, apparently unprepared for the invective that disrupted the party atmosphere. She was too new to have been crushed by Apep.
Much to my relief, all the other faculty who were present refrained from joining in on the heckling of the absent chemistry professor, and it soon came to a halt. I was especially conscious of returning to good behavior so Lucy wouldn’t regret her decision to come to Henley College.
I found myself feeling sorry for Keith and forced myself to remember something good about him. I came up with an occasion last winter when he rushed to my rescue with jumper cables to start my car. So what if he chose that moment to point out my inadequacies, and those of all women, as mechanics.
“What if I take a piece of cake and a drink up to him?” Rachel whispered to me, not needing to specify who “him” was.
I was proud of her for coming around so quickly. “Very good idea,” I said, giving her a thumbs-up.
Anything to keep him upstairs, I thought. For the sake of the party, and for his own protection.
By two o’clock, the party had ended. There was a limit to the amount of togetherness students and faculty could enjoy before starting their weekend.
With Bruce on duty at the airfield fifteen miles away, and Ariana at her book club, I was on my own for the evening.
“You should join the club,” Ariana had told me. “We read all kinds of books. Mystery, romance, science fiction, inspirational.” She’d ticked off enough genres to use most of her fingers.
“Have you ever met a group you didn’t like?” I’d asked her.
“I guess that’s a ‘no’ on the book club from you and a ‘no’ on your question from me.”
With all her running around—to her beading classes, yoga group, book club, and volunteer work at a shelter, Ariana still seemed to have time for her friends, including three exes. I felt like a slug next to her.
For me a couple of quiet nights at home every
week were a must. The days were given over to my students and colleagues, often until early evening; I never stinted there. Bruce’s schedule suited me fine. I could count on seven nights in a row to myself if I so chose.
I enjoyed my small, three-bedroom cottage, the home I’d grown up in. When my mother became ill, I’d moved back until it became necessary to place her where she’d have professional care. That day had been one of the hardest in my life. Margaret, who’d been an independent widow most of her adult life, seemed to take the enormous change better than I did, adjusting to assisted living and claiming that it was enough to know that I was now enjoying the family home. I didn’t see the point in telling her it could never be that easy for me.
People who visited me here for the first time were surprised at the cozy atmosphere, expecting a high-tech look to match my image as a modern-day mathematician. But I liked the contrast: the latest computer and peripherals in my office at Henley, and a claw-foot tub and gingham quilts at home.
On tonight’s list was work on my research, class prep for the rest of the summer session, assignments to post on the web, and journals to read. A periodical with a cover story on nonlinear wave equations was at the top of my pile. I also had puzzles to solve, math games to create, and even a key chain to bead if I was in the mood. I didn’t need to belong to a group for any of these activities.
I made up a plate with oranges and grapes, three kinds of cheese, and plain crackers. I called it a meal; Bruce would have called it the first round of appetizers before the prime rib. Bruce claimed I wasn’t being true to my country kitchen décor with such insubstantial menus.
“You should make some meatballs,” he’d said on his last day off.
“Excuse me? Meatballs?”
“You know, like that scene in Goodfellas, where the wiseguys are making an Italian dinner in prison?” Bruce tended to bring everything back to a favorite movie.