ten-thirty,” Meg said. “Early day tomorrow.” She had no sofa but three yard-sale armchairs. She sat in one of them and gestured toward the phone—a portable. Her layout was the same as Fred’s. The doors to her bedroom and closets were closed and without ornament. The TV sounds, continuing, came from the bedroom.
“This happened so fast,” Fred explained. “Molly won’t have a clue how to find me.”
Molly was brisk once Fred had gotten past her eager daughter Terry, who wished to describe each one of the shells she had found. Fred had dropped the code word “perfect”—a word not otherwise called for in his daily parlance—which Molly recognized as the signal that this particular phone call couldn’t do much more than to assure her that Fred was alive and well. More information would follow when it could do so in a less public way.
Fred replaced the phone and said, “I have to say, Meg, I’m going to be flying blind tomorrow and that’s about the total of what I know. Beyond the names of the classes and the names of the students in them, I am in the dark.” While he spoke Meg was gesturing him toward another, and the worst, of the three armchairs. Her feet, still bare—her legs being crossed—exhibited a tension well suppressed in the rest of her demeanor.
Meg started slowly, “I can’t say I pay attention to what he’s doing, and the kids—the students—don’t talk about Flower’s classes. If they have to write something they grumble. Beyond that, I don’t hear.”
“This lineup of artists he assigns in, what is it, a second-year course?
Lives and Loves of the Artists.
Does the rest of the faculty have anything to say about who he puts in front of his students? I mean, Burchfield? When you can have Matisse? Or, I don’t know, Copley?”
Meg looked at her watch. “People are going to ask, so I might as well. You said that you came as a favor for a friend of a friend of a friend. Never mind they’re acting pretty fast for a guy who’s been missing such a short time, unless they know something. Never mind. What I want to know is, who is this friend of a friend of a friend? Who is the friend of a friend? Who is the friend? And how come, if you have Morgan Flower’s keys from Elizabeth Harmony, you had to look her name up on a piece of paper?”
She crossed her legs the other way and her knobbed feet twisted.
Fred said, “For example, if I found I was going to do the job for real, and I was designing a course about painters, I’d ask you and the other members of the faculty which painters you want your students looking at. Who do you care about? Burchfield? Who’s going to learn anything useful from Burchfield?”
“Another time,” Meg said. “You want to play employment interview? Theoretical? It’s my turf. I start with the question—say I come in late, I never bothered reading your résumé or application letter, all that—I’m an artist anyway so I don’t read—I ask, ‘So, Fred, where have you been teaching until now? What courses? While we’re at it, what’s your last name?”
“Fair question. Taylor,” Fred said, and let his mouth close in a deliberate way.
“The other questions?”
Fred rested mute. Meg twitched, and scratched the side of her face, and studied him. “If I get my friend to Google ‘Fred Taylor,’ there’ll be eighteen or nineteen million possible matches,” she said.
“Thought I might see some examples of your work,” Fred remarked. “Since you live here.”
“I don’t shit in the nest,” she said. “Or to say it cleaner, I don’t bring work home. At home, if I want to think, I want to think about something else.”
“Does Stillton Academy have a catalogue I could look at, get my bearings a little bit?”
Meg stood. “We’re done. I don’t bring my work home. Period. Looks like that includes you. It’s been real.”
“I guess I’ll see the rest of the faculty here and there,” Fred said.
“Faculty meeting
“This happened so fast,” Fred explained. “Molly won’t have a clue how to find me.”
Molly was brisk once Fred had gotten past her eager daughter Terry, who wished to describe each one of the shells she had found. Fred had dropped the code word “perfect”—a word not otherwise called for in his daily parlance—which Molly recognized as the signal that this particular phone call couldn’t do much more than to assure her that Fred was alive and well. More information would follow when it could do so in a less public way.
Fred replaced the phone and said, “I have to say, Meg, I’m going to be flying blind tomorrow and that’s about the total of what I know. Beyond the names of the classes and the names of the students in them, I am in the dark.” While he spoke Meg was gesturing him toward another, and the worst, of the three armchairs. Her feet, still bare—her legs being crossed—exhibited a tension well suppressed in the rest of her demeanor.
Meg started slowly, “I can’t say I pay attention to what he’s doing, and the kids—the students—don’t talk about Flower’s classes. If they have to write something they grumble. Beyond that, I don’t hear.”
“This lineup of artists he assigns in, what is it, a second-year course?
Lives and Loves of the Artists.
Does the rest of the faculty have anything to say about who he puts in front of his students? I mean, Burchfield? When you can have Matisse? Or, I don’t know, Copley?”
Meg looked at her watch. “People are going to ask, so I might as well. You said that you came as a favor for a friend of a friend of a friend. Never mind they’re acting pretty fast for a guy who’s been missing such a short time, unless they know something. Never mind. What I want to know is, who is this friend of a friend of a friend? Who is the friend of a friend? Who is the friend? And how come, if you have Morgan Flower’s keys from Elizabeth Harmony, you had to look her name up on a piece of paper?”
She crossed her legs the other way and her knobbed feet twisted.
Fred said, “For example, if I found I was going to do the job for real, and I was designing a course about painters, I’d ask you and the other members of the faculty which painters you want your students looking at. Who do you care about? Burchfield? Who’s going to learn anything useful from Burchfield?”
“Another time,” Meg said. “You want to play employment interview? Theoretical? It’s my turf. I start with the question—say I come in late, I never bothered reading your résumé or application letter, all that—I’m an artist anyway so I don’t read—I ask, ‘So, Fred, where have you been teaching until now? What courses? While we’re at it, what’s your last name?”
“Fair question. Taylor,” Fred said, and let his mouth close in a deliberate way.
“The other questions?”
Fred rested mute. Meg twitched, and scratched the side of her face, and studied him. “If I get my friend to Google ‘Fred Taylor,’ there’ll be eighteen or nineteen million possible matches,” she said.
“Thought I might see some examples of your work,” Fred remarked. “Since you live here.”
“I don’t shit in the nest,” she said. “Or to say it cleaner, I don’t bring work home. At home, if I want to think, I want to think about something else.”
“Does Stillton Academy have a catalogue I could look at, get my bearings a little bit?”
Meg stood. “We’re done. I don’t bring my work home. Period. Looks like that includes you. It’s been real.”
“I guess I’ll see the rest of the faculty here and there,” Fred said.
“Faculty meeting
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