Рита Браун - Fox Tracks

Setting aside ego, President Charlotte Norton stepped in. “Luke, the process takes time and starts with a curriculum vitae. Once we’ve sifted through that, we narrow the field down to usually four candidates whom we interview. But even before that, we call for references and of course, one’s friends can be helpful.”

For the sheer joy of tormenting him, Sister sat right next to Crawford at the table. Neither had spoken so far. With the exception of board members Lucas Diamond and Nancy Hightower, none of the others present took Congressman Rickman’s charges against Tariq seriously.

Isadore took his cue from the headmistress.

He breathed deeply and calmed down before speaking. “We called the Egyptian attaché in New York City, an associate of our mayor. He knew Tariq’s parents. The report was good so we pursued more conventional lines: former employers, one private school, and one small museum in London. Again, exemplary reports. Then we checked into those three people he cited as references. Excellent. By the way, one of those references was the Bishop of Winchester.”

Charlotte again stepped in. “You all are aware that Professor Al McMillan is a Coptic Christian? As an undergraduate, he was part of a group at Oxford who worked in the summers at various churches—Anglican, of course.”

Nancy Hightower blurted out, “Then why on earth is he accused of belonging to a terrorist Muslim group?”

Crawford finally said something: “Because Rickman is a jerk who wants publicity. The Muslim Brotherhood is not a terrorist organization. That’s like calling Baptists terrorists. The organization is strict concerning religion, basically they want to turn back the hands of time, but many of its members are well-educated professionals.”

“Doesn’t Rickman know Tariq is a Christian?” Lucas, who should have been a bit more worldly, was surprised at the congressman.

“Even if he knew what a Coptic Christian was, he would go on the attack,” said Crawford. “He’s looking for people who can’t fight back. Anything to keep his name in the media. He’ll keep beating the drums because he thinks its a ticket to higher office.”

“We can fight back,” Charlotte firmly stated. “We are one of the few schools who have a Middle Eastern Studies Department and it is second to none. Furthermore, we have a summer program abroad and this year ten of our students will study in Oman.”

Lucas was not one to give up his position easily. “Wouldn’t it be easier to let Al McMillan go at the end of the school year, with a bonus and a good recommendation, and then hire someone, uh, American?”

All eyes stared at the sandy-haired man.

Finally, Sister quietly replied, “Lucas, we need people from that part of the world. At some later date, I think we should discuss expanding the department and perhaps hiring gifted people living in dangerous countries like Syria, for example.”

“We’re not an asylum,” Lucas shot back.

“No, we are not.” Crawford found Lucas tedious beyond belief. “But many brilliant young people around the world have no future in their homeland, especially women. Mrs. Arnold happens to be right. Custis Hall should lead the way on this issue and we need to study and better understand the Middle East, free of media hysteria or government policy.”

Sister smiled a bit at Crawford. He could see the big picture. It was the big ego that was the problem.

“Lucas and Nancy, I’m sure that Isadore would allow you to see Tariq’s curriculum vitae as well as the recommendations,” said Charlotte. “He was hired before you came to the board. I assure you we were very thorough. We always are because as a private school, we come under a fair share of scrutiny. Many parents are, shall we say, especially vigilant about their children’s education. And well they should be.” Charlotte privately thought all helicopter parents should be shot down, but it was one more thing she and her staff had to deal with.

And they did.

“Of course.” Isadore nodded to the two nervous board members.

“First, let me say that Sister Jane and Crawford have expressed an interesting initiative we should entertain another time,” said the dean of students, George Jacobs. “If you don’t mind, Frances, what do you suggest regarding the media?”

Frances Newcombe was the six o’clock news anchor at a big network station in Richmond and also a Custis Hall graduate. She clearly spelled it out. “Give as many interviews as you can. Contact the stations in Washington, Richmond, Lynchburg, Roanoke, Charlottesville. Try to get the reporter here because a shot of Charlotte—and it should be you, Charlotte—in front of the old administration building or out on the main drive, will generate more interest than a talking head. Hit hard that the accused is a Christian, and that this is still the land where one is innocent until proven guilty as well.”

“I don’t know if stations from D.C. will send reporters but it’s worth a try,” said Charlotte. “Frances, what about radio?”

“Any way you can get the word out, do. Custis Hall should go on the attack.”

Crawford, who certainly liked the way Frances looked, tempered this plan. “That sounds like a great deal of work. Of course, local radio and TV are good. Big cities would be a boon. But if the board and our headmistress will allow me, let me see if I can fix the problem. Give me one week.”

No one moved a muscle.

Finally, Charlotte asked, “Is there anything we can do to help you, or is there anything we need to know?”

Crawford smiled. “If Rickman has not publicly recanted within one week, then I believe Custis Hall should follow Frances’ wonderful suggestions.”

Sister drove to the old brick dorm behind the administration building, the prized dorm in which to spend one’s senior year. She beeped the horn and Tootie soon trotted out, jumping into the truck.

“And?” Sister raised an eyebrow.

“Everyone is great. And there are so many people coming to hunt on Saturday that they need two trailers. Actually, Leslie said they might have to call around for help.”

“That is good news.” Sister smiled: the more, the merrier.

“It’s a great fixture.”

“Tattenhall Station really is, and Kasmir always opens it up for us to have a breakfast.” Sister pulled out of the campus drive, and headed toward Roughneck Farm.

“I love having a breakfast in the old railway station,” said Tootie. “Don’t you wish it was used again?”

“Yes, I do, but I think it will be a cold day in hell before passenger service really comes back. Solve a lot of problems, though.”

“How was the board meeting? I know you can’t really tell.”

“Pretty interesting,” said Sister. “Everything may yet turn out all right for your former professor. We’ll see.”

The truck lights illuminated the curving main drive, the huge cast iron lampposts throwing halos of yellow light against the February darkness.

Coming from the opposite direction, Sister could just make out an old Saab thanks to the lamppost light, which showed the car’s outline. She flicked her lights and slowed down.

Tariq stopped, rolling down his window as Sister rolled down hers.

“Master,” he greeted.

“Hang in there, buddy,” Sister encouraged him.

He smiled, then acknowledged Tootie. “You can’t stay away from Virginia, can you?”

“No,” she replied.

“Education is a passport.” He had heard about her dissatisfaction with Princeton as some of his students, seniors, stayed in contact with Tootie.

“I want to be a veterinarian,” she called over the running motor.

“I see.” Deciding to address that another time, Tariq asked Sister, “I know you can’t discuss the meeting but did you ever see Lifeboat ?”