admissions director is presently…excuse me, may I put you on hold?”
He switched to another line, told it, “Stillton,” listened and continued, “No, he’s here. At least, there’s another guy. So it’s meeting…I don’t know. Professor Taylor. Search me.” He switched back to the earlier line, failed to get a response and told it, “Shit!” before he hung up. “I probably cut them off,” he said.
“‘Meeker,’ Fred said. “That rings a bell. Something I heard in the café. “I know, ‘The Meeker Method.’ What’s that?”
The question got a grin, but no response. “I go by Fred,” Fred said. “If I let them call me Professor, I have to get new shoes and everything. Can I see one of the brochures?”
Not-Tom fiddled with the
Reception
sign on his desk. It was one of the triangular bars which, after he had played with it, exposed a second side:
Admissions.
“You’ll have to wait,” not-Tom said. “Let me put this in the pending file or I’ll forget.” The slip of paper on which he had recorded the name and address of the prospective student went into a folder, along with several others.
“No brochure?” Fred prompted.
“She’s having a new one printed.”
“I’ll settle for an old one.”
Not-Tom shook his head. “Recycled,” he said. “It had the name of the old director. President Harmony didn’t want…”
“
President
Harmony?”
“She says, if this is supposed to be a college, and if she’s supposed to be…” his face went blank. Elizabeth Harmony’s reappearance had been as quick as it was stealthy. She placed on not-Tom’s desk a sign that read
ELIZABETH HARMONY, PRESIDENT
and instructed him, “Have Milan put this on my door, Tom, would you? As soon as he can. Have the other one taken down. It’s confusing. Also, I’ll have coffee. In the china cup, please. Cream and sugar beside it. On a tray. With a napkin. You are sure you won’t…?” she asked Fred. He shook his head. “Knock before you come in,” she instructed, leading the way into an office that had almost nothing in it but a desk, three chairs, a memo pad, a telephone, a file cabinet. “I hate a cardboard cup,” she continued, closing the door. “It sets such a poor…” Taking note of Fred’s cup, she did not finish her thought aloud, but took a detour. “We’ll give you a coaster,” she promised doubtfully, as if speculating whether she would be obliged to instruct him in its proper use.
“Where were we?” she asked, as they sat down. “I appreciate your joining us at such short notice.” She spoke as if she was used to having her whims made flesh. They sat, she gaining credibility as she took her position behind the desk.
“I haven’t joined you,” Fred pointed out. “Your attorney asked me to gather some information, Mrs. Harmony, in the guise…”
“President,” she demurred. “Speak softly. The walls…”
“And there’s a problem,” Fred continued. “First a question. Everyone seems to assume that Morgan Flower is gone for good. Why?” He took a sip of his coffee and held onto the cup, disregarding the coaster she had placed on the edge of her desk. “The way I work, I like to be direct. Ask questions straight. The way this situation ties me up, me pretending to be…”
A knock on the door was followed by the entrance of the man she called Tom, carrying a tray on which objects in flower-sprigged china clinked furtively, although he was walking as evenly as he could manage.
“On the desk,” President Harmony instructed.
She made the student stand in abeyance while she reviewed the tray’s contents—coffee, two cups, sugar, creamer, cloth napkins, silver spoons. “Very well,” she dismissed him. “Tom is a work-study student,” she explained as he was making for the door. “Our tax money at work,” she finished in a whisper as the door was closing. She got busy serving herself as Fred continued.
“…me pretending to be a member of the faculty.
He switched to another line, told it, “Stillton,” listened and continued, “No, he’s here. At least, there’s another guy. So it’s meeting…I don’t know. Professor Taylor. Search me.” He switched back to the earlier line, failed to get a response and told it, “Shit!” before he hung up. “I probably cut them off,” he said.
“‘Meeker,’ Fred said. “That rings a bell. Something I heard in the café. “I know, ‘The Meeker Method.’ What’s that?”
The question got a grin, but no response. “I go by Fred,” Fred said. “If I let them call me Professor, I have to get new shoes and everything. Can I see one of the brochures?”
Not-Tom fiddled with the
Reception
sign on his desk. It was one of the triangular bars which, after he had played with it, exposed a second side:
Admissions.
“You’ll have to wait,” not-Tom said. “Let me put this in the pending file or I’ll forget.” The slip of paper on which he had recorded the name and address of the prospective student went into a folder, along with several others.
“No brochure?” Fred prompted.
“She’s having a new one printed.”
“I’ll settle for an old one.”
Not-Tom shook his head. “Recycled,” he said. “It had the name of the old director. President Harmony didn’t want…”
“
President
Harmony?”
“She says, if this is supposed to be a college, and if she’s supposed to be…” his face went blank. Elizabeth Harmony’s reappearance had been as quick as it was stealthy. She placed on not-Tom’s desk a sign that read
ELIZABETH HARMONY, PRESIDENT
and instructed him, “Have Milan put this on my door, Tom, would you? As soon as he can. Have the other one taken down. It’s confusing. Also, I’ll have coffee. In the china cup, please. Cream and sugar beside it. On a tray. With a napkin. You are sure you won’t…?” she asked Fred. He shook his head. “Knock before you come in,” she instructed, leading the way into an office that had almost nothing in it but a desk, three chairs, a memo pad, a telephone, a file cabinet. “I hate a cardboard cup,” she continued, closing the door. “It sets such a poor…” Taking note of Fred’s cup, she did not finish her thought aloud, but took a detour. “We’ll give you a coaster,” she promised doubtfully, as if speculating whether she would be obliged to instruct him in its proper use.
“Where were we?” she asked, as they sat down. “I appreciate your joining us at such short notice.” She spoke as if she was used to having her whims made flesh. They sat, she gaining credibility as she took her position behind the desk.
“I haven’t joined you,” Fred pointed out. “Your attorney asked me to gather some information, Mrs. Harmony, in the guise…”
“President,” she demurred. “Speak softly. The walls…”
“And there’s a problem,” Fred continued. “First a question. Everyone seems to assume that Morgan Flower is gone for good. Why?” He took a sip of his coffee and held onto the cup, disregarding the coaster she had placed on the edge of her desk. “The way I work, I like to be direct. Ask questions straight. The way this situation ties me up, me pretending to be…”
A knock on the door was followed by the entrance of the man she called Tom, carrying a tray on which objects in flower-sprigged china clinked furtively, although he was walking as evenly as he could manage.
“On the desk,” President Harmony instructed.
She made the student stand in abeyance while she reviewed the tray’s contents—coffee, two cups, sugar, creamer, cloth napkins, silver spoons. “Very well,” she dismissed him. “Tom is a work-study student,” she explained as he was making for the door. “Our tax money at work,” she finished in a whisper as the door was closing. She got busy serving herself as Fred continued.
“…me pretending to be a member of the faculty.
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