Stars peppered the sky but Levin’s astronomy was the astronomy of fear, in particular, of losing his job. If he could get rid of the girl and her horse blanket he might make it, with or without pants sneak into town and quickly be home. He
saw himself noiselessly jogging through the streets, as if training for a long distance race. He could ask her to put his pants in a bag and he would pick them up at the beer tavern the next night.
A dog appeared from off the side of the road and began to follow them. Levin considered tossing a rock at it but didn’t want to antagonize the animal. The dog came closer, its eyes glowing in the dark. Levin was thinking of shinnying up the next tree but what would Laverne do? She bent for a stick and flung it at the dog. It took off with a whimper.
A truck approached from the rear. “Come on,” urged Levin and ducked behind a tree, but this time Laverne continued walking. As the headlights hit her, to Levin’s dismay she was jerking her thumb for a ride. The truck slowed down, then someone pitched an empty beer can at her, hitting her with a pong on the rump. Levin found her crying.
“Don’t cry, Laverne.”
“Bullshit.”
They walked on. Once Levin went off the road into icy water in a drainage ditch. And Laverne tripped over half a rubber tire and skinned her elbow. He tied it with his handkerchief.
It seemed to Levin they had walked half the night before they finally entered Easchester. Under the garish highway lamps he was at his most anxious, fearing the police prowl car, tempted every minute to say goodnight and sprint home.
But he couldn’t leave her because he considered it partly his fault they were in this mess, and he felt for her a certain tenderness for having for a minute lain under him.
They passed the lumber mill and a few minutes later he recognized Bucket’s house. Laverne led him into a long alley, across a bridge and through a small park, where the icy grass froze what was left of warmth in his blood. A milkman stared at them from his truck. Levin urged her to go faster but when they turned the next corner she said they were home.
He was immensely relieved, at the same time fatigued and
chilled. Only his overworked nerves had kept from him how bad he had been feeling. But on the porch, as Laverne took off his pants, the sight of her body aroused his desire.
. “I’m grateful to you in more ways than one, Laverne,” he said haltingly. “Couldn’t we meet sometime—under better circumstances, and—”
She kicked his pants off the porch. “No, you bastard, don’t ever let me see you again in your whole goddam life. Don’t think those whiskers on your face hide that you ain’t a man.”
This broke Levin up.
Levin woke with a sob from a dream of wrestling Leo Duffy, who when last seen, riotously tarred and turkey-feathered, was riding a rail out of town. Et tu, Brute? He shook his bloody fist at the new instructor. Levin leaped out of bed, indignantly shook the alarm clock, a new piece of junk, and pitched it out of the window. He hopped into his pants, fumbled with shoe laces, hurried into shirt, tie, jacket—everything thoughtfully laid out last night. Thank God he didn’t have to shave; the beard paid off. Holding to his inexpensive broad-brimmed new brown hat, he ran on an empty stomach in a drizzle from Mrs. Beaty’s house to Humanities Hall. Although it was only five after eight on the first day of fall term, the quadrangle was deserted, not a solitary soul visible. His students were already in class but Levin wasn’t so he galloped to get there, his first hard running in years, heart whamming, throat parched, rain-coattails
flying in the breeze. Bounding up the steps into the old wooden building he went two at a time up the inside stairs. On the second floor he shot a glance down the office side of the hall—luckily all clear, every door shut. Sneaking into his office, Levin dropped his damp hat and raincoat on a chair and grabbed books and papers. He hastened to class, running a broken comb through his whiskers. When for some unexplained reason he looked back, Professor Fairchild and Dr. Gilley, huddled together near the water cooler at the far end of the hall, were watching his progress.
A hush rose like a noisy fog as Levin entered the classroom. Confronted by sixty eyes exploring from the upturned soles of his shoes to his hairy face, he was momentarily panicked, wanted to fly—flee across the continent and hide in someone’s cellar. But he said to himself, For shame, kiddo, with your experience! So he sat at the desk calling the roll in last year’s voice, ashamed to have been late to his first college class; and to tell the truth the students seemed embarrassed too. But Levin recalled how certain of his old profs had habitually been unable to be anywhere on time, for which nobody he knew blamed them, so why exaggerate molehills? Tomorrow he’d be punctual as usual and a bad beginning would be forgotten. If Professor Fairchild came to work at seven-thirty A.M. he would see Levin long since at his desk.
Having finished with attendance, still wobbly within, as if he hadn’t yet caught up with what time it was, or had forgotten something he shouldn’t have, although he hoped not, Levin wrote out on the board his name and office number and considered saying a few words of welcome, he the host so to speak. But since he was carefully following the mimeographed instruction sheet, he listed, first, texts, then described the course this was, namely freshman composition via formal grammar, a study he commended after a moment of silence; it clarified writing, that of course was the big thing. “A man who can clearly write an idea is one who can invent one,” was Levin’s good word for the day. In ten minutes he had gone
through the fifteen items on the sheet and was vaguely considering dismissing the class—what could he teach them the nervous first day?—when by luck his eye fell on a line at the bottom of the page: “N.B. DO NOT DISMISS YOUR CLASS BEFORE THE END OF THE HOUR, G.G., DIR. COMP.” Sweating over the error he might have made (he pictured both of them in the hall waiting for his class to let out before the bell rang), Levin got up and demonstrated on the blackboard types of sentences, as the students, after a momentary restlessness, raptly watched his performance.
Silence thickened as he talked, the attentiveness of the class surprising him, although it was a college class—that made the difference. He had expected, to tell the truth, some boredom—the teacher pushing the tide; but everyone’s eyes were fastened on him. Heartened by this, his shame at having been late all but evaporated, Levin, with a dozen minutes left to the hour, finally dropped grammar to say what was still on his mind: namely, welcome to Cascadia College. He was himself a stranger in the West but that didn’t matter. By some miracle of movement and change, standing before them as their English instructor by virtue of his appointment, Levin welcomed them from wherever they came: the Northwest states, California, and a few from beyond the Rockies, a thrilling representation to a man who had in all his life never been west of Jersey City. If they worked conscientiously in college, he said, they would come in time to a better understanding of who they were and what their lives might yield, education being revelation. At this they laughed, though he wasn’t sure why. Still if they could be so good-humored early in the morning it was all right with him. He noticed now that some of them turned in their seats to greet old friends; two shook hands as if to say this was the place to be. Levin grew eloquent. The men in the class—there were a few older students, veterans—listened with good-natured interest, and the girls gazed at the instructor with rosy-faced, shy affection. In his heart he thanked them, sensing he had created their welcome of him. They represented
the America he had so often heard of, the fabulous friendly West. So what if he spoke with flat a’s and they with rocky r’s? Or he was dark and nervously animated, they blond, tending to impassive? Or if he had come from a vast metropolis of many-countried immigrants, they from towns and small cities where anyone was much like everyone? In Levin’s classroom they shared ideals of seeking knowledge, one and indivisible. “This is the life for me,” he admitted, and they broke into cheers, whistles, loud laughter. The bell rang and the class moved noisily into the hall, some nearly convulsed. As if inspired, Levin glanced down at his fly and it was, as it must be, all the way open.
Pauline Gilley had telephoned Levin to invite him to the department potluck, held customarily on the evening of the first day of classes, at the river park.
“I’ve heard ‘potluck’ before,” Levin said, “and think I know what it means but I like to be sure.”
Pauline said, “Don’t tell me you’ve never been to a potluck picnic?”
“Not that I remember by that name, though we used to bring sandwiches to Van Cortlandt Park on P.S. 111 field day.”
“Stop, Mr. Levin, you’ll make me cry.” Instead she laughed.
“It’s a picnic supper where everyone brings some dish or other to share. Gerald says it kept social life alive in Easchester during the Depression.”
“I’ll bring a bakery cake,” Levin said.
“Just bring yourself, bachelors are privileged.”
He thanked her warmly.
“How do you like our department?” Pauline asked.
“Fine,” said Levin.
“I’m so glad.”
So Levin arrived empty-handed at the river park at 3:30 P.M. on Monday, feeling shy, a useless emotion returned from childhood; also foolish in new suit and sweater, since most of the men were in slacks and sport shirts. The park, thick with
fir and spruce, redwood picnic tables strewn among the trees, was damp from the morning drizzle but no one seemed to mind and Levin was glad he had resisted the impulse to bring along his hat and raincoat. The number of people present surprised him, including many kids who set the park in motion. As the wives unloaded cartons and picnic baskets and laid the food on the tables, the men who weren’t making the fire swung swings, played catch, and two or three fished with some of the older boys on the riverbank.
Levin attached himself to the Buckets. Algene was an awkward, long-necked, pretty woman. The five little Buckets, serious children, stayed together, Joe carrying the youngest on his arm.
He never lets up, thought Levin.
“Joe never complains,” Algene said. “His motto is: ‘Labor, sorrow, grief, sickness, want and woes are the sauces of life.”
“Sources?”
“Sauces.”
“From Sterne?” Levin asked.
“What else?”
Pauline, in skirt and sweater and wearing pendant earrings, found Levin and insisted on introducing him to the department wives. These ran from plain to healthfully pretty; several looked like girls, two pregnant, the wives of Ed Purtzer and Wayne Sprinkle, instructors on the third floor. The other women ranged from young middle-aged to Mrs. Fairchild, old. Pauline said that among them were ex-grade school teachers, librarians, a nurse or two and some former secretaries. Several, married in college, had supported their husbands through M.A. degrees. None was without a suggestion of experience in the world and glad to be done with it—whatever their experience had been, the world outside Easchester, the unmated life. “We’ve settled in, all family,” Pauline said.
Levin said he envied them.
“Do you envy Bucket?”
“Him, no.”
She disappeared to round up her children, then returned to finish introducing him. Like their crewcut husbands whom he had met during the last week, the wives were hospitable and friendly. Despite his worrisome clothes, and bushy beard, which some of them scrutinized with interest, and one woman apparently could not abide, among them Levin felt more or less at ease.
Pauline saw to it that he got plenty to eat, his appetite inspired by the variety of food, the fresh air, and piney fragrance of the park. He sampled at least a dozen dishes, then, uneasy at all he had put away while contributing nothing, wandered from the table while Pauline was getting coffee. He met Gilley roaming around with a Zeiss Ikon, and watched him snapping people at random, responding happily to requests to take more. Gerald measured with a light meter what was left of daylight, screwed his eye to the view finder, patiently adjusted subject with object, then signaled hold it, and popped the shutter. A memory was fixed forever on shiny paper. Pauline and both kids came out of the heavier woods surrounding the park, Erik sobbing, and Gilley, to divert the boy, handed Levin the camera and asked him to shoot one of the family. He had set the instrument, balanced one kid on each shoulder, and moved close to Pauline. Levin, enjoying the novelty, snapped. Gilley invited him to pose with his wife but Pauline said it was too dark.
After everyone had eaten and the tables were cleared, the fire in the pit was built up within a semicircle of benches, and Professor Fairchild, in mackinaw and old hat, rose and stood at the far side of the fire, facing the picnickers. His wife, the Anti-Liquor League V.P., a gray-haired lady with two chins and rimless eyeglasses reflecting firelight, sat nearby on a portable chair, bulkily bundled in cloth overcoat and fur cap. In the ordered silence that descended, the children miraculously restrained, the professor spoke:
“The president and new dean have formally welcomed you, and I know Dr. Gilley has for the department, but I usually
reserve this informal occasion to say hello to you and your happy families at the beginning of the academic year, and to announce what is new with us. I greet you, refreshed, I trust, by the long and peaceful summer—a priceless time of relaxation and pleasure, and, I sincerely hope, of reflection and the gathering of resources. I have no doubt you are looking forward to the duties of the new term, and the enjoyment and rewards of teaching.
“Let us at this time welcome back Dr. Leopold and Mrs. Alma Kuck, recently returned from Leopold’s sabbatical year and the successful completion of his doctoral work. Leopold is now, and has been since June, the possessor of a doctor’s degree in English from the University of Wyoming—his native state. A copy of his dissertation on
Piers Plowman
is now on file in the college library, and I urge you all to have a look at it. A lot of work goes into these papers and we ought to do everything we can to keep them alive. Well done, Leopold, and I hope this will be an inspiration to some of you younger men to consider your professional advancement. The Ph.D. is our conditio sine qua non, and everyone who has not yet acquired the degree should be working for it, no matter how rigorous the course.
“Once he had been awarded his doctorate, Leopold, with Alma and their two children, Mickey and Joanne, embarked on a well-deserved six-week vacation tour of the British Isles. Leopold tells me he has returned with twelve-hundred color slides of literary and historic interest, to entertain us during the coming winter. At my request he is also preparing a ten-page summary of the high spots of their trip, which I shall have Milly mimeograph and place in your boxes next week. We can’t all get out into the world and are gratified when some of you bring it to us.
“Dr. Kuck.” He pointed across the fire that reddened his face, and a man with gaunt features and prematurely gray hair got up and nodded to a sprinkling of applause.
“We also welcome back Avis Fliss, after a spring-term leave
of absence without pay to attend her ailing mother in Louisville, Kentucky. Mrs. Fliss has benefited from her daughter’s care, and we hope she is well along on the road to recovery. We’ve missed you, Avis, nice to have you back again.”
He pointed into the dark. Again handclapping. Levin looked around but no Miss Fliss evolved. Apparently she was shy and the professor did not urge her to stand.
“I would like now to announce that Dr. George Bullock has recently been notified of the acceptance, by Koch and McCook, publishers, of his anthology
American Short Stories for College
Use. No doubt we’ll be adopting it here in the near future for our ‘Survey of Literature’ class. And while I’m on the subject just let me say to you men”—he peered across the fire—“that I hope some of you will look into opportunities for writing or editing textbooks. The rewards aren’t stupendous, but I can tell you from my own experience that the satisfaction in ordering one’s thoughts and committing them to paper is greater than some of you young people seem to realize. We ought all to be expanding our horizons. George, I congratulate you on your usual energy and initiative.”