The Englishman

chapter 24

KISSING GILES WAS THE BIZARRE, DREAMLIKE CULMINATION of a sequence of bizarre, dreamlike events as the second half of the semester claims us. The second graffiti was painted over even more swiftly than the first, and since it didn’t seem to contain a threat, it is regarded more in the nature of an eccentricity than anything else. “Seen any graffiti lately?” becomes the jokey greeting in the Eatery at lunchtime.

Now that I know what Hornberger was looking for in my office, I am more reluctant than ever to get involved. STFU. Giles never told me what he intends to do with the file. Hornberger’s first hearing is over, and the second one has been scheduled for the week before Thanksgiving; the first meeting of Tim’s tenure review committee has been shifted to the week after Thanksgiving. Now all the balls are rolling, and we will see where they land. I am a mere bystander.

In a strange kind of way I am glad that it was Hornberger who broke into my office, because—though turpid—I can understand his motivation; he’s trying to save his neck. Corvin is a crazy old man who uses disgusting fluids to express his antagonism toward a new colleague. That is a lot more disturbing. I have not seen Corvin since the extraordinary faculty meeting after the rape bomb exploded. The image of this vindictive emeritus moray eel sitting in his burrow and waiting to dart out again to bite me when next he feels provoked is one that I push away.

Not that I have much time to brood. Mindful of Selena O’Neal’s academic predicament, I am very conscientious and very candid when it comes to advising undergraduates which major to go for, whether to go for honors in the major, and in a couple of cases whether graduate school might be a good idea. This leads to hours of fruitless and draining argument with young people who have always been extolled for their academic abilities and are now bumping up against real resistance and their own unexplored limits. I am not impatient, though. This is very much the routine work of a college lecturer, and after all the hindrances of recent weeks, it is soothing and strangely validating to simply be doing my job.

The few hours I snatch to finish my anatomy paper for the Notre Dame conference are precious and stimulating. I saw Giles once in the past two weeks, and that was across the library reading room. Once I had a quick coffee with Tim. Yvonne and I supported each other in our first round of Ardrossan essays—she had more plagiarism than usual, too—but that was not exactly fun and games.

I have taken up my early morning walks again, which means I am out with my thermos between six and seven o’clock. At first I thought it must have been a Walsh or a forest warden who scratched the bark on several trees. But one morning, the gold-brown shape ahead of me turns its head, and the early morning sun is reflected in its eyes as by two small torches. A bobcat. This is why I came to live on a Piedmont fruit farm after living in New York City.

I am surprised the cat does not change its itinerary when I start waiting at the same crossroads in the wood each morning. I sit there; it materializes out of the undergrowth, casts me a pissy glance and strikes across the clearing. Once it has a small dark body in its mouth; its legs blur as it hurries past me for fear I’ll rob it of its prey. Once, in the week before Thanksgiving, its approach seems slower and more cumbersome. No wonder: it got hold of one of the Walshes’ chickens. The feathery white neck is dangling out of the cat’s mouth; there is no point in trying to chase after it.

“Oh, man!” I sigh. “Okay, I’m not going to turn you in, but don’t let me catch you doing it again!” That is a sentence I am saying far too often these days.