Read Murder in the English Department for Free Online
Authors: Valerie Miner
D H Lawrence.
Until once, after a moratorium meeting here in LSB, when he had kept her late, talking. Teacher and student together. Down with élitism, he murmured. Still, she wondered why he bothered about someone from the sticks. Why should he go out of his way? Suddenly, she understood.
âJust a minuteâ, she heard herself saying as his fascination with her pendant watch turned to fascination with her breast.
She pulled away, but he was pinching her nipple through her bra.
âProfessor Eastman,â she gasped, trying to knock away his hand.
âTed,â he said, moving closer and nibbling at her ear. âCall me Ted. Weâre both adults.â
âNo,â she said, frightened and guilty all at once. Did he think she was loose because she was a divorcee?
âYou misunderstood me,â she forced herself to speak. âI like you as a teacher, as a friend, but â¦â
âDonât play ingénue.â His voice was seductive, his words sarcastic. âA woman in her thirties has been around.â
She wanted to tell him that she had only slept with her husband, that she still related sex with love. And she realized how much she would sound like Shirley.
Before she could form a response, he had forced his tongue into her mouth. And Nan didnât know what to do, how to repel him. It was a perfectly spontaneous act when she bit it.
âWhy you little,â he pulled away, his fingers in his mouth checking for blood. âYou little cockteaser,â he snarled, âIâve got a mind to â¦â
But Nan hadnât heard the rest. She had run from the room, down the dim corridors of the Life Sciences Building and into the clean, night air, asking herself what she had done, how she had led him on. The Daily Cal had just run a series of articles about âco-ed poachersâ who stole men from faculty wives. She didnât think she was a poacher. She had no designs on Professor Eastman, except as a thesis adviser. Of course she had to forget that. She dropped his class, applied for part-time status and lost her financial aid that term. The following quarter, she switched her thesis subject from D H Lawrence to Virginia Woolf.
For months she tried to dismiss the incident as trivial, as something that a âfree womanâ would often endure. But friends told her not to be ashamed of her naïveté. She understood that Eastman was assaulting her integrity as well as her body. Within a year Nan was able to smile that the professor had initiated her, not into his notion of sexual freedomâbut into her commitment to feminism.
Now, a decade later, it was hard to believe she was a professor and a thesis adviser. When she lectured in Wheeler Hall about the female vernacular or matriarchal mysticism, she kept a careful eye out for bright students in the back row.
Wheeler Hall was an empty cavern this morning after Christmas. No crêches or trees with winking lights and tinsel, considered Nan. Relentlessly secular. So much the better for getting work done. No student demands on her timeâdemands which were always so hard to refuse. After all, her conscience said, she was hired to teach. However, she needed time to write. And if she didnât write, they wouldnât let her teach. âParadoxâ, according to her Dictionary of Literary Terms , was âa statement or situation that seemsâbut need not beâself-contradictoryâ.
As Nan walked along the deserted corridor to her office she was disappointed to see light streaming through the frosted glass of Angus Murchieâs door, which was located, unfortunately, adjacent to her own. She tiptoed so he would not hear her. Why was the old fart working over the holidays? Probably culling evidence to deny her tenure. She laughed at her own paranoia, but of all the luck, to have had Murchie reported to the Sexual Harassment Campaign during her year of tenure. Of all the luck, to
Until once, after a moratorium meeting here in LSB, when he had kept her late, talking. Teacher and student together. Down with élitism, he murmured. Still, she wondered why he bothered about someone from the sticks. Why should he go out of his way? Suddenly, she understood.
âJust a minuteâ, she heard herself saying as his fascination with her pendant watch turned to fascination with her breast.
She pulled away, but he was pinching her nipple through her bra.
âProfessor Eastman,â she gasped, trying to knock away his hand.
âTed,â he said, moving closer and nibbling at her ear. âCall me Ted. Weâre both adults.â
âNo,â she said, frightened and guilty all at once. Did he think she was loose because she was a divorcee?
âYou misunderstood me,â she forced herself to speak. âI like you as a teacher, as a friend, but â¦â
âDonât play ingénue.â His voice was seductive, his words sarcastic. âA woman in her thirties has been around.â
She wanted to tell him that she had only slept with her husband, that she still related sex with love. And she realized how much she would sound like Shirley.
Before she could form a response, he had forced his tongue into her mouth. And Nan didnât know what to do, how to repel him. It was a perfectly spontaneous act when she bit it.
âWhy you little,â he pulled away, his fingers in his mouth checking for blood. âYou little cockteaser,â he snarled, âIâve got a mind to â¦â
But Nan hadnât heard the rest. She had run from the room, down the dim corridors of the Life Sciences Building and into the clean, night air, asking herself what she had done, how she had led him on. The Daily Cal had just run a series of articles about âco-ed poachersâ who stole men from faculty wives. She didnât think she was a poacher. She had no designs on Professor Eastman, except as a thesis adviser. Of course she had to forget that. She dropped his class, applied for part-time status and lost her financial aid that term. The following quarter, she switched her thesis subject from D H Lawrence to Virginia Woolf.
For months she tried to dismiss the incident as trivial, as something that a âfree womanâ would often endure. But friends told her not to be ashamed of her naïveté. She understood that Eastman was assaulting her integrity as well as her body. Within a year Nan was able to smile that the professor had initiated her, not into his notion of sexual freedomâbut into her commitment to feminism.
Now, a decade later, it was hard to believe she was a professor and a thesis adviser. When she lectured in Wheeler Hall about the female vernacular or matriarchal mysticism, she kept a careful eye out for bright students in the back row.
Wheeler Hall was an empty cavern this morning after Christmas. No crêches or trees with winking lights and tinsel, considered Nan. Relentlessly secular. So much the better for getting work done. No student demands on her timeâdemands which were always so hard to refuse. After all, her conscience said, she was hired to teach. However, she needed time to write. And if she didnât write, they wouldnât let her teach. âParadoxâ, according to her Dictionary of Literary Terms , was âa statement or situation that seemsâbut need not beâself-contradictoryâ.
As Nan walked along the deserted corridor to her office she was disappointed to see light streaming through the frosted glass of Angus Murchieâs door, which was located, unfortunately, adjacent to her own. She tiptoed so he would not hear her. Why was the old fart working over the holidays? Probably culling evidence to deny her tenure. She laughed at her own paranoia, but of all the luck, to have had Murchie reported to the Sexual Harassment Campaign during her year of tenure. Of all the luck, to