I head toward the bedroom, then stop in Dean’s office. I go in there to dust and straighten up every now and then, but mostly I leave it alone. Today, though, I look at the stuff on his desk—a stack of printed lectures, photos of Chartres Cathedral, a yellow legal pad covered with notes in his scrawled handwriting. There’s a framed picture of me next to the computer, and a photo of us together is on the bookshelf.
His computer is on, and I scroll through the contents of the hard-drive, then his Internet history. I’ve used his computer before, and neither of us has given it a second thought. Anyway, there’s nothing interesting—lectures, papers, PDF files, email, news websites.
I push away from the desk and go to get dressed. Outside, there’s a sense of late-summer melancholy in the air, as there always is when the tourists leave and take their vacation excitement with them. I drive to the university, a sprawling collection of brick buildings dotting an expanse of grass and trees.
The history department is nestled in a classical-style building at one end of campus. I park in the visitor’s lot and take the worn stone steps leading to the offices. I greet a few staff members and professors whom I’ve met before, then go down the hall to Dean’s office.
Several voices emerge from the open door, and I catch snippets of conversation about city-states, Beowulf, some Italian cathedral, and the tapestries of medieval Dominican nuns (really).
“I’ll get that outline to you by the end of the week, Professor West,” a young man says, his voice getting clearer as he moves toward the door.
“Thanks, Sam. And Jessica, send me the list of grad students who have submitted papers for the conference presentations.”
“We’ve gotten a ton of proposals already,” Jessica says. “It’s kind of cool that we’ll be able to pick the cream of the crop. We’ve only sent out two calls for papers so far, and we’ll have more in the spring.”
“King’s students get priority, right?” asks another girl. “For presentations? I want to submit a proposal. It’d be good for my résumé.”
“The most original work gets priority, Maggie,” Dean says. “And most of the proposals are based on theses and dissertations.”
“Well, mine would be too,” Maggie says.
There’s a momentary silence before Jessica says brightly, “I need to get to the library. Thanks for your time, Professor West.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Sam adds.
The door opens farther as the two depart, hefting their backpacks over their shoulders.
“Can’t believe Maggie thinks she can…” Jessica mutters to Sam, her voice becoming inaudible as they pass me and walk down the hall.
I wonder if I should let Dean know I’m here, but then he and the girl Maggie start talking again. Should I leave? The office door is wide open and anyone in the corridor can hear his conversations. Nevertheless, I move a little farther away to try and give them some privacy.
“You need to sharpen your methodology, Maggie, before you submit a proposal,” Dean says, his voice carrying into the hall. “I told you that I’d help you, but you have to narrow your focus first. Have you looked at the bibliography I gave you?”
“Some of it,” the girl replies. “It’s, like, twenty pages long.”
“If you’re interested in Trotula of Salerno, you need to start with medieval women’s history and the history of medicine. After you look at the research, write down some questions you want to tackle and we’ll talk about them.”
She lets out a sigh. “Okay.”
“Okay. Now what about your coursework?”
“Well, because I’m also supposed to take the LSAT next semester, I can’t take Latin because it conflicts with a prep course.”
“What about an independent study?”
There’s more talk about requirements and credits before they leave the office.
“Liv.” Dean looks faintly surprised to see me. The young woman stops just outside the door. She’s a pretty girl with blond hair pulled back by a headband, wearing shorts and a tank top that do justice to her toned figure.
“Maggie, this is my wife Olivia,” Dean says.
“Oh.” The girl blinks at me, then glances back at Dean, as if she’s surprised by the fact that he’s married.
“Liv, this is Maggie Hamilton, one of our grad students,” Dean continues.
Maggie and I shake hands and exchange pleasantries. “What’s your thesis research?” I ask out of politeness rather than genuine interest.
“Well, Professor West suggested something about the perception of women through the writings of Trotula of Salerno.” She shoots him another glance. “Because I’m interested in medieval views of women’s sexuality.”
“Interesting,” I remark.
“Maggie, check with the registrar about those classes and get back to me,” Dean says. “You’ll have to have your thesis proposal approved before next semester, then you can submit a paper for the conference.”
“Okay. Nice meeting you, Mrs. West.” She heads off down the hall.
Dean looks at me. “What’re you doing here?”
“Thought I’d see if you wanted to grab lunch.”
“It’s ten-thirty.”
“Or brunch.”
He frowns, then gestures me into his office and closes the door behind us. “What’s going on?”
I sigh and flop into the chair in front of his desk. I’ve never brought our personal stuff into his workplace. But now I plunge ahead, like a rock rolling downhill.
“I looked at the stuff on your computer this morning,” I admit.