The Professor and the Prostitute by Linda Wolfe Page A

no matter what Nancy found out about her husband—that he was having an affair with another woman, that he was in love with that woman—she would lay the blame for his actions, not on him, but on someone or something else. At fault were the pressures of academic life, Bill’s demanding supervisors at Tufts, or even, poor woman, herself. She was Bill’s fan, and never—at least in the public eye—did she waver from that role.
    But although she may not have blamed Bill for it, by October 1982 Nancy Douglas had at last become unable to hide from herself the probability that he was seeing another woman. Characteristically, she believed that if she hadn’t taken a night job, he might not have been unfaithful. But no matter whose fault it was, she felt she needed to know what was going on, and she confronted Bill with her fears.
    What happened next was typical of their marriage—and, I suppose, of many marriages. Bill, apologizing profusely, told her about his girlfriend and asked Nancy if she wanted a divorce. She said no, not if they could patch things up. Bill said they could and promised her that from now on he’d stop seeing Robin and try to spend more time at home. And although he assured her that none of it was her fault, Nancy promised Bill that from now on she would no longer work nights.
    She kept her end of the bargain, but Bill didn’t keep his, He went on seeing Robin. And one night, in a burst of misery, Nancy penned a kind of diary entry to herself, pouring out her problems on paper. “Why is this happening? Why won’t he just come home?” she wrote. “I think he’s on drugs, too. Oh, God. Please help me. Please, please help me. I can’t take any more.”
    While Nancy was bemoaning her fate, the Tufts investigation was deepening. But Douglas kept stalling the examiners about bringing in Robin and Savi. And, curiously, though he now knew for certain that his expenses were being scrutinized, in November he submitted a bill for $3,597 for graphic work performed by Robin.
    What possessed him to go on with the deceit once he had been warned he was being watched? Perhaps cocaine had scrambled his brain. The drug produces euphoria, a sense of invulnerability, and the conviction that the mores of the rest of the world need not govern one’s own behavior. No doubt, too, the fact that his career was now in jeopardy because of Robin may have strengthened his resolve to hold on to her; if he couldn’t have her, then what had it all been for? However, there was no way to see Robin without paying for the privilege. And so he paid, and continued to pay.
    But he had always felt subjugated by his passion for her, and a change began to come over him. He became resentful. He didn’t let on to Robin that it angered him to keep having to fork over money to her. He gave her whatever she asked. But increasingly he would spitefully, passive-aggressively, get even with her by going behind her back.
    One night in November, she’d been irritable throughout the latest costly hour they’d spent together, and nothing he’d done or said had helped to alleviate her mood. They had argued the whole time. Yet, at the end of the hour, she had demanded her usual fee. It made him furious and later, after he’d left her, he decided to get even with her by breaking into her apartment and stealing from her. “What upset me,” he would eventually explain, was that “I ended up paying for the hour, but it really bothered me because I didn’t feel that that was right.”
    Her place at this time was on Commonwealth Avenue, the apartment to which she moved after Dwyer forced her to vacate her Marlborough Street pad. At the time of the move, Robin had asked Douglas to assist her, and he’d rented the U-Haul and done the driving and unloading. Another bit of help she’d asked of him was that he go to a locksmith’s and get several sets of