is considered less arduous than teaching undergraduates, and I will have to demonstrate substantial activities in the area of graduate advisement when I’m reviewed. Perhaps he thinks he is doing me a favor. Perhaps he is doing me a favor.
“Sure.” I shrug. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to have time to twiddle my thumbs during my first semester here.”
“No, that wouldn’t do at all. Thumb twiddling is frowned on at all times.”
It isn’t that he doesn’t hear my sarcasm, it’s just that he chooses to deflect it with a deadpan irony that I would relish if he gave me any indication that he wants me to share it.
“May I ask to you send me an email about this? Where and when, and so forth?” This way, if anyone else tries to lumber me with more service or advisement, I can document that Cleveland got to me first.
“No problem.”
He is enjoying my claims to independence, my pretense that we are negotiating, when in fact we both know that I am receiving orders. And then he bolts. I am struggling to muster the courage to tell him about Corvin when he gives me a quick nod and strides off toward the hallway behind the staircase. Doesn’t even say good-bye, let alone thank you, or how are you getting on. Runs off, a gangly athlete, lurching a little because he hasn’t fully realized he isn’t an overgrown, diffident sixteen-year-old anymore.
“Hey, Anna. What’s wrong?”
Tim overtakes me as I sleepwalk toward the elevator, his head cocked to one side, searching my face for clues.
“Nothing. Only that—no, nothing. Listen, do you have a couple of minutes to come up to my office? Could you show me the way around the online blackboards? I’m finally logged in, but the template still defeats me!”
He checks his phone. “I haven’t got long, though. We should get together one evening and have a good natter about the place.”
We reach the elevator, and he falls back a step to let me enter first.
“Thank you.” I smile.
“Manners Maketh Man,” he murmurs, waiting till I’ve stepped out into the fourth-floor hallway, which is crowded with adjuncts and teaching assistants running into and out of their own and each other’s offices.
“Are you…an Old Wykehamist?” I ask, curious about his background.
“W-What?”
“Sorry, just—a wild stab in the dark.”
“But you’re a clueless colonial! You’re not meant to understand these things! Because I quoted—go, go!” Exasperated, he pushes me toward my office. “Nauseating anglophile!”
“You quoted the school motto, yeah. Winchester College. You said you grew up in England and went to a posh boarding school, so—what? Were you really at Winchester? Gosh, we are posh, aren’t we?”
“Shut up and get on with it.”
“Hey!” I protest. “You’re lucky I allow all my gay friends to boss me around, or I’d slap you for that! Stop pushing me!”
“Shshshut up!” he hisses under his breath, his manner switching from petulant diva to alarmed professional.
Equally alarmed about the flash of anger in his baby-blues, I rummage in my bag for the key. There was never any doubt in my mind that Tim is gay, and I was convinced that he let me know as much when we first met. Leaves only one explanation.
“You don’t mean to tell me there’s a closet in this place, do you?”
“Of course there is.” He flicks his finger at the Post-it that is standing in for the nameplate I still don’t have.
“I’m sorry.” I inhale deeply. “I—I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”
“Can’t blame you for not expecting that. We’ll talk about it some other time, if you want. If you must.”
“Don’t be mad at me, Tim.”
“Oh, stop being such a girl!” he snaps, back for a moment in bitch-mode. “Jesus F. Christ!”
“Welcome to Corvin’s other office.”
“Yes, but—this—” He slowly rotates around his own axis, which is about the only movement possible. “You can’t work like this!”
“I know. The guy who came to set up my computer was laughing his head off. And most of this was in the Dumpster when I left the place on Friday evening. Today it’s back in here. Mrs. Forster only says she’ll put me on Hornberger’s list—big joke, as if a department chair had nothing better to do at the beginning of the semester than to sort out piles of junk. I’ve written to Hornberger’s personal email account, too, but—nothing.”
“You must be furious.” Gingerly he touches a couple of bags with the tip of his Kenneth Cole loafers. One of the bags falls open and reveals another bunch of photocopied articles.