Death of a Department Chair: A Novel

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92 8 Rash judgments provoke rash actions. In no time at all, the most sensible people can forget how to air their differences with civility and instead behave impetuously . And then what are we left with? Mayhem, confusion, idiocy. What’s that quote from Hamlet? “I will speak daggers to her, but use none.” Ah, I wish that were the usual impulse . . . editor’s note Exhibit A: Isabel’s diary, July 2002 July 21 It’s the second session of summer school. No one around. The search committee won’t review the files until midAugust —that’s the very earliest. H. seems relieved. She & I meet in Albuquerque (on 19th) & drive up to Santa Fe. Huge reprieve from the heat: cold at night, terrific stars, dry mountain air. Yesterday, at lunch in the Plaza, she finishes a huge bowl of posole & puts down her spoon. “This is divine,” she says. “Let’s stay on vacation. Better yet, let’s retire & move here.” “Huh. Do you know how many tourists a year come to Santa Fe & say exactly what you’re saying? Which is why small shacks sell for a million apiece here.” H. takes a bite of tortilla, then tears off a piece & tosses it at me. “Can’t you give up being practical for once? Just think 93 about it: we’ve both worked hard. I’ve already taught for, let’s see, thirty years if you count graduate school. Isn’t that enough?” Thirty years. That puts H. around fifty-five, M.’s age. Hannah looks younger—face still round & unlined except for a scratch of crow’s feet around each eye. “Well, I’m not ready for that. What would I do?” I feel a clutch of panic at the thought of retiring. H. laughs, showing little, sharp teeth. “Take up painting, start meditating, open a business. I don’t know. You can’t be a Chair forever. What have you always wanted to do?” I lean forward. “Let me tell you a secret: I love what I do. This is what I always dreamed of: research & writing & getting paid for it.” “But aren’t you tired of teaching, Isabel? Tired of the young, expectant faces looking to you for answers?” I swallow the last of my beer. It’s lukewarm. “I don’t teach that much anymore. Besides, if they’re looking to me for answers, they’re sorry out of luck.” “I doubt that’s true.” She looks away, at the other diners, the waitstaff bustling about with trays loaded with enchiladas & bottles of cerveza. She gives me the eye & sips her margarita. “I suspect they think you know the answers. &, I’ll bet you give them that impression.” That little smile on those plump lips can be so annoying! “Fine, think that if you like.” H. speaks in a dreamy tone. “Isn’t it funny that when you were in college, & were unformed & confused, you’d look at the professors & envy them their certainty, their maturity? Then, once you’re a professor, middle-aged & burned out, you stare at your students & lust after their youth, that endless sense of possibility?” She dabs at her mouth with her napkin, raises a hand to a waiter, points at her margarita. “It doesn’t seem fair.” 94 I laugh. She’s so spoiled & so content with herself. “Your age is showing, my dear. Of course it isn’t fair. But I’m happy to be in the shoes I’m in, thank you very much.” God, to think of eighteen again, the poor skin & nerves, eager to get out of the house & away from my father. Just desperate to have a life, any life as long as it was my own . . . “Truth?” H.’s voice still dreamy & drifting. “I’d change with them . . .”—she leans forward & startles me by snapping her fingers in my face—“that fast! Responsibility, making & maintaining a reputation, it’s all so wearisome.” “Perhaps you should change careers, not retire.” I try to be low-key. “Maybe I should try administration.” Her eyes shine. “If I come to Austin, maybe that’s what I’ll do. How about I chair a department? I could become vice-chair of Literature & Rhetoric & then move into your position when you’re ready to move up as Dean. Which will probably be soon.” I roll my eyes, ignoring the Dean reference. Besides, Hansen’s term isn’t up for two more years. “We call them associate chairs...