…A Dangerous Thing (7 page)

She didn't really care about the track team, of course.
 
What bothered her was that Main was a quite politically incorrect building in that it posed formidable obstacles to the handicapped, which was a politically incorrect term, Burns knew, but he couldn't think of the right one.
 
"Differently abled."
 
That was it.

Because of the steps outside the building, it would be next to impossible for a person in, say, a wheelchair to get inside.
 
If the person did get inside, the absence of an elevator meant that he (or she) would never be able to get above the first floor under his (or her) own power.

Burns had solved the problem on previous occasions in two different ways.
 
One girl on crutches had been carried to the third floor by two football players, one of them carrying her from the first floor to the second, where the other took over and carried her the rest of the way.
 
She hadn't weighed much, and Burns had convinced the football players that it was a good way to stay in shape during the off season.

For wheelchair students, Burns had simply taught the required classes in the math building, which, being much newer, was equipped with ramps and elevators and was accessible to everyone.

Now Dr. Partridge wanted to make Main equally accessible.
 
Rumor (and Burns believed this one) had it that Franklin Miller had turned ghostly pale when told the cost of an elevator.
 
It could not be installed in the proposed shaft, which would have eliminated both
Burns's
office and the History lounge.
 
It would have to be installed on the outside of the building.
 
And no one was sure the outside would hold up to the stress that an elevator would place on it.
 
The entire building would somehow have to be reinforced.
 
So far the plan to build an elevator had therefore been stalled in Miller's office, though that would probably not be the end of things if Dr. Partridge had her way.

Burns stood at the top of the stair until he caught his breath and then went to his office.
 
There was no use talking to Holt now.
 
It was nearly time for Holt's class to begin.
 
The talk could wait until later.
 
It was Tuesday, and since Burns and Holt both had evening classes, they could talk at four-thirty.

Burns could spend the time until then grading his developmental papers.
 
It wasn't a job he expected to enjoy.

. . . and then Ill play basketball for like the rockets or

bulls make a
buncha
money then maybe make movies or be on

tv
, like a lot of ballplayers they go on
tv
and make money

when they retire and get put up on a pedal-stool by there

fans that's why
Im
am in radio and
tv
so Ill have a trade

when I get out of sports except that if
Im
am in radio and

tv
I wont
reely
be out of sports for all intensive purposes

but . . . .

Burns put the paper down, laid his red pen down on top of it, and rubbed his eyes.
 
If you looked at it in a certain way there was an almost
Joycean
quality to "put up on a pedal-stool" and "for all intensive purposes."
 
It was too bad he couldn't look at it that way.

He looked up at the ceiling instead.
 
The acoustical tiles were still stained darkly with God knows what.
 
Pigeon shit, for one thing.
 
Probably dead pigeons, as well, considering the campaign to poison them that had been initiated in the fall semester.
 
Mal Tomlin had sworn that no one would come to
Burns's
rescue if the ceiling ever fell in on him.

Burns looked down at the papers again and considered picking up his pen.
 
Then he looked at his watch.

Twenty minutes until five.
 
Time to talk to Holt.
 
He didn't look forward to that, but anything would be better at the moment than reading more papers.
 

Burns left his own office and ran the maze of other offices and small classrooms that composed the front part of the third floor.
 
There was no one there at that hour.
 
Clem Nelson and Miss Darling had long since gone home, and the three virtually anonymous men known to all as Larry, Darryl, and Darryl were gone as well.
 
They came to campus, taught their classes, kept their office hours and disappeared.
 
Some of the other faculty members complained that the three didn't carry their share of the load, but Burns liked them.
 
At least they didn't cause him any trouble.

Holt's office was really just around the corner from
Burns's
own.
 
There were two flights of stairs leading to the third floor, and Holt had his office at the head of the stairs opposite the flight Burns had come up.

The door was open, and Holt was sitting at his desk, reading what looked like a comic book.
 
There was only one window in the office, and the late afternoon sun slanted through it, giving a mellow glow to the fluorescent lighting and casting a long shadow from the potted aloe plant that sat on the wide window sill.
 
The wall behind Holt was covered with lobby cards from old movie serials.
 
Holt had put the cards in acrylic frames, and Burns couldn't fault the man's taste.
 
Burns saw Linda
Stirling
as
The Tiger Lady
, George Marshall as Commander Cody in
Radar Men from the Moon
, Tom Tyler in his Captain Marvel suit, and Buster Crabbe in
Space Soldiers Conquer the Universe
.

There was also a poster that said YOU CAN BE ANYTHING YOU WANT TO BE in big red letters on a white background.

Burns, who at one time or another in his life had wanted to be linebacker for the Houston Oilers, to hit .400 in the major leagues, and to do brain surgery, thought the poster was pretty misleading.
 
His student who wanted to be a lawyer would probably have believed it, though.
 
Burns wondered if that was good or bad.

While Burns was looking silently at the poster, Holt sensed his presence.
 
He put down the comic book and turned to look at Burns, who glanced at the title.

"
Whiz Comics
," Holt said.

"You don't see those around much," Burns said.

"Not in English departments," Holt said.
 
He laid a hand on the comic book.
 
"But popular culture is quite interesting.
 
You'd be surprised what you can learn from something like this."

"For example?" Burns said, always willing to learn something new, especially if it came from
Whiz Comics
.

Holt flipped the pages.
 
"You can learn a lot about prejudice, for one thing."
 
He stopped and put a finger on a picture.
 
"Look at this."

Burns walked into the office and looked down at the comic.
 
Holt's finger was resting just under the figure of Steamboat Willie, Billy Batson's black serving man.
 
He had thick, heavy lips and pop eyes.

"Feet don't fail me now," Burns said.

"That's about the size of it," Holt said.

"And that's what you're teaching in your classes?" Burns asked.
 
"Prejudice in popular culture?"
 

"That, among other things," Holt said.
 
But if you're interested, why don't you sit in some day.
 
You could probably add a lot to the discussion."

"I might do that," Burns said.

Holt closed the copy of
Whiz Comics
.
 
"I really wish you would," he said.
 
"I think you and I share a lot of the same interests; I'd like to get to know you better."

Burns found himself warming to Holt, with whom he did share some interests and who certainly didn't sound like a man who had come to take over the department.
 
He sat down in the chair by Holt's desk.

"We can start now," he said.
 
"I've been wanting to talk to you.
 
How have your classes been going?"

They talked about Holt's classes and Burns told him about his developmental students.
 
They talked about movies and books and television, and Burns found himself liking Holt more and more.
 
Eventually he edged around to the real reason for his visit.

"How is it that you wound up here?" he asked.
 
"Not that HGC isn't a great school, but we're not exactly known for the quality of our library or our scholarship."

Holt patted the comic book.
 
"A lot of the things I write about don't require conventional research.
 
And for the things that do, your library is perfectly adequate.
 
You have a very good periodicals section, and all the important books of criticism are in the stacks.
 
You, or someone, has done a good job of keeping up."

"Thanks," Burns said.
 
He wanted to add that Holt had not exactly answered his question, but before he could, Holt went on.

"Going to the library here isn't exactly a chore, either.
 
Miss Tanner is most helpful, and quite attractive."

Oh no
, Burns thought.
 
Not another rival
.

"And there's always interlibrary loan," Holt said, distracting him.
 
"I can get books from just about anywhere.
 
But that's not answering your question.
 
I came here because I was asked.
 
As simple as that."

"But surely you've been asked to go to other schools.
 
More prestigious schools."

"True," Holt said. "But that sort of thing has never appealed to me.
 
I'm not an academic snob."

"A lot of people are," Burns said.
 
"And then there's the money."

"Hartley Gorman isn't exactly going to make me rich," Holt said.
 
"But I don't need a lot of money.
 
I have a place to live, I have access to a library, I have an office and classes to teach.
 
What does money really matter?"

Burns didn't know what to say to that one, so he changed directions.
 
"Dr. Partridge seems to think highly of you."

Holt nodded, frowning.
 
"I'm sure there has been some resentment against me in the department about my teaching only three classes.
 
I'm sorry about that.
 
I didn't ask for the reduced load; Dr. Partridge made the offer, and I accepted.
 
I didn't know that it would cause hard feelings."

Burns didn't say anything for a few seconds in hopes that Holt might give him some clue about why Dr. Partridge had made the offer, but it seemed that no such clue was forthcoming.

"I don't think there's been any resentment," Burns said finally.
 
"Well, not exactly."

"People feel that they're being treated unfairly," Holt said.
 
"And I don't really blame them.
 
They've been very nice about it, however."

That was the first thing Holt had said that Burns knew wasn't true.
 
Even Miss Darling had held herself aloof from Holt, and Miss Darling was never intentionally aloof from anyone.
 
Burns had done the same thing.
 
Under normal circumstances, he would never have let three weeks of the semester go by without having a conversation with a new faculty member.
 
He would have to have a talk with the other instructors, ask them to try being a little friendlier.

The two men talked a while longer, and then Burns left the office to get ready for his evening class.
 
He was convinced that Holt had no ulterior motives and that there was no sinister connection between Holt and Dr. Partridge.

F
or a while after that day, things went more smoothly.
 
The other members of the English Department, with a little prodding from Burns, gradually got to know Holt somewhat better.
 
They began speaking to him in the hall, having a cup of coffee with him now and then, and discussing their classes with him.
 
Even Larry, Darryl, and Darryl would stop by his office to say hello on their way in or out of the building.

All of that was fine.
 

What wasn't so good was the style sheet that was delivered to everyone through the faculty mail.
 
It contained a list of the desirable ways to refer to various groups, and it was accompanied by a list of "isms" that led to oppression.
 
An introduction at the top of the page stated that the sheet was a product of the combined efforts of Dean Partridge and Eric Holt. Their efforts, to put it mildly, were not appreciated by the faculty.