said to Harriet after they’d gone, “and everyone is going to steer clear of you.”
“You’re right,” she said, managing what passed for a laugh. “But this is the best way to get things done. As soon as people ask if they can help, say yes, and give them something to do.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, if we may come to order.”
Vernon Foner stood at the front of the classroom and looked up from three piles of paper he’d laid neatly side by side on the lightwood desk in front of him. He’d changed for the meeting, having abandoned his casual attire at breakfast in favor of a gray three-piece suit and pastel pink tie, very corporate, very much a leader’s outfit. He tugged on the hem of his vest, checked the knot in his tie, and ran the tips of his long fingers down a list he’d prepared for the meeting. His apparel was considerably more formal than that of the rest of the faculty, who wore casual clothes.
I walked to the front of the room and sank into a seat close to him. I was feeling the effects of a long evening spent on the telephone, assuring my worried friends back home that I was just fine, followed by a long, sleepless night spent trying to push out of my mind the image of Wes Newmark’s dead body.
The door opened and a wail came from the back of the room. “Oooh, Rebecca, I can’t believe he’s gone.” Letitia Tingwell, the department secretary, threw herself into Rebecca McAllister’s arms and sobbed.
Rebecca patted the woman on her back, and several others came to help her into a chair. The graduate assistant, Edgar Poole, grabbed a box of tissues from a table and placed it in front of the weeping woman.
Foner peered over the top of his half-moon glasses. “We really have a great deal to accomplish and not a lot of time.”
Rebecca glared at Foner. Verne, she mouthed in his direction, her gaze flying to the ceiling in disgust.
Foner pursed his lips and sucked on the inside of his cheek. One foot tapped impatiently. He looked over at me. “Can’t be helped, I guess,” he said.
“They’re upset,” I said, leaning closer. “You can understand that.”
“I’m just as sorry as the next one that Wes died. But he did, and we’ve got students to teach and a department to run.”
“Don’t you think you can spare them a few minutes to grieve? After all, it may be the first time they’re seeing each other since they heard the news.”
“I’m not screaming for order, am I? But I will if we don’t get started soon. I’ve got a lot of things to do. Dean Bennett wants me to write a eulogy for Newmark. Of all people to ask, I can’t believe she asked me.”
“Why’s that?”
“Wes and I weren’t great friends—that’s no secret—not that I would’ve wished him dead. But Dr. Bennett should have asked Manny Rosenfeld or Larry Durbin. They knew him a lot longer than I did.”
“Why didn’t you suggest she ask one of them instead of you?”
“You don’t turn down a command performance from a Schoolman. It’s actually an honor that she wants me—a pain in the neck, but an honor. I’ll do it, and I’ll do a great job.” He looked out at the faculty of the English department as they began to find their seats. “He’ll sound like a saint by the time I’m done,” he muttered to himself.
Mrs. Tingwell’s sobs had subsided into hiccups. She dabbed at eyes ringed with mascara and lustily blew her nose. She wasn’t the only emotional person. Two others were red-eyed, and a few sniffles were heard around the room.
“I know that we’re all upset at the loss of our colleague,” Foner said. “And we will have an opportunity to express our grief more formally—President Needler has asked us to plan a memorial service, which I will get to in a moment—but right now we need to discuss several urgent administrative matters. Edgar, hand out the agenda, please.”
Edgar grabbed a pile of papers and walked around the room, placing one in front of each person.
“As
“You’re right,” she said, managing what passed for a laugh. “But this is the best way to get things done. As soon as people ask if they can help, say yes, and give them something to do.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, if we may come to order.”
Vernon Foner stood at the front of the classroom and looked up from three piles of paper he’d laid neatly side by side on the lightwood desk in front of him. He’d changed for the meeting, having abandoned his casual attire at breakfast in favor of a gray three-piece suit and pastel pink tie, very corporate, very much a leader’s outfit. He tugged on the hem of his vest, checked the knot in his tie, and ran the tips of his long fingers down a list he’d prepared for the meeting. His apparel was considerably more formal than that of the rest of the faculty, who wore casual clothes.
I walked to the front of the room and sank into a seat close to him. I was feeling the effects of a long evening spent on the telephone, assuring my worried friends back home that I was just fine, followed by a long, sleepless night spent trying to push out of my mind the image of Wes Newmark’s dead body.
The door opened and a wail came from the back of the room. “Oooh, Rebecca, I can’t believe he’s gone.” Letitia Tingwell, the department secretary, threw herself into Rebecca McAllister’s arms and sobbed.
Rebecca patted the woman on her back, and several others came to help her into a chair. The graduate assistant, Edgar Poole, grabbed a box of tissues from a table and placed it in front of the weeping woman.
Foner peered over the top of his half-moon glasses. “We really have a great deal to accomplish and not a lot of time.”
Rebecca glared at Foner. Verne, she mouthed in his direction, her gaze flying to the ceiling in disgust.
Foner pursed his lips and sucked on the inside of his cheek. One foot tapped impatiently. He looked over at me. “Can’t be helped, I guess,” he said.
“They’re upset,” I said, leaning closer. “You can understand that.”
“I’m just as sorry as the next one that Wes died. But he did, and we’ve got students to teach and a department to run.”
“Don’t you think you can spare them a few minutes to grieve? After all, it may be the first time they’re seeing each other since they heard the news.”
“I’m not screaming for order, am I? But I will if we don’t get started soon. I’ve got a lot of things to do. Dean Bennett wants me to write a eulogy for Newmark. Of all people to ask, I can’t believe she asked me.”
“Why’s that?”
“Wes and I weren’t great friends—that’s no secret—not that I would’ve wished him dead. But Dr. Bennett should have asked Manny Rosenfeld or Larry Durbin. They knew him a lot longer than I did.”
“Why didn’t you suggest she ask one of them instead of you?”
“You don’t turn down a command performance from a Schoolman. It’s actually an honor that she wants me—a pain in the neck, but an honor. I’ll do it, and I’ll do a great job.” He looked out at the faculty of the English department as they began to find their seats. “He’ll sound like a saint by the time I’m done,” he muttered to himself.
Mrs. Tingwell’s sobs had subsided into hiccups. She dabbed at eyes ringed with mascara and lustily blew her nose. She wasn’t the only emotional person. Two others were red-eyed, and a few sniffles were heard around the room.
“I know that we’re all upset at the loss of our colleague,” Foner said. “And we will have an opportunity to express our grief more formally—President Needler has asked us to plan a memorial service, which I will get to in a moment—but right now we need to discuss several urgent administrative matters. Edgar, hand out the agenda, please.”
Edgar grabbed a pile of papers and walked around the room, placing one in front of each person.
“As
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