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WHEN I WOKE UP THE next morning, Donnie had already left for work. The door to my spare room was closed, so I assumed Davison was still asleep. I showered and dressed. As I walked out the door, I propped Davison’s birthday card on the coffee maker. I had gotten Donnie to sign it, too, and he’d seemed pleasantly surprised I’d remembered to buy something. Davison would wake up on his twenty-first birthday in an empty house, stranded without a car, and fresh from a breakup (which was his own stupid fault), but at least he’d have a cheerful card with a puppy on it.
Donnie and I hadn’t had much to say to each other last night. I wasn’t, to use Emma’s words, simmering and stewing exactly, but Donnie’s secret rendezvous with an attractive, divorced English professor had made me feel a little...pensive.
In any event, my thoughts were occupied with the previous evening’s conversation with Pat. His friend, Jeffrey the antique dealer, had found some very interesting information about the contents of my wooden soap box. It seemed that there might be hope for my career after all. But I had to play it exactly right.
As soon as I got to my office, I sent a file from my phone to the department printer, then called Marshall Dixon’s office for an appointment. I was pleasantly surprised when the secretary told me Dixon would be able to see me that morning.
I arrived ten minutes early, checked in with the secretary, and then walked the twenty echoing paces across the polished floor to the waiting couch. (I could never recall the secretary’s name. All I remembered about her was she always seemed miserably cold.) I felt inside my bag to make sure that I had brought the manila folder containing my printout. Five minutes later, irrationally, I checked again.
At last I was in Marshall Dixon’s office, seated on the other side of her vast koa wood desk.
“I’m here to plead my case,” I said. “For tenure.”
“Your contract does give you the right to request a discussion of the process with members of the administration. Although any questions you may have had should have been answered during the orientation session.”
“The grant Emma Nakamura and I got, investigating attitudes toward biotech? I really thought it would help my case. A grant should earn me extra research points toward being qualified for promotion and tenure, according to my college’s guidelines. But in spite of my objectively meeting the guidelines, I received a negative vote from one member of my department.”
Dixon nodded blandly, giving nothing away.
“I know how important it is for a candidate to have unanimous support from the department. I know the other committees in the decision chain don’t look favorably on mixed votes. I’m hoping you—your support would counter any ambiguity or doubt.”
“I’m sympathetic, but overriding the faculty is something only done as a last resort. At Mahina State, we respect faculty governance.”
It sounded like the campus wide committee had already voted against me. I wasn’t surprised. Once Hanson Harrison raised “concerns” about my research, everyone on the subsequent committees had to fall in line or risk looking naive or non-rigorous. And Dixon wasn’t going to stick out her neck contradicting the faculty if there wasn’t something in it for her.
Well, I might as well go for broke. I had nothing to lose.
“I see what you’re saying. I certainly wouldn’t ask you to expend political capital on my behalf. That’s a lot to ask. Oh. Something else I wanted to get your input on.”
I drew the folder out of my bag, placed it on the glimmering wood surface, and opened it to display the page I had printed out earlier.
“What’s this?” Marshall drew the folder to her side of the vast desk. She studied the paper. Her only reaction was the lifting of her eyebrows.
“This cartoon ran on the front page of a mainland newspaper in 1893. The Brockton Bugle. Times have certainly changed. To modern eyes, this is extremely offensive. I mean, a half-naked Queen Liliuokalani, trying to pawn her crown? Goodness.”
“And what does this have to do with—” I could see the light dawn before Marshall finished the sentence. “That’s Mary Pfaff’s signature.”
“The Beatrix Potter of Hawaii,” I agreed.
“Where’s the original?”
“I have the original newspaper page. According to an antiques expert who researched it, it’s likely the only copy in existence. What you’re looking at is a photograph I took on my phone.”
Marshall met my gaze. “Mary Pfaff’s granddaughter, Dorothy, has been a great friend to Mahina State.”
“I know. Thanks to her generosity, we have a whole library wing dedicated to Mary Pfaff. And I heard scholarships are being planned. One or two endowed chairs. Maybe even a naming opportunity. The Mary Pfaff College of Fine Arts. This relationship has been a wonderful thing for Mahina State. I’m a big Alice Mongoose fan myself.”
Marshall didn’t ask, “What do you want?” Her even gaze posed the question silently.
“I love working at Mahina State. I enjoy teaching, helping our students succeed, and I have so many wonderful colleagues. Not to mention, I’ve put down roots here. My husband, Donnie, would never leave the Drive-Inn, so I don’t have the option of moving away. And there aren’t a lot of other employment opportunities outside of the university for someone with a Ph.D. in literature and creative writing. If I don’t get tenure, the only thing I can do here in Mahina is maybe a little freelance writing.”
“The County Courier would be fortunate to have someone of your qualifications,” Marshall said.
“Unfortunately, the County Courier isn’t looking for new writers. I’ve been in discussion with one of the airline magazines.” I was improvising here, but again, what did I have to lose? “They’re interested in running a piece on the legacy of Mary Pfaff. They think the accidental discovery of this cartoon would be a fascinating sidebar. This could generate a lot of buzz. And of course, Mahina State University has such a close relationship with Mary Pfaff’s estate they’ll certainly be part of the story too.”
I hoped Marshall wouldn’t call my bluff. Mary’s granddaughter, Dorothy, had seemed so sweet and frail when I met her at the wretched Halloween party. There was no way I could bring myself to expose her to the embarrassment this awful cartoon would cause.
I narrowed my eyes a little, to try to make myself look more ruthless. In case there was any doubt in Marshall’s mind that I Meant Business.
Marshall gazed at me for an unnervingly long moment.
“And if you were to be awarded tenure?” she asked, finally.
“I were to be awarded tenure? I would celebrate by making a gift of this historically significant artifact to Mahina State University. Our library would probably want to archive it, to keep it safe, away from light and the elements. And of course, I would focus on my teaching, and my scholarly publishing. I certainly wouldn’t be interested in writing any stories for airline magazines. I mean, I wouldn’t have time.”
“You’d donate the original?”
“Yes. And delete any electronic copies.”
“May I keep this?” she asked.
“Of course.”
I didn’t want to take back the folder anyway. I was shaking so hard, I was sure it would start rattling in my hand.