The Empty Room by Lauren B. Davis Page A

“when Mike visited Alcatraz a few years back he sent Ron a postcard saying, ‘Having a wonderful time. Wish you were here.’ You have to love a man like that.”
    The second Manhattan pirouetted through her veins. She couldn’t believe that glass, too, was nearly empty. She looked around at the groups of chatting academics, bottles of beer or glasses of white wine spritzers in their hands.
    She drained her glass. “God, this party needs some spicing up, don’t you think?”
    “Well, it certainly calls for another drink,” said Max. “Do you want one?”
    “Absolutely. Go on.” She winked at him.
    He went to get the drinks and it occurred to her that what the party needed was some dancing. To hell with all this jazz stuff; the DJ must have something with a little R & B to it. She’d get them going.
    The DJ smiled as she approached. He was too old to be a really hip DJ. He had to be at least forty-five, but then again, she wasn’t exactly a twenty-year-old, was she. Still, she knew her music.
    “Want to hear something?” he asked.
    “Got any Motown, any Stax Records? Something with some life?”
    “Stax, huh? You like that Southern soul?”
    “The Staple Singers maybe?”
    He grinned. “I might have a little Mavis here. Might have a little Albert King.”
    “Some Otis? Al Green?”
    “I’d rather not get fired though, you know.”
    “I’ll take full responsibility,” Colleen said.
    “You’re on, Mama.”
    When the song that was playing finished, on came Mavis Staples’ big voice, her deep, chesty uh of delight. She asked for the listener’s help, so she could take them there … A couple of people looked around, but it was a brilliant choice, just jazzy enough to seem like part of the program. Colleen grinned and swayed to the beat. Yes indeed. People watched her. She didn’t mind. She looked good, didn’t she, in this slinky black dress, her hips swaying, a bit of belly-dancing roll here and there. She glanced around, looking for Max. He’d dance with her, get this thing off the ground.
    She spotted him off by the bar but he didn’t meet her eye. He was talking to the Dean. She kept dancing. Then the song stopped, too soon.
    “Don’t stop!” she called to the DJ.
    He threw his hands up and shrugged.
    “One more.” She folded her hands as if in prayer.
    The DJ glanced around a little nervously and then put on “The Best of My Love,” by The Emotions. Perfect. That was it, a party song. A fun song. She motioned with her hands for some of the grad students to join her. A trio stood nearby. One was a bearded boy wearing a grey pullover. He tapped his foot in time to the song. She danced over and tried to pull him onto the floor. His friends laughed and he did, too, for a minute. And then he looked embarrassed.
    “Thanks, but no. No thanks.”
    He tried to pull away, but she tightened her grip. “Come on, don’t be a party pooper!”
    “No, really! No thanks .” He jerked away from her and walked away, past his laughing friends, leaving her standing there.
    “Party pooper!” she called after him.
    She finished out the song, although she had lost the limber, loose feeling of a few minutes before. She felt awkward and suddenly aware of disapproving eyes. She needed that drink Max had promised her. When the DJ played “Body and Soul,” she glared at him, but threw in the towel and went off to get another Manhattan.
    “Make it a good one,” she told the bartender.
    Half an hour later, she cornered David Moore behind a potted palm near the men’s room and spent quite a bit of time telling him what was wrong with his department, zeroing in on the lack of women in influential positions.
    “Universities are run by patriarchs,” she said. “There’s a lack of intuitive balance.”
    The smile on his face was brittle. He put his hand on her shoulder and said, “I don’t think you want to have this conversation.”
    He was right, she didn’t want to, but she couldn’t stop herself;