Truth and Consequences (6 page)

It was true, Jane remembered, that in the dining room and study of the house there were a number of cases containing stuffed birds. “Professor Vogelman and his wife are ornithologists,” she said.

“Yeah, I know.”

“I think they've actually discovered a new species, or maybe it's what's called a variant.”

“But they look so unhappy—the birds, I mean. They sit in their glass cases, on their brown and gray twigs, and look at you while you eat dinner. Some seem angry, but most are just miserable.”

In spite of herself, Jane giggled. “I know what you mean,” she said. “I wouldn't really want them in my house. But maybe you could move the cases,” she said.

“Not a hope. They're built into the walls. I looked.”

“Or put something over them?”

“But we'd know the birds were still there, underneath.”

“You'd forget after a while.”

“Maybe.” He looked grave: for a moment she wondered if perhaps the whole thing wasn't a joke. “I'd forget, but Delia wouldn't. No, the only solution is never to use the dining room.”

“Or the study.”

“That's all right. I'll be working in the study: I can get along with the birds.”

Jane returned his smile. Her wish to leave for home had wholly vanished. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“No thanks. I've really just come to look at the office for Delia.”

Jane, who knew that the upstairs wouldn't be cleaned until tomorrow, would normally have said that the Center wasn't open yet. But now she hesitated, not wanting to seem rude or unfriendly. “Couldn't she come herself?”

“No, she has a migraine. Is the office upstairs?”

Already he was moving toward the hall. Jane reluctantly followed.

“This won't take much time,” Henry assured her, beginning to ascend the wide red-carpeted staircase two steps at a time. Though his build was solid, he seemed agile.

“If you'll show me. . . . This one?” He walked into the former master bedroom, which had a bay window with views to the south and west. “It's a good big space,” he said thoughtfully “She'll like that.”

“I hope so.” Jane spoke with confidence: all the past Fellows to whom she had assigned this office had been appreciative and grateful.

“It's very bright,” he added after a moment.

“Yes, you get wonderful light here. Even in the winter.” She paused, registering something negative in his intonation. “You mean it's too bright for you?”

“Not for me, but maybe for Delia.” He smiled almost conspiratorially, and Jane smiled back. “Bright light sometimes brings on one of her attacks.”

“There are blinds,” Jane said. “And drapes she can pull.” Going to one of the west-facing windows, through which the August sun poured like thick, hot honey, she demonstrated.

“Yes, that might help.” Henry made a note on his clipboard; then he began to circle the room, opening the drawers of the big leather-topped oak desk, trying out the desk chair and the easy chair by the bay window, lifting the phone, and turning the desk lamp off and on. “There's a connection to the University computer system?”

“Oh yes, right here.”

He leaned and peered behind the desk, as if he did not quite believe her.

“That's good. And do you have a surge protector?”

“She won't need one. We're already wired for power outages, it was in the brochure we sent you,” Jane said, beginning to feel impatient.

“Great.” Henry smiled at Jane again, but this time with less effect. “I think we may have to move the desk,” he said. “Delia works best when she has a view.”

You may have to move the desk, not me, Jane thought but did not say.

“Well, it's a pretty good space,” he said. “I think she could be happy here. But she'll need a sofa.”

“A sofa?” Jane said, not encouragingly.

“Yeah, you see, when a migraine's coming on Delia mostly gets an aura. Then if she can take her pill and lie down in a darkened room, sometimes that will head it off.”

“Does she get migraines often?” As far as Jane could recall, nothing in any of Delia Delaney's glowing, even fulsome letters of recommendation had mentioned this.

“It varies,” Henry said vaguely. He ran a hand along the pink marble mantel, over which hung a large antique sepia photograph of the University quadrangle, glanced at the dust that had collected on his fingers because the rooms hadn't been cleaned for a month, but made no comment.

Jane sighed almost audibly. Very possibly, Delia Delaney was going to be this year's problem Fellow. “And how long do her migraines last?”

“Oh, that varies too. Sometimes only a few hours, sometimes up to two days.”

“That's too bad,” Jane said. “I hope she won't have them on Tuesdays and Thursdays.” In exchange for a generous salary, free secretarial service, free campus parking, and what most of them considered luxury accommodations, all the Fellows were expected to hold office hours and make themselves available to students and faculty with a special interest in their subject. They were also expected to attend the two public lectures or readings each of them would give, and the informal weekly lunches to which selected members of the faculty would be invited.

“Unfortunately, they're not scheduled in advance.” Henry sat casually on the edge of the leather-topped oak desk, which had once belonged to Matthew Unger himself. “I'm sure she'll come in when she can.”

“It's important, you know,” Jane said, beginning to be irritated by his manner, which somehow suggested that his wife was doing Corinth University a favor instead of the reverse. “Really.”

“Really?” He raised one eyebrow slightly.

“Yes, it is. You know, a few years ago we had a Fellow who only showed up once a week to get his mail and use the copy machine. It turned out that most of the time he was in New York. He didn't understand that if he wanted to collect his paycheck he had to be in residence, the way it said in the contract he signed.”

“So what happened?” Henry smiled as if this cautionary tale were a joke.

“Oh, well. Eventually he understood,” Jane said in what she hoped was a meaningful way. “I'm afraid I have to leave now,” she added. “If you have any more questions you can call me here tomorrow afternoon.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Henry Hull's tone was subdued; finally he seemed to have gotten the message. He followed Jane out into the wide, elegant upstairs hall, where the big stained-glass window over the entrance cast a confetti of color on the flourishing indoor plants and the pale Chinese carpet. He glanced out at the view, then into the office opposite his wife's, which looked north and west.

“Oh, look! There's a sofa in here,” he said with an air of happy discovery. “It should be easy to move it into Delia's office. Or,” he added, walking into the room, “why not just switch rooms? The light's not so glaring here too, that would be better for her.” He pointed toward the bay window, where a magnificent copper beech tempered the hot afternoon sun.

“I'm sorry,” Jane said in a not-sorry tone of voice, “but the offices have already been assigned.”

“Yeah, but nobody's moved in yet.”

Jane did not reply. A vision had come to her of Alan lying on the sofa at home in pain, waiting for his prescription, while she was chatting, almost flirting, with a stranger. You may be attractive, she thought, looking at Henry, but I'm not going to give your wife Alan's office, and I'm not going to give her Alan's sofa. “Anyhow,” she said, “the professor who's using this room needs a sofa.” Then, realizing that inevitably Alan's identity would come out, she added rather lamely, “It's my husband, he has a serious back condition and he can really only work lying down.”

“Oh, that's too bad,” Henry said. “Your husband?” He smiled in a way that Jane somehow did not like.

“Yes. Alan Mackenzie. He's an architectural historian.”

“Ah?” Henry spoke as if this were news to him. Clearly, he had not read any of the material Jane had sent.

“Yes.” Jane had an impulse to elaborate on this information, mentioning Alan's fame as a teacher, the books he had published, the awards he had won; but something told her that none of this would impress Henry Hull much. Instead she looked at her watch meaningfully. “I really must close up the building now,” she said, and headed for the stairs.

“Okay, sorry.”

They descended the stairs in silence.

“Hey, look,” Henry said, stopping and glancing into the downstairs rooms as they passed. “This place is full of sofas.” In fact, there were four sofas in the principal rooms, including a picturesque but horsehair-hard little Victorian one with mahogany arms and back carved with lumpy wooden fruit. “I bet somebody could arrange for Delia to have one of them.”

He's going to go over my head if I don't stop him, Jane thought, and a feeling near to rage came over her. “I'll see what I can do,” she said, giving the horsehair sofa a quick meaningful look, and Henry a cool smile.

“Thanks so much.” His smile, in contrast, was warm and friendly.

Jane collected her handbag from the office and led him outside. She rounded the building to the parking lot, with Henry Hull following her, and stood by her car. “So, I'll see you again, probably,” she said, uneasily aware that this was something she wanted.

“I'm sure you will.” He smiled again; then, without warning, put his hand on her bare shoulder, causing a tremor to run down her arm. “You're very pretty, you know that?” he said.

Jane, who in a sense knew this, but had not actually considered the matter for some time, since it was no longer relevant to her life, did not answer. Don't you try to sweet-talk me, she thought; and without speaking, she got into the car, slammed the door, and started up the engine.

FOUR

On Labor Day, in the big bedroom that he now only occasionally shared with his wife, Alan Mackenzie stood at the window looking down over his back lawn, which sloped gently toward the woods and the silvery lake beyond. Usually empty, today the scene would soon be crowded. Students from the University Catering Service, whose truck was parked in Alan's driveway, had just set up two long folding tables and were covering them with white cloths. Next they carried in a large cut-glass punch bowl, plastic plates and glasses, buckets of ice, and bins of soda and juice bottles. Then came plates of cheese and vegetables covered in plastic wrap, and containers of crackers and dips. One of the students, as she crossed the bristly grass that had just been cut that morning, stumbled in her high heels and fell, dropping a bowl of potato chips. Alan winced; every accident now reminded him of his own accident, his own disability and constant pain. Was the girl hurt, would she too soon become a wretched invalid? Apparently not. She rose, stooped gracefully to pick up the bowl, and hurried on, leaving a spray of yellow chips like broken flowers on the grass.

“How're you doing?” Jane said, coming into the room behind him. She was wearing faded jeans and a T-shirt, and looked a little worn.

“Not too great,” Alan replied, half turning around. “I've got that pain in my shoulder again.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry.”

“I don't think those goddamn exercises have helped at all; in fact I think they've made it worse.” He rotated his arm, wincing.

“Maybe you should stop doing them, then.”

“I've got to do something. I can't go on like this, I can hardly type anymore. I probably never should have gone to that new physical therapist. She seemed so eager to help, but I didn't trust her from the start. I'm not sure she even understood my X-rays.”

“It could be.”

“I told her there was a bone spur, but I don't think she really listened. I should have waited until the other woman got back from vacation, the one I saw before. Or at least until I talked to the doctor again.”

Jane, who was standing in the walk-in closet changing her clothes, did not reply. Probably she too hadn't really been listening, he thought. More and more often, she didn't listen to him, or didn't listen carefully. In a way he didn't blame her: what he had to say was usually unpleasant and often monotonous. But in a way he did blame her. Impatient, troubled, he moved toward her.

“What I want to know is, am I ever going to get better,” he demanded loudly and suddenly. “What do you think?”

“I—I don't know,” Jane stuttered, clearly frightened by his tone, clutching a white silk slip against her naked body.

“Yes, but what do you think, honestly?” he insisted, moving nearer.

“I don't know, how could I know?” she said. “I mean, most people do; that's—that's what everyone says.”

“And some people don't get better. I'm sorry,” he added, realizing that Jane had burst into tears. “I didn't mean to scare you.” He put his arm around her, touching her smooth bare back for the first time in weeks. “Of course you can't know. Come on. Stop crying. Get dressed and go on down to your party.”

“It's not just my party, it's yours too,” Jane said, her sobs beginning to subside.

“Whatever.” Alan gave a sigh and moved toward the window. “I still don't see why you had to have it here, though,” he said presently, looking down again at the lawn, over which the caterers were now distributing white plastic chairs.

“But we talked about it already, we agreed,” Jane said, now in almost a normal tone of voice. “We're having it here so you don't have to spend any more time socializing than is comfortable for you. You can come in and lie down whenever you feel tired.”