William Gass - Middle C

Now to cross the quad. Not too slow. Not too fast. Easy as whistling. But not whistling. Nice little breeze. It blew Joey to a halt. Joseph surveyed the scene. Professor Skizzen remembered to swing his briefcase slightly next his knee. One of them, they didn’t know which, shoved off. When he first stood at the edge of the green, its diagonal walk was clear and clean; however, now there were three, approaching. Two students were already sitting in the grass. Where was the usual dew? Good morning, Professor. See: he was recognized; he was greeted; he was awarded a wide smile. He belonged. He was accepted. Now he was about to lose everything but recognition. He would become a figure of story if not of song.

Skizzen could still pretend to forget the order he had been given by the High Command. Morning, spoke the person passing. This “morning” was perfunctory and a bit muffled. He could be anybody to be greeted with “morning.” In that spirit he would receive and return the customary acknowledgment. Friendly. But briefly friendly, the length of a flicker. He could still pretend to forget the order he had been given. Joey was all for forgetting. Joseph inclined in that direction. Professor Skizzen, however, insisted on pressing on. Hi, Professor, fine morning isn’t it? What she offered was more like a grin. Her walk was almost a skip. She was gaining on the others and would probably pass them before the quad was crossed. Did that matter? Not a whit. That’s why it was important.

Admin. The dean’s domain. Skizzen pushed his way in. Wait a minute.

Wasn’t Leffingwell the fellow who bought the High Note a while back? Started stocking it with heavy metal? Schafley, too? And living now in that huge house only steps away, having purchased Skizzen’s past, keeping it close, and indisposed in an unattended upper room. Ah, how he would love to get rid of it all, and go to the conference table with a case of amnesia’s euphoria. If you say so sir, I don’t remember. I only remember that my sister showed me how to tie my shoes. Okay, I also remember I asked her twice to show me the inside of her sweater, but she refused to do so, I wasn’t a howling crowd nor did I have some senior’s inquisitive fingers. She is not a generous person, my sister. I remember that much.

The hall to the left, just before the office of the admin is the conference table I shall probably have to sit at. Everyone will sit around. The prisoner will be brought before. A protective smear of glass will cloud the grain. A thin strip of duct tape will no doubt be still holding together a crack sustained quite long ago by Professors Emphasis and Anger. A voice said: Please come in. Joey wasn’t ready yet. Joseph realized that his figure could be seen through the door’s tortured window. Professor Skizzen recognized the voice. A bit stiff, it nevertheless flew through the transom. It was Palfrey’s all right, but not limp or liquid as it usually was. It was in a cast as if protecting something broken.

Well now, is everybody here? Dean Funk?

My God, Skizzen thought. He is calling the roll. Professor Carson?

Skizzen had entered the room with a face as frozen as custard, which meant that at any moment his nose might decide to slide toward his chin. The room was somber because the window blinds were half drawn, and shadowy because light was leaking in above the shade rolls.

Miss Hazlet.

Here. Her voice was bright and slightly metallic, as though it had been made by machine. She would be in bliss right now. She never did order that two-volume life of Berlioz. Or the Liszt Letters either.

Professor Rinse? Palfrey looked over the top of his glasses at Rinse who faced him across the table. Mort drew a tiny smile, swiftly erased it.

Professor Skizzen?

Skizzen congratulated himself on managing an almost imperceptible nod. However Palfrey didn’t look in his direction, a bad sign. Skizzen now saw that in front of all the others, who had arrived here before him (another bad sign), stood a Styrofoam cup, a small pad, and a pencil. Skizzen had not been offered either cup or pad or shorty-sized pencil (a bad sign). These utensils all stayed untouched in their place. A bad sign. He entwined his fingers.

And not least, Professor Smullion.

Why “and not least” for him? Had Smullion published another Biology for Babies book?

[……] I thereby declare this meeting of the Whittlebauer Ethics Committee to be in session. Palfrey had a manila folder that he now opened. Miss Hazlet, would you do the committee the favor of keeping its notes?

I shall be happy to, Miss Hazlet responded, but she gave her paper tablet a skeptical look.

Well you can record that our members are all present and prompt. Miss Hazlet wore a blouse covered with small green (leaping, were they?) leaflike abstractions. Her fingers scrambled for the pencil and the pad.

President Palfrey let his eyes rove, assuming the domination of the room. When this committee meets, he said, it is always a most serious occasion, since, here at Whittlebauer, ethical problems rarely arise. We have our by-laws for most issues firmly in place so that normally we have but to consult them. [……] We have, however, in my tenure here, and as well as my memory serves, never had a case like this one, and that is something we can be grateful for and proud of. When we hire new faculty our procedures are thorough and severe. Each of you, at some point in the past, has undergone them.

What about … Professor Skizzen thought, while watching Palfrey like a mouse a hawk. He once more observed that Miss Hazlet had a blouse bearing leaflike figures (on the run?). This wasn’t tracking Palfrey as a mouse does a hawk. Run, that’s what a mouse would do. Find a slice of light beneath a door and vanish with the light when the light fled.

It seems, however, that, concerning the situation before us, there has been a slipup, an instance in which we, needing help in an area, failed to meet our standards of scrutiny and care. Now this imbroglio is the result.

“Kit” Carson cleared his throat as if he were preparing to speak, but, of course, he wasn’t.

We can take our mistake to heart and learn. That’s what the college is for, isn’t it? Palfrey laughed rather openly, not, as was his custom, with one hand held girlishly in front of his face. We thought we had found what seemed to be a simple, very handy, solution. Instead we let our standards slip. So now we must decide what to do.

Smullion looked perplexed. So he wasn’t in on it. Smullion had a suspiciously fancy CV, himself.

Dean Funk opened a dossier. The color for dossiers was green. Where had that file folder come from? He hadn’t had it a moment ago. The color was an exact match for those things on Hazlet’s blouse. Now there were two folders on the table. Not a good sign. [……] The issue, in brief, is this: we hired to teach our students a man who provided us with an educational history that has proved false. We have it from Ames that no such person ever received any degrees from Iowa State let alone a doctorate. He was never even enrolled.

Good heavens, Skizzen thought, what does this have to do with him? Iowa State? Who was Ames? A secret informer? Or a city of some sort?

We felt we needed to offer geography. Kit Carson had intervened. We felt that without geography our seniors should not be released into the world. Fast trains, the superhighway, the airplane, have ruined geography. My students, Carson said, wouldn’t know where Ames was. For them, distance is minutes in the car or hours on the plane. Where is Belgrade, where is Vienna, where is Ames? They are next to their airport — two, six, seven hours from here.

Ah, now we are getting round to it. Vienna. Sneaky. Skizzen didn’t have a cup. Hazlet had picked hers up, but all of the cups were empty. Empty. What in the world?