10

After much more furious beard-scratching and Greco-Biblical imprecating and impassioned invocations of assorted codicils to various university-governance documents, the professors grumbled their agreement with the plan.

“And now, to ensure the integrity of this work, we require representation from the faculty,” Fr. Pat said. “I know everyone already does so much, but please, consider volunteering for this. All our futures depend on it.”

“I agree, but I’m already doing curriculum committee.”

“I agree, but I’m already doing grade appeals and academic integrity.”

“I’m doing the review of the Senate minutes review protocol draft.”

“Well, I’m doing high school and community outreach.”

“I’m doing the young alumni.”

“I’m doing students with mental-health challenges.”

“I’m doing students with disabilities.”

“I’m doing international students AND I’m doing the friends of the library.”

“I thought I was doing the friends of the library.”

“There’s so many, we can do them together if that sounds fun.”

It appeared that every faculty member was already doing something, or someone, on behalf of UFU, except Prin. He agreed to return to work early and to do the Chinese property developer and also do the Dragomans Minister. Wende would help.

The meeting was adjourned. Fr. Pat introduced the Chinese developer and the Dragomans Minister to the slower-moving professors and to Sister Contra Melanchthon’s shortbread while Wende walked across the room to greet Prin. She cocked her head and wrinkled her eyes and smiled expectantly. Had she smiled that way, years before? He didn’t remember. He couldn’t, or at least, he wouldn’t. He got up, eased around the table, and they hugged like brother and sister porcupines.

“So, Prin, it’s been a long time,” she said.

“Indeed. I’m sorry your situation in Montana didn’t work out,” he said.

“Don’t be. It was a terrible job in the middle of nowhere. But this new work is endless, I’m making a lot more money and travelling all over the place. I’m single, still, and don’t even have a cat. I wouldn’t mind one, but that’s one cliché too many, right?” she said.

“Your resistance to cliché continues, I see,” he said.

“As does your very careful wording when you’re nervous. But why are you nervous now?” she asked.

“I’m not,” he said.

She leaned in and her teeth flashed in a sudden smile.

“I’ve asked you that question before. Remember?” she asked.

“No. Would you like some shortbread?” he said.

“That conversation we had, after … Don’t you remember?” she asked.

“No,” he said.

This was no lie. He only remembered it after she asked him. He started saying Hail Mollys to forget. Hail Marys.

“Okay, Prin. You don’t want to play. That’s fine. But look, unfortunately for UFU its situation has brought me here, but I’m glad to see you again,” she said.

“Would you like to see a picture of my wife and kids?” he asked.

He held his phone in front of him like the very shield of heaven. She studied the image of Molly and the girls beaming and giggling on a ferry bench, going across to the Toronto Islands the summer before.

“Same old Abelard. The worrying little Catholic boy. I think you can say you’re glad to see me too and not lose what you think of as your soul. And because of this project with UFU, you’ll be seeing more of me,” she said.

Wende was still smiling, but a little sourly, or at least she might have been wearing sour apple lip-balm, he thought. She used to. It left a sharp, sweet taste on your lips.

Wende kissed him lightly on both cheeks before he could step back. Then she gathered her things and walked out of the room, firm and full in her slim black pants. He looked and looked away, his soul full of sour apples.