Unfortunately, fewer than half my students had done the assignment. Well, as Emma liked to say, “You can lead your students to water, but then you have to restrain yourself from holding their heads under the surface until they stop struggling.” On the bright side, tonight’s grading workload was half of what I’d thought it would be.

  I was interrupted by my ringing phone.

  “Is Donnie there?” Emma’s voice squawked on my speaker.

  “Dad’s not home,” Davison bellowed over the sound of cheering on my television. I considered telling him to turn it off, but if I did, he’d just grump around the house, complaining about how bored he was and pestering me to drive him somewhere.

  “Let me take you off speaker. No, Donnie’s not here. What’s up? Do you need to talk to him?”

  “No, I want to talk about him, so I gotta make sure he’s not standing right there. Molly, I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve decided Donnie is not having an affair.”

  “Looks like I took you off speaker just in time.”

  “I know, not a lot of privacy in your little house, ah? I dunno how you can stand it. Anyways, if Donnie was really screwing around on you, he’d be sneaking out to a hotel all secret, not sitting in a classroom where everyone could see him.”

  “I hope you’re right,”

  “I am right. Seriously, think about it. What are him and Nicole Nixon gonna do in an unlocked classroom, where anyone could walk in? I mean, I guess if they really wanted to they could bring in a blanket and—”

  “Emma, have you been watching the Mahina State feed?”

  “Nah. Why would I? I get enough propaganda in my email.”

  “Well, you should take a look. I think Pat’s livened things up a little.”

  I heard quiet clicking, and then a whoop of laughter.

  “Well, they did want to get people talking about Mahina State.” Emma chuckled. “Remember what Pat was telling us at that donor dinner? He said his new boss wanted him to be his quote ‘edgy’ self.”

  “I’m not sure they really meant it.” I lowered my voice, annoyed because I was unable to have a private conversation in my own home. “I hope Victor Santiago doesn’t clap him into the iron maiden over this. I sure wouldn’t want to get crosswise with the guy.”

  “Victor seems okay. I don’t think he’s so scary.”

  I heard the bathroom door close and lock, followed by the sound of water running. Davison had decided to take a shower, which meant I was shut out of my own bathroom for the foreseeable future, but on the plus side, I could speak in a normal voice again without being overheard.

  “You don’t think Victor Santiago is scary? You’re the one who said he looked like the Grand Inquisitor.”

  “That wasn’t me. It was Pat. I think you’re both racially biased.”

  “Oh no, I remember. You were the one who said he had a devil beard.”

  “To describe is neither to endorse nor to condemn.”

  “Really.”

  “You think Victor looks scary ’cause he’s not all-American white bread, like you and Pat. Have you ever noticed in the movies? The bad guy’s always brown.”

  “That’s not true. A lot of Hollywood villains are blonde Aryan types. Besides, I am not biased. My own husband is swarthy.”

  “And you think he’s a bad guy.”

  “Only because he’s having an affair with Nicole Nixon.”

  “Anyway, Donnie’s not swarthy.”

  “What? Of course he is.”

  “No, he’s not. He’s totally smooth.”

  That stumped me.

  “Emma, what do you think swarthy means?”

  “It means hairy.”

  “It does not. It means dark-skinned. Why would I say Donnie’s hairy?”

  “I don’t know why you’d say it ’cause it isn’t true.”

  “I know it isn’t true.”

  “Geez Molly, you don’t hafta shout.”

  “All I’m saying is hairy is not at all the same thing as swarthy. Donnie is swarthy. He is not hairy, and I am not shout—”

  I heard Davison emerge from the bathroom. At least he’d kept his shower short this time. The last time he was in there so long, he’d emptied out my entire hot water tank.

  “Whoa. I just scrolled to the last thing on Pat’s feed.”

  “The shirtless guy working on the car?” I confirmed.

  “Come for the open admissions, stay for the rough trade?”

  “I know. I texted him and asked if he’s trying to get fired.”

  “He’s pushing it. Hey, so are you gonna ask Donnie what he was doing on campus with Nicole or what?”

  “I’m not up to any kind of confrontation right now. I think I’ll wait until Davison’s gone back to school before I decide how I want to deal with this.”

  “So you’re just gonna simmer and stew while Donnie tries to guess how come you’re so grumpy?”

  “Something like that. Emma I have to go. It’s my call waiting. Pat’s calling me back.”

  “Okay. Ask him what he was thinking, and then call me back and tell me.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  When I woke up the next morning, Donnie had already left for work. The door to my spare room was closed, so I assumed Davison was still asleep. I showered and dressed. As I walked out the door, I propped Davison’s birthday card on the coffee maker. I had gotten Donnie to sign it, too, and he’d seemed pleasantly surprised I’d remembered to buy something. Davison would wake up on his twenty-first birthday in an empty house, stranded without a car, and fresh from a breakup (which was his own stupid fault), but at least he’d have a cheerful card with a puppy on it.

  Donnie and I hadn’t had much to say to each other last night. I wasn’t, to use Emma’s words, simmering and stewing exactly, but Donnie’s secret rendezvous with an attractive, divorced English professor had made me feel a little…pensive.

  In any event, my thoughts were occupied with the previous evening’s conversation with Pat. His friend, Jeffrey the antique dealer, had found some very interesting information about the contents of my wooden soap box. It seemed that there might be hope for my career after all. But I had to play it exactly right.

  As soon as I got to my office, I sent a file from my phone to the department printer, then called Marshall Dixon’s office for an appointment. I was pleasantly surprised when the secretary told me Dixon would be able to see me that morning.

  I arrived ten minutes early, checked in with the secretary, and then walked the twenty echoing paces across the polished floor to the waiting couch. (I could never recall the secretary’s name. All I remembered about her was she always seemed miserably cold.) I felt inside my bag to make sure that I had brought the manila folder containing my printout. Five minutes later, irrationally, I checked again.

  At last I was in Marshall Dixon’s office, seated on the other side of her vast koa wood desk.

  “I’m here to plead my case,” I said. “For tenure.”

  “Your contract does give you the right to request a discussion of the process with members of the administration. Although any questions you may have had should have been answered during the orientation session.”

  “The grant Emma Nakamura and I got, investigating attitudes toward biotech? I really thought it would help my case. A grant should earn me extra research points toward being qualified for promotion and tenure, according to my college’s guidelines. But in spite of my objectively meeting the guidelines, I received a negative vote from one member of my department.”

  Dixon nodded blandly, giving nothing away.

  “I know how important it is for a candidate to have unanimous support from the department. I know the other committees in the decision chain don’t look favorably on mixed votes. I’m hoping you—your support would counter any ambiguity or doubt.”

  “I’m sympathetic, but overriding the faculty is something only done as a last resort. At Mahina State, we respect faculty governance.”

  It sounded like the campus wide committee had already voted against me. I wasn’t surprised. Once Hanson Harrison raised “concerns” about my research, everyone on the subsequent committees had to fall in line or risk looking naive or non-rigorous. And Dixon wasn’t going to stick out her neck contradicting the faculty if there wasn’t something in it for her.

  Well, I might as well go for broke. I had nothing to lose.

  “I see what you’re saying. I certainly wouldn’t ask you to expend political capital on my behalf. That’s a lot to ask. Oh. Something else I wanted to get your input on.”

  I drew the folder out of my bag, placed it on the glimmering wood surface, and opened it to display the page I had printed out earlier.

  “What’s this?” Marshall drew the folder to her side of the vast desk. She studied the paper. Her only reaction was the lifting of her eyebrows.

  “This cartoon ran on the front page of a mainland newspaper in 1893. The Brockton Bugle. Times have certainly changed. To modern eyes, this is extremely offensive. I mean, a half-naked Queen Liliuokalani, trying to pawn her crown? Goodness.”

  “And what does this have to do with—” I could see the light dawn before Marshall finished the sentence. “That’s Mary Pfaff’s signature.”

  “The Beatrix Potter of Hawaii,” I agreed.

  “Where’s the original?”

  “I have the original newspaper page. According to an antiques expert who researched it, it’s likely the only copy in existence. What you’re looking at is a photograph I took on my phone.”

  Marshall met my gaze. “Mary Pfaff’s granddaughter, Dorothy, has been a great friend to Mahina State.”

  “I know. Thanks to her generosity, we have a whole library wing dedicated to Mary Pfaff. And I heard scholarships are being planned. One or two endowed chairs. Maybe even a naming opportunity. The Mary Pfaff College of Fine Arts. This relationship has been a wonderful thing for Mahina State. I’m a big Alice Mongoose fan myself.”

  Marshall didn’t ask, “What do you want?” Her even gaze posed the question silently.

  “I love working at Mahina State. I enjoy teaching, helping our students succeed, and I have so many wonderful colleagues. Not to mention, I’ve put down roots here. My husband, Donnie, would never leave the Drive-Inn, so I don’t have the option of moving away. And there aren’t a lot of other employment opportunities outside of the university for someone with a Ph.D. in literature and creative writing. If I don’t get tenure, the only thing I can do here in Mahina is maybe a little freelance writing.”

  “The County Courier would be fortunate to have someone of your qualifications,” Marshall said.

  “Unfortunately, the County Courier isn’t looking for new writers. I’ve been in discussion with one of the airline magazines.” I was improvising here, but again, what did I have to lose? “They’re interested in running a piece on the legacy of Mary Pfaff. They think the accidental discovery of this cartoon would be a fascinating sidebar. This could generate a lot of buzz. And of course, Mahina State University has such a close relationship with Mary Pfaff’s estate they’ll certainly be part of the story too.”

  I hoped Marshall wouldn’t call my bluff. Mary’s granddaughter, Dorothy, had seemed so sweet and frail when I met her at the wretched Halloween party. There was no way I could bring myself to expose her to the embarrassment this awful cartoon would cause.

  I narrowed my eyes a little, to try to make myself look more ruthless. In case there was any doubt in Marshall’s mind that I Meant Business.

  Marshall gazed at me for an unnervingly long moment.

  “And if you were to be awarded tenure?” she asked, finally.

  “I were to be awarded tenure? I would celebrate by making a gift of this historically significant artifact to Mahina State University. Our library would probably want to archive it, to keep it safe, away from light and the elements. And of course, I would focus on my teaching, and my scholarly publishing. I certainly wouldn’t be interested in writing any stories for airline magazines. I mean, I wouldn’t have time.”

  “You’d donate the original?”

  “Yes. And delete any electronic copies.”

  “May I keep this?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  I didn’t want to take back the folder anyway. I was shaking so hard, I was sure it would start rattling in my hand.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  My afternoon classes went by in a blur. It’s not every day I attempt to extort my administration into giving me tenure. I would never make it as a professional blackmailer.

  I came home to find Donnie sitting on my couch, pressing the buttons on my television’s remote control.

  “Oh, Molly. There you are. I can’t figure out your system.”

  “That remote controls live TV,” I said. “Anything else has to connect from the computer in my office. What are you trying to do, exactly?”

  “I thought we could watch a movie tonight.” He stood up, came over to where I had seated myself at the computer and handed me a disk whose label indicated it was the property of the university library.

  “You want to watch Henry the Fifth?”

  “It’s a classic. I don’t think you and I have ever seen a movie together.”

  “You know what? I think you’re right. We haven’t.”

  “I know you don’t like movie theaters.”

  “I don’t?”

  “You said you can’t relax and enjoy yourself because you always imagine there are ukus in the upholstery.”

  “No, I said it about airplanes. But now that you mention it, movie theaters probably have lice living inside the seats, too. You’re right. I guess if I had a choice, I’d rather watch a movie in my own house.”

  “Good. Let’s do it. I picked up some sushi and wine on the way home.”

  “This sounds really nice,” I said suspiciously. “Is this to celebrate Davison’s birthday? Is he going to watch with us?”

  Donnie grinned happily, pulled me up from my computer chair and clasped me in a tight hug. “You’re a great mom,” he murmured into my hair, then pulled back to beam at me. “It was so nice of you to pick up a birthday card for him. I asked him if he wanted to do anything special with us, but it looks like he made plans to catch up with some old friends.”

  “When is he coming back? Are we going to have to get up and let him in at three in the morning?”

  “No.” Donnie smiled proudly. “I made him a copy of my key.”

  “Oh good. Davison has a copy of my house key now. So you just came home with a movie to watch?”

  “Two. A double feature. I got Becket, too, another classic. Go ahead. Show me how this works so I don’t have to bother you next time.”

  He watched me insert the disk into the tray.

  “So we have sushi and wine and classic movies, just you and me? It sounds wonderful.”

  Too good to be true, even. Most likely the product of a guilty conscience. Well. I could spend the rest of the evening grilling him about his motivation. Or I could put off arguing until later, and enjoy the evening.

  I had seen Henry the Fifth long ago, the 1944 Technicolor version with Laurence Olivier. What I wasn’t prepared for was how much my attention span had deteriorated in the intervening years. The scenes seemed intolerably long, the dialog wordy, the pace glacial. This was probably the fault of social media. We were all getting so used to tiny morsels of information flying by. I’d have to remember to remind Pat how his new occupation as Mahina State’s Social Media Czar was helping to destroy civilization.

  I dozed off a couple of times, lulled as much by the wine as by the film. Every so often, a soft buzzing from Donnie’s side of the couch signaled he, too, had succumbed. Donnie and I both perked up for the famous scene of King Henry in disguise, mingling with his men on the eve of battle.

  “This is like the show where bosses go undercover to see what their employees are really like, when they think they’re not being watched,” Donnie said.

  “I wonder if you could do that. Probably not. People at the Drive-Inn see you every day.”

  “I could put on glasses, like Clark Kent.” Donnie grinned.

  “Or you could wear the cockroach costume. Oh, sorry.”

  The cockroach costume was gone, along with everything else in Donnie’s house. Now I’d reminded him of the fire. Nice going, Molly.

  Donnie chuckled. “Nah. Norris the health inspector would have a heart attack seeing a giant cockroach in the kitchen.”

  He placed his arm around me and squeezed. “This is nice. Hey, I forgot to ask. Any news on your tenure thing?”

  “Oh, I think things are going to be okay.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Was it just that morning that I’d been in Marshall Dixon’s office, calmly threatening the reputation of one of Mahina State’s most generous benefactors for the sake of my own job security?

  “How about you?” I asked. “Anything going on?”

  “No. Oh, there is something. I almost forgot.”

  “Yes?”

  “Davison finally confirmed his flight for tomorrow morning. I’ll take off from work to drive him. It would be nice if you could come along, too, to see him off.”

  “I don’t think I have any meetings until tomorrow afternoon. Okay, I guess I can come with you.”

  Conversation having thus petered out, we turned our attention back to the Technicolor Battle of Agincourt.

  I was ready to pack it in after Henry the Fifth, but Donnie insisted on watching Becket as well.

  “It’s a good example of miscommunication,” Donnie said. “When Henry the Second says, ‘Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest,’ he’s just thinking out loud, ‘I wish I didn’t have to deal with this troublemaker,’ and the four knights take him at his word.”

  “I don’t think it’s miscommunication. Isn’t this how businesses get their dirty work done? You don't tell your store managers, force your employees to punch out and make them work extra hours for free. You just give them store targets, and let them worry about how to meet them. Or say you have—Victor Santiago.”

 

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