his lecturing skills. Nothing was more important to him than bestowing knowledge. He was tenured at thirty, two years after his doctoral thesis was published and one year after his book,
The Economics of Freedom
, garnered a favorable
Times
review and started its record six-month run as number one on the National Association of Historians’ recommended list.
“As the war, which both Yanks and Rebs truly believed would last no more than six months, stretched on and on, the moral thread of the resoundingly Protestant and predominantly evangelical armies frayed.…”
More problematic was Sayles’s second job as an associate dean, which he did not enjoy at all. But he was sophisticated enough to know that he could not survive forever without the yoke of administrative duties and he had struggled to master the perversity of collegiate infighting. Besides, his bailiwick was the Civil War and what better metaphor could there be for a college campus? He was like Grant, marshaling forces and riding herd over a bunch of brilliant feisty generals—that is, students—who drank too much, whored too much (or who railed loud against drinking and whoring), while he somehow managed to fight a war. And like Grant, Sayles had happened to rise to this position at the most difficult time in the history of his institution.
“… But it wasn’t until after the Dynamic Duo of Defeat—Gettysburg and Vicksburg—that the Southern troops embraced fundamentalist revivalism with a gusto …”
A warm spring breeze eased through the auditorium’s huge windows, so high they could be locked and unlocked only with a twelve-foot-long pole. The class was half empty. Sayles considered the reason why attendancewas poor and his eyes fell on a particular empty seat, surrounded by a blossom of other vacancies.
Ah, yes, the memorial service.
He had not had the strength to attend. The only place he could possibly be was here.
The bell—not an electronic wail but an old-fashioned clapper on steel—rang and Sayles dismissed the class. He stood at the lectern while the class departed then he reread the dean’s note. He too left the room and walked along a broad sidewalk, campus buildings on one side, the five-acre quadrangle on the other, to the university’s administration building.
On the second floor he entered a large anteroom. He walked past the room’s only occupant, a secretary with whom he had long ago had an affair, a mousy woman with a bony face. He vaguely remembered breasts like fat pancakes.
“Oh, did you hear? Professor? A student was—”
Without answering he nodded and walked past her into the large inner office. He closed the door and sat in one of the oxblood leather chairs across from the dean’s desk.
“Randy,” she said, “we have a real problem.”
He noticed her hand was resting on that morning’s
Register
. The article about the murder was circled and above the headline was written:
Dean Larraby. FYI.
He looked at Bill Corde’s picture then back to the dean. Sayles said, “She was in my class.”
Dean Larraby nodded without expecting any further response. She closed whatever massive work she had been reading—it appeared more legal than scholarly—and pushed it to the corner of her desk. Her fingers caressed the edges of the purple stone on her left hand.
Sayles said, “Have you talked to the police?”
“What?”
“The police?”
She responded querulously, “Yes, there was a detective here. This man, in fact.” She nodded at the paper. “He wanted to know all about the Gebben girl.”
The Gebben girl
.
Sayles, whose brilliance like that of many professors was in large part memory, recollected perfectly how the dean had greeted him a few moments ago and asked, “What kind of problem? What else did the police say?”
The Gebben girl. Student number 144691
.
“The police? That’s not what I’m talking about,” she said. “This is
serious
. I’ve finished meeting with the Price Waterhouse
The Economics of Freedom
, garnered a favorable
Times
review and started its record six-month run as number one on the National Association of Historians’ recommended list.
“As the war, which both Yanks and Rebs truly believed would last no more than six months, stretched on and on, the moral thread of the resoundingly Protestant and predominantly evangelical armies frayed.…”
More problematic was Sayles’s second job as an associate dean, which he did not enjoy at all. But he was sophisticated enough to know that he could not survive forever without the yoke of administrative duties and he had struggled to master the perversity of collegiate infighting. Besides, his bailiwick was the Civil War and what better metaphor could there be for a college campus? He was like Grant, marshaling forces and riding herd over a bunch of brilliant feisty generals—that is, students—who drank too much, whored too much (or who railed loud against drinking and whoring), while he somehow managed to fight a war. And like Grant, Sayles had happened to rise to this position at the most difficult time in the history of his institution.
“… But it wasn’t until after the Dynamic Duo of Defeat—Gettysburg and Vicksburg—that the Southern troops embraced fundamentalist revivalism with a gusto …”
A warm spring breeze eased through the auditorium’s huge windows, so high they could be locked and unlocked only with a twelve-foot-long pole. The class was half empty. Sayles considered the reason why attendancewas poor and his eyes fell on a particular empty seat, surrounded by a blossom of other vacancies.
Ah, yes, the memorial service.
He had not had the strength to attend. The only place he could possibly be was here.
The bell—not an electronic wail but an old-fashioned clapper on steel—rang and Sayles dismissed the class. He stood at the lectern while the class departed then he reread the dean’s note. He too left the room and walked along a broad sidewalk, campus buildings on one side, the five-acre quadrangle on the other, to the university’s administration building.
On the second floor he entered a large anteroom. He walked past the room’s only occupant, a secretary with whom he had long ago had an affair, a mousy woman with a bony face. He vaguely remembered breasts like fat pancakes.
“Oh, did you hear? Professor? A student was—”
Without answering he nodded and walked past her into the large inner office. He closed the door and sat in one of the oxblood leather chairs across from the dean’s desk.
“Randy,” she said, “we have a real problem.”
He noticed her hand was resting on that morning’s
Register
. The article about the murder was circled and above the headline was written:
Dean Larraby. FYI.
He looked at Bill Corde’s picture then back to the dean. Sayles said, “She was in my class.”
Dean Larraby nodded without expecting any further response. She closed whatever massive work she had been reading—it appeared more legal than scholarly—and pushed it to the corner of her desk. Her fingers caressed the edges of the purple stone on her left hand.
Sayles said, “Have you talked to the police?”
“What?”
“The police?”
She responded querulously, “Yes, there was a detective here. This man, in fact.” She nodded at the paper. “He wanted to know all about the Gebben girl.”
The Gebben girl
.
Sayles, whose brilliance like that of many professors was in large part memory, recollected perfectly how the dean had greeted him a few moments ago and asked, “What kind of problem? What else did the police say?”
The Gebben girl. Student number 144691
.
“The police? That’s not what I’m talking about,” she said. “This is
serious
. I’ve finished meeting with the Price Waterhouse
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