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Authors: Valerie Miner
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always dragged with guilt for undone deeds and hangover for done ones. Nothing could ruin a good party like New Yearâs.
The fourth floor was shadowy under dim corridor lights. Each wooden door was closed on a silent room. Frighteningly still. Nan remembered one night long ago when she had to stay over at the Maryknoll Retreat House, a scared child alone with the mute nuns until the next bus arrived in the morning. The convent corridor was dark and wooden like this. And she remembered walking carefully, stealthily, in search of the bathroom, willing her bladder to hold her pee so she might return to the relative anonymity of her spare cell. The convent smelled of furniture polish and stale holy water. Nan felt an inexplicable sadness for the nuns who slept alone on meticulously ironed sheets. The bathroom, she finally discovered, was at the very end of fifteen doors. The toiler paper was that cheap kind which felt more like wax paper than tissue. All the way back down the corridor, Nan prayed that she wouldnât wake any of the good sisters with the squeaking of her crepe rubber soles.
Tonight Wheeler Hall was darker than usual. Even Mr Johnsonâs door was shut. Just as well the old man wasnât around. He might feel embarrassed if she offered a toast for the New Year. She might feel embarrassed. As Nan turned the corner, she was startled by light streaming through the frosted glass of Angus Murchieâs door.
The old coot probably didnât have anywhere to go. (No, that wasnât true. Like everyone else in the department, he had been invited to Mattâs fandango. And he was quite likely to show up since Mrs Murchie was confined to the Health Spaâor upper-class detoxification centreâfor the holidays. In fact, Murchieâs probable presence was one of the excuses Nan had given Matt for not attending his annual party.) Nan could hear Murchieâs laughter oozing from under the door sill. He wasnât alone. And Nan was almost in her office when she heard the other voice, a womanâs voice. Tiptoeing back over the polished floor, Nan thought she could distinguish the dulcet tones of Marjorie Adams.
Oh Jesus, thought Nan, what had the kid got herself into? Didnât Marjorie understand that Murchie was the biggest lech west of the Rockies? Didnât she know that he had sent three of his advisees to Student Psychiatric last quarter?
But Marjorie seemed so guileless, as if her family had padded her against all misfortune. And her trust in Murchie was not so different from Nanâs own respect for Professor Eastman years ago. What kind of woman works with a male professor at night? A serious woman, a scholarly woman, a woman who, perhaps naively, has come to regard herself as a student rather than a prey. Perhaps Angus did have a legitimate reason to work tonight? Nan couldnât believe he was completely evil, although he was brusque, unpleasant and selfish. What did his behaviour camouflage? Fear? He was an ageing man whose private life had been unhappy and whose career was ending. Where were his tender feelings? Could Marjorie with her quiet enthusiasm move him to humanity? Did he see through her Hollywood chic?
No use speculating. âGuesses can be dangerous when thereâs no way to know,â Nanâs mother would say, did say, over and over. Of course Mom wasnât talking about anything as seedy as this. Mom would never imagine such dangers at The University. Seedyâof course Nan was exaggerating. How melodramatic. Probably poor Marjorie had been lured here for a drink before Mattâs party, on the pretext of recovering some urgent bibliographic reference to âIl Penserosoâ. They would be off soon, Marjorie driving because Murchie sounded absolutely pickled. Nan would not bother about them. She sneaked down the hall and into her own mausoleum. Going directly to her desk, she turned on the tensor lamp. She would not risk the bright overhead
The fourth floor was shadowy under dim corridor lights. Each wooden door was closed on a silent room. Frighteningly still. Nan remembered one night long ago when she had to stay over at the Maryknoll Retreat House, a scared child alone with the mute nuns until the next bus arrived in the morning. The convent corridor was dark and wooden like this. And she remembered walking carefully, stealthily, in search of the bathroom, willing her bladder to hold her pee so she might return to the relative anonymity of her spare cell. The convent smelled of furniture polish and stale holy water. Nan felt an inexplicable sadness for the nuns who slept alone on meticulously ironed sheets. The bathroom, she finally discovered, was at the very end of fifteen doors. The toiler paper was that cheap kind which felt more like wax paper than tissue. All the way back down the corridor, Nan prayed that she wouldnât wake any of the good sisters with the squeaking of her crepe rubber soles.
Tonight Wheeler Hall was darker than usual. Even Mr Johnsonâs door was shut. Just as well the old man wasnât around. He might feel embarrassed if she offered a toast for the New Year. She might feel embarrassed. As Nan turned the corner, she was startled by light streaming through the frosted glass of Angus Murchieâs door.
The old coot probably didnât have anywhere to go. (No, that wasnât true. Like everyone else in the department, he had been invited to Mattâs fandango. And he was quite likely to show up since Mrs Murchie was confined to the Health Spaâor upper-class detoxification centreâfor the holidays. In fact, Murchieâs probable presence was one of the excuses Nan had given Matt for not attending his annual party.) Nan could hear Murchieâs laughter oozing from under the door sill. He wasnât alone. And Nan was almost in her office when she heard the other voice, a womanâs voice. Tiptoeing back over the polished floor, Nan thought she could distinguish the dulcet tones of Marjorie Adams.
Oh Jesus, thought Nan, what had the kid got herself into? Didnât Marjorie understand that Murchie was the biggest lech west of the Rockies? Didnât she know that he had sent three of his advisees to Student Psychiatric last quarter?
But Marjorie seemed so guileless, as if her family had padded her against all misfortune. And her trust in Murchie was not so different from Nanâs own respect for Professor Eastman years ago. What kind of woman works with a male professor at night? A serious woman, a scholarly woman, a woman who, perhaps naively, has come to regard herself as a student rather than a prey. Perhaps Angus did have a legitimate reason to work tonight? Nan couldnât believe he was completely evil, although he was brusque, unpleasant and selfish. What did his behaviour camouflage? Fear? He was an ageing man whose private life had been unhappy and whose career was ending. Where were his tender feelings? Could Marjorie with her quiet enthusiasm move him to humanity? Did he see through her Hollywood chic?
No use speculating. âGuesses can be dangerous when thereâs no way to know,â Nanâs mother would say, did say, over and over. Of course Mom wasnât talking about anything as seedy as this. Mom would never imagine such dangers at The University. Seedyâof course Nan was exaggerating. How melodramatic. Probably poor Marjorie had been lured here for a drink before Mattâs party, on the pretext of recovering some urgent bibliographic reference to âIl Penserosoâ. They would be off soon, Marjorie driving because Murchie sounded absolutely pickled. Nan would not bother about them. She sneaked down the hall and into her own mausoleum. Going directly to her desk, she turned on the tensor lamp. She would not risk the bright overhead
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