Free Truth and Consequences by Alison Lurie Page B

little horsehair sofa from the front hall. But then yesterday morning Delia apparently decided that wouldn’t do, and without waiting to ask me or anyone she somehow persuaded two of the other Fellows and a custodian to take it back downstairs and carry up one of the big red velvet sofas from the Emerson Room. It wouldn’t fit in the elevator, so they dragged it up the front stairs somehow, and it got stuck, and they cracked one of the banisters in half.”
    â€œReally!” Bill repeated. It was clear that he was amused rather than distressed.
    â€œDelia’s going to be difficult, I’m afraid. Or else she’ll get other people to be difficult for her. Just yesterday her husband came around again with two down pillows and a special reading lamp for her office. I mean, doesn’t he have anything better to do?”
    â€œI shouldn’t think so,” Bill said. “Delia described him in one of her letters as a freelance editor, whatever that means, and I heard somewhere that he published a couple of books of poetry once.”
    â€œReally,” Jane said. For some reason that she had not bothered to analyze, not only Henry Hull himself, but the idea of Henry, made her feel edgy. “I can’t decide what to do about the sofas,” she added, contemplating a tuna fish salad sandwich with indifference. “I mean, I could call B and G and get them moved back.”
    â€œOh, I don’t think so,” Bill said. “I think you should just ask for someone to mend the banisters.”
    â€œBut it wasn’t right what Delia did. It was so rude. She didn’t even leave me a note, I had to hear about it from Susie.” Under the table Jane clenched her small tanned hands into fists.
    â€œOf course she should have asked you,” Bill said soothingly. “But we have to think of the reputation of the Center. If we cross Delia Delaney there could be trouble.”
    â€œHow could there be trouble? She’ll still have a sofa.”
    â€œNot the one she wants.” Bill smiled. “You’ve got to realize, Janey, that woman is armed and dangerous.”
    â€œArmed?” For a moment Jane saw Delia taking a pistol out of her big tapestry handbag and pointing it, and she felt a sharp imaginary pain in her chest. “You think she might have a gun?”
    â€œI suppose it’s possible.” Bill laughed again—clearly he did not suppose this. “But she’s armed with her celebrity. And her computer. If she felt like it she could write an article for the New York Times —”
    â€œDelia doesn’t use a computer,” Jane interrupted, embarrassed at her brief panic. “She writes by hand with an old-fashioned pen and ink.”
    â€œEven worse. She could stab us with a goose feather. She could tell the world how cold and uptight and full of regulations we are. When she was suffering we wouldn’t even let her lie down.” Bill looked at Jane. “I’m surprised you should even think of trying to take a sofa away from someone like Delia Delaney. You’re an experienced administrator, and she’s this year’s star.”
    â€œI suppose you’re right. But she gets my goat sometimes.”
    â€œYour goat?” Bill smiled. “That’s an odd phrase. You don’t have a goat, do you?”
    â€œNobody has a goat,” Jane said impatiently.
    â€œWell, not many people at the University do, I expect. But all the same, why a goat?”
    â€œI have no idea,” Jane said. She was used to Bill Laird’s fascination with language, but did not share it. “But you know, sometimes I wonder how long I can bear this job.”
    â€œCome on. You know you love it, really.”
    â€œWell. I suppose so. At least I used to. But this year—”
    â€œThink of it this way. Every autumn fate brings the Center a new collection of entertaining characters, and then, before we can get