Part 4 (2/2)
”For Lefty or for G.o.dot? It makes a difference.”
”For Lefty G.o.dot. The pitcher.”
”The pitcher in the rye?”
”He prefers bourbon.”
”So do I,” she said. ”You sound like an anti-intellectual to me, Mr. --”
”Archer. Didn't I pa.s.s the test?”
”It depends on who does the grading.”
”I've been thinking maybe I ought to go back to school. You make it seem attractive, and besides I feel so out of things when my intellectual friends are talking about Jack Kerouac and Eugene Burd.i.c.k and other great writers, and I can't read. Seriously, if I were thinking of going back to college, would you recommend this place?”
She gave me another of her appraising looks. ”Not for you, Mr. Archer. I think you'd feel more at home in some larger urban university, like Berkeley or Chicago. I went to Chicago myself. This college presents quite a contrast.”
”In what way?”
”Innumerable ways. The quotient of sophistication here is very low, for one thing. This used to be a denominational college, and the moral atmosphere is still in Victorian stays.” As if to demonstrate that she was not, she s.h.i.+fted her pelvis. ”They tell me when Dylan Thomas visited here--but perhaps we'd better not go into that. _De mortuis nil nisi bonum_.”
”Do you teach Latin?”
”No, I have small Latin and less Greek. I try to teach modern languages. My name is Helen Haggerty, by the way. As I was saying, I wouldn't really recommend Pacific Point to you. The standards are improving every year, but there's still a great deal of dead wood around. You can see some of it from here.”
She cast a sardonic glance toward the entrance, where five or six of her fellow professors were conducting a post-mortem of their conference with the Dean.
”That was Dean Bradshaw you were talking to, wasn't it?”
”Yes. Is he the one you want to see?”
”Among others.”
”Don't be put off by his rather forbidding exterior. He's a fine scholar--the only Harvard doctor on the faculty--and he can advise you better than I ever could. But tell me honestly, are you really serious about going back to college? Aren't you kidding me a little?”
”Maybe a little.”
”You could kid me more effectively over a drink. And I could use a drink, preferably bourbon.”
”It's a handsome offer.” And a sudden one, I thought. ”Give me a rain check, will you? Right now I have to wait for Lefty G.o.dot.”
She looked more disappointed than she had any right to be. We parted on fairly good, mutually suspicious terms.
The fatal door I was watching opened at last. Dolly backed out thanking the two Deans effusively, and practically curtsying. But I saw when she turned around and headed for the entrance that her face was white and set.
I went after her, feeling a little foolish. The situation reminded me of a girl I used to follow home from Junior High. I never did work up enough nerve to ask her for the privilege of carrying her books. But I began to identify Dolly with that unattainable girl whose name I couldn't even remember now.
She hurried along the mall that bisected the campus, and started up the steps of the library building. I caught up with her.
”Mrs. Kincaid?”
She stopped as though I had shot her. I took her arm instinctively. She flung away my hand, and opened her mouth as if to call out for help. No sound came out. The other students around us, pa.s.sing on the wide mall or chatting on the steps, paid no attention to her silent scream.
”I'd like very much to talk to you, Mrs. Kincaid.”
She pushed her hair back, so forcefully that one of her eyes slanted up and gave her a Eurasian look. ”Who are you?”
”A friend of your husband's. You've given Alex a bad three weeks.”
”I suppose I have,” she said, as if she had only just thought of it.
”You must have had a bad three weeks yourself, if you're fond of him at all. Are you?”
”Am I what?” She seemed to be slightly dazed.
”Fond of Alex.”
”I don't know. I haven't had time to think about it. I don't wish to discuss it, with you or anyone. Are you really a friend of Alex's?”
”I think I can claim to be. He doesn't understand what you're doing to him. He's a pretty sad young man.”
”No doubt he caught it from me. Spreading ruin is my specialty.”
”It doesn't have to be. Why don't you call it off, whatever you're doing, and give it another try with Alex? He's waiting for you here in town right now.”
”He can wait till doomsday, I'm not going back to him.”
Her young voice was surprisingly firm, almost harsh. There was something about her eyes I didn't like. They were wide and dry and fixed, eyes which had forgotten how to cry.
”Did Alex hurt you in some way?”
”He wouldn't hurt a fly. You know that, if you're really a friend of his. He's a nice harmless boy, and _I_ don't want to hurt _him_.” She added with conscious drama: ”Tell him to congratulate himself on his narrow escape.”
”Is that the only message you have for your husband?”
”He isn't my husband, not really. Tell him to get an annulment. Tell him I'm not ready to settle down. Tell him I've decided to finish my education.”
She made it sound like a solitary trip to the moon, one-way.
I went back to the Administration Building. The imitation flagstone pavement of the mall was flat and smooth, but I had the feeling that I was walking knee-deep in gopher holes. Dean Sutherland's door was closed and, when I knocked, her ”Come in” was delayed and rather m.u.f.fled.
Dean Bradshaw was still with her, looking more than ever like a college student on whom light frost had fallen during the night.
She was flushed, and her eyes were bright emerald green. ”This is Mr. Archer, Brad, the detective I told you about.”
He gave my hand a fiercely compet.i.tive grip. ”It's a pleasure to meet you, sir. Actually,” he said with an attempt at a smile, ”it's rather a mixed pleasure under the circ.u.mstances. I very much regret the necessity of your coming here to our campus.”
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