Alison Lurie - Truth and Consequences

“It’s important, you know,” Jane said, beginning to be irritated by his manner, which somehow suggested that his wife was doing Corinth University a favor instead of the reverse. “Really.”

“Really?” He raised one eyebrow slightly.

“Yes, it is. You know, a few years ago we had a Fellow who only showed up once a week to get his mail and use the copy machine. It turned out that most of the time he was in New York. He didn’t understand that if he wanted to collect his paycheck he had to be in residence, the way it said in the contract he signed.”

“So what happened?” Henry smiled as if this cautionary tale were a joke.

“Oh, well. Eventually he understood,” Jane said in what she hoped was a meaningful way. “I’m afraid I have to leave now,” she added. “If you have any more questions you can call me here tomorrow afternoon.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Henry Hull’s tone was subdued; finally he seemed to have gotten the message. He followed Jane out into the wide, elegant upstairs hall, where the big stained-glass window over the entrance cast a confetti of color on the flourishing indoor plants and the pale Chinese carpet. He glanced out at the view, then into the office opposite his wife’s, which looked north and west.

“Oh, look! There’s a sofa in here,” he said with an air of happy discovery. “It should be easy to move it into Delia’s office. Or,” he added, walking into the room, “why not just switch rooms? The light’s not so glaring here too, that would be better for her.” He pointed toward the bay window, where a magnificent copper beech tempered the hot afternoon sun.

“I’m sorry,” Jane said in a not-sorry tone of voice, “but the offices have already been assigned.”

“Yeah, but nobody’s moved in yet.”

Jane did not reply. A vision had come to her of Alan lying on the sofa at home in pain, waiting for his prescription, while she was chatting, almost flirting, with a stranger. You may be attractive, she thought, looking at Henry, but I’m not going to give your wife Alan’s office, and I’m not going to give her Alan’s sofa. “Anyhow,” she said, “the professor who’s using this room needs a sofa.” Then, realizing that inevitably Alan’s identity would come out, she added rather lamely, “It’s my husband, he has a serious back condition and he can really only work lying down.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Henry said. “Your husband?” He smiled in a way that Jane somehow did not like.

“Yes. Alan Mackenzie. He’s an architectural historian.”

“Ah?” Henry spoke as if this were news to him. Clearly, he had not read any of the material Jane had sent.

“Yes.” Jane had an impulse to elaborate on this information, mentioning Alan’s fame as a teacher, the books he had published, the awards he had won; but something told her that none of this would impress Henry Hull much. Instead she looked at her watch meaningfully. “I really must close up the building now,” she said, and headed for the stairs.

“Okay, sorry.”

They descended the stairs in silence.

“Hey, look,” Henry said, stopping and glancing into the downstairs rooms as they passed. “This place is full of sofas.” In fact, there were four sofas in the principal rooms, including a picturesque but horsehair-hard little Victorian one with mahogany arms and back carved with lumpy wooden fruit. “I bet somebody could arrange for Delia to have one of them.”

He’s going to go over my head if I don’t stop him, Jane thought, and a feeling near to rage came over her. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said, giving the horsehair sofa a quick meaningful look, and Henry a cool smile.

“Thanks so much.” His smile, in contrast, was warm and friendly.

Jane collected her handbag from the office and led him outside. She rounded the building to the parking lot, with Henry Hull following her, and stood by her car. “So, I’ll see you again, probably,” she said, uneasily aware that this was something she wanted.

“I’m sure you will.” He smiled again; then, without warning, put his hand on her bare shoulder, causing a tremor to run down her arm. “You’re very pretty, you know that?” he said.

Jane, who in a sense knew this, but had not actually considered the matter for some time, since it was no longer relevant to her life, did not answer. Don’t you try to sweet-talk me, she thought; and without speaking, she got into the car, slammed the door, and started up the engine.

FOUR

On Labor Day, in the big bedroom that he now only occasionally shared with his wife, Alan Mackenzie stood at the window looking down over his back lawn, which sloped gently toward the woods and the silvery lake beyond. Usually empty, today the scene would soon be crowded. Students from the University Catering Service, whose truck was parked in Alan’s driveway, had just set up two long folding tables and were covering them with white cloths. Next they carried in a large cut-glass punch bowl, plastic plates and glasses, buckets of ice, and bins of soda and juice bottles. Then came plates of cheese and vegetables covered in plastic wrap, and containers of crackers and dips. One of the students, as she crossed the bristly grass that had just been cut that morning, stumbled in her high heels and fell, dropping a bowl of potato chips. Alan winced; every accident now reminded him of his own accident, his own disability and constant pain. Was the girl hurt, would she too soon become a wretched invalid? Apparently not. She rose, stooped gracefully to pick up the bowl, and hurried on, leaving a spray of yellow chips like broken flowers on the grass.

“How’re you doing?” Jane said, coming into the room behind him. She was wearing faded jeans and a T-shirt, and looked a little worn.

“Not too great,” Alan replied, half turning around. “I’ve got that pain in my shoulder again.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t think those goddamn exercises have helped at all; in fact I think they’ve made it worse.” He rotated his arm, wincing.

“Maybe you should stop doing them, then.”

“I’ve got to do something. I can’t go on like this, I can hardly type anymore. I probably never should have gone to that new physical therapist. She seemed so eager to help, but I didn’t trust her from the start. I’m not sure she even understood my X-rays.”

“It could be.”

“I told her there was a bone spur, but I don’t think she really listened. I should have waited until the other woman got back from vacation, the one I saw before. Or at least until I talked to the doctor again.”

Jane, who was standing in the walk-in closet changing her clothes, did not reply. Probably she too hadn’t really been listening, he thought. More and more often, she didn’t listen to him, or didn’t listen carefully. In a way he didn’t blame her: what he had to say was usually unpleasant and often monotonous. But in a way he did blame her. Impatient, troubled, he moved toward her.

“What I want to know is, am I ever going to get better,” he demanded loudly and suddenly. “What do you think?”

“I—I don’t know,” Jane stuttered, clearly frightened by his tone, clutching a white silk slip against her naked body.

“Yes, but what do you think, honestly?” he insisted, moving nearer.

“I don’t know, how could I know?” she said. “I mean, most people do; that’s—that’s what everyone says.”

“And some people don’t get better. I’m sorry,” he added, realizing that Jane had burst into tears. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” He put his arm around her, touching her smooth bare back for the first time in weeks. “Of course you can’t know. Come on. Stop crying. Get dressed and go on down to your party.”