The Englishman

chapter 10

ON MONDAY MORNING I cycle to work expecting to find the Observatory shaken by a sex scandal as by a thunderbolt from a storm cloud. But the thunderbolt, insofar as there is one at all, strikes me. I guess it was naïve of me not to expect that there would be some fallout after Giles Cleveland’s intervention in my office situation. Except that the fallout is more in the nature of a hurl-out, this time not back into my office—I give thanks for small mercies—but onto the floor space between my office door and the foot of the spiral stairs that lead up to the old observatory in the dome.

I call the janitor, Larry, who insists it isn’t his job to clear out occupied offices. I explain that my office should have been cleared out in August, when it was still unoccupied, and that the content of the Dumpster, being mostly books and paper, poses a considerable fire hazard. In case he wonders why the contents of the cart are no longer in the cart, I refer him to Professor Andrew Corvin, room E-430. When I return from my library tour and a piece of carrot cake in the Eatery, the mess has disappeared off the floor, but the overflowing Dumpster is still sitting there. So be it. We have bigger problems now.

Upon reflection, I am not surprised that nobody talks to me about Hornberger. Although universities, like all close-knit communities, are rife with rumor, reliable facts are hard to come by at the best of times, and this threatens to be among the worst of times. If there are any fanciful stories at Ardrossan about professors guilty of, as Tim put it so crudely, boning student totty, they do not reach my ears. Tim does not inform me of what he, no doubt, finds out in the course of the week, and if Yvonne has been filled in by Sam Ruffin, she doesn’t let on. This is not a salacious tidbit like discovering two faculty members in the copy room during a Christmas booze-up. This is the violation of a taboo, and our instinctive reaction is to keep well away from it. A storm cloud has gathered above the Observatory, but we all pretend to each other that we haven’t seen it.





“Right. Research. Anything in the pipeline?” Giles Cleveland asks me, drumming his fingers on the armrest of his chair.

Is this what the Faculty Mentoring Program calls “close and supportive mentoring of teaching and research activities?” I am the new girl in the Early Modern Studies graduate seminar, and we are assembled in a slightly ramshackle but cozy room across the road in the department of Art History. The floor is carpeted and sprinkled with chalk dust, the low chairs are upholstered and a little frayed. So is our host, Professor Harry Beecher, a potbellied figure in green corduroy and a blue tie, who handed round hot tea in college mugs and spilled sugar over the overhead projector. Eleven students have squeezed onto chairs, stools and boxes, and besides Beecher and Cleveland, there are five more professors from various neighboring departments. It was one of these, a guy with Franklin’s “Join, or die” cartoon on his t-shirt and a long ponytail, who asked Cleveland to introduce “your new colleague” to the group.

“Um, well, I have three publications forthcoming, one of them my book. We’re herding in the last contributions to a collection that I’m editing with a friend in England, and—”

“About?”

“Pregnancy.”

Cleveland freezes, and the laughs are on my side.

“I take it you are speaking metaphorically,” he says.

“You bet.” I smile, something I find confusing and difficult where Giles Cleveland is concerned. “Pregnancy as a stage image, or a narrative trope, or narrative structure, even. It’s a slightly off-the-wall theme, I admit, and we have some rather eccentric contributions, but—”

“The patriarchally circumscribed, ideologically enclosed female body-slash-narrative…” His face gives nothing away, but I know perfectly well that he is mocking me.

“Sometimes it works out like that, yes. But not as predictably as you might think. My main project at the moment is on illustrations in anatomy books, Vesalius and after, and how they adapt religious iconography, for instance that of the pregnant Mother of God, Maria gravida. I’m presenting that as 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.

After class, I try to get away as quickly as possible, but no such luck.

“Um, Anna, might I have a word?” Cleveland seems reluctant to talk to me, but he beckons me toward the first-floor hallway and I trail him like I trailed Elizabeth Mayfield five weeks ago. Then the place was flooded with sunlight; now the air is burning where the panes of stained glass add a red glow to the sunset. Cleveland pulls his office door hard into its frame, stretches past me, and switches on the light.

“Now, what’s going on?” He doesn’t even ask me to sit down.

“Pardon me?”

“Look, I know that jet-lag makes me stupid sometimes, but—”

“Oh, well done!” I burst out, remembering. “I read about it in the online Guardian. I assumed you didn’t want me to say anything in front of the others because you didn’t say anything in the faculty meeting, but—may I—now? First prize! Well done, sir!”

He is staring down at me as if he had forgotten who I am or why I am here.

“Don’t call me that.”

The ground is gaping wide in front of my feet. I take my heart into my hands and jump.

“Giles, then. You must be so proud of yourself!”

“Thank you. You’re very…kind.”

I can’t tell whether this is an Englishman’s habitual belittling of his achievement, or whether he finds me over-familiar and over-enthusiastic. Both, probably, and either way, I know I must back off.

“No, I’m not. Anyway, what was it you wanted to—”

“That’s right, you were hoping I’d be trounced!”

“You knew I didn’t mean that,” I mutter gruffly, and I can tell that the blood is shooting into my cheeks. “What was it you—”

He strides over to the sideboard and dumps his books and laptop on it; I hadn’t even noticed that he was still holding them in his hands. “I’m sorry to keep you from your…There is something wrong, isn’t there? In the department? It’s as if everyone is smelling a stench bomb and nobody wants to admit it.”

“What makes you say that?” I ask cautiously, and my punishment is a darkling look across the room.

“Are you telling me I’m imagining things?” he asks bluntly.

“N-No, but I don’t—You should ask someone higher up.”

“I will. Now tell me what you know.”

“All I know is that…well, what I heard is that one of our students accused one of our colleagues of sexual violence toward her. Rape, in a word. A professor from the English department allegedly raped a female student.”

“Good Lord,” he breathes. “Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Now look here—”

“No, honestly, I don’t know!” I give him a short, unvarnished report of the events so far, and he listens without interrupting me.

“So who else knows?” he asks at last.

“No idea. I haven’t spoken to anyone about it.”

“But the students know something.”

“Selena O’Neal must have tattled. Of course—her mother is the fountain from which this muddy water has sprung.”

“Perhaps. But when I went to the Eatery this afternoon, I saw Selena sobbing into her coffee and Tessa trying to calm her down. At the time all I thought was, I hope it’s just a boy, and not that someone has died.”

“Callous!”

“You think?” He strolls to the sofa and rests one buttock on the armrest. I begin to feel silly, standing where he left me, but at the same time I don’t want to sit down. Standing is more formal. Formal is good.

“Sometimes the two feel the same,” I point out, ruining my effect.

“Especially when you’re twenty-three and a virgin.”

“You don’t know that Selena is a virgin! Or—do you?”

“Of course I don’t know it! Perhaps that little crucifix around her neck and the chastity ring on her left hand are just a smoke-screen, and those buttoned-up blouses, and teaching Sunday school to the kids.”

“I taught religious education at my synagogue!”

“And were you a virgin at twenty-three?”

“No, of course I wasn’t,” I snap at him, mortified.

He laughs. “At any rate, Selena is a good girl, and one of these days someone will pay for that. She herself, probably.”

“But Selena can’t be the girl…in question. Tim tried out that idea, and it makes no sense. Her mother was far too collected, and the family would never have gone visiting friends, if—”

“No, no, that’s not my drift.” Cleveland is gazing at me, and I’m not sure it’s because he is waiting for me to catch up, or because he is using me as a screensaver while he is thinking.

“Natalie Greco didn’t teach her class today,” he finally says. Just that, no more. And because it’s late and I’m tired, I forget to shut-the-f*ck-up.

“You think Natalie’s fling with Nick Hornberger has turned sour? And Natalie confided in Selena that she has accused her professorial lover of raping her, flunks off class, and Selena’s world is in shreds because to feel secure, she must have the lion lie peacefully and chastely with the lamb. Selena in tears, hushed whisperings among the grad students. Have I caught your drift?”

“Yes.”

“Damn.”

“Yes. Only you don’t know the half of it.”

“Will you tell me?”

“No.”

“Oh, unfair!”

Now he looks directly at me again, with a quick smile, as if he were surprised at something. As if he was surprised at me. But then he shifts on his perch and clears his throat.

“There’s something else I need to mention. It appears there is a spot of bother about your Gen Ed class.”

My stomach muscles, already tight in an attempt to resist his smile, clench with dread.

“Oh, no…Madeline Harrison?” Now I do walk over to one of the low chairs and flop down on it. “Of the Harrison family?”

“She went to see Hornberger. I’m to bring you in.”

“Bring me in? To be hanged at dawn, I expect.”

Cleveland says nothing, just gazes at me, his head cocked to one side.

“You really are…” He gazes, then shakes his head.

“A pain in the neck?” I offer bravely, not feeling very brave at all. “I’m sorry. It seems I misjudged them, and I also lost control a little, at one point. Am I in a lot of trouble? They’re not going to fire me, are they?”

“No, they’re not going to fire you.”

“What, then? A lecture, a dressing-down, a note in my file, presumably?”

“Something like that.”

As the shock waves ebb through my nervous system, I realize just how tired I am. It’s not the tiredness of the second week of term; it’s the deep exhaustion of an uphill struggle. When this feeling took over, four years ago, I fell into a lethargy that led me into some very irresponsible sex and the worst emotional and professional crisis I’ve ever been through. So with the exhaustion comes the fear.

“Did Hornberger say when? You needn’t come with me, you know. To be honest, I’d rather you didn’t.”

“So you can become dewy-eyed and distressed to soften Nick’s heart? Yes, that would probably work. He’s a complete pushover for beautiful young women. As we have current proof.”

So dry, so unexpected, so mean, this punch. And I’m reeling.

Whenever I have dealings with Giles Cleveland, I feel dejected afterward. Lonely. I don’t know what it is about him, unless of course it is the mean, hurtful things he says to me. He could be a friend, I am sure he could, but he doesn’t want to be. I, on the other hand, am summoned to appear before my department chair after just one week of student contact. I could do with a friend.

Interesting that Cleveland seemed convinced that Nick Hornberger is the rapist. You don’t know the half of it. The truth is, I don’t know a tenth of it. These people are all strangers to me. On Wednesday afternoon I see Hornberger walk down the Observatory steps accompanied by Ma Mayfield and an official-looking man. I give Elizabeth a diffident nod, but she either ignores me or doesn’t notice me; when I peek back at them, they are walking toward Rossan House, where the Provost’s office and central administration are located. It’s the first time I have seen Hornberger in a suit and tie, and he may well be wearing them in his capacity as department chair, requested by the Sexual Misconduct Hearing Panel to speak for (or against) a colleague. His rattled expression is easily interpreted as dismay that his term of office will not be as uneventful as he had hoped.

That, or I have witnessed the Dean of Studies and a plain-clothes policeman escorting a professor accused of raping his graduate assistant.

This whole thing is utterly bizarre.

On Thursday morning I dash into the library for some last-minute photocopying for my Parody class. I’m late because I tried a short-cut from the farm to the campus that took ten minutes longer, and because I keep forgetting that this library is a still unfamiliar labyrinth. When I locate the book from which I want to copy an essay, it’s two inches beyond the reach of my fingertips and there is neither a ladder nor an obliging basketball player in sight.

“Which one d’you want?”

As he stands there against the sunlight streaming in through the huge leaded windows, I finally grasp the echo of a resemblance that struck me when he sat down next to me at the faculty meeting: Dolph looks like Rocky Horror. I wonder whether it is because he’s blond and brawny or also because he is the creature of some scheming mastermind.

“Uh, thanks, Dolph, I can manage.”

He comes a couple of steps closer and peers at the books above my head.

“C’mon, allow a gentleman from the Old South to help a Yankee lady.”

Another step, and he is so close I can smell the fragrance of his aftershave. Too close.

“Don’t be a jerk,” I say pleasantly.

This takes him aback, but not enough to actually step back. As if to support himself, he leans one hand on the shelf next to my shoulder and reaches up; he has, in effect, trapped me. Three or four seconds, then he steps back, a couple of volumes in his hand.

“Was it one of these? Swift’s Essays?”

I don’t believe this guy.

“Don’t think I won’t make a fuss while I’m on probation, Adolph! And don’t kid yourself that just because we have a rape allegation pending, I won’t complain about a colleague crowding me in the library!”

I snatch the book from his hands and make for the downstairs Xerox machines. Dolph comes running after me.

“What do you know about that?”

“Nothing. I’m just a rookie. I know nothing.”

In the afternoon—I am up on the least wobbly of my chairs, wiping the top shelves and hoisting folders with teaching notes onto it—the phone rings. My first thought is that this is the Voice of Doom demanding to know why I consider masturbation to be a suitable topic for a freshman class. The plummeting of guilt into the pit of my stomach is followed by an even guiltier splash of callousness: faced with a rape allegation, Professor Hornberger would hardly be in a position to berate me for my morally turpid syllabus.

“Hi, uh—am I speaking to Professor Lieberman? Anna Lieberman?”

Oy, gevalt!

I know at once who it is, because none of my students or colleagues has so sonorous a baritone with a Queens accent.

“Bernie!”

“D’you remember me? Mrs. Schwartz’s class? Zelda Krevitz’s nephew?”

“Of course, Bernie, hi!”

“I hope it’s okay I’m calling you at your office. I lost your number—the number your mother gave my aunt?”

A very sonorous baritone that raises the hope that pudgy Bernie has grown up into a broad-shouldered six-footer.

“Yeah, sure, I’m sorry, this is the first time someone’s rung me on my office phone. Weird. Thanks, anyway. For calling, I mean.”

“Well, I figured you probably wouldn’t call me—strange man, strange city. I know I wouldn’t, if I was a woman.”

“Yeah, well, I have been extremely busy. A lot of work, being new at a place—well, you know that, of course.” I hear him laugh. “What’s the joke?”

“God, it’s nice to hear you talk! You sound like home, you know that?”

The muscles in my stomach relax.

“Yeah, so do you…”

He does sound like home, and I am dismayed at how wistful that makes me. He suggests dinner in a Mexican restaurant he knows in Shaftsboro, and I accept with pleasure. Maybe an old adversary could become a new friend.