Red Queen's Run Read online

  “When do you want to announce this?”

  “Today, when we meet with the faculty in the school. Did you set up a noon meeting?”

  “I did.”

  “Good. Now, Dean Solaris, before that meeting, we should chat a bit about a service for Henry, and how you would like my office to help his children when they arrive.”

  The journalism school was across the snow-covered quad from the president’s office. Three stories tall and brick, it had been built in the 1970s on a small plot of land between two older colleges. Although no ivy covered its walls, it was constructed in the Colonial style of all the academic buildings.

  The school was full and noisy when President Lewis, Provost Stoddard, and I arrived shortly before noon. Mondays were always lively but this one seemed particularly crowded. Media people were everywhere. Conventional TV cameras jostled with laptops and shoulder cameras held by the younger journalists. I spotted Joe’s sister, Elaine Morgan Witter, across the entrance hall.

  “Red,” she called, waving. “Can we get an interview with you and Philip Lewis?”

  “We’ll have a press conference after we talk to the faculty,” murmured Lewis.

  “Later,” I called back to Elaine, hoping Lewis would follow Stoddard and me quickly into the elevator before the reporters began to badger them. Too late. One reporter with a handheld camera squeezed into the elevator with us. Stoddard stepped between the reporter and Lewis. Stoddard weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds and stood over six feet.

  “We have a meeting with the faculty upstairs,” said Stoddard, his face close to the young reporter’s. “We’ll have a press conference when that’s over, so why don’t you go back downstairs and tell the others. No comments for now.”

  We reached the third floor and walked to the room at the end of the hall. The faculty lounge was large and comfortable, with upholstered chairs placed by tall windows overlooking the quad. In the center, a long table was surrounded by modern swivel chairs. The table seated twenty for faculty meetings.

  All the chairs were filled when we entered. It was clear the regular faculty had all arrived early, as had several members of the adjunct faculty, some of whom could not fit at the table and perched on the edges of the upholstered chairs.

  Joe’s sister, Elaine, slipped in by a back door and sent me a small, sympathetic smile. She joined the other adjunct professors in the back of the room.

  Edwin Cartwell offered his chair to Lewis, who waved him away. Lewis and Stoddard stood at the head of the table. I went over to the windows and sat on the sill. The room felt uncomfortably warm and I was glad to be near the large cold glass overlooking the snowy landscape outside. I slipped off my coat and waited.

  “This is not a good morning,” President Lewis began, “but I am grateful to see so many of you here in spite of difficult weather and even more tragic events.” Lewis had been a literature scholar. He was known for his careful and fluid language. I was comforted by the grace of his delivery. I was not ready to say anything. I was still grieving for Henry. Moreover, I was nervous about what Lewis would say after he finished acknowledging the apparent cause of the death of the dean—“heart attack, we think”—and the several minutes of praising Henry.

  The first question came from George Weinstein who narrowly missed interrupting the president as he cleared his throat. “Aren’t we going to cancel classes today?” It was more of a challenge than a question. That was George’s manner.

  “I think not today or tomorrow,” said Lewis. “The students are going to need to see and hear you today. Don’t underestimate their sense of loss. I know this may be difficult, but you need to be good leaders and good teachers, especially today. We’ll probably close the school in memoriam on the day of Henry’s service but that depends on the date his children choose to have it.”

  “When are Henry’s children due?” asked Edwin.

  “Late this evening. The son, Michael, had to fly from Paris. He’s meeting his sister in Chicago and then flying here. The provost and I will meet them at the airport...”

  “When will we start a search for a new dean?” George interrupted again. Lewis paused and looked steadily at George. The room went completely silent. Lewis was not used to rudeness and certainly no one expected anyone to bring up the subject of a new dean while the old dean still lay in the morgue. The president said nothing, allowing silence to be reproof.

  After several awkward seconds, Provost Stoddard spoke. “We won’t begin a search until after services for Dean Brooks.”

  “So who’s running the school in the meanwhile?” George said again, oblivious to criticism.

  “George, for God’s sake,” said Phyllis Baker.

  “Well,” continued George, defending his question and now standing on his feet and buttoning his jacket over his considerable stomach. “Don’t we need to know? I mean, we are too small to have department chairs, so, if we’re not closing the school down, we need to have someone to cover the bureaucratic nonsense.” George cleared his throat again, his method of punctuating for emphasis. “And, importantly, we need to form a committee to choose an interim dean, and a search committee for a new dean.” George’s voice was loud and his face tended to flush when he was insistent or upset and he was both. More than once I had seen George shoot his cuffs to establish his importance to the audience.

  “The provost and I have already chosen an interim dean,” said Lewis. The room was hushed again. “And later this semester, we will get together with her to set up a search committee.”

  “Her?” said Edwin, now on his feet.

  “You mean you’re not going to give the faculty a chance to choose their own leader?” said Simon.

  Oh shit, here we go. I’d warned them hadn’t I? This was going to be a disaster. Across the table I saw Larry Coleman lean back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of his mouth to help conceal a smile. Phyllis Baker’s dark brown eyes looked a bit brighter. Max Worthington looked expectant.

  Lewis remained calm. “The journalism faculty will have an important role to play in the search for a new dean. But meanwhile, the provost and I have chosen a highly qualified administrator to be the interim dean. And, no Simon, we are not going to put this to a vote. I make interim choices. Faculty are only advisory.” Lewis smiled at Simon who glared back.

  Another moment of silence. “And your choice is?” Edwin’s mouth purses up when he’s irritated.

  “Dr. Meredith Solaris,” said Stoddard with a slight smile and nod to Edwin. “Your very capable and experienced associate dean. She has our complete confidence.”

  The room began to buzz.

  “Great,” said Max audibly above the buzz. Elaine’s smile grew wider. A bit of tentative applause followed.

  “Ah,” said Edwin, sitting down and letting out a conspicuous sigh. “The Red Queen rises.”

  I wondered how long it would take for me to start loathing Edwin Cartwell.

  How do you get over that awful feeling you’ve just been promoted beyond your level of competence? Look at your resume, my father used to say. Look at what you’ve already done and look particularly at what you’ve already accomplished. Especially if it was arduous. How did you get through grad school? How did you get to be associate dean?

  What was bothering me?

  The faculty quarrel.

  The fights of children are terrible. I remembered the red, sweaty face of an eight-year-old opponent in grade school. Behind him I saw the cruelty in the faces of his conspirators. They twisted my arm and stole my lunch money. That was one of the few fights I lost. For weeks afterward I hated them all and wanted to make them bleed and cry and plead for mercy.

  Grownups presumably have their passions under control—in particular sophisticated, well-educated grownups. But not my faculty. Somehow their feud had awakened hatred. And now a man was dead because of it. Perhaps ha
tred had always been there, a snake sleeping at the bottom of a basket.

  I remembered how my father combed snarls out of my hair. He’d tug and pull and demand courage in spite of the pain. He said courage would give me the strength to be virtuous. Since he was the only parent I had who gave a damn about me, I inhaled my tears and promised courage would become my strong suit. For most of growing up, I was sure I had the guts of a prizefighter. In elementary school, I tackled blood-boiling debates and playground fights. I was the tough chick. Willing to take a punch and give a better one back. No one messed with me.

  And, because of what happened when I was thirteen, I thought I’d always be able to stand up to anyone.

  It was Ohio in midsummer. I was walking home from music camp. The air was heavy and moist, scented with cut grass. I was several blocks from home when I heard the distant squealing of brakes. The driver must have turned on to the side street where I was walking because I saw a car go by in a blur and I figured he was still going fifty when his fender struck a small blond boy and sent him head-first into an iron fence.

  I saw the whole thing. I know I was shouting as I ran across the street because, by the time I reached the car, people had come out of their houses and surrounded the boy. Even before a woman’s voice started wailing, I knew from the way the kid’s body was angled away from his neck that he was dead.

  As I approached the car, I could see the driver’s face, white and sweaty. I don’t know why, but I opened the car door and leaned in. “Get out,” I said. “You’re going to be sick and throw up all over the upholstery.”

  And the guy got out. He had arms like a wrestler. Black t-shirt with a Marlboro box folded into the sleeve. I guessed him to be in his twenties. He steadied himself and walked toward the crowd.

  I looked around. Everyone was focused on the boy’s body, even the driver who was standing well back of the others. The muscles in his back moved with his heavy breathing.

  I reached into the car and took his keys. I stuffed them in my pocket and then headed toward the edge of the crowd, trying to stay out of the driver’s line of sight.

  “You bastard. You bastard. You killed my baby.” I’ll never forget the anguish in that mother’s voice. I saw the driver stop, turn and head backward toward his car. An old man in the crowd came after him and clawed at the driver’s arm. “You can’t leave,” the old man hissed.

  The driver spun around and slammed his fist into the old man’s face. Then he ran to his car and climbed in the front seat. I saw him bend down and search the floor. “Where the hell are my keys?” he said. “Who took my keys?” He got out of his car and looked around in a panic. His eyes were wild. I couldn’t stop staring at him. His eyes landed on me.

  I looked down, tried to focus on the root of an elm tree pushing its way up through the concrete sidewalk. I knew I should run, but my legs wouldn’t work. One quick stride over the chunk of broken sidewalk and I would be clear to run. The crowd would stop the driver. Wouldn’t they? The old man had tried and gotten punched and the crowd had done nothing. Sweat poured off my neck and down my back.

  “My keys, kid. My keys.” The driver was maybe three feet away.

  I found my voice if not my legs. “Mister, look around you. There are twenty people here.”

  The driver cocked his head to one side. His hand shot out, palm toward me, threatening. “The keys, kid. Or you’ll get hurt.”

  The crowd muttered. I sensed the crowd was shifting toward me, some even behind me. The old man was near and two younger men were behind the driver.

  “You lay a hand on me and you’ll be sorry,” I said in a voice that did not sound like my own. “You’ve already killed one kid.”

  The muttering became a growl. The driver’s head swiveled. His arms came up with both fists clenched.

  The sudden whoop of the ambulance made him stagger. A police car moved silently into his view, red and blue light flashing across his face.

  His arms dropped to his sides. His head fell forward as his legs buckled, forcing him to kneel on the hot pavement.

  As the first policeman reached the driver, I reached into my pocket and threw the keys into the street.

  “Good girl,” I heard a man say. “Brave girl,” said a woman nearby. A large woman with long white hair stood in front of me, blocking the sight of the driver and the policeman. A cigarette was planted firmly between her thick lips. Her face was framed in chins and greasy with the heat. She spoke softly to me.

  “Child, you are never going to be this afraid again.”

  I ran all the way home to my father. When I told him about what had happened and what the white-haired woman had said to me, he said, “Red, my love, take that as prophecy.”

  But the prophecy was wrong. My courage seemed to fade with adulthood. I had been frightened for more than a year. It started when George Weinstein gave a party at his ranch, several miles outside of Landry, I didn’t want to go, but went because Henry wanted company. Lunch was an elaborate barbeque with imported beers and wines from small labels in Napa.

  “Can’t be shipped out of California,” said George, beaming over the loaded table. “You have to know the winemakers to buy for your own cellar.”

  After lunch, George took those of us interested in riding to the stables behind the house. “All former mustangs,” he announced, “rounded up and auctioned off every year. They go for dog food if guys like me don’t buy them.”

  A “gentled” Palomino was assigned to me. “You sit her well,” George said as we cantered out across the meadow that surrounded his ranch. The day was glorious, bright blue sky that went on forever.

  On the way back, George rode ahead of us toward the barn. I followed him, guiding the mare into the dimness. As I attempted to dismount, my foot caught in the stirrup. I started to fall, but George was there, hands under my armpits, his face inches from mine, large, sweaty, and grinning. He freed me from the stirrup and held me above the ground. His thumbs dug into the flesh above my breasts. “I’m okay,” I said, but still he held me, my boots inches away from the floor of the barn. He seemed to be laughing but made no sound.

  “Planning to count her teeth, George?”

  Henry was behind me.

  George released me.

  Henry drove me back to Landry. It was dusk and I could only see his profile. “You all right?” he said without taking his eyes off the road.

  “Was that about sex?” I was still tense.

  “No. That was about power,” said Henry. George had once been Henry’s friend and his firmest supporter. But once Henry became the dean, he ignored George’s advice. Hired people George didn’t like. Cardinal sin. George had never forgiven Henry. “Suspending you in the air was to show you how strong he is and to show me he was still in charge even if I’m dean. George likes to control. And he likes to scare people. He’s irritated because he can’t scare me, so he went after you.”

  When I became aware of the animus between Henry and George, Edwin and Simon, the three faculty members were still talking like grown-ups, couching their attacks in the high-toned linguistics of professional dispute.

  They began their diatribes with such phrases as, “in the interests of improving the school,” or “recognizing the needs of American journalism.” I wondered if they were scripting their remarks before the meetings.

  The root of their anger was simple and ugly—not really about the school. No, it was personal with these folks. All three had been on the search committee that recommended Henry for the job of dean. And, then, when two teaching spots opened up, instead of hiring the traditional newspaper and magazine candidates George and Edwin favored, Henry had hired two “new media” guys: Max Worthington, a specialist in online writing and, then, a year later, Larry Coleman who had been an online editor and a well-known blogger. George, Simon, and Edwin were outraged. The old guard closed ranks.

  I
n Larry’s case, Henry had said, “We need his online skills. Trust me, this hire is essential for the future of the school.”

  “Bullshit,” Simon Gorshak had said, addressing the entire faculty at the August meeting. “We have a power-drunk despot on our hands. When I was dean this kind of totalitarian hiring decision would have been unheard of. ”

  “Oh really,” said Max. “Is that why you were forced out?”

  It was downhill from there.

  Now Henry was dead. Probably murdered. Would whoever killed him come after me?

  “Hell is a tenured professor with hurt feelings,” Henry had said.

  Chapter 6

  Even before Henry promoted me into administration I had heard him say the job of dean was the most difficult in a university. “It’s about money and people, people and money. Forget scholarship, forget the pleasures of teaching. Deans don’t have enough time. Sometimes I even forget why I applied for this post.”

  “Why are faculty so difficult to manage?” I had asked, not just thinking about George, Simon, and Edwin but about others with complaints, requests, and unreasonable attitudes toward colleagues.

  “Because they are people who think otherwise,” Henry had said.

  “People who think otherwise,” I repeated.

  “You got it. Professors are known for differing, for holding opinions outside of the norm, even unpopular opinions. The ethos of the university encourages dissent and higher levels of discussion. But sometimes one of them just indulges in argument for its own sake, rolling around in contentiousness like a dog in bird shit.”

  “They have so much freedom. Why aren’t they more loyal to the university?”

  Henry had looked thoughtful. He folded his hands behind his neck and stuck his elbows up in the air. “Some professors are primarily loyal to their disciplines. For some, loyalty to a college or university comes in third.”