curvaceous. But she never quite found her feet at college; first-generation student, you know how difficult that can be, especially for girls from underprivileged backgrounds. In short, he exploited her vulnerability. Befriended her, helped her with her coursework, that sort of thing. She was flattered, felt she owed him. And don’t forget, this was in the mid-seventies. The world was a little different then. Mary-Lou was persuaded to file charges with the college authorities—” Elaine flushes a little “—which was entirely the right thing to do, politically speaking! Imagine it, one of the first female students of color at Ardrossan, and what happens? She’s raped by a football star!”
“What became of her?” asks Janice.
“The college kept stalling and stalling. They listened to her and they believed her, oh, yes, sir! And then they did nothing. She dropped out after her third year. Started working as a sales assistant somewhere and got married soon after. Then I went to Rice for my doctorate and lost contact with her.”
“Of course there’s no statute of limitations on rape in this state,” Annie says, spelling out what we are all thinking. “If she came forward now—”
I remember Tim’s report of Natalie’s report of an earlier case of sexual assault, but I dismiss it at once. Pillow-talk can be very unguarded, but is it credible that Hornberger told Natalie that he raped a fellow student three decades ago? I don’t think so.
It had been made very clear to us that our attendance at the opening ceremony at the new institute is required. All assistant professors have shown up, and about a quarter of the tenured faculty. Nick Hornberger, who looks older and a little sallow, is not among the triumvirate—this is not, alas, an institute for Literary Studies. But he is a deserving member of the steering committee, and there is no discernible awkwardness at all in the way the other middle-aged, dark-suited men include him in their self-congratulatory circle.
“You know who that is.”
“Some rich guy.” I don’t feel like encouraging Martha Borlind, who has been supplying me with a running commentary on the speakers.
“That’s Natalie Greco’s father. Stepfather, that is.”
Dagnabbit, but that Martha Borlind is sure worth listening to!
“What, the one standing next to Hornberger? The one that looks like Hornberger’s brother?”
Martha and I stare as the two men shake hands and laugh at the remark made by a third.
Innocent till proven guilty, and we wouldn’t have it any other way, would we? Maybe what we just witnessed was an example of consummate professionalism. Nonetheless, it makes me feel sick to my stomach.
About a dozen speeches later we are invited to a buffet lunch, and by a stroke of misfortune I end up waiting in line with Dancey and Dolph, who can hardly bring himself to look at me. Dancey enthuses about the new directions the Arts and Humanities are taking and has several proposals as to how Dolph and I might sub-section our conference.
I inspect the potato salad for evidence of sausage.
“Dolph, what do you think?” I ask conversationally.
He launches into an enthusiastic response. “I think these are all excellent suggestions. If we could position ourselves at the forefront of research aided by the cognitive sciences—”
I cut him short. “Oh, you’re such a creep. Matthew—Professor Dancey, sir, even if the moon turns to cheese, I will not organize a conference about neuroaesthetics. Let me rephrase that. Even when all the little devils put on mittens and shawls because hell has frozen over, I will not organize a conference about neuroaesthetics, with or without young Adolph here. Have I made myself clear?”
Dancey collects himself to speak, but I interrupt him.
“And yes, sir, I do want tenure at Ardrossan. But I will not organize—see above. And now we can all be very calm in our minds and concentrate on our food.”
After this reckless but gratifying stand against bullies and hypocrites, my Homecoming Saturday continues somewhat adversely. Yvonne and I have just taken position on the Observatory garden wall to watch the Homecoming Parade when I feel that tell-tale tightening in my stomach and a vaguely painful pressure in my lower back. Four days early! Must be all that adrenaline. This is how Ardrossan messes with my body.
“Sorry, Yvonne, I forgot something upstairs. Back in a sec!”
If I don’t take that first ibuprofen quickly, it will be too late and I’ll be doubled up with pain for hours. I enter by the side entrance to Modern Languages and take their elevator up. The last time I