cultivated by Matthew Dancey. So you may be sure that the burden of teaching comp was going to be lifted from his tender shoulders at the first opportunity.”
“Dancey got Dolph shortlisted for your job,” Tim says, taking over, “although there are unwritten rules against having in-house candidates for tenure-track positions. The third candidate was another woman from up north. Dartmouth, or Cornell, I forget. But we didn’t like her, did we? Brusque, harsh.”
“Jessica-Ann Wright,” I say, because I don’t want to appear like a totally lame dweeb. Tim, Erin and Eugenia beam at me like teachers at the dumb kid who unexpectedly produces a nugget of knowledge.
“I would have preferred her to Doofus, though, if she had been the only alternative. Luckily, as it turned out—” Erin stretches out her arms toward me like a compere to an award winner.
When the four of us enter the Astrolabe—Erin still with her thirty-six-pack of diapers, which adds a bizarre touch to the pseudo-fin-de-siècle décor of the bar—the first thing I see is Nick Hornberger handing drinks to a gaggle of female students. This is his comfort zone. Chairing a college department is a thankless task, but if the whip is passed to you, you must use it. I’m guessing that Nick Hornberger is neither willing nor equipped to rule as master and commander of this navis academicum, to ration bread and water if need be, and perhaps even subject slackers to the cat o’ nine tails. He wants to be popular, and that is a dangerous motivation.
“Ah, Anna! Welcome to our haunt! What’re you having?”
“I’m driving, thanks—soda, please, sir.”
“None of that formal sir! Call me Nick! Or have you spent so long among the English that you’ve adopted their stick-in-the-mud arrogance?”
My field of vision is completely filled by a big chest in a golf shirt as he puts one arm around my shoulders and draws me against himself. A receding hairline is the fate of many a younger man, but the sagging jowls and the tell-tale thickness around the waist and chest must give him a pang when he looks in the mirror.
“Ted? Ted?” he calls over to the barkeeper. “Ted, this is Anna, and she will have—” He scans my face as if the answer lay there. “A white wine spritzer. You can drive after a wine spritzer!”
“Well, sir—Nick—if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather—”
“To celebrate your appointment, Anna!” Hornberger insists as if he were a Sherpa tribesman obliged by custom to force food and drink onto a guest protesting his fullness.
The only person standing near Hornberger who comes up to his earlobe is a stunning brunette in a white pants suit and a figure-hugging top who has been watching our exchange very narrowly.
“Hello, Professor Lieberman! Welcome to Ardrossan!” She beams down at me with all the self-confidence of the spoiled and beautiful. “We’re all so curious to meet you—may we introduce ourselves? We’re all in offices next to yours. Only not so far down the hallway.”
Bite me, Versace Girl.
My advice to a graduate student at a top-tier research university would always be to strive to be remembered for her work, not for her looks, but Irene calls this the German Protestant infiltration of my cultural heritage.
I hope and trust the Almighty is not among the aging males dazzled by visions of female fabulousness, but Nick Hornberger evidently is. There is a subtle but distinct difference in the way Hornberger bear-hugged me and the way he reaches past America’s Next Top Model to take some glasses from Ted the barman. Not sure if I can put my finger on it. Familiarity coupled with a sense of reverence.
“This is Tessa Shephard,” Versace Girl says, inviting a copiously freckled girl with dark red locks into our small circle. “Tessa’s in her third year of grad school, so—”
“So if there’s anything you need, ma’am, don’t hesitate to ask,” says Tessa, not visibly galled by her colleague’s patronizing manner. She gives me a broad smile. “I’m in your class on parody, and Professor Cleveland said you’ll be coming to the Early Modern Studies graduate seminar, so we’ll meet there, too.”
“And this is my friend Selena O’Neal.” Versace Girl steps aside and pushes a third girl toward me. Selena is tall and very well-endowed, too, but two thick mouse-colored braids hang on either side of her pale face down to her waist, her face has a pasty sheen, and she manages to look almost dowdy in a pleated skirt and a white blouse. If