Houses of Stone by KATHY Page A

raised shaking hands to her face. "It's the old buried-alive theme—-a classic feminist nightmare. I know what brings it on. Frustration." Peggy's eyebrows rose and Karen snapped, "Not that kind of frustration. The dreams started after I saw the manuscript. Once I get my hands on it they'll stop."
    "I hope so," Peggy said soberly. "You scared the bejesus out of me. I've never heard anybody, awake or asleep, make noises like that."

Chapter Three
    I am obnoxious to each carping tongue Who says my hands a needle better fits ... If what I do prove well, it won't advance, They'll say it's stol'n, or else it was by chance.
    Anne Bradstreet, 1650
     
    A wet, cool April moved grudgingly toward spring. The academic year was also moving toward its close; the increasing press of work kept Karen too busy to brood about her failure to hear from Simon or the unknown recipient of the letter she had written. She was still dreaming— the same dream, almost every night—but she was learning to live with nightmare. She slept with the window wide open, whatever the weather, and left a night-light burning. No problem.
    Graduation was only a week away, and Bradford pears, cherry and apple trees were scattering the ground with white and pink petals when Karen emerged from the library and saw a too-familiar form bearing down on her. He knew she had seen him; there was no way she could retreat without rudeness, especially since he had broken into a trot and was yelling her name at the top of his lungs.
    He hadn't run far or fast, but he was panting heavily when he joined her. Joe Cropsey bragged about avoiding exercise, as if that were something to be proud of. In his case it wasn't. The folds of fat caressing his jaws and plump hands weren't pink and healthy; Karen always had the feeling that if she poked a finger into one of those bracelets of lard-white flesh, the indentation would remain indefinitely.
    "And how is our Karen getting on these days?" he asked, trying to look down at her from a two-inch superiority in height.
    "Fine, Joe. How is our Marilyn?"
    He knew why she had asked about his wife. She always made a point of mentioning his wife. Not that it had the slightest effect. "A busy little bee as always," he said, smirking. "The kiddies keep her hopping, but we're planning a little party the week after graduation; you'll be receiving your invitation soon."
    He made it sound like a royal summons. Karen moved away from the hand that was absently stroking her arm. "Well, give her my best."
    "Don't run away. I want to talk to you about . . . about—uh—one of your students. Why don't we have a cup of coffee at the faculty club?"
    That was all she needed—a tete-a-tete with Cropsey in full view of their colleagues, most of whom were only too well aware of his unsubtle attentions. She wasn't the first female faculty member he had pursued, and she wouldn't be the last. It was not difficult to understand why he picked on women who were younger and brighter than he.
    "Sorry, I'm late for a lunch date," she said, moving away.
    "It's only eleven-thirty."
    "It's an early lunch."
    Though they had arranged to meet at noon, Peggy was already there when Karen arrived. She had dismissed disgusting Joe Cropsey from her mind; her scowl had another cause, one Peggy interpreted accurately.
    "No word from Simon yet?"
    "No." Karen dropped into a chair. "I'm going to call him. It's been three weeks. He's doing this deliberately. Tantalizing me, making me wait—"
    "Some men might do that. Some women, too," Peggy added fairly. "Not Simon. It takes time to talk universities into spending money."
    Karen couldn't deny that. If it hadn't been for Peggy's offer, she'd be beating the hedges trying to raise money too. She waved away the menu the waitress offered her. "Taco salad," she said. "And coffee."
    "You always have taco salad," Peggy said. "Why don't you try something different?"
    "Taco salad is fine," Karen said abstractedly.
    "Still brooding over the