who will take on Dancey and make sure that Medieval and Renaissance Studies isn’t bled dry.” Erin counts some money onto the table and slips on her jacket. “It would have been in Giles’s own interest to take the chair. See what I mean when I say he doesn’t care?”
Maybe it’s because I had too much coffee too late in the day—one before the faculty meeting, two in the Astrolabe—or maybe it’s because the events of the day are whirling around in my head and gnawing at the lining of my stomach like tiny lampreys, but it’s almost two in the morning, and I am still at my desk, brooding over the pregnant anatomies. Like Christian martyrs who present to the worshipping observer the body parts that they have sacrificed for their faith, these female figures peel away the layers of skin, fat, muscle and tissue from their bellies to present a view into their wombs. The point of these images is not the fact that babies grow in women’s bellies; the point is that they show how they grow. The gift that these naked, dissected ladies make to the beholder is the gift of knowledge, both physical and metaphysical.
Gift, in German, means poison. The etymology is not as crazy as it appears: geben means “to give,” and “that which is given or administered” is a gift. Could be a lump of money, as in Mitgift, dowry—or could be a dose of poison. A gift can be an ambiguous thing, a two-edged sword; a donation can have strings attached. Donation, my foot. Hornberger was instrumental in acquiring the necessary funds. What Dancey neglected to mention, of course, was that the new Institute for Cognitive Science has poisoned the atmosphere in the English department. How would I have voted on this issue, assuming there ever was a vote? Not sure. At any rate, I would have examined this gift horse’s mouth extremely carefully.
Hang on—gift, present. That reminds me of the text my mother promised to send me about my father’s birthday present, and that reminds me that on my way home my phone slipped off the passenger seat when I braked and under the seat when I accelerated again. An excellent excuse to go downstairs, grab the flashlight from the key rack in the hall, and take a stroll to my car.
It isn’t as dark as it usually is. There is light and the sound of a car and voices. I tell myself that burglars would not leave the motor running, but it seems very late, on a weeknight, for the Walshes to have guests. Cautiously I peer round the corner of the main house and see Howie behind the wheel and Pop assisting Karen from the door to the car. Karen is wearing an anorak over her nightgown, woolen socks, and boots; Pop is in his pajama jacket and jeans, and I know that this is not good. They are keeping their voices down, presumably on account of the girls, but I can hear Karen’s panic when she tells him to put one towel down on the seat and to hand her the other one.
The car drives off, and when Pop turns to go back into the house, he sees me standing just outside the pool of light cast by the porch light.
“I’m sorry—I wasn’t prying—I forgot something in my car.” I feel I must justify my presence at such a dramatic moment in the lives of people I hardly know. He looks at me, an aging man in jeans that slip down his paunch, his face gray and deeply lined, and he nods his permission for me to pass.
“Sir!” I can’t help but whisper when he is about to disappear into the house. “Is it…the baby?”
I’m wary of his anger at my intrusion, but he looks at me again and nods. Just that. He has done what he can do, and now it’s out of his hands—like the seeds that he plants and tends and that may still be blighted.
I feel very sad and foolish as I retrieve my phone and slowly walk back to the cottage. I haven’t the heart to return to my desk and the images that are covering it. Sometimes my academic pursuits reveal themselves as precisely that: purely academic. Real Life is happening elsewhere, and it frightens me.
Chapter 12
LIKE A CREATURE BEING BORN, New Year pushes itself into time and space head first. Rosh Hashanah means “the head of the year,” and this year