Alison Lurie - The War Between the Tates - A Novel

“We’re not interested in saving his ugly face,” interrupts Sara’s confederate, a skinny small girl with long mouse-colored braids.

“But you’ve got to consider what effect all this has on him. Dibble’s not a well man,” Brian improvises. “He has heart trouble.”

“Dibble couldn’t have heart trouble,” Sara retorts. “He has no heart. You should have heard some of the things he said to us in there.”

“He called us stupid, spoiled little girls,” Pat volunteers indignantly.

“He told Linda she was a denatured female, and he said he was going to see she never held another academic job in her life.”

“Very aggravating.” Brian prevents himself from smiling even slightly. “But the question is, do you want to win this battle, or don’t you? Are you going to let yourself be distracted by propaganda, by name-calling and threats? I think at least you should tell them all in there that I’ve offered to talk to Dibble, and put it to a vote,” he adds, seeing Sara hesitate.

“Well. Okay. Come on, Pat.”

For some minutes Brian waits in the hall, listening to the sounds of argument from behind the door and wondering if Mark or Stanley or the others notice anything suspicious about his appearance. Finally the door opens; Sara beckons to Brian and tells him it has been decided that he can see Dibble alone, but only for ten minutes. Behind her the other protesters crowd out into the hall—a small mob of badly dressed, angry-looking girls. All of them stare at Brian, a few with looks of distrust.

“Where’s Wendy?” Linda asks him, also distrustfully.

“Outside.” Brian pushes forward through the crowd to avoid further questioning, keeping both arms pressed against his body to prevent the rope from unwinding.

“Ten minutes,” Sara warns him.

“He’s not going to listen to you, you know,” Jenny says, touching his arm earnestly. “He’s all freaked out.”

“Could be.”

Brian smiles at her, shrugs, and enters Dibble’s office, shutting the door firmly behind him. Both the room and its occupant look definitely deranged. The drawers of the filing cabinet are pulled open, with papers and files scattered on the desk and floor. There are female boots and coats piled everywhere, and a white, obsessed expression on Dibble’s face as he rises from behind his desk, fixing his eyes on Brian and speaking in a thin, hoarse caricature of his normal voice.

“I know what you’re here for, Tate,” he cries. “I know you’re responsible for this outrage, and let me tell you it doesn’t surprise me, oh no, I’m not at all surprised.” He shakes his head several times. “But it’s no use your coming in here. I’m not going to negotiate with any little rabble-rouser, oh no, oh no.” Again he shakes his head very rapidly, like a wet dog. “I have no interest whatsoever in negotiation. I’ve already made my position, my position quite clear. I expressed myself clearly to Bill Guildenstern, I think. I told him, I said, if you have any slight regard for academic frin—principles of academic freedom, any professional integrity or loyalty—

Brian does not attempt to interrupt, or make the persuasive speech he had thought of as Plan One; he realizes that Jenny was right, and besides there is not enough time. He begins to unbutton Bill’s raincoat, Plan Two.

“—loyalty to your profession, any conscience or any rudimentary conscience, which quite frankly I doubt, and I say the same to you, because you are certainly quite well aware of the legal sanctions which can and should have been imposed at once, several hours ago, at the earliest possible moment, against these disgusting—” Abruptly Dibble ceases speaking. An expression of astonishment, then of panic comes over his face as he observes Brian removing first his jacket, then his sweater. “Wha! Why the hell you doing?” he brays, backing into the corner as Brian approaches.

“I’m going to get you out of here,” Brian replies in a low, controlled voice, leaning toward Dibble. “Don’t shout like that, just keep talking normally.” He throws his jacket on a heap of girls’ coats. “Can you climb down a rope?”

“What?”

“A rope,” Brian repeats patiently, feeling behind him for the loose end. “I said, can you climb down a rope?”

Dibble turns, following Brian’s gaze. “You want me to climb out that window?” he asks in a shrill half-whisper.

“That was the plan I suggested to Bill and Chief Beaver.” Brian hauls a rough, heavy loop of knotted rope around his body. It is hard work, and slow—too slow for the time they have. “I told them I thought you’d be able to manage it.” He drops the rope and tries to push down the whole coil at once.

“You told them? I could, I suppose,” Dibble says, with some vanity—he is known to spend several hours a week in the college gym, jogging and at times lifting weights. “But it’s unnecessary. Quite unnecessary. All that’s needed is to alert the Safety Division, they’re quite well equipped for emergencies, they have mace now, since the trouble last year—It would be a very simple matter—Tear gas too I believe. They should have been called in at once.”

“Bill won’t take responsibility for sending in the cops. He’s waiting until Dean Kane gets back tonight,” Brian explains, struggling impatiently with the rope. Though he sucks in his breath and shoves down with all his strength so that the coarse knots dig into his hands, he cannot budge it. “If you want to stay here with those girls until tonight, you can,” he pants angrily.

“No.” Dibble glances rapidly from window to door. “But in my opinion—”

“Then shut up, please, and take hold of this.” Brian throws the free end of the rope across the desk. “We haven’t that much time.” Backing away, he begins to rotate, unwinding the rope. “You’ve got to pull ...Harder ...That’s right.”

He continues to turn: past the bookshelves, the littered desk, the window, the gaping files, the door; past Dibble, who pulls on the rope while continuing to ex pound his opinions, of which Brian catches isolated phrases each time he comes around:

“... moral cowardice ... utter stupidity ... in my view ...

At last the rope is free. Brian halts, breathless; but the room still turns. He is dizzy, almost nauseous. He puts a hand to his head and staggers toward Dibble’s desk, now covered with coarse serpentine loops.

“... feeble-minded administrators ... unprecedented ...

“Just a sec.” Brian blinks, swallows. “All right. Now we’ll fasten this end to—” He pauses, looking around the spinning room. He had planned tying the rope to one leg of the desk, but Dibble’s modernistic desk has no legs. “—to that pipe there,” he improvises, pointing upward.

Unfortunately the ceiling in these old buildings is very high, while Brian is short. To reach the pipe he has to put a chair on the desk and climb up on it.

“Wait. Now, hand me the rope. No, damn it, the end.”

“... impudently reading my private correspondence ... valuable manuscripts ... Dibble continues, automatically handing up the rope. Brian is not listening; he is still very dizzy, conscious of moving slowly, of time passing rapidly, of the door with its two long rectangular panels of opaque glass and the heavy shadows of the crowd waiting behind it in the hall—If they should open that door—

“... utterly intolerable ... legal action ...

Finally the rope is fixed, the knot secure; Brian tests it with his full weight as he climbs down. Four minutes left. Hastily, he clears the sill, knocking books and coats to the floor.

“Okay.” He shoves up the heavy, dusty sash. Cold air enters the stuffy office, clearing his head. The sun shines brilliantly.