CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Dean
January 28
COLDER THAN HELL IN MIRROR LAKE. My boots crush a layer of icy snow as I walk toward the history department. I collect letters from my departmental mailbox, then head into my office. I go through the mechanics of a routine—checking email, phone messages, taking stuff out of my briefcase. A note falls from between the pages of a book that I brought back from California:
I tape the note on my computer next to Liv’s drawing of an owl. I don’t look at the framed photo of my wife that sits on my desk. I can almost feel her gazing at me with that warm, pretty smile. That “you’re my hero” look that breaks my heart every time.
I distract myself with more useless tasks until it’s time for the meeting. I go down the hall to Frances Hunter’s office.
“I’m sorry this is happening, Dean.” She opens the door and gestures me inside. She’s dressed in a severely cut, gray suit and a gold necklace. “But I appreciate you coming back. Come in and sit down. Mr. Stafford isn’t here yet.”
I sit in one of the chairs placed before her desk.
“As I’m sure you know, it would be bad for the department if this were to become known.” Frances sits at her desk and regards me steadily from behind her wire-rimmed glasses. “And certainly for the university. So for everyone’s sake, Mr. Stafford and I are committed to keeping everything confidential until we learn more.”
“I appreciate that.” What else can I say?
My stomach is in knots. I didn’t sleep last night. Can’t think too much.
“Would you like some coffee?” Frances indicates a coffeemaker on the shelf behind her.
“No, thanks.” I shift. I hate feeling like I’m at the principal’s office. “I didn’t do anything wrong, Frances.”
Sympathy flashes in her eyes. “Don’t defend yourself, Dean. This isn’t the time or place. Just answer Mr. Stafford’s questions honestly.”
A few minutes later, Ben Stafford arrives—thinning hair, trimmed beard, broad face, wrinkled suit jacket. Ink stain on his lapel. He extends a hand to me as Frances closes the door behind him.
“I’m the director of the Office of Judicial Affairs, Professor West,” he explains, settling into the opposite chair. “Any complaints about sexual harassment are directed to me. My duty is to look into the matter and ascertain if it needs further investigation.”
The word investigation makes my heart plummet.
Stafford opens a file folder and clicks a pen. “So, I’m just going to ask you both some questions about the department atmosphere, treatment of students, that kind of thing.” He peers at us. “Okay?”
“We intend to fully cooperate,” Frances says.
“Good. I must advise you that this interview will be recorded.”
He sets up a recorder, then spends the next half hour lecturing us on university policies about sexual harassment claims and procedures. Then he launches into a series of questions that both Frances and I respond to in a similar way—the history department is friendly, cordial, respectful. Relationships with grad students are professional in the office, sometimes extending into friendship.
“For example, I was recently invited to a student’s wedding,” Frances says. “And Professor Jackson offered use of his vacant New York apartment for a student who was visiting. We also often see each other at social events, like university receptions.”
Stafford asks a host of other questions—how grad students are admitted, how they choose their advisors, the duties of the advisors, the process of approving and writing a thesis.
Then he focuses on me and asks how I communicate with students (email or in person), if I meet with them off-campus (only for study groups), if I have relationships with them outside of work (sometimes, like when I play football with a group of students), if I’ve ever dealt with a sexual harassment complaint (never), how often I have office hours (three times a week), how many female students I’m currently advising (three, not counting Maggie Hamilton).
Do you have any problems with the other students? No.
Have you approved their proposals and supported their research? Yes.
Have you ever had a sexual relationship with a student? No.
Have you ever had a sexual relationship with a professor or employee of the department where you worked? No.
Have you ever asked a student for sexual favors? No.
Has a student ever approached you in a sexual manner?
I can feel Frances looking at me.
“Professor West?” Stafford prompts.
“Uh, yes. Maggie Hamilton did.”
Frances lifts an eyebrow. “She approached you sexually?”
“I’ll ask the questions, Professor Hunter, please,” Stafford says. “You say Maggie Hamilton approached you in a sexual manner?”
“She implied she’d do something sexual if I’d approve her thesis proposal. We’d been having conflict about it for some time. Her research and methodology hasn’t been thorough enough for me to approve her idea. She hasn’t been able to even start writing. She’s been upset about that since last summer.”
“And you’ve tried to rectify this?” Stafford asks.
“I’ve tried to help her, steer her in the right direction, yes. I do that for all my students.”
“Ms. Hamilton’s complaint is that you agreed to approve her proposal if she would submit to you sexually.”
Anger burns my chest. “That’s a lie.”
“I’m sure she’d claim your version is a lie too.” Stafford peers at his list of questions. “Are you married?”
“Yes.”
“Has your wife ever had any kind of relationship with one of your students?”
“No.”
“Ever met any of them?”
“Yes, at different university events or lectures.” I shift again. “Maggie Hamilton approached my wife last fall, asking for her help in convincing me to approve her proposal. My wife refused. I told Ms. Hamilton that her actions were entirely inappropriate and suggested that she seek another advisor, since there didn’t seem to be a way to resolve the problem.”
“That was when, you claim, she approached you in a sexual manner?” Stafford asks.
“No, she came into my office a few weeks ago and made the implication.”
“How did you respond?”
“I asked her to leave and told her again to seek another advisor. Then I wrote to Dr. Hunter telling her I could no longer advise Ms. Hamilton due to the deadlock over her thesis.”
Stafford looks at Frances. “Do you recall such a letter?”
“I do, yes. I was following up on it when you contacted me regarding Ms. Hamilton’s claim.”
Stafford nods, checks his recorder, looks over his papers. More questions about my research, the classes I teach, the ratio of female to male students, the ratio of female to male professors. The number of female students I’ve advised over the years. The subjects of their theses and dissertations.
Finally, when the interview starts moving toward hour four, Stafford stretches and sighs. “All right, then. I think I have what I need. I was supposed to interview Ms. Hamilton yesterday, but she needed to reschedule. Our next step will be to schedule a mediation meeting with both parties so we can hopefully come to a resolution and avoid any formal charges.”
He leans forward to turn off the recorder.
“Excuse me.” Frances puts out a hand to stop him. “I’d like to go on record stating that Professor Dean West came to King’s University with a stellar, unblemished reputation. Though he has only been on the King’s faculty for two years, he has proven himself a scholar and professor of great renown. Students give him excellent evaluations. Until now, we have not had a complaint of any kind regarding Professor West, nor has one ever been recorded at his previous institutions.”
“Duly noted, Professor Hunter.” Stafford switches off the recorder and stuffs it into his briefcase. “I’ll be in touch about the mediation meeting. Meanwhile, both of you can be assured we are strongly invested in keeping this all confidential.”
Both Frances and I rise to shake his hand before she escorts him to the door. As soon as his footsteps fade down the corridor, Frances swipes her hand across her brow.
“That was unpleasant,” she remarks.
I almost smile. At the very least.
“Hey, thanks,” I say, not sure how to express how much her support means. “For telling him that. I appreciate it.”
“It’s true. You’ve done great things for the department.” She crosses her arms and fixes me with a stare. “However, Dean, if Ms. Hamilton’s accusations prove true… I’ll gladly watch you fall while I protect this department and university from blame.”
“Understood.”
“Good.” She tilts her head toward the door. “Go get some sleep. You look like hell. Are you going back to California?”
“Flight leaves tomorrow. I should be back in Mirror Lake next weekend, after my father is released from the hospital.”
“I’ll keep you apprised of any developments via email.” Frances sits behind her desk again. “Have a safe journey. There’s an eastern storm approaching, so check your flights.”
I leave, glad to get out of the stuffy office. I’m hungry since I haven’t eaten all day, but I need to work off this tension first. I stop by my office to get my duffle bag.
“Professor West?” Jessica, one of my PhD students, waves at me from down the hall. “Thought you were out of town.”
“I’m leaving again tomorrow.” I stop, one hand on my office doorknob.
A week ago I’d have told her to have a seat so we could discuss her research, the grad seminar, whatever she needs to hash out. Now I’m scared to even let her into my office.
I grip the doorknob harder. Anger seethes.
“I found that paper you suggested.” Jessica digs into her satchel. “Do you have a minute to talk about it?”
“No.” I close the door. “Sorry, I’m… I’ve gotta get going.”
“Oh.” She seems a little disappointed, but shoves the paper back into her bag. “Sorry, caught you at a bad time.”
“No.” I swallow a rising tide of shame as I literally back away from her. “Just an early flight tomorrow. Email me your questions, okay? I’ll get back to you soon.”
“Okay.” She gives me a quizzical look as I turn and head for the elevators.
Jesus. I suddenly have the sick feeling I’ll be on guard with all my students from now on.
I try to shake off the thought as I head for the university gym. A few rounds on the heavy bag, weights, four miles around the indoor track. By the time I’m done, I’m too tired to feel anything. On the way back to the locker room, I grab a towel from a shelf.
“Hey, Professor Marvel, seriously?” Kelsey’s voice cuts into my foggy brain. “Your department made you come back for one meeting?”
I turn to face her. She’s standing by an elliptical machine, all righteous indignation in her workout clothes, her eyes blue lasers behind her rimless glasses.
“What kind of department tells you to come back for one meeting?” she asks.
I swipe the towel over my face and force in a breath. “I’ve got that conference coming up. A book deadline. New faculty possibilities. Lots of stuff going on.”
“One meeting? They couldn’t wait a week?”
I can’t deal with her nosiness. I turn and head toward the men’s locker room, holding up a hand to stop her from following me the way she once did.
“Liv and I will be back in town in a few days,” I tell her. “Take care of her plants until then.”
“Dean, you had a family emergency, and I think you should mention to the provost’s office that your department is—”
“Leave it, Kelsey.” The order comes out harsh and cold.
Kelsey blinks and takes a step back. “Wow. Okay.”
I don’t have the energy to feel guilty for snapping at her. I shove through the locker room door and head for the showers.
On the way home, I pick up a pizza and then eat almost all of it while watching a sports channel. There are two messages on my cell phone from Liv. Finally I call her before it gets too late. For the first time ever, I almost don’t want to talk to her.
Then I hear her voice, like warm honey, and the tension slides away.
“I got your note, Picasso,” I tell her.
“That’s called representational art,” she replies.
“I’m more of an abstract artist, myself.”
“Yes, I know.” There’s a smile in her voice. “I tried to call you earlier. How did the meeting go?”
“Fine. Lasted most of the afternoon, then I went to the gym. Saw the pit viper there.”
She chuckles. “How is she?”
“Viperous.”
“I’ll tell her you said that,” Liv remarks.
“She’ll want an award.”
“Hey, I was watching the news, and they talked about a storm hitting the Midwest tomorrow morning,” Liv says. “They said it could become a blizzard. I’m worried about you driving to the airport.”
“I’ll check the flight and weather status before I leave.”
“Okay, but don’t try and get to the airport if it’s unsafe,” she says. “You can always catch a later flight. Promise me.”
“I promise. Tell me about your day.”
She tells me about a walk she took, the café where she ate lunch, some weeding she did in my parents’ garden, the three oranges she picked, the book she finished reading. She says everything looks good with my dad. My mother is apparently bustling around getting a spare bedroom organized for his return home.
To anyone else, my mother’s attentiveness toward my father seems genuine and caring.
My fingers tighten on the phone. “How do you feel, Liv?”
“Fine, actually. Second trimester in a couple of weeks. Hard to believe.”
“Archer hasn’t…”
“Dean, it’s fine, I promise. I haven’t even seen him today.”
“Well, I’ll be back tomorrow, okay?”
“Not if it’s stormy. I want you to be safe.”
“I will be. Just can’t wait to get back to you.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Liv says. “Love you.”
“You too.”
I turn off the phone and go to bed, crashing into a dreamless sleep.