Free Truth and Consequences by Alison Lurie Page A

(Did Alan imagine it, or did she flinch slightly?) “How’s it going?”
    â€œJust wonderfully. . . . This is my husband, Henry Hull,” she told Alan. “Alan Mackenzie.”
    Alan registered the presence of a muscular person in a checked shirt who was several inches shorter than him. “How do you do,” he said resentfully.
    â€œHi,” Henry Hull said, as if identifying some neutral object. He took Alan’s cool, long-fingered hand in his broad sweaty one and gave it a painful shake. “You have the office across the hall from Delia’s at the Center,” he remarked.
    â€œThat’s right.” Suddenly the implications of this fact became clear to Alan. He would see Delia again; he would have plenty of chances to see her again. For the first time in several minutes, he smiled. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I’m afraid I have to go back to the house now.”

FIVE
    In a downtown coffee shop, Jane Mackenzie was having her regular beginning-of-term lunch with the chairman of the Humanities Council, a bachelor professor of music in his sixties called Bill Laird. There were several more convenient places on campus, but since the purpose of this lunch was to exchange confidential information, Bill had always ruled them out.
    â€œSo how are you?” he asked, leaning forward over the little glass-topped table. Today he was wearing a pink and white candy-striped shirt that brought out the natural pink and whiteness of his face and hair, and his bright blue eyes were alight with interest.
    â€œFine, thanks.” Jane gave the standard response with what sounded to her like forced enthusiasm.
    â€œAnd how’s Alan?”
    â€œHe’s doing all right,” Jane lied. “About the same, really,” she amended. Though the move to the Unger Center had relieved her husband of the need to climb stairs and teach courses, it had not relieved his constant pain—even though he had begun doing some exercises again.
    â€œWorking, I hope?”
    â€œOh yes.” This was not so much a lie as a hopeful assumption. Jane had no idea whether Alan was working in his office at the Center—but, after all, what else could he be doing there all day long?
    â€œAnd how’s everything else at the Center?”
    â€œNot bad. There’s always a few problems at the start.” Jane smiled a bit tightly—she liked and trusted Bill Laird, but she didn’t want to begin with a complaint.
    â€œOf course there are. For instance?” Bill stirred two packets of brown sugar into his iced tea and smiled with an equal sweetness.
    â€œWell, there’s a big hole in the kitchen ceiling; I sent you an e-mail about that.”
    â€œOh yes. Luckily there was no asbestos involved. . . . Thank you, darling, that looks wonderful,” he told the waitress, contemplating a red pepper and mushroom omelet.
    â€œNo, that was a relief. But it means Buildings and Grounds won’t fix the ceiling until next month. And the copier’s not working right, as usual.” This machine was an ongoing problem: Vinnie Miner, a professor of children’s literature who had now retired and moved to England, had named it the Copy Monster. It would have been retired too, even sooner than Vinnie Miner, but it was sneaky. It never broke down completely, and for days or even weeks at a time it gave no trouble. It had been Vinnie’s theory that whenever replacing the copier was discussed at a council meeting the machine somehow knew about it and behaved better for a while.
    â€œAs usual,” Bill agreed.
    â€œAnd then yesterday Delia Delaney kidnapped one of the Emerson Room sofas.”
    â€œReally?” Bill laughed. “Why would she do that?”
    â€œBecause it turns out she has migraine headaches, and when they come on she needs to lie down. Her husband told me about it before Delia moved in, and I arranged for her to have the