Free Joanne Dobson - Karen Pelletier 06 - Death without Tenure by Joanne Dobson Page A

the Enfield library has joined the twenty-first century: five stories high, a bright two-storey lobby with cozy overstuffed chairs, portable ottomans in primary colors, low tables holding half-completed jigsaw puzzles, and hardly a book in sight—just islands of computer tables, three computers each, with sturdy, ball-wheeled office chairs. Off to one side is the jazzy new coffee shop, which was raising faculty and student caffeine levels to unprecedented, jittery heights.
    I sat in a red vinyl booth half-hidden behind a raw concrete pillar. A gigantic paper-lantern-like chandelier lighted my hideaway as I paged through the New York Times . Across from me, a woman student wearing a fluffy pink scarf was curled up on a banquette, with her iPod in front of her, earbuds in, reading a much thumbed copy of Lolita . The rich scent of fresh-ground beans pervaded the bright, spacious room.
    I wasn’t really here to read the newspaper but to do final checking for the bibliography and footnotes of that one last essay for my tenure file. The research would be tedious, checking page numbers, exact wording of the titles, publication dates, correct spelling of authors’ names, etc. I needed to fortify myself with coffee first.
    No sooner had I settled down with my steaming “ecotainer” when someone slid onto the seat next to me, bringing with him the scent of high skies and wide open plains and, perhaps, just a hint of something that might be sagebrush—although, to tell the truth, I didn’t have a clue what sagebrush smelled like. I glanced over: Clark McCutcheon, Wizard of Whiteness.
    “Karen Pelletier,” he said. “I’ve been wanting to get to know you.” The toothiness of his smile and the directness of his intense blue gaze signaled that “knowing” me could—possibly—take any form I chose.
    “Oh?”
    “Oh, yes. Nothing escapes me, you know.” He winked. “Beyond all doubt you are the most…intriguing woman on campus.” He must have had his teeth enameled, they were so uniformly white.
    “Is that so?” I responded. Then I couldn’t help myself. “I thought you found Sally Chenille ‘intriguing.’”
    “Ah.” He laughed and shook his head like a wayward stallion. The shoulder-length gray-blond mane spun out around his strong, square jaw. “Funny you should say that. The good Professor Chenille wishes, above all else, to intrigue, but, sad to say, there’s nothing substantive there. I find Sally to be totally predictable, an academic construct, a self-created projection of sex, postmodern theory, and celebrity culture. But, you—I think you’re the real thing.” He paused, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his eyes looking straight into mine. “I like that.”
    I leaned back as far in the booth as I could without going through the wall. “Well, Professor McCutcheon, I’m very flattered, but I don’t…what I mean to say is, I’m in a committed relationship.”
    “That’s not a problem for me.” The effect of his slitted blue gaze was almost, but not quite, hypnotic. “Is it for you?” His hand was on my knee now, the hand that I had last seen groping Sally Chennile’s ass. Then he grinned—Robert Redford as cowboy roué. “And do call me ‘Clark.’”
    I took a deep breath and stood up abruptly, dumping newspaper all over the floor. “Well, Clark, it’s very nice to talk to you, but…I’ve got work to do.”
    He chose to remain oblivious to my discomfort. His slow gaze bathed me in the sunlight of his approval. Standing now, towering over me, he gave my arm a strong, meaningful squeeze. I inadvertently checked out his hand: square and workmanlike, with the nails recently polished. He spoke in a considered drawl. “I like women, Karen. It’s only natural, right? Give me a call anytime you get tired of commitment. I’ll…buy you a drink.” He winked again.
    I walked out, leaving my much-needed coffee behind. When, on the open, curving staircase to the second floor, I