(A DR SIBLEY CURIOSITY)
NORMAN PRENTISS
illustrated by Richard Wagner
December 1962
Lowell Jacobs would have preferred dinner in the city – his favorite restaurant Des Artistes, or the steak house Weller raved about last summer. The hotel dining room offered more convenience, however, and with so many interviews scheduled this conference weekend, Lowell couldn’t afford to stray from home base. As an added benefit, the dining room and its accompanying bar allowed more opportunity to make quick contact with other attending scholars.
I enjoyed your Austen paper this morning, Professor Blevin (standing to shake the elder academic’s hand as he crossed from the bar to the restaurant bathroom). The social context you provided, your observations on gender issues in the novel…well, they gave us a lot of fresh insights. Lowell Jacobs, by the way. Delivering a paper tomorrow morning on Poe and the structure of detective fiction, and I’d be honored to see you there. (And then, slipping a business card into the great man’s hand before he walked away.)
“I don’t know where you get the nerve to do that,” his dinner companion said after Lowell handed off the fourth card – this time to Donald Weinstein, an important Renaissance scholar at Brandeis.
“Networking. It’s why we’re here.”
“I’m just hoping to land a teaching job.”
“Exactly. So you meet people, make an impression.”
“But…he was headed to the bathroom,” Evelyn said. “I’d understand if we were at one of the MLO socials. That’s where we’re supposed to network.”
“I took less than a minute of his time,” Lowell explained. “People like hearing how smart and influential they are.” He raised the glass of wine – his second – and took a drink. “Just watch: I’ll have a big crowd at my lecture tomorrow. Some of these same people I’ve introduced myself to tonight.”
“Yeah. You’re probably right.” Evelyn took a sip from her Fresca. A good portion of her chef’s salad still remained on her plate; she pushed her fork under some meat strips and speared a small bite of lettuce. “I guess I need to be more of a salesman.”
“Saleswoman,” he said. He liked to work in that kind of reminder, when he could. It always impressed them when a guy showed sensitivity to women’s issues.
He’d met Evelyn after that morning’s Austen panel. Technically, they were competitors: both were finishing doctorates, he at University of Pennsylvania, she at Auburn; both of them scholars in American Literature with dissertations on Edgar Allan Poe. But in the weeks leading up to the Modern Literature Organization’s annual conference – a conference that also served as the initial scouting location for college teaching positions – Lowell received numerous phone calls and letters requesting interviews, and was essentially booked solid for the weekend. Three interviews already today, with five Saturday and two on Sunday. Evelyn confessed she got only one last-minute request, from a community college in Tennessee.
Have dinner with me. I’ll give you some pointers. He never minded sharing his wisdom, though that wasn’t his primary object. Attractive female graduate students were a rare breed: most looked old before their time, dowdy of dress, spectacles and tied-back hair and the odor of musty books about them. Against this trend, Evelyn wore a lovely print blouse, her dark wavy hair spilling loose to her shoulders. She smelled of lavender.
Their booth was an ideal location. Private and off to the side, with a head-high screen of frosted glass separating them from an attached booth, and offering a clear view of the bar and the tables of the central dining area.
Tell me about yourself, he’d said after they placed their food orders. Who are you working with? When she named her dissertation advisor, Lowell made a helpful observation. That’s partly why you didn’t get many interviews, since I’ve never heard of her. Isn’t Aaron Meltzer at Auburn? He’d have more influence, if it’s not too late to change. Oh, I’m sure she’s good to work with, smart and all that. But you have to think about your career. Take the long view.
Evelyn had nodded with genuine appreciation, saying she might follow his advice. He also made some suggestions to help complicate her dissertation which, from her summary, seemed too safe – connecting standard biographical facts to Poe’s stories, but without any fresh theoretical approach. Keep an eye toward the future of literary criticism, he told her, then listed some interpretive trends he expected would gain popularity. His own dissertation, E.A. Poe and the Symbolic Structure of Narrative, provided a fine example. He’d already published chapters in two prestigious literary journals, with several presses lined up to consider the full manuscript, once it was complete.
Evelyn expressed keen interest, and he’d promised to mail her a photostat of one of the published chapters. Lowell found her enthusiasm as refreshing as her beauty. He’d recently dated a classmate at Penn, but they broke up after a few months, mainly because she’d grown jealous of all the praise Lowell received from their mutual professors.
He took the last bite of his steak. Not a spectacular meal, but it had been serviceable. He lifted his napkin from his lap and lay it beside his plate. Evelyn made a similar motion, but draped the napkin over her salad to shroud what she hadn’t eaten. He suggested dessert, but she declined.
As he prepared to signal the waiter, Lowell noticed another luminary headed toward their booth. Cameron Fitch, tenured at Boston and the nation’s foremost authority on Hawthorne. Lowell wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, reached for another business card, then rose to intercept him.
“Professor Fitch,” he said, extending his hand. “Been meaning to say: really admire your recent essay on Seven Gables. People don’t always give that book the credit it deserves.”
“I’m sorry. Have we…?” The man half-scowled, trying to remember Lowell’s face.
“We both attended the Sophocles panel this morning.” Lowell realized they were still shaking hands, and released his grip. “I asked that question about Oedipus as a precursor to the modern-day detective character.”
“Oh, yes.”
“I work in Poe studies,” Lowell said, knowing Professor Fitch was on the editorial board for American Literary Romanticism. “I plan to submit an article to your journal.” He passed his business card, and invited Fitch to tomorrow’s panel.
The professor gave the card a cursory glance, then tucked it in his shirt pocket.
“By the way,” Lowell said, “what did you think of the paper about Oedipus at Colonus? Young guy with that…” Lowell waved his hand over his chin “…interesting facial hair. He read his paper well, but it didn’t have any methodology that I could discern. No hermeneutics.”
Professor Fitch stiffened slightly. “It was an insightful reading of the text.”
“Oh, insightful, yes,” Lowell backtracked. “I agree. I plan to repeat some of his ideas the next time I teach the play.”
“Bennet Sibley was the presenter’s name. His career’s off to a promising start.”
“I was just saying the same to…” Lowell motioned to Evelyn, letting his voice trail off.
Professor Fitch offered her a polite smile, then excused himself.
Lowell could barely wait until the respected scholar was out of earshot. As he slid back into the booth, he leaned toward Evelyn with a conspiratorial whisper: “Could you believe that guy? I’m telling you, that talk this morning was nothing special.” He pushed back into his seat, resuming a normal volume. “A pedestrian reading of the play, for God’s sake My freshman composition students could do as well.”
He took the opportunity to provide another career lesson, telling Evelyn that many of the famous scholars were well-connected, but didn’t always have the best ideas. “They’re stuck in their time, you know? They might encourage somebody like this Sibley fellow – but that’s mainly because they’re afraid of new trends in scholarship. Like I told you, if you want to stand out today, you have to be different. Have to keep your eye to the future.”
The waiter brought their check in a leather folio. Rejecting the provided pen, Lowell reached inside his suitcoat pocket for his fountain pen and signed the meal over to his room. He left the folio open so Evelyn could see how much he’d paid, and the generous tip he’d left. So she’d see his room number without his having to tell her.
“Back in a minute,” he said. Enough time had passed, so he knew he wouldn’t run into Fitch in the men’s room.
The restroom was empty. Lowell used the urinal, then washed at the sink, pulling three paper towels from the dispenser to dry his hands. As he threw the crumpled towels in the bin, he noticed a small manila card among the trash.
His business card.
And he thought: wouldn’t it be embarrassing if all the cards ended up here? If the five people he’d given them to had immediately dumped them into the trash?
He lifted the card from the bin, tore it into several pieces, then pushed the scraps beneath the discarded towels, where nobody could see them.
On the way back, Lowell noticed a man sitting alone, not in the attached booth, but diagonal to where he and Evelyn were seated, on the far side of the frosted partition. The guy had an unusual half-beard: the rusty-brown hair tufted in an odd way, as if covering a large rounded growth on his chin. Lowell remembered staring at the beard this morning, while the guy delivered his unimpressive lecture on Oedipus at Colonus.
That Sibley fellow. Had he been close enough to overhear Lowell’s comments to Fitch, or to Evelyn? Lowell had been pretty critical – though he’d made a few nice comments, too.
As he returned to his seat, Evelyn smiled and thanked him for the dinner. There was still a bit of wine remaining in his glass, and he drank a few slow sips, to buy time. He listened beneath the buzz of the dining area, to see if he could distinguish anything spoken in nearby booths. Nothing. Just a general hum of conversation.
Good. That guy wouldn’t have overheard anything, either.
Not that it mattered. This was a crowded convention. They’d not likely run into each other again.
“I’m glad we met,” Lowell said. “We Poe scholars have to stick together.” He reached across the table, his hand close to hers but not quite touching.
“I enjoyed the meal,” she said. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
A high compliment, indeed. He gave a gracious nod. Then, as if the thought just occurred to him: “Would you like to come up?” He didn’t mention his room, merely let the implication hang there. When she didn’t respond immediately, he added: “We could do a practice interview. I’ll test you with some of the questions I got asked this morning. See how you do.”
“Oh, that’s nice of you to offer. I’m feeling a little tired, though. I need to be well-rested for my interview tomorrow.”
Lowell believed her excuse about being tired: he’d noticed her attention had flagged a bit near the end of the meal. “I’ll probably turn in early myself. Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
“Definitely.” She reached for her purse on the seat beside her. “I’ll be at your panel.” Then, referring back to his previous phrase: “We Poe scholars, right?”
Yes, that was an encouraging sign. They shared a phrase – an early instance of ‘couples code’.
He offered to accompany her to the elevators, but she patted her purse, said she was stopping in the ladies’ room on the way. He stood up for her as she was leaving, and she gently touched the side of his arm, a scent of lavender as she passed.
Sweet girl. Maybe once Lowell got well-situated, he’d be able to do his new friend a good turn. Help her get a research grant, or recommend her for a visiting lectureship.
***
Lowell pressed the button for his floor, and the elevator doors slid shut. The car lurched as it began a slow ascent.
He was the only passenger. Sections of gray quilt padding hung over the walls, and he guessed he’d stepped into a freight elevator by accident. Then again, the hotel might have freed this one for general use, considering the large number of conference attendees.
It was nice to have this small break from the crowd. He’d approached this trip with such confidence, but an infectious anxiety tainted the atmosphere. Hundreds of people trying to impress each other, many of them competing for a limited number of jobs. Higher education was a noble profession, of course – enrichment of the mind, and all that. But it was also a business, and growing more competitive each year. Almost cutthroat.
As the indicator arrow tilted from 3 to 4, the overhead lights flickered. A loud scrape stretched along one side of the ascending car, and Lowell experienced a sudden panic. Something was broken. A steel rod had dropped into the gear mechanism, grinding the elevator to a halt. The hotel staff would place an out of order sign on the lobby doors, forgetting they’d provided the freight elevator for general use. He’d miss the rest of his interviews. No, he would starve. He’d shout and nobody would hear. The lights would go out completely, and he’d scratch at the gray paddings, digging into the wood panels beneath, his fingernails breaking and bloody. He would run out of air and collapse. They’d find him, and he’d have gone insane.
He was trapped in a modern version of Poe’s ‘Premature Burial’.
The lights flickered again, but remained illuminated. The indicator shifted toward 5, and another scrape dragged along the outside of the elevator.
What if he lifted a section of the gray padding, only to find a long split along the elevator wall, a widening crack that would spread to the floor and open beneath his feet? He touched the padding, pressed his palm flat into the quilted pattern. A thin cushion, rough like the underside of an oven mitt, with the firm wall beneath.
He imagined a hand on the other side: some desperate Fortunato bricked behind the wall; a cataleptic sister waking alive in the family tomb and gasping for air; Berenice with her ruined smile, clawing for the teeth her obsessed husband had ripped from her mouth.
A hollow thump jolted Lowell’s hand, sent a tremor up his arm. He held his breath and listened for a smothered gasp, or the accusing howl of an imprisoned cat.
Instead, the ding of a bell. 7 on the dial. His floor. After all the rustle and scrape of the ride, the doors opened with surprising smoothness.
The clear, bright hallway was a welcome relief after the dingy freight elevator. He stepped back into the civilized world.
Such a strange dizzying interlude he’d experienced – as if something had been wrong with his food, or the wine had gone to his head. He always approached Poe’s stories as intricate structures. They succeeded as intellectual exercises, rather than as vehicles for genuine emotions – particularly fear. For those brief moments, however, he’d been affected by the horror elements in Poe’s stories. This was how adolescent boys appreciated Poe. Worse, it was how unimaginative scholars wrote about him – slipping into the biographical fallacy, as if Poe’s stories were a simple reflection of the author’s own psychosis.
He followed the numbers posted at the branching corridor, turning left to find his room. Lowell fished the key from his pocket and lifted it toward the lock. And stopped. His face flushed with heat, and he suffered that same unease he’d experienced in the elevator.
A gust of warm air settled like a lover’s breath on the back of his neck. He turned, glanced to either side of the hallway, but there was nobody there.
Still, he couldn’t shake the sensation that he was being watched.
A muffled sound vibrated behind the sturdy door to his room. Something like a cry for help, or a peal of nervous laughter. There was no maid’s cart outside, so his room should be empty. Yes, his room – checking the number, 716…and the spyhole beneath.
He knew he was on the wrong end, but he cupped his hands around the tiny lens and stared into it.
Nothing more than a convex bubble, but should the glass be this dim? Perhaps an intruder waited inside, an eye pressed to the opposite end. A sudden skittering behind the door, like partygoers rushing behind furniture to surprise the birthday guest.
He’s here. Get ready.
A hand tightens around a blunt weapon. Another hovers near the light switch. A third pair of hands stretches a length of rope. A fourth holds a pillowcase, prepares to drop it over the victim’s head.
What’s he doing?
Another muffled laugh.
No. Nothing to be afraid of. He was being childish.
Lowell again raised his key to the lock. He’d enter swiftly, with confidence. If anyone was inside, he’d be the one to surprise them.
He jammed the key into the lock, gave it a quick turn, and Goddamn it! the key was stuck, so he turned it the other direction, still nothing, so he jiggled and cursed again, then rattled the knob.
And the door opened. A middle-aged woman glared at him from inside his room. She had a frail, bookish appearance, and reading glasses hung from a strap around her neck.
He seemed to recognize her face, though he couldn’t quite place it.
“We thought you’d forgotten something,” she said.
“No,” he said, indignant, “it’s my—”
She opened the door wider, and he could see the familiar room behind her. Familiar, but too large. Not his single room, but more like a suite.
The woman lifted the glasses to her face, tilted her head back to read his nametag. “Mr Jacobs,” she said, and with her glasses in place he could finally remember her from one of his morning interviews – a legal pad in her lap, barely speaking but taking exhaustive notes as Lowell answered the committee’s questions. Bain and Hurston ran most of the show, so he’d directed his responses to them – and all the while, this woman in the background scratched out copious notes.
His first interview had been conducted in this room. The practice was common at MLO conventions: committee members would book a suite, and use the lounge area for the interviews and subsequent deliberations. This group was from Washington University, one of several schools he expected would eventually offer him a job. Not the most prestigious on his list, but they had some important elder statesmen on their faculty, and an especially strong concentration in American Literature. Once the older faculty retired, Lowell would be strategically placed, ready to assume leadership.
He held up his unmarked key, and explained what must have happened. “I’m sorry. This is room 716, and I’m in room 617. So unusual. I never make this kind of mistake.”
The woman wrinkled her nose as if she smelled the wine on his breath. He hoped she hadn’t really been looking at him through the spyhole. Lowell glanced down to make sure she wasn’t still holding her legal pad – as if she’d taken notes about his odd movements, or recorded each of the curse words he’d uttered.
“Well?” she said.
Lowell couldn’t recall the woman’s name, though she’d surely introduced herself to him that morning. He realized now, she was an academic and not merely a secretary. He should say something to her: some gracious comment, some clever allusion to the earlier interview.
Over her shoulder he could see Roger Hurston and Lawrence Bain seated at the coffee table. They had stacks of resumes spread out before them. Professor Hurston lifted a slip of paper, possibly Lowell’s curriculum vitae. He transferred it from one pile to another.
“I, uh, I apologize for the intrusion.” Lowell’s voice cracked slightly. “I hope we get a chance to talk further about…about…” Oh, God, what had she asked him about that morning? Shakespeare? Tennyson? The 1831 revision of Frankenstein? “About Shelley,” he said, taking the risk.
She studied him over the top of her glasses, made a noncommittal noise. At his seat in the lounge area, Bain lifted the corner of a manila folder, covering his mouth.
“Thanks again to the whole committee,” Lowell said, “for your consideration.”
He backed away with a weak wave of his hand, and the woman closed the door.
She might still be watching, Lowell thought, so he stood tall and took careful, confident steps down the hall.
He opted for the stairs this time, heading down one flight to his actual room. Once there, his key worked perfectly, and it was a relief to shut the door behind him. His room was an oasis of quiet: no sounds leaked in through the door or from adjoining rooms.
Then he flushed with a new, embarrassing thought. He searched his front pocket, and realized he hadn’t taken his copy of the restaurant bill. What room number had he written on the receipt? Was it possible he’d signed his meal over to the Washington University room, instead of his own? How humiliating if they discovered this, as if he’d presumed on their hospitality – with his generous tip, and his fountain pen signature beneath in clear, flowing letters.
Another layer to his embarrassment: he’d left that receipt in the open, hoping Evelyn would see the number. She’d come up to ‘his’ room later, say I’ve changed my mind, then whisper something inappropriate, seductive, to whichever elder scholar opened the door. Then, realizing her error, she’d say, Oh, I was looking for Lowell Jacobs. Her hands would flutter to the front of her blouse, covering where she’d unfastened an extra button.
He lifted the phone from its cradle and had the operator connect him to the restaurant. The hostess quickly assured him they always checked the evening receipts before submitting them to the front desk for billing, but Lowell pressed her to find the actual sheet of paper. The process should have been simple, but Lowell again transposed the room numbers, at one point shouting seven! one! six! at the flustered girl.
“I have six-one-seven,” she said, and he was going to call her an idiot until she read off his name, listed the steak au poivre and Evelyn’s salad, his glasses of wine and her low-calorie soda.
“Oh good,” he said. “That’s my room.” He looked at the number written on the phone dial, reassuring himself. “That meal will be charged to my room.”
“No it won’t,” the receptionist said.
The incompetence! “If it’s correct on the receipt,” he was speaking to a child now, “and I’m telling you now that’s my dinner, my room, there’s no reason in the world—”
She cut him off. “It won’t be charged to your room,” she said. “It’s already marked as paid. Paid in cash.”
He readied himself to argue again, but stopped himself. If the waiter mixed up the receipts, that wasn’t Lowell’s fault. Asking them to double and triple check might reveal the error, so he chose to quit while he was ahead. “My date must have paid after I left,” he said, then thanked the hostess and ended the call.
The more he thought about it, this explanation seemed plausible. He’d been so generous with advice throughout dinner. It made perfect sense that Evelyn would come back and pay for the meal, as an expression of gratitude.
***
Late that night, he was awakened by a light knock at his door.
Evelyn. She changed her mind, after all.
Lowell had nodded off in the desk chair, after going over the notes for his Saturday interviews, and making a few small edits to the twenty-minute talk he’d be delivering in the morning.
“Be right there,” he said – not sure she’d hear him. The side lamp was still on. He rubbed at his eyes, then checked his appearance in the mirror above the desk, patting down his hair on one side. His papers lay scattered across the desk and in small piles on the floor beside the chair. Lowell considered a quick cleanup, but decided the lecture pages, and the individual stapled packets for different prestigious universities, all served to reinforce his image as a busy, sought-after young scholar.
He passed the still-made bed, flipped the light switch across from the alcove closet, then unlatched and opened the door.
“So pleased you decided to—”
The practiced smile froze on his face. The hallway was empty.
He was so sure it’d be Evelyn. No one else had a reason to knock this late – glancing at his watch – at quarter past two. He craned his neck into the hall, checked in both directions. Perhaps she was hiding. Being playful.
“Evelyn?”
Or she’d been overcome with shyness, skittered away like a mouse.
He began to step into the hall—
And stopped himself. At his feet, just outside the door, lay a small wrapped package. Brown paper covered the slim rectangle, held together by a cross-loop of twine. Beneath the twine, someone had slipped a white square of card stock. Lowell’s full name appeared on the card in elaborate calligraphy.
A gift. He picked it up, then carried it into the room.
He placed the box on his desk, then detached the card. He noticed a faint indecipherable watermark when he held it to the light, but nothing was written on the card other than his name. The letters were perfectly formed, with beautiful swirls around the capital L and J. Such artistry, the name exactly centered on the card and no blots or bleeds of ink – a difficult feat, considering how the paper’s fine textures would have fought the steady tip of her pen.
Because certainly, it was from Evelyn. She must have practiced his name several times on a separate page before creating this final version. How sweet that she had these materials on hand – fancy paper, the proper pen nibs and inks. Such lovely craftsmanship suited her, of course, although he wondered why she never mentioned the hobby during their meal.
He set the card on the desk, admiring the elegant presentation of his name for a few moments, then turned his attention to the gift itself. He tugged one end of the twine, pulling the bow loop through the knot. The small bristled rope caught at the center, and he thought maybe he’d tightened a new knot instead of undoing the fasten, but with a harder snap the bow unraveled and slipped off the package. He had an easier time with the wrapping paper, which hadn’t been taped shut: he was able to pinch a corner and tear the covering away in one motion, revealing a wooden box beneath.
Slightly longer than a case for eyeglasses, the box was fashioned out of carefully aligned twigs, held together by a weave of grass strands. Along the back, two small gristle-veined leaves served as hinges connecting the top and bottom halves. A small medallion of bark, pressed into a circle of brown wax, formed a seal at the front.
Lowell pressed his thumbnail under the piece of bark, prying it out of the wax – which turned out not to be wax at all, but something sticky like sap or thick honey. He wiped his thumb on a blank sheet of hotel stationery before he continued.
He barely touched it, and the lid sprang up with a smooth motion. The object inside was…perfect.
How could she have known? Of course, Evelyn had seen the one he pulled out at the end of their meal. Perhaps he’d made a comment as he signed the bill, some remark about the flow of ink on paper, how smooth and meaningful that sensation was. A true connection to the rhythm and flow of language, as opposed to the mechanical snap and click and ding of a typewriter.
Lowell drafted all his critical essays and correspondence with an assortment of antique cartridge pens, using ink ordered from a mail-order company. He’d brought one of his favorites with him to the convention – not exactly his ‘lucky pen’, since he wasn’t expecting to need luck given the number of interviews he’d secured in advance – but one that would make a good impression, nonetheless.
But this one, the one Evelyn gave to him, looked even better. He lifted it from the box. As he shifted to his writing grip, his fingers fell naturally into place, and the weight of the metal nib pressed downward at the perfect angle. He tore off a new sheet from the hotel pad, and made a random looping circle on the page. Smooth, perfect and precise – as was his first attempt at signing his name. The lines were as thin or thick as he wanted, controlled by the pressure he applied or a subtle shift in the angle of the nib. He felt like an expert calligrapher, a sudden virtuoso. And this was the Stradivarius of writing implements.
An apt comparison, because surely the pen was made by an expert craftsman. The body was a single piece of wood tapered to fit naturally in the hand, weighted to achieve a precise balance with the metal nib and the ink cartridge inside. Lowell had never seen a pen like this before, and he examined it for some identifying mark – a signature in the wooden body or an initial scratched into the metal tip.
No clear markers to be found. In fact, he couldn’t really estimate the pen’s age. The metal parts seemed modern, but the wood body had a buffed shine that made it appear alternately new or worn down by generations of use. Closer inspection of the grain revealed additional lines etched into the wood to improve the user’s grip – abstract, perhaps, but with a familiar recurrence that hinted at the pattern of language.
He squinted closer, but the lines were too small. The effort was like staring into your hand, trying to find words hatched within the lines of your palm or in the creases of your finger joints. If an ancient craftsman had inscribed some meaningful phrase into the wood, its message was now lost.
Lowell felt a strange compulsion to smell the pen. He brought it closer to his face, held it under his nose. A damp earthy scent supplied the strongest note, most likely a residue from the container of twigs and grass and leaves that had surrounded it. In addition to an expected tang of bark and sweet pine, he imagined he could smell the oil of fingertips that previously pressed into the wood: the fevered glow as an inspired author transcribes his greatest story; anxious sweat as a businessman drafts a risky contract; foul musk as a criminal signs his final confession.
An elusive flowery aroma, as well, similar to Evelyn’s lavender perfume. He sniffed deeper, trying to isolate it. Instead, the earthy scent returned, this time with a hint of animal decay.
He held it again at arm’s length, marveled at the pen’s uncanny balance in his hand. Lowell should get ready for bed now, to be fresh for his ten a.m. presentation, but he felt an urge to practice with this new pen. He’d already scribbled his name and some elegant spirals on the stationery pad, so would need to roll that sheet away to reveal a clean page.
Instead, he turned to an open folder in the middle of the desk. A carbon-typed manuscript for his lecture, with the title centered in all caps at the top of the first page: E.A. POE AND THE STRUCTURE OF DETECTIVE FICTION. He’d paid Lisa Mooring thirty cents a page, and instructed her to double-space the text, leaving room for him to correct her typing errors and to insert any handwritten edits. He’d made very few marks on the pages, however, and his after-dinner read through – complete with appropriate hand and facial gestures practiced in the mirror above the desk – had convinced him the presentation was near-flawless.
But now he was struck by a fresh inspiration. He drew a smooth line through the words of his title. With an elegant flow of ink from his new pen, he printed a new title.
A huge improvement. Memorable and startling. Much more in line with the advice he’d given to Evelyn during their dinner conversation: make an impression; avoid old-fashioned critical approaches; keep your eye on the future of literary criticism.
But now the essay didn’t quite match the revised title. In his study of Poe’s detective stories, he’d focused on the Auguste Dupin narratives: ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’, ‘The Purloined Letter’, and ‘The Mystery of Marie Rogêt’. With these three stories, Poe had single-handedly invented the genre of detective fiction, producing the model that countless other writers would follow – most famously, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle with his Sherlock Holmes series. Lowell’s essay, in its current version, traced the detective formula across all three stories, arguing that the story’s structure was more important than the individual details in each case. His new idea concentrated on ‘Murders in the Rue Morgue’, Poe’s first detective story. In a flash of insight – Why had I never realized this before? – he found an ingenious link between his structural observations and the story’s bizarre and gruesome content. He surely didn’t have time, but the idea was too tempting to resist.
The revision was easier than he expected. Concentrating on the ‘Rue Morgue’ section, he was able to keep the same quotations from Poe’s text, following the order of his previously written paragraphs. It was all a matter of strategic insertions: a dropped-in phrase to add new emphasis, a new topic sentence here and there, further explanation of story clues and of Dupin’s conversations with the narrator.
Never before had he been so immersed, without the same agony of phrasing and rephrasing that typically accompanied any written project. The experience was akin to the endgame of a crossword puzzle, letters ticked into place as the inevitable, certain words revealed themselves.
And the pen grew warm in his hand, like an extra finger held within his own. He imagined a pulse beneath the slick-softened wood, while ink glided across each page in precise, elegant lines. The words conveyed his new ideas perfectly.
He placed an asterisk on the third page, then drew an arrow to the reverse side. On the back, he wrote a new paragraph that expanded his thesis, supporting the argument with quotations he was able to reproduce from memory. With a few more additions to this first section, Lowell could definitely omit his discussion of the other two stories, letting the ‘Rue Morgue’ analysis serve as the full presentation.
If this burst of inspiration continued, he would easily finish the revision in time for tomorrow’s panel. He wrote through the night, into the early morning.
***
Conference Room C was packed when he arrived. A few empty seats in the front, and a couple scattered seats occupied by a briefcase or short stack of books, but otherwise a full room. An excellent turn-out for a Saturday morning panel, since afternoon and evening sessions typically got the best attendance.
Lowell’s informal publicity last night had made the difference. Most of them were here to see him, rather than the other presenters.
These co-panelists sat at a cloth-skirted table at the front of the room. Heading towards them, Lowell half-stumbled over a bookbag that encroached into the aisle, but he recovered himself and continued. Someone shouted his name, and he turned to see Evelyn wave vigorously from a middle seat. He nodded to acknowledge her, almost tripping again, then side-stepped around the table to take his seat to the right of the podium. He placed his essay folder on the table, then filled a glass of water from the provided pitcher.
Lowell had a strange panic that the folder was empty. After he’d practiced the talk one last time in his room, the pages might have slipped out. An intricate weave of typed words and inspired corrections now lay scattered across the hotel in a meaningless pattern.
He tapped the top of the folder, felt the reassuring weight of pages beneath.
All there. Try not to look nervous in front of the crowd.
A buzz of anticipation filled the room. He recognized several of the scholars he’d approached last night in the dining room, including Professor Fitch (one row behind Evelyn, to her left) and Professor Weinstein. The woman from Washington University sat in the front row, her notepad poised in her lap. And in the back corner, the fellow with that strange beard – the Greek drama guy, Sibley.
The panel’s moderator stepped to the side podium and gave a brief introduction to all three speakers, identifying their respective universities and reading the essay topics printed in the convention booklet. Then she turned the session over to the presenters, with Lowell scheduled to go last.
The first gentleman spoke about images of death and love in Poe’s verse. He remained seated while he read his paper, and his voice was a dull monotone that threatened to put Lowell to sleep. The man’s recitations from the poems themselves fell into a hypnotic drone. To keep himself alert Lowell frequently nodded his head, as if agreeing with a point or finding new meaning in Poe’s words.
The second presenter was better, standing at the podium and varying his inflections to give more emphasis. Again Lowell nodded his head on occasion, or offered an appreciative smile – though the essay itself was mediocre.
More than anything, adrenaline kept him awake. He should be exhausted: the usual travel jitters, two-hour time difference in the conference city, the anxiety of interviews and, especially, the late-night revisions to his speech. But the new version of his essay was strong, with changes so fresh they added to his excitement. He had a large, influential crowd to impress.
The second presenter made a final, obvious point about the “recurring theme of the lost woman” in Poe’s fiction and poetry, then stepped away from the lectern to a round of polite applause.
Lowell clapped also, then stood and made his way to the lectern. He held his folder tight as he walked, to ensure none of the pages would slip out.
He adjusted the goose neck microphone away from his face, confident his voice would carry easily without amplification. “Before I start,” he said, “I’d like to thank our moderator, Sheila Avery, for putting together this panel. I’m very pleased to be part of it, and hope you enjoy my modest contribution to Poe studies.”
He cleared his throat. A surge of anxiety washed over him. He recalled the familiar deer-in-the-headlights nightmare, an audience leaning forward in their seats while a performer stands silent, lines forgotten, mouth opening and closing like a helpless fish. How terrible if such a thing were to happen now, so early in Lowell’s academic career. He’d never recover.
Such doubts came from lack of sleep, his will not strong enough to fight. His adrenaline crashed. He was a grinning fool, with nothing to say.
But in the nightmare scenario, the actor forgets lines that should have been memorized. Lowell didn’t have that worry. His lines were written out.
He opened his folder, glanced at the first page.
“I’ve made a slight change to the title listed in the conference booklet,” he announced. “The new title is ‘E.A. Poe and the Ourang-Outang of Self Pleasure’.”
A slight restlessness had preceded his announcement – shifting in seats, rustled papers, whispered comments. But now you could hear a pin drop. He had their complete attention.
“Few would dispute Poe’s role as father of the detective story,” he began, reading the typed lines that had always served as the opening to his talk. “With ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’, the formula of the detective story emerges fully formed, all the pieces in place: the brilliant and quirky main detective; a narrator who chronicles his most memorable cases; and an elaborate crime-puzzle that baffles local police. What critics have never been able to explain—” here Lowell followed the first of his handwritten insertions “—is the bizarre, almost laughable solution to Poe’s first mystery story. The violent murders are not committed by a person but by, in the words of the text, an ‘ourang-outang of the East Indian Islands’.”
He exaggerated his pronunciation of ourang-outang, pursing his lips over the ou sounds to highlight Poe’s variant spelling. A subtle, appreciative laughter rose from sections of the audience.
Lowell continued: “Instead of achieving the insight of Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin, many critics have fallen into the role of the story’s less perceptive narrator, who always ‘seemed to be upon the verge of comprehension, without power to comprehend’.”
He’d been pleased when that analogy occurred to him last night. In the next section of the lecture, he recast a previous observation about the story’s structure to fit his new methodological approach. “Before an account of the actual murders, Poe pauses to establish his detective’s analytical skill. If you recall the story, during an evening stroll with the narrator, Dupin makes an off-hand comment, responding to the narrator’s private, unvoiced thought. Was Dupin actually able to read his mind?” Lowell held the edges of the podium and read quickly here, since he recounted facts his listeners should already knew. “No. He simply observed every action and detail, connected them in a chain that allowed the detective to follow his friend’s musings. Bumping into a fruit-seller caused the narrator to step onto a loose cobblestone, which somehow brings to mind Epicurius and Greek cosmogony, with a glance to the sky at the constellation of Orion, and after a few more connections links us to a diminutive actor who was unconvincing as King Xerxes in a recent production of Crébillon’s Tragedy.” Lowell took a breath, as if the summary had exhausted him, then looked up from his papers. “It’s a ridiculous demonstration, of course. The connections are all so perilous, and there’s too many of them. And yet Poe manages to explain each step in the reasoning, including visual cues that convince Dupin he’s on the right track. Something ridiculous becomes rational.”
He turned to acknowledge the other speakers on his panel, then swept his gaze over the audience. “Our charge is to be more like Dupin. We Poe scholars must approach his texts with preternatural insight – to the point where it almost seems we can read the deceased author’s mind.” He waved his hand over the podium, like a magician ready to conjure a dove – better, a raven – out of the air. “And what I next propose might at first seem ridiculous, almost laughable – but bear with me, and I will produce a chain of reasons that will convince you that I’ve finally unlocked this story’s secrets.”
Unlock. That was good – a pun on the locked-room subgenre of mystery fiction.
“But first, I need to reflect more on the nature of the relationship between the narrator and detective-protagonist.” He flipped over the typed page and read from the new paragraph he’d composed on the back. “These two gentlemen meet in a ‘library’, then decide to move in together, sharing ‘a time-eaten and grotesque mansion’. As the narrator explains it, ‘Had the routine of our life at this place been known to the world, we should have been regarded as madmen’. For madmen, of course, we should be prompted to read homosexuals.” Lowell knew he was being daring here – ahead of his time, even for 1962. University academics pretended to have an open mind, but such observations typically would be reserved for papers on Wilde or Whitman, rather than during a lecture about a brooding, female-obsessed author such as Poe. But Lowell was determined not to shy away from controversy. He would say things other scholars might have noticed, but would be too afraid to mention in public.
“Again, bear with me, and my points will become clear.” He noticed some more rustling of papers, shifting in seats – discomfort at his challenge to traditional interpretations, but a sign of excitement, too. In the back row, the Sibley fellow closed his eyes, as if in intense concentration.
“For further proof, recall the narrator’s admission that ‘our retirement had been carefully kept a secret from my own former associates’, and his statement that ‘we existed within ourselves alone’. But I wish now to call attention to the peculiar character of Dupin’s mind – ‘an excited, or perhaps…diseased, intelligence’. As the narrator describes him, even as they are speaking together, Dupin often lapses into solipsism, ‘very much as if in a soliloquy’. He assumes an ‘abstract manner’, and ‘his eyes, vacant in expression, regarded only the wall’. What I’d like to suggest here is that Dupin’s nature is not so much homosexual as it is onanistic.”
A collective gasp erupted from the audience, but Lowell was ready. Following the arrows on his manuscript, he provided further supporting quotations – ones he’d written from memory, but he was certain they’d been recalled accurately.
In one impulsive moment, Lowell improvised a quick reference to Poe’s readership. “And these stories are most popular with adolescent boys, aren’t they? Many of them discover Poe about the same time they encounter puberty when, in addition to reading, they’re discovering another solitary activity. I need not spell out the solution to this particular form of locked room mystery.”
That line didn’t quite get the laugh he intended, so Lowell returned to the handwritten emendations to his script. “My assertion here is that Dupin’s own proclivities, shall we say, make him uniquely predisposed to identify the murderer of Madame L’Espanaye and her daughter.” This was the peroration of his argument, the culmination of his complex textual reinterpretations. His bold, free-flowing style would form a new template for future study. To make the presentation more effective, Lowell looked up from the page and addressed his audience directly. “We need only refer to our own experience to confirm my point. Who among us has not, upon visiting the primate exhibit at our city’s zoo, walked into what, among humans, would be a private moment of self-pleasure?” He paused, giving them a chance to absorb the force of his argument, then said: “For this reason, and this reason alone, Poe chose an ourang-outang as the murderer in his first detective story.” He emphasized the ou ou sounds again – a primate sound – his lips pursing as if blowing two kisses to his audience.
A small commotion erupted at the back row as an elder scholar rose from his seat to leave the conference room. The woman from Washington University lowered her head and scribbled notes into her legal pad. Other audience members, including Professor Fitch, wore expressions of outrage. Lowell tried to make eye contact with Evelyn in the fourth row, but she avoided his gaze.
A few other listeners began gathering their materials to leave. At the presenters’ table the moderator rose, intending to conclude the panel. “Wait,” Lowell said. “Bear with me just a moment longer.” He had more evidence to support his point, if they’d only give him a chance. The perfect way he’d phrased it last night, in the paragraph on the back of…
…not the sixth page, where his arrow pointed, but the back of the seventh? Nothing there, either. There were too many curving arrows on the page, or something was missing. His collar felt tight, his suitcoat too warm in this poorly ventilated room. He patted his vest pocket, felt the stiff outline of the wooden pen that had prompted his late evening insights. He’d written so much. It had all been so clear at the time, so powerful as he’d practiced it this morning.
Lowell turned to the next page, which began his typed section about ‘The Purloined Letter’ – no handwritten revisions here, and no possible way to connect these words to the revised talk he’d delivered this morning.
The foolish revised talk. He’d destroyed himself. In twenty minutes, he’d sabotaged his future in academia.
He turned the pages again. Please, let it be here. He’d done one last thing with the pen, in the final productive hour of his sleepless morning. Lowell had never considered himself much of an artist, but he’d attempted a modest drawing on a blank sheet of hotel stationery. Or, it started out as modest. As he’d continued, the easy lines of ink scratched intricate details onto the page, and the finished drawing was far better than he’d have dreamed possible.
“One quick point. Sit tight a moment.”
He shuffled through the pages again. God, were some of them stuck together? All he needed was the illustration. If he found it, he wouldn’t have to utter another embarrassing word.
Lowell’s drawing was based on a memorable wood-cut image Fritz Eichenberg created for a 1944 edition of the Tales. That classic illustration depicts the crime in progress, the towering primate filling the page with menace, Madame L’Espanye terrified on the ground. In his right hand the ourang-outang holds a straight razor, prepared to slit her throat.
With a sigh of relief, Lowell found his drawing at the back of the folder. He lifted it quickly, held it like a victory banner towards the crowd.
Another collective gasp.
“Disgusting,” someone said.
“Shameful.”
Evelyn stood to leave. As Lowell stared out at the remaining audience members, he could see the bold strokes of his drawing through the back of the raised page. He’d done an excellent job of reproducing the imposing physical shape of the large primate – the large torso, the heavy muscular arms. Lowell’s drawing had two distinct differences from the original. First, he’d drawn Poe’s face atop the animal’s shoulders. And second, it wasn’t a straight razor that the beast was holding in his right hand.
***
Afterwards, of course, Lowell realized what he’d done. In a sleep-deprived intoxication of pride and deluded inspiration, he’d woven a preposterous, unfounded argument – then presented it with ridiculous, confident bluster. How could his judgment have been so clouded?
He still had a handful of job interviews that day, but worried that some of his questioners might have attended that morning’s panel – or that accounts of his performance had already spread throughout the conference hotel. Some guy made an utter fool of himself at the Poe panel. What was his name? Lowell Jacobs. Oh, is he on your list of job candidates?
He considered canceling his interviews, but decided to push forward. Maybe his infamy hadn’t spread as wide as he feared.
Things seemed to go well. His interviewers were polite and treated him with respect. Lowell’s judgment was back under control, and he gave solid answers to their questions. He displayed a good range of knowledge and interests, and was certain he came across as a likeable colleague. People would still want to hire him.
During one of the later interviews, Lowell sensed an awkwardness in the room. His three questioners displayed some undercurrent of discomfort in their manner – as if they all wanted to tell him something, but each hoped the other would speak first. Lowell tried to smile through their awkwardness, but that effort seemed to make things worse. They kept looking away from him, as if he had a leaf of spinach in his teeth, or…
He realized the problem. He’d visited the lobby restroom before he headed to the interview suite, and he must have left the fly of his trousers unzipped. Lowell sat in an armchair, his three seated questioners facing him – two on either end of a sofa, the third in another armchair. As he responded to a question about Freshman Composition, giving details about his most successful essay assignments, he tried to glance at his lap. The angle wasn’t good; he couldn’t check for certain without being too obvious. He offered another wide smile, made an interesting point about a college student’s ability to appreciate Shakespeare’s imagery, but couldn’t stop worrying about whether or not his fly was open. As he listed the upper-level courses he’d be prepared to teach, Lowell brushed one hand over his lap in a subtle motion, and discovered his zipper was properly fastened. The sofa questioner closest to him started to tremble slightly. The man glanced at his colleagues, and then burst out laughing.
***
A month later, Lowell opened his mailbox to retrieve a single letter. He’d heard back from all but one of the colleges he’d interviewed with at that year’s MLO Conference. Instead of the multiple offers he expected, he’d been turned down by all of them.
Graysonville University, a state school in Alabama, was formerly his bottom choice: he’d applied only for leverage, to bolster his salary and workload negotiations with better schools. Now, it was his last hope.
He carried the envelope to his apartment, tore off the end, and pulled out the single page of stationery.
Dear Lowell Jacobs:
After careful consideration of our applicants, we are pleased to announce the appointment of Bennet Sibley as Assistant Professor of English.
We thank you for your interest in working at Graysonville University, and wish you the best of luck with the rest of your job search.
Sincerely,
Jackson Elliot
President, Graysonville University
***
Norman Prentiss won the 2010 Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in Long Fiction for his first book, Invisible Fences. Previously he won a Stoker in the Short Fiction category for ‘In the Porches of My Ears’ (Postscripts). Other publications include the The Fleshless Man, Four Legs in the Morning, The Narrator (with Michael McBride), and The Halloween Children (with Brian James Freeman). Visit him online at www.normanprentiss.com.