Read Online The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest by Robin Hathaway - Free Book Online

fastened on his. Fortunately none of the other customers in the store needed immediate assistance. They would have been out of luck. “Where?”
    â€œCollege. He was a visiting professor when I was there.”
    â€œWhat was he like?”
    â€œRumpled, affable—a bit vague. He wore his bedroom slippers to class.”
    â€œAnd … ?” She was lost.
    â€œAnd he had martinis every night at the local rathskeller with the head of the English Department. My roommate and I used to take the booth behind theirs whenever possible and eavesdrop … .”
    She simply waited for more.

    â€œ … and they discussed whether the department meeting should be held in Schuster Hall or Butler House, and whether Digby Jones, the new instructor, should be allowed to lecture before Christmas or …”
    â€œDon’t … tease.”
    â€œThey did discuss those things, but they also talked about Joyce, Yeats, and Eliot—all his buddies. Gossip on a high literary plane. I learned more in that pub than in all my English classes put together.”
    At this point an impatient customer broke in. The clerk dragged her attention back to the cash register. The moment she finished she turned back to Fenimore. “Go on … .”
    This was beginning to get sticky. He didn’t know much more. It was a long time ago. He had been in a lecture class with about a hundred other students and he had only spoken to the great man once. He had gone to see the poet about a paper he had written on which he’d received a B—a rare occurrence for Fenimore. He told her this.
    She hesitated, then asked, “Was he pompous—or nice?”
    Realizing his answer was important to her, he was glad the truth was what she wanted to hear. “Nice,” he said. “He didn’t treat my poor paper like the garbage it was. He made one or two helpful suggestions, then joked about it being time for tea. ‘Do you like tea?’ he asked, as if inviting me to join him. I said, ‘I prefer beer.’” He laughed heartily.
    She was laughing too. A lovely laugh—soft, low, conspiratorial—exactly right for a bookstore. Suddenly she remembered where she was and began waiting on the line of disgruntled customers. Fenimore toyed with the idea of making up further anecdotes about Auden, but decided against it. When she was done, he asked, “Are you working here for the summer?”
    â€œNo. I’m permanent.” There was a twinkle in her eye. “I’m helping my father ward off the chain stores.” She held out her hand. “Jennifer. Jennifer Nicholson.”
    â€œI see.” Her hand was cool and firm. “Good luck,” he said. “I’d
hate to see Nicholson’s go under.” She was off again, ringing up sales.
    He had gone several blocks before he realized he had left his book behind.
    When he returned to retrieve it, the store was empty and she was putting things away. She looked up as he came in. “I thought you’d be back.”
    â€œI’m getting absent-minded in my old age,” he said, only half in jest. He was suddenly aware of the difference in their ages—at least fifteen years, he calculated. Why, he was old enough to be her father.
    â€œYou aren’t old. You just act old.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI mean—all young doctors do,” she added hastily. “They have to, to gain the confidence of their elderly patients. I knew a young doctor once who decided to grow a beard just so he would look older.”
    â€œAnd did it work?”
    â€œI don’t know. I didn’t wait around for it to grow.”
    â€œDo you mean, under this wise and dignified exterior,” he struck his chest, “there’s a brash, fun-loving youth yearning to get out?” Why didn’t she give him his book? Could she possibly want to prolong this interview? Actually, there weren’t too many