Free Patricia Gaffney by Mad Dash Page B

inaudibly.
    “Correct. And why was it new? What was the old trifecta in political doctrine? Life, liberty, and…what?”
    Even more softly: “Property?”
    “Yes. Brilliant,” he declared, and Heather’s pale cheeks pinkened from pleasure and embarrassment.
    “Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,” piped up Derek Berenson from a front-row desk. “Unless you happened to be a slave. ”
    First Richard Weldon and Peter Flynn, now Berenson. Andrew brushed chalk off his hands and strolled over to the lectern. Defending Thomas Jefferson was a job he relished less and less because of the position it put him in: apologizing for a presumed racist. “Interesting point, Derek. We could spend the rest of the day discussing that, but let’s stay on topic for now.”
    “But Jefferson owned slaves,” Berenson, a smart, good-looking, smooth-talking third-year student, persisted. “You could pursue happiness, but only if you were a white guy, right?”
    “Well, it’s complicated. We’ll talk about it, because it’s important, but for now, let’s agree it would be an easy mistake to evaluate a historical figure using modern criteria. Judge an eighteenth-century man by twenty-first-century values, in other words.” The party line; it seldom failed. “At the moment, we’re discussing the drafting of a document that, however many flaws we might anachronistically find in it now , changed the course of history then. ”
    Evading difficult issues wasn’t his style, but he didn’t have the heart today for a debate over Jefferson’s racial ethics. Besides, it wouldn’t change anything. The winds were shifting. Not that he’d ever had much clout in the department—not that he’d wanted it—but seeing what little he did have slip away, like the painful passing of knots in a tug-of-war rope when you’re losing…it was demoralizing. If he was the old guard, Peter Flynn and his bunch were the new, and Andrew could feel their hot breath on the back of his neck, their loafer-shod toes on his heels, hounding him into obsolescence.

     

    “H ey, don’t be in such a hurry to say no. Think about it,” Tim Meese said around a mouthful of Boston cream pie, Friday’s dessert special in the Student Center cafeteria. “If you were the chairman, you could get me out of teaching Western Civ forever. I’d want a summer session this year, too, I need the money. And no eight o’clocks, ever again.”
    “No problem.” Andrew finished his coffee and reached automatically for the roll of antacids in his pocket. “How about a raise while I’m at it?”
    “That’s a given.” Tim smiled, watching him bite down on a couple of Tums. “Don’t let it get to you. Flynn’s an ass. It’s a con, this deal with his precious book.”
    “You know what he’s calling it? The Great Cover-up. ”
    “He knows you won’t do it, that’s his trick. And when you refuse, it makes you look, you know…”
    “Ungrateful. Misguided.”
    “Well…”
    “Inert.”
    “Inert, no, no—that’s me. ” Tim’s laugh rumbled up from his barrel chest; his fleshy Irish features reddened. “I’m the deadwood around here, not you.”
    “You’re not deadwood.”
    When he shrugged his beefy shoulders, the tops of Tim’s plaid suspenders briefly disappeared. He was letting himself go; no wife to take care of him anymore. “Anyway, I’m telling you, Sink-or-Swim’s an idiot. Have you ever heard him lecture? He just reads the notes from whatever article he happens to be writing. It’s a joke.”
    “Sink-or-Swim” Flynn—they called Peter that because of his indifference to the junior faculty or anyone else struggling with advancement. The concept of mentoring was unknown to him; he never helped anyone but himself.
    The cafeteria was stifling, as usual, and the noise level, always high, was deafening on Fridays, everyone revving up for the weekend. “Why don’t you take the job?” Andrew had to lean across the table to ask.
    “ Me .”