company, something biochemical, I don’t know exactly, but Harrison Lab, down the road—they donated that to the college, like, fifteen years ago.”
“Oh, no. Don’t tell me I’ve alienated the one frosh who can get me fired!”
“Well, have you?”
“Are they very conservative and very religious? Of course they are, what am I asking?” I close my eyes to recall my chaotic first session with the gen. ed. class. “Christianity as a primitive religion; comedy as a fertility rite; homosexuality, except that wasn’t my fault and we didn’t expand on that; and masturbation in Shakespeare sonnet number one. Nothing much to upset anyone. Right?”
Tessa stares at me like she did when I sat down to make them watch basketball instead of teaching them about early modern literature.
“Wow!” she breathes. “You are so in trouble!”
The weight of having committed two faux pas drops to the bottom of my stomach: one, I misjudged what my freshmen can take in their first session, and two, I told a grad student about it. But I will not be moved.
“Oh, come on—surely not. Remember, this is a coeducational, non-sectarian liberal arts college! You don’t get into trouble for talking about Shakespeare’s sonnets!”
“Hi, Mom.”
I wedge the receiver into the crook between neck and cheek as I lie on my sofa like a slug and stare catatonically up at the ceiling fan. Its swish-swish is the only noise in the room, punctuated by birds chirping. This is what I have been doing for the past half hour or so, ever since I came home, kicked off my high-heeled sandals, and grabbed a soda from the fridge.
“Listen, Anna, I only got a minute. I talked to Mrs. Krevitz at the grocer’s this morning, and guess what? Her nephew is a professor at Ardrossan, too! At the Psychology Department. He moved there last year, so he will be glad of some company, too. Do you have a pen? I’ll give you his number.”
“Whoa, Mom, not so fast. I only got here four weeks ago and already you’re trying to hook me up? And speak slowly, please. I can hardly move a brain cell, let alone a limb.”
“Sorry, darling.” She relents and dutifully asks, “Did you have an exhausting day? Teaching hasn’t started, has it?”
“Yes, this was the first week.” Silently I count to ten to overcome the temptation to unburden myself to my mother.
“Okay, shadchan,” I sigh. “Do your thing.”
“Well, like I said, he’s doing what you’re doing, only in psychology. Mrs. Krevitz says he had a girlfriend here, but they broke up a while ago, and—”
“Mom, if you think I’m going to call a guy who doesn’t know me from Adam—or Eve, for that matter—think again. I’m not that desperate. In fact, I’m not desperate at all.”
“Why, have you met someone?”
“Mom…”
“Anyway, what’s desperate? You’re new, he’s new, but maybe he already knows a few nice places to eat—what’s desperate about that? His name is Bernard Cogan. That’s C-O-G-A-N—”
“Bernie Cogan? Bernie Cogan who lived on Ingram Street? I went to school with Bernie, don’t you remember?”
“You did? Well, so much the better. You’ll have things to talk about!”
“Mom, that was more than fifteen years ago! Bernie used to bully me into giving him my homework to copy.”
He also taunted me about my short hair and my absence of cleavage and once gave me a Chinese burn that bruised my arm so badly I couldn’t wear a t-shirt for two weeks because I didn’t want to have to explain how I got it.
“You didn’t give Mrs. Krevitz my number, I hope.”
“Yes, I did. Now, don’t shout at me—there’s really no harm in it. There’s more harm in only ever seeing your own colleagues and talking about work all the time. Some change will do you good.”
No doubt about that. The idea of sitting in a quiet restaurant in the Real World and making Observatory-unrelated conversation has a definite appeal, but with Bernie the Bully?
“Yeah, maybe. All right, if he calls me, I’ll go, but I won’t call him first. I’m too old-fashioned for that kind of thing, Mom.”
Chapter 9
TO CELEBRATE THE COMPLETION OF MY FIRST WEEK of teaching at Ardrossan, Tim takes me bicycle-shopping. He claims to “know a little” about bikes, and unlikely as it seems, he is well known to the bearded, tattooed guy who runs the store.
“Hey, professor. If you came to get spares for your Colnago, gotta disappoint you, man.”
“No, I’m not here for myself today. Anna, this is Chuck—Chuck, Anna, a new colleague of mine. She’s looking