Alison Lurie: Truth and Consequences

“A letter?” Delia put one hand on her forehead, as if a migraine were churning there under the tangled golden tendrils. “I don’t understand. I’m not resigning, it’s just the cold here, the darkness, it’s making me so horribly ill—”

“Susie says you told her you were leaving town tomorrow.”

“Oh, I am, I must. But as soon as I’m better—at least, I hope so—Lily says January can be very beautiful here, with radiant sunny days, and the snow gleaming like sugar frosting.”

“Yes, it can,” Jane admitted. Lily Unger put you up to this just now, she thought. She suggested that if you go on leave, instead of resigning, your paychecks and health insurance will continue. That’s what you were thanking her for.

“And the spring, too. She says that in April the hill below the University is covered with golden flowering sythia trees.”

“Forsythia,” Jane corrected. “It’s a bush.” Delia’s not going forever, she thought. She’ll be back, and Henry will come with her, and I’ll see him again. A surge of joy washed over her.

“Oh yes? I should like to see that, so much.”

“Well. In that case, we’ll need a request for a medical leave of absence. I’ll get Susie to type up a letter for you to sign.”

“Oh, but I can’t do that. I’m not ill, really—it’s just that I can’t work here. It’s the chill, the darkness. The town is so ugly now, and so full of ugly boring people. . . .” Delia gazed at Jane, her eyes wide with appeal.

And I’m one of them, Jane thought. She hardened her heart. “That’s up to you, of course,” she said. “But if you’re not in residence, and there’s no medical leave form on file, the accounting office in Knight Hall will stop processing your paychecks.” This statement was probably a lie: the payroll office would not stop Delia’s checks unless they were told to do so. But when you deal with immoral people, you become immoral. You touch pitch and are defiled, as the Reverend Bobby had said just last Sunday.

“They are so petty?” Delia asked, pouting.

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“Very well.” A long, sad sigh. “Wait, don’t go. I want to speak to you. About Alan.”

“Yes?” Jane stopped with one hand on the new bolt of the door. She’s going to admit what really happened, she’s going to say she’s sorry, she thought, feeling ashamed of her recent spiteful thoughts.

“You must know—you must realize that Alan has great talent—even genius,” Delia insisted, coming closer and putting one soft hand on Jane’s arm. “He’s going to have a great success with his art. But the more original something is, the longer it takes for it to be fully recognized. Some stupid people will never understand. They’ll say cruel things.”

“Yes, so I’ve heard,” Jane said flatly, wondering if Alan had repeated to Delia some of the things she had said about his art. But they weren’t cruel, she told herself, just uncomprehending, and anyhow Alan had promised her not to talk to Delia again.

“So it is important that when I’m gone he has someone he can depend on to support him and encourage him. That’s what you need to do, even if you don’t understand his work.” Delia moved nearer, so close that Jane could see the bruised violet skin around her eyes, and her thick mascaraed lashes.

She thinks I’m one of the stupid people, Jane realized. “Naturally I support Alan,” she said, becoming indignant. “He’s my husband.”

“No, I don’t think you do. That’s why I’ve had to help and comfort him. But I’m leaving tomorrow, and then it will all be over.”

What it, what all? Jane thought, angry and confused. “You mean it’s not over now?” she said. “But Alan promised, weeks ago—”

Delia sighed. “Yes, I know,” she said. “But men are so weak, don’t you agree? It’s hard for them to follow through on their promises. And how could I refuse, when he needed my encouragement and affection so desperately?” She had taken hold of the doorknob; now she pulled it open and began to push Jane out. “So you must forgive him, and stay with him and be kind to him,” she murmured.

“Don’t you tell me what to do!” Jane cried in a furious whisper. But she said it to the closed door; the only response was the sound of the bolt being shoved home. Her heart was pounding, and she was trembling with rage at Delia, and at Alan, who had continued to mess around with Delia—unless she was lying, out of spite. But no: there were the voices behind her door so many afternoons, and his coolness at home. It was Alan who was lying, and had been lying all along, for weeks and months. How could Delia dare to ask her to forgive him? How could she think she could work her phony charm on Jane? How could she not know that Jane would naturally want to do the opposite of what Delia told her to do?

She tried to gather her thoughts, to concentrate on practical matters, but her head was full of confusion. Delia wasn’t resigning, so there was no need to write to the dean, and the letters to the council could wait until next week. The only person she needed to speak to today was Bill.

Back in the office, Susie was still typing and eating crackers, and Selma was addressing cartons, as if only a few minutes had passed since she went upstairs. And in fact, that was so, Jane realized. She took two deep breaths, lifted the phone off its cradle, and called Bill’s number.

As always, he was calm, even amused. “Well, yes, it was interfering of Lily to talk to Delia about a medical leave,” he said. “But you know how Delia is, she gets people to do things for her by looking helpless.”

“Yes, I know,” Jane said, catching her breath. I felt sorry for her, she thought, and so somehow she got me to crawl under her desk and dig through her dirty trash. “What I don’t understand is how she does it.”

“I guess she sort of casts a glamour over them, like the gypsies in the old ballad,” Bill said, laughing. “But you know, it will be a lot simpler for us if Delia doesn’t resign,” he added. “Less talk.”

“Maybe.”

“I know—you’re thinking about the new copier. But I expect we can find the money somewhere. . . . For instance we might rent out Delia’s office to some other department that needs space for the spring term. There’s often extra faculty at the Law School, for instance.”

“We can’t rent Delia’s office; she’s going to be here next term,” Jane protested.

“Oh, I don’t think so.” Bill laughed.

“You think she and Henry won’t come back at all?” Jane said, her heart sinking.

“I doubt it. Why should she, when she’ll be getting her checks anyhow? And then there’s her migraines, that the climate here is so bad for.”

“Oh, hell,” she exclaimed, so sharply that Bill said:

“Jane? What’s the matter?”

“It’s just—” She tried to lower her voice. “I sort of can’t face it.” She took another deep breath. “I mean the rescheduling, and the conference we’ve set up for the spring, so many people coming because they think Delia will be here—”

“Oh, you’ll manage, I’m sure of it,” Bill told her. “You always do. You’re a very good administrator. Well, call me if anything else comes up.”

Still holding on to the cordless phone, Jane walked out into the hall. Her heart was still pounding. Everyone is lying to me, and telling me who I am and what I should do, she thought. Everyone except Henry. She moved down the hall to the entrance, gazing through the double doors into a brilliant landscape of graceful bare maple trees and gas-flame-blue sky and distant gold and lavender hills.

No matter what Delia says, it’s not ugly here in Corinth, she thought, it’s beautiful; and nobody here is boring. I don’t have to do what people tell me or be who they tell me I am. And I deserve to be happy, just as much as Susie does. She lifted the phone and punched in Henry’s number.