LITMIR.BIZ

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determination of a cause of death. He supposed it would be suicide or death by misadventure, which, in the novels he read, meant a polite refusal to decide what had happened (with a rather heavy suggestion that something was amiss).

      Harding leaned forward, removed an antique scrivener’s pen from an empty crystal inkwell on his desk, examined it, put it back. “Did the president tell you anything we should know?”

      We meant the English Department. So far, Stall had only told a lie of omission. He recalled Maureen’s insistence to Corey that leaving things out was only discretion.

      “Only that he’s sorry about Jack’s death and worried about the effect it might have on the morale of the university.” There, that was good. And it was true in a limited way. Jack Leaf’s death would have its effects, but Stall knew, and literature taught, that the living remembered the dead only a short time. Morale would rise again with the first football victory of the fall.

      Then it occurred to Stall that maybe by taking his walk in the air, Jack Leaf had made a statement. He had responded to the men who had left Murphree Hall seconds before Jack Leaf had left this world. If Jack was the man in the photos, then he had known someone would use them against him. Perhaps he had known all of it, foreseen all that Stall and Connor and Harding could not yet see. For there would be, there must be, more.

      Hearing his own words emerge freighted with a weariness that he knew the older man would recognize, Stall said, “I think we’re in good hands with Connor. He’s an advocate. He’ll fight Charley Johns and his lousy committee.”

      “Yes,” said Harding, “I agree with you about that.”

      Happy to change the subject, Stall told Harding about Sophie Green’s offer to teach American Romanticism. Harding considered it for only a few seconds. “I like it. I’ll take your word for her qualifications, and it’s good of her as a newcomer to do this for the department.”

      Stall nodded, gave a deferential smile.

      Harding returned the smile of the village elder, stood up, looked at the old railroad pocket watch he kept chained to his belt. “All right, Tom. Thank you. We have to go now. I’ve called a special meeting.”

      * * *

      The graduate English faculty held their infrequent meetings in a large classroom in Anderson Hall. Today the room was full to bursting. Even some professors emeriti had shown up. Some of them, the oldest and grayest of beards, were men Stall had never seen before.

      Harding called the meeting to order and told the assembled faculty what they already knew: Jack Leaf was dead. “We are not entirely sure what happened. We know little of why it happened, but I’m sure we will know more as time passes. For now, we need to conduct business as usual, in so far as that is possible. Tom Stall, who took care of Professor Leaf, of our friend Jack, at that most terrible time, has agreed to finish out the summer term in Jack’s research methodologies, a course he has taught before, and Professor Green has proposed that she teach American Romanticism as an overload in the fall.”

      “But she’s a medievalist,” called Fred Parsons from the back. Parsons was an aging scholar of American lit and the obvious choice to fall on his sword for Jack Leaf and the department.

      Harding raised both hands to suppress the minor uproar that followed Parsons’s remark. “She’s more than qualified. I’m satisfied that she’ll do a fine job.”

      That seemed to be it until Sophie Green stood up in the front row and looked back at Fred Parsons. Blushing and holding a delicate hand to the base of her throat, she said, “I didn’t mean to step on any toes. I’ll gladly withdraw if that’s the will of the Americanists of the faculty.”

      She could not know how much her comment would displease Harding, who had said the matter was closed. Stall didn’t like it much either, since he had proposed the plan to Harding. Well, perhaps this was the way things were done at Columbia. (And who on God’s earth said Americanists?)

      Harding cleared his throat. “Thank you, Professor Green. I think this is settled.” Then to the group, “I will entertain proposals from any who care to tender them for covering Jack’s other course. We are all very, very sorry this happened. My wife and I have helped Sarah Leaf as much as we can in this very difficult time, and I know that some of you have reached out to her. I hope others will as well.”

      Harding waited while heads bowed or eyes looked off into the middle distance where mortality crouched in all its ugliness. No one spoke. Harding said, “If there is no further business, let’s go back to our preparations for what I hope will be another fine academic year.”

      * * *

      Sophie Green waited for Stall at the end of the third-floor hallway. Stall had figured she’d want to talk, and he did too. When she began to gush an apology, he raised a hand to stop her.

      “It’s all right. No harm done. I promise.”

      “But Professor Harding seemed so stern, so offended. All I did was speak.”

      “You didn’t just speak. You challenged. Harding’s old school. He doesn’t see departmental meetings as conversations. He presides and he pronounces. When he wants discussion, he lets us know.”

      She looked at him for a long moment with her head tilted slightly to the side in a way that was, well, cute. “When you’re chairman, will you pronounce?”

      Stall felt the heat of a blush rising up the stalk of his neck. “Who said I’ll be chairman?”

      “Rumor has it you’re gunning for it.”

      “Gunning?” He chuckled in a way he hoped seemed urbane. “A long time since I’ve held a gun.”

      “I was speaking metaphorically.”

      “Of course. That’s our business.”

      She furrowed her brow. Did she think he really wanted to discuss with her his prospects for the chairmanship? Metaphorically or otherwise?

      “Well, look,” he said, “it’s been a long day. For all of us. Let me assure you again, you’re in no trouble with Harding. I think he likes you, actually. He’s old school, but in his way he’s glad we have you. Even he knows we’ve been slow to bring in . . .”

      “Women?”

      “Yes, sure, what did you think I meant?”

      “What about Negroes? Or do we think down here all they should do is carry books up the stairs and refuse money from Yankees for their work?” She said it in a voice full of charm and with a smile on her face, but still the words cut Stall. He couldn’t tell if she thought he was on her side or somewhere else.

      “We move as fast as we can, I guess.” He gave her a dip of his head (his father would have tipped a hat real or imaginary) and started for the fire door at the end of the hall. “When I’m chairman,” he said over his shoulder, “maybe we’ll move a little faster. Get us some more Yankee girls to teach us yokels how to be . . . Americanists.”

      Opening the door, he heard her sharp little intake of breath.

      SEVEN

      When Stall walked into their good-smelling kitchen, he threw his coat over the back of a chair and noted the absence of martinis. Maureen turned from the sink with a shimmer of perspiration on her forehead and said in her put-my-foot-down voice, “Tonight we visit Sarah Leaf.”

      “Sure, okay,” Stall said, deflated. Couldn’t a man take a load off his feet and make himself a drink (even if his wife would not have one with him) before getting his marching orders for the evening’s proprieties?

      “Okay, then,” Maureen said a little more softly. She walked over and kissed his cheek, depositing there some of the sweat from her upper lip. Stall reached up and wiped it off, then turned away and secretly tasted it. Good. (And for the hundredth time wondered why he couldn’t do things

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