Outraged grumbling arose from the assembled faculty. Hanson Harrison stood to speak.

  “This was entirely predictable, Dan.” Hanson, one of the management department’s senior members, was from old New England money. He looked the part: patrician posture, silver hair, tall. “You may recall before the county ‘gifted’ the old Mahina Memorial Hospital site to the university, the Mahina State faculty senate budget committee passed a resolution asking for a detailed estimate of the costs required to bring the buildings up to code. It was sent up to the chancellor’s office, where, like all resolutions from the Faculty Senate, it sank without a trace.”

  “This is exactly why the county dumped it on us,” Larry Schneider chimed in. Larry was the other senior member of the management department. Unlike Hanson, he was slight and scrappy, and hailed from an unfashionable borough. If someone ever decided to make a movie about the College of Commerce with an all-dog cast, Hanson Harrison would be a Weimaraner, and Larry Schneider would be a terrier mix. (Rodge would be something shaggy that shed everywhere and humped your leg.) “They didn’t want to pay for the remodeling. This place is still unfit for use, and all we’re doing is lining the pockets of Konishi Construction, not to mention—”

  “Thank you for your comments, Larry,” Dan interrupted. “And Hanson. I understand the procurement process isn’t always as transparent as we’d like. That’s exactly what I’m here to talk about.”

  I sensed my colleagues settling down a bit. Despite being a dean, Dan Watanabe had for the most part managed to retain his integrity. We didn’t always like his decisions, but we could count on him to be honest with us.

  “Now, I’m going off the record here. It seems parts of these old buildings are valuable to collectors and restorers. Doorknobs, pieces of molding, even some of the old medical equipment. Konishi Construction’s just throwing it out as they go, and...nobody write this down, please.”

  Serena, Dan’s secretary, set down her pen. As did Iker Legazpi, from the accounting department, who always diligently took notes for his own edification.

  “I’m not saying I officially approve of this,” Dan continued, “in fact, I don’t. But if we all work together, we can figure out a way to at least buy enough copy paper and toner cartridges to get us through the end of the fiscal year. Not through the university budget system, of course. But the Finance Club has agreed to help us out, in exchange for a small percentage.”

  “Are you saying we have to sell off pieces of our building simply in order to do our jobs?” Hanson demanded.

  “Meanwhile our crappy football team spends two million dollars a year traveling to the mainland to get their butts kicked,” Larry grumbled.

  “What’s the alternative?” Dan asked them. “Just keep an eye out for anything that looks unusual or collectible and bring it in to the dean’s office. If it’s too big to move, let Serena know.”

  I guiltily recalled the silver absinthe spoon I’d found in the unmarked space adjoining my office. The hidden room wasn’t on any of our building plans. Neither Facilities nor Konishi Construction seemed to be aware of it.

  I might turn in the spoon. But I wasn’t going to breathe a word to anyone about my secret room. The extra space would only be confiscated and used for storage or given to some favored administrator. They certainly wouldn’t allow me to stay there.

  “We need to get the word out to all our faculty and staff,” Dan went on. “Is anyone missing?”

  Serena, Dan’s secretary, said

  “Fiona Spencer. Management department.”

  Fiona was the only one who didn’t show up? Even Rodge Cowper was here? Yes, there he was, by the window. Playing some game on his phone by the looks of it, but physically present.

  “Molly?” Dan asked me. “Where is Fiona? Did you tell her about the meeting?”

  “Yes, I did.” I tried my best not to sound defensive. “I emailed the department, of course, and I phoned Fiona earlier today to remind her. She said she’d be here, but it seems something came up. I can let her know what we discussed.”

  I felt the resentful stares of my colleagues. Thanks to the latest round of budget cuts, the College of Commerce only got one new hire this year. The management department—my department—had landed the coveted faculty line.

  And now, almost as soon as we hired Fiona Spencer, we’d gone and misplaced her.

  “This is why we can’t have nice things,” one of the marketing professors quipped.

  “That’s not necessary,” Dan admonished him. “Molly, I understand. You can’t force Fiona to attend. Just make sure she comes to the next meeting.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  I braced for what was coming next:

  “Remember,” Dan said, “it’s our responsibility to ensure our junior faculty are fully integrated into the life of the college.”

  By this time I could say it along with him, although I didn’t, of course.

  Dan went on to cover a few more topics of interest: an update on the air conditioning (currently scheduled to be working by late January), the revised Student Retention Office reporting forms, and the schedule for winter commencement. The agenda item that sparked the liveliest discussion was a curiously Schrödingerian statement on class attendance from the university system. It both supported taking attendance (because financial aid rules and our new automated Student Success System required the data) and argued against it (because who were we to sit in judgment of our students’ complicated lives?). The upshot was it didn’t matter what we decided to do about taking attendance. The instant a student complained, the administration would reprimand us for doing it wrong.

  After the meeting, I found myself walking back to the College of Commerce building with Iker Legazpi. Iker’s side-parted brown hair was perfectly in place as always, and his plump, ageless face radiated serenity. Talking to Iker is always a comfort for me, despite his sunny attitude. He usually has a kind word for everyone, and treats his students—even the underachievers, the plagiarists, and the grade-grubbers—with far more compassion than I am able to muster. I have a theory that Iker may be an angel in human form, except I can’t work out why an angel would have been sent to earth to teach accounting.

  Iker held the door for me as we entered the College of Commerce building.

  “I’m worried about Fiona Spencer,” I told him as we started up the steps. There’s an elevator, but most of us don’t trust it. “Iker, have you met Fiona’s husband? What does he look like?”

  “Emmett Spencer?” Iker frowned. “Yes, of course. I serve on the board of the St. Aelred School for Boys. Mr. Spencer is the new headmaster. Pardon me, perhaps I should not say he is new. He was appointed nearly a year ago.”

  “I thought you had to be a priest or something to work there, no?”

  “Not any longer. It is a complicated history, that of the St. Aelred School for Boys.”

  “What does Emmett Spencer look like?” I asked.

  We reached the landing where Iker’s office was and stepped aside to let the people behind us pass.

  “Emmett Spencer is one hundred and ninety centimeters in height, and of a slender build. He has brown hair and blue eyes, and he is thirty-six years old.”

  “A hundred and ninety centimeters is...?”

  “Six feet, two point eight inches.”

  “So he’s tall. Iker, how do you know his exact height?”

  “As board treasurer, it is among my responsibilities to review the insurance policies. The details I share with you are not confidential. Why do you ask about the appearance of Dr. Spencer’s husband?”

  “Because Fiona...some guy came to meet her, and she left with him. It looked like she went willingly. But she hasn’t come back. I was wondering whether the guy was her husband, but from your description, it doesn’t sound like it’s the same person.”

  “This thing happened today?” Iker asked.

  I recapped the morning’s events for Iker, ending with my seeing someone who looked like Fiona being spirited away on a motorcycle. I was already in trouble with Dan, so I didn’t see any harm in telling Iker everything.

  Iker shook his head.

  “I do not know this figure with the odorous pipe and the rubber boots,” he said. “But you say Dr. Spencer went willingly.”

  “Looked like it,” I said.

  “Perhaps she believes a drive in the fresh air on a motorcycle would be a cheering thing for her.”

  “Cheering? Why does she need cheering? Iker, she just got a tenure-track job in the same town as her husband. I know a lot of academic couples who would kill to trade places with her. Her students love her, even though she’s mean to them. I mean, okay, this place isn’t perfect, but can’t she just once say thank you, or smile, or show even a glimmer of positive emotion at all? Why does she have to be such a dry stick? I’m sorry, Iker, I know I’m supposed to be her mentor, but I’ll be honest. Fiona’s a little hard to warm up to.”

  Iker retrieved his key and opened the door to his office. “Molly, we are not...do you wish to come in and talk more?”

  “No, I don’t want to keep you. And I need to get back. What were you going to say, though? We are not...?”

  “Ah yes. We are not to show kindness only to the people who we find friendly and amusing. Kindness is not a purse from which we dispense little gold coins only to the deserving.”

  “I guess. So you’re saying I should be charitable to Fiona regardless of her obvious contempt and ingratitude.”

  “To take a more worldly view,” Iker added, “to lose Fiona Spencer would be a catastrophe for the College of Commerce. The Administration will say, we have given you a professor, and now you have lost her. We will not give you another.”

  “Oh, you’re right about that. Dan reminds me every day. And you heard what happened in the meeting.”

  “It may be, Molly, that Fiona Spencer has a private sadness which you cannot see.”

  “I know, I know. I should give Fiona a break. She’s in a brand-new job, she doesn’t really know anyone, we still haven’t gotten the situation with her office straightened out...I should try to be a little more understanding.”

  Iker was right. We were lucky we’d been able to hire anyone at all, let along someone of Fiona Spencer’s caliber. Dan had worked hard to convince the trustees to fill the business ethics position. (The previous Business Ethicist had departed years ago, under circumstances so tragically on-the-nose you’d think I was making the whole thing up.)

  As Mahina State’s enrollment flattened over the past few years, our approach to student retention grew increasingly desperate. The Student Retention Office’s philosophy morphed from “every student should have the opportunity to reach their potential” to “every student can succeed” to “students don’t fail; teachers do.” “Failing” faculty are subject to mandatory “enrichment opportunities” where they are exhorted to better engage our “customers.” My friend Emma Nakamura (a repeat offender) refers to these sessions as “de-education camp.” (“Cause you come out dumber than when you went in,” she says.)

  Despite (or perhaps because of) this approach, enrollment and tuition revenue are down, and faculty haven’t gotten a cost of living adjustment in years.

  Now faculty are quitting at an unprecedented rate, the administration is trying the same kinds of retention tactics on us.

  What would I want if I were in Fiona’s place? A workspace with functioning climate control. An office within walking distance of the classroom, not across town from it. A respite from the construction din reverberating through our building from 7:45 in the morning until exactly 4:30 in the afternoon.

  The College of Commerce could offer Fiona none of these things. Instead, she got me as a mentor.

  No wonder she was grumpy.

  Fiona: An Unexpected Visitor

  FIONA HUNG ON TIGHT as the motorcycle sped along a one-lane road through a tunnel of green jungle, turned sharply up an even narrower road, and pulled off at a small clearing next to a waterfall.

  Harriet Holmes pushed down the kickstand, removed her helmet, drew her flat cap from her pocket, and pulled it back onto her head.

  “Brilliant, isn’t it?” Harriet produced a pipe and tobacco pouch from the inside breast pocket of her field jacket and a small spray bottle from a different pocket. “It’s almost too scenic. Oh, squirt some of this on yourself, darling. You know how the mosquitos will gobble you up given half a chance. You never did do well in the tropics.”

  Fiona took the proffered bottle and sprayed the mosquito repellent around her head and arms.

  “I did not choose to have a reaction to the malaria pills. My deepest apologies for the inconvenience, however.”

  “Don’t forget the ankles,” Harriet reminded her through a cloud of pipe smoke. “Those little buggers love the ankles. Blood’s close to the surface, you see. Come, sit.”

  Harriet led Fiona over to a recycled-plastic bench overlooking the waterfall. Beyond the treetops, the Pacific Ocean glittered in the distance.

  “Now then, isn’t this lovely.” Harriet took an appreciative pull and blew an imperfect smoke ring. She tried again, this time with better results.

  “There, you see?” Harriet waved her pipe at the perfect wreath of smoke floating over their heads. “Persistence pays.”

  “I’m supposed to be at a budget meeting.”

  “A budget meeting? You already know what it’s about then,” Harriet said. “It’s only going to be gloom and doom. No bursar since the dawn of time has ever called a budget meeting to say, ripping news, everyone, we’re rolling in dosh.”

  “Yes, I know all that,” Fiona replied.

  But bad news about our finances won’t be all of it, she thought. The worst bit will be afterwards, when that Barda woman comes oiling up and tries to jolly me along and asks whether there’s anything at all she can do for me, only there’s no money to fix anything. And I’ll have to say everything’s going swimmingly, thanks, when what I really want to tell her is if you can’t get the bloody air con fixed or keep the builders from piling up their rubbish in my office then leave me alone, you nosy cow.

  “Something on your mind, darling?” Harriet asked.

  Fiona smoothed her print dress over her slender thighs and watched the water tumble down the black lava rocks, a silvery column shattering into spray. She conceded the place was beautiful but could not bring herself to feel joy or appreciation.

  “What was so very important that you had to bring me all the way out here to talk about it?” Fiona finally asked.

  “Well, this is much more pleasant than that old workhouse or wherever they have you, isn’t it?” Harriet waved her pipe at the waterfall. “The mosquito repellent’s working, I hope, darling? Don’t look at me like that. I took you away from your work because I didn’t want you to make a scene.”

  Fiona’s mouth set in a thin line. “You don’t think you already made a scene hammering on my door?”

  “I saw Emmett. I thought you might like to know.”

  This surprised Fiona, although she didn’t want to give Harriet the satisfaction of letting on.

  “I see him every day,” Fiona shot back. “How long have you been in Mahina?”

  “I only arrived Monday. Such a quaint little airport, reminds me a bit of Bathpalathang.”

  “You might’ve told me you were coming,” Fiona said.

  “Whatever for? I’ve got a place to stay. Wouldn’t dream of imposing on the newlyweds. Anyway, here’s what I wanted to tell you. I was planning to send off some note cards to let people know I was here. It seems there’s only one proper stationer in Mahina. Mahina Printing and Stationers Incorporated. Such an old-fashioned little hamlet, this Mahina of yours. Not the sort of place I’d picture you, if I’m honest.”

  Fiona crossed her arms. “What’s all this got to do with Emmett?”

  “Well, I was having a look around the shop, I turned the corner, and there they were. You know how one’s brain can be slow to process things. My first impression was of Emmett Spencer, respectable headmaster and devoted husband, squeezing someone’s bum. My next thought was no, it’s entirely impossible, because that’s certainly not Fiona’s bum he’s squeezing.”

  Fiona glared at Harriet.

  “Stop it. I’ve had quite enough of these filthy rumours. I’d think you, of all people, would be smart enough not to fall for it.”

  The pipe paused halfway to Harriet’s mouth.

  “It’s nothing to do with rumours,” Harriet said. “I saw them with my own eyes. I thought you’d want to know—”

  “I don’t believe it,” Fiona declared.

  Harriet took a pull on her pipe.

  “Quite understandable. You threw in your lot with Emmett Spencer, you uprooted your entire life to be with him. You’ve invested quite a bit in this marriage, despite the warning signs, and I suppose you’d sooner die than admit—”

  “Stop it.” Fiona stood up. “Take me back. I’d rather sit through a bloody budget meeting than listen to this.”

  Harriet quietly put out her pipe, folded her cap, and tucked it into her pocket.

  “Very well. I’ll drop you back at the lunatic asylum, if you like.”

  “I’m sorry, Mum,” Fiona said. “I know you’re only trying to help. I’ve been a bit cross at Emmett myself lately, if I’m honest. And it’s a former inebriates’ asylum if you must know, not a lunatic asylum. For all the difference it makes.”

  Molly: Lost and Found

  EMMA NAKAMURA CAME over from the main campus the next day to join me for lunch in the cafeteria of the old hospital building. Our satellite dining center had the exact same yogurt cups, packaged sandwiches, and hard bananas available on the main campus. But the soaring ceilings and relative quiet of the old tuberculosis ward made lunch more pleasant.

  I found Emma already seated at one of the round tables, munching a musubi and watching a video on her phone. Emma is short, freckled, and suntanned. Despite the silver threads in her wavy hair she’s often mistaken for a student. But anyone who talks down to her is unlikely to try it a second time.

 

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