George Bullock, a sharp-faced handsome man with light hair plastered tight on a long skull, bowed amiably, sitting on his hands.
“The department of vital statistics,” the professor went on with a chuckle, “has no engagements, weddings, or births to announce presently, but we have acquired a new bachelor, so that we may be said to retain a stake in the future.”
He said, after the momentary laughter, “I now take the opportunity to welcome among us Mr. Seymour Levin, a native of New York City, New York; B.A. from New York University, New York, 1940; and M.A. from the same institution, 1950. He comes to us at Cascadia College as an instructor in composition. We are happy to welcome him and hope he will enrich us from his experience in the East. There he is sitting with the Gilleys. Would you mind standing, Mr. Levin?”
Levin stood limply, with a bob of the head acknowledging the polite applause.
“Hooray,” piped Erik Gilley in the aftermath of silence, and everyone laughed. Levin quickly sat down. When his color diminished to cool he noticed that Pauline’s face still retained an embarrassed glow.
When Levin tried to think across the continent to a New York autumn his rainy thoughts no longer let him. They stopped at the drenched mountainside forests of the Cascades. He had cut himself off, he had discovered, from longing for the East. Without regret. If Levin regretted anything it was not long ago having escaped the city. In Easchester he felt comparatively at peace with himself, more than for years. To stay at peace he let days go by without opening a newspaper or turning on a broadcast. He knew what the news was and preferred to forget it: The cold war blew on the world like an approaching glacier. The Korean War flamed hot, although less hopelessly for America. The country had become, in fear and self-accusation, a nation of spies and communists. Senator McCarthy held in his hairy fist everyman’s name. And there were rumors of further frightening intercourse between scientists and atomic things. America was in the best sense of a bad term, un-American. Levin was content to be hidden amid forests and mountains in an unknown town in the Far West.
His alarm clock, retrieved and repaired, woke him in the dark shortly after six. He dressed in the cold, his senses like lit candles, and went down to the cellar to load the sawdust hopper with six pailfuls. The heat blew up in minutes. He fed Mrs. Beaty’s white cat, then himself. Levin ate leisurely, reflecting that much of his enjoyment of Easchester was relief in having escaped the city’s nervous hurry. After washing his few dishes, when the sky brightened he snapped off the kitchen light and sat in the morning dark. Afterwards he read for fifteen or twenty minutes in the front room, looking up from time to time at the ticking clock on the mantel—he was, after
all, Levin—and left the house at seven-twenty. He walked to work, the streets deserted; fifteen minutes later the flow of students on foot and in cars, began. At seven-twenty Levin could still be the first man abroad in the world, another refreshment.
If it was raining he went under his blooming black umbrella. Usually the morning was overcast between wettings, the moving sky continuously surprising. Overhead the clouds roiled dark; ahead thinning through shades of gray to an accident of gold. To the north above the dark green hills, a moody blue. In the west white steam shrouded the mountain tops. Depending on the direction he looked, above could be gold, black, silver, gray. He had never in his life gazed so long at sky, probed so often the places of light, threads bursting, spoonfuls burning, webs of glowing caught in trees. Around noon, if it was going to, the sun poked its steaming eye through the mist, and clouds broke into rivers and lakes, creating blue afternoons. Marvelous.
Teaching was itself sanctuary—to be enclosed in a warm four-walled classroom. Levin taught twelve hours a week, a thankful reduction of the more than twenty of his high school program. Bonehead grammar was all daily drill,
The Elements,
plus workbook D; but Comp 10, the regular freshman course was a little more civilized. Although
The Elements
again prevailed, with workbook A constituting two-thirds of the instruction, here at least were six themes, based on
Science in Technology.
These, with frequent quizzes, produced a heady pile of paper which the instructor, with Duffy in mind, labored to stay abreast of. He was told that in English 11, next term, he would teach writing. “It’s more a college course,” Gilley said. “First we have to teach them what the high schools didn’t.” Though disappointed in the subject matter, Levin taught with passion although it came out grammar. But the students respected what mystified them, so he enjoyed teaching it.
He was independent—no supervision nor direct official inquiries,
though Avis Fliss, Gilley’s assistant in remedial courses, gave tactful advice here and there. She had materialized as a not-bad-looking woman of about thirty-five, with a breathy voice and fluttery eyelids, the one who had looked away from his beard when Pauline had introduced him. Her taut, flexible neck was a surprising instrument, it seemed to Levin she might see behind her if she tried. Among Avis’ assets were a well-stacked bosom, and behind like a hard head of cabbage in a tight skirt. Her scent was a warm mixture of orange blossom toilet water and tobacco smoke; Levin found it interesting. For a while she was ill at ease with him, not knowing whether to confront his whiskers head on or peek around or under to uncover a fugitive from justice. Her eyelids fluttered as she spoke to his left shoulder. But he waited for her to come to grips with him and before long she did. Her flutterings diminished, the voice took heart, and though coy, she addressed him to his eye.
Between classes he appreciated his private office—
his—
the first he had ever had, an unbeatable institution for someone who lived much alone. During two daily office hours Levin saw his students and “counselees”—ten, whose programs and performance he had to keep an eye on—did what he could for them, and sent them on their way. Once his hours were over he kept his door shut and graded papers, or read, a privilege during the working day. Yet when someone knocked, his impulse was to hide the book. Some of the other men, Bucket for one, gave unlimited time to their freshmen, and Levin uneasily thought he might be cutting it too short but finally figured he taught conscientiously and was available when he was supposed to be. After that he had work of his own and wasn’t, like some of the boys on the third floor, whose voices he heard in the hall as he passed their offices, interested in discussing at length the World Series or the latest football scores. Being new at the business he needed time to himself. Not that he used every minute earning his salary. Often he stood at the window —the cracked part resembling a tree in the glass—watching the
clouds drifting eastward. He gazed at the green-lawned, thickly-treed quadrangle, liking its order and beauty as he recalled the stone skyscrapers in which he had gone to college. And he was fascinated by the casting classes across the street, men and women with fishing rods, flipping weighted lines at colored hoops in the grass, for two college credits. A new world, Levin.
People visited informally from office to office. His coffee mug preceded George Bullock through doors, then he emerged. Avis, wandering, loved to sit on people’s desks; her legs were fair. Others Levin met in the men’s room, but the crossroads of Humanities Hall was the coffee room. Before hurrying to the lavatory with her weak kidney, Milly Womack, the secretary, about twenty-five, with harlequin glasses, set the forty-cup percolator going for the first morning round. Soon Gerald’s practiced ear picked up the sound of bubbling and he called down the hall, “Water’s boiling.” Then the daylong trek began. Whenever Levin came in for his daily cup or two of tea he was sure to meet someone, if not a crowd.
His colleagues, gathered for coffee, were amiable people, sociable, unpretentious, several well-educated but no one eager to show it. On a dark day one might be momentarily invisible against the wall. Every man, no matter his rank, was every man’s assumed equal, very relaxing. Competitiveness, if it existed, was hidden: no visible back-biting or in-fighting, promotions came when they came and nothing could be done about it. No jackdaws crowed, though Bullock’s wit produced a mild vaudeville, a Californian among Westerners. Despite their degrees or progress toward degrees, their pipes and casualness, the professors looked like the Rotarians downtown, with cheaper suits. But they wore their clothes without self-consciousness, and those whose haircuts were the work of wives with Sears Roebuck clippers, were proud of it. Saving money was a serious entertainment. The upstairs young men were of the same friendly breed, livelier, with more colorful
jacket and slacks combinations. About five of the dozen were addicted to flattop crewcuts and occasional jive talk, though not much beyond conservative otherwise. They were, as Gerald put it, “very normal people,” and Levin liked them, except Ferris Farper, a heavy-faced man with eyeglass frames too tight for his head, who glowered at him whenever they met until Levin grew uncomfortable. Farper would not forgive him for acquiring Duffy’s office. Levin controlled his feelings until he discovered that Farper, after using the toilet for whatever purpose, did not wash his hands; he then returned him dislike for dislike. During October the instructor was invited home by Millard Scowers, O. E. Jones, and Dave Fitznogle, all from upstairs.
With the exception of Levin, CD Fabrikant, and Avis Fliss, everyone in the department was married. Some had been at fantastically young ages, and Levin envied them the years of loneliness they had escaped. There was much talk of domestic matters: kids, houses, the high cost of living. In self-defense a surprising number of men were expert at fixing any mechanical apparatus—cars, washing machines, flush toilets, hi-fi sets. Courtney Haddock, Maurice White and Gene McElfrish teamed up to clean a blocked sewer, pour two yards of concrete, and install a twenty-five foot television antenna. They discussed these jobs with theoretic and practical knowledge that made the instructor feel he had been born on another planet. Gardens were carefully kept up. Leaves were raked—speared almost as they fell—into piles on parking strips for the town truck to haul away. No wonder Levin missed the odor of burning autumn leaves—it wasn’t allowed. Lawn mowing went on and on. Let the sun shine a minute and Ed Purtzer, whose house was two blocks to the college side of Mrs. Beaty’s, changed into shorts and sweatshirt, rolled the mower out of the garage, oiled and adjusted it, then shaved his lawn, raked the cut grass, edged and combed the one-inch turf until it resembled his own stiff haircut. If a shampoo for grass were on the market he would have used it.
Most of them were specialists at saving money—of necessity on their salaries, although Levin felt one or two went above and beyond the call of duty. Dave Fitznogle could quote from memory the latest
Consumer Reports
ratings on anything from baby diapers to Piper Cubs. John Cutler, another upstairs man, was fanatic about auctions. He attended those in Marathon on Tuesday nights and bought things at bargain prices. One night he bid a dollar for a case of corn flakes and to his surprise, got it. Cutler couldn’t stand cold cereal so he gave boxes of it away to colleagues and neighbors. Thanks to his generosity Levin enjoyed two weeks of inexpensive breakfasts.
During the fall the men in the coffee room talked about flying saucers, five percenters, TV, Ben Hogan’s golf comeback last June, hunting, fishing, their army experiences, and the graduate school ratrace. There was talk about the weather; they congratulated themselves on its mildness. Although books were mentioned they were rarely discussed, and Levin continued to confide his thoughts of what he had read to his notebook. At ten and three, when Professor Fairchild appeared in the coffee room, there was standing room only. The old man, his cup in hand—he never seemed to drink—discoursed humorously on politics. His subject usually was creeping socialism, where it crept, the tyranny of the New Deal, which Easchester had four times voted against, and the evils of federal aid to education. No one questioned his argument or contradicted his facts. Even after he left, controversy did not begin. If there was a mild discussion it ended in agreement. The men or the times? Levin wondered. He had been told there had been “some hot arguments” when Duffy was around. If there was no visible fear in the department—no one spoke the word—Levin presumed an innocence or vacuum he did not inquire into. He was afraid to.
Gerald Gilley often sat alone in the coffee room. Levin, on his way to Milly’s office or the water cooler, saw him on the bench, long legs comfortably crossed, his finger on the loop of
a half-empty coffee mug dangling down his knee, eyes reflectively lit; or the cup full and thoughtfully rising to his puckered lips. Seeing the instructor going by, Gilley would lift his arm in greeting; most often he seemed not to know who was passing, involved with his coffee, the sipping so satisfying he smiled as if the brew were bewitched to some useful purpose. Levin envied him his particular cupful, the same brand he tried at night when he had a set or two of themes to knock off before tomorrow, only it didn’t jazz up his dreams. If Gerald, examining the interior of his coffee mug, saw a vision of the future, it seemed to please him.
He was, as director of composition, cordial and generous. He never stopped giving Levin things, ordered for him a Webster’s dictionary, S. LEVIN lettered in gold on the cover, brought in a flowered tin wastebasket, desk calendar, red-ink ballpoint pen, handy for grading; and he predicted the arrival of a foam rubber backrest for the instructor’s chair, and a replacement, soon, of the cracked window that split the campus scene. “You’re too kind,” Levin said humbly, and Gilley blew his nose. It could truthfully be said he didn’t know who next to give what. Levin wondered what the secret of his good nature was—constitution? the woman he had married? Maybe it was the years he had lived in small towns, his nervous system protected from city pressures, city grind? Maybe a combination of these things? Levin was curious about Gerald’s experience—his life seemed to have gone along evenly—and he wondered if he had ever been ecstatic or miserable. And with wondering Levin wished him continued good fortune.