work-in-progress at Notre Dame in November, and it—”
“Travel grant,” he interrupts me. “Apply, ASAP. Ask Tim how—or Tessa, you could—”
“I can show you the forms, Dr. Lieberman. It’s all online,” Selena O’Neal offers, her cheeks bright red. She looks feverish, flushed, and pale at the same time, and once I see Tessa surreptitiously reach across and rub her shoulder in a way that strikes me as both comforting and concerned.
“I will, thanks. Listen, I don’t know what the local customs are, but—” Just in time I manage to suppress the fatal phrase “at NYU we used to” and turn to Cleveland. “Would first name terms be appropriate?”
“Sure.” He nods. “I’m Giles.”
This time it takes about half a minute for the laughter to die down, and I realize that Cleveland’s buffoonery is his way of providing a channel for the tension that thickens the atmosphere. Grad school is an anxious place.
“Hi, everyone, I’m Anna. Anyway, that’s the article I’m mainly working on at the moment, the anatomies—”
“But that’s out of your field, isn’t it?” Professor Beecher interrupts me. He is turning the pages of a stapled document that, absurdly, seems to contain my CV and list of publications. “Your book is on Anglo-American Jewish writing. In fact, I fail to see how you qualify at all for a position in—”
“Dr. Lieberman’s dissertation is on performances of civic culture in early modern English towns.” Cleveland crosses his legs and shifts in his chair so that his long right leg is like a barrier to the room. “It’ll be out early next year, with CUP. That one—” he nods at the sheets in Beecher’s hand “—she wrote just for fun.”
The students murmur amongst themselves, and I recognize the expressions of astonishment and worry on their faces. It is always worrying to hear what people a few years older than you have already achieved. Grad school is also a neurotic place.
For fun. Assclown.
Beecher appears to have sorted out my CV, but he is still skeptical. While Cleveland is lounging in his chair and, I suspect, watching me squirm like a boy watches a worm that is pecked at by a bird, Beecher continues to peck.
“But there is no link between either of these topics and the history of medicine. Is that going to be your third field of expertise? Because Jonathan Sawday dealt extensively with those images in the mid-nineties.”
“In The Body Emblazoned, yes, I know. I wouldn’t call it ‘field of expertise,’ precisely. It’s an interest that grew out of my preoccupation with religious iconography. There is a…well, I’m going to argue there is an undercurrent of Protestant propaganda, or at least a Protestant impetus in these medical textbooks, particularly in the illustrations, and even more particularly in illustrations of the pregnant female body.” I notice that in my eagerness to demonstrate that I am open to questions, I begin to sound as if I needed to justify my research. So I shut up.
“That sounds really interesting. Are you going to give a talk about that here?” Selena asks nervously.
“I don’t know.” I turn to Cleveland for guidance. “Am I? Would that be—”
“I think it would be extremely advisable to try that out on us before you ram it down the throat of a Catholic audience at Notre Dame.”
“I’m not planning to ram anything down anyone’s throat, thanks very much!”
Cleveland’s lips twitch, and he looks down at his notepad as if he had to remind himself of the next step.
“Right, do you have any questions for Dr. Lieb—for Anna?”
“I do.” The girl sitting next to Cleveland raises her hand. “Didn’t you find it difficult to get a good job over here? With a British MA and Ph.D?”
“Yes, I did. I’m not going to lie to you. But—”
“And staying in England wasn’t an option? Sorry, is it okay if I ask you that?”
“Oh, sure, it’s—”
“Well, didn’t you want to?”
“Well, I—I couldn’t.”
“Not enough prospects?”
“Not enough balls.”
Cleveland lounges in his chair, watching me.
“You go to the UK to play, Jenna,” he says. “And come back to the States to win the game.”
“That is not quite how I would put it,” I say firmly.
“How would you put it?”
We are looking at each other, and I don’t know whether he is doing this on purpose. Cornering me.
“I think I…wouldn’t. Put it. At all—” I falter. “I’m here. Hu-hurrah?”
Some of the students find this hilariously funny.
“Hurrah-and-hurrah.” Cleveland nods, and then he gives me a smile of such sweetness that it takes my breath away.