Free The War Between the Tates: A Novel by Alison Lurie

Had they been carried away, snowed under by a blizzard of real feeling, they would have had some excuse. Instead Brian tried to excuse himself by assuring Erica that the affair had been minor, casual. “It just wasn’t that important,” he had said several times, as if unaware how much this devalues both of them.
    Erica sighs again and rotates the skirt she is hemming. Of course some professors became involved with their students; she knew that. Girls got crushes on them—it was a recognized occupational hazard, which had existed when she was in college. It had never happened to Erica, but several of her friends had at one time or another thought themselves in love with some professor. Conventional morality being different then, they did not undress in offices so readily, but tended more to tears, declarations and gifts of homemade fudge and homemade verse.
    But there is a new sort of student now: less romantic, much more matter-of-fact about sex—and Wendee apparently is one of them. Suppose you are a middle-aged professor, and such a girl comes into your office and boldly declares that she wants to. sleep with you—no strings attached, no emotional commitment. It is, after all, the stock situation of most men’s fantasies. Erica could see how many might jump at the chance.
    But she would never have expected it of Brian. She had always thought of him—he had thought of himself, and apparently still does—as a serious, responsible person. He saw a reason and purpose to life; he disliked frivolous and meaningless pleasures. He therefore had little time for things like watching television and going to large parties. Occasionally, for instance when alone at large parties where TV programs were being discussed, Erica had regretted this. But simultaneously she had admired Brian for his position; valued his influence. Without it, she sometimes thought, who knew how shallow her life might have been, how much time she might have wasted? The world would be a superior place if most people in it were like Brian Tate, she often thought.
    And all this virtue had been false. Brian had sat opposite her night after night, as he is sitting now, and delivered his moral opinions, blaming his friends who got involved with students, listening to her accuse herself of being a bad mother, while all the time—
    “Amusing letter here on those women’s rights protesters,” he says, lowering the Voice and looking at her over the top margin. “Did you read it?”
    “What?” Erica turns her head, pushing aside her hair, which needs to be cut, washed and set.
    Brian repeats himself; ending with a little chuckle which invites her to join in.
    “Oh. Yes.” Erica does not laugh; she smiles briefly. “I saw it.” She does not say she read it, which would not be true. She hates the Village Voice, and it also bores her. Their subscription is about six months old—it dates, that is, from the beginning of Brian’s involvement with Wendee, and might well, Erica considers, have ended with it. Instead the paper keeps on coming, full of dull, obscene political articles and advertisements for light shows and used Army coats. That Brian still reads it means to her that he has secretly abandoned the adult side and gone over to the adolescent enemy, represented by Jeffrey, Matilda, Wendee and all their invisible friends.
    “This about their list of grievances,” Brian says, chuckling encouragingly.
    “Mm, yes,” replies Erica, who has no idea what he is referring to. It is not enough; Brian returns to his paper, disappointed.
    All right, so he is disappointed. But how can he expect her to laugh with him now at women, at their grievances; above all at a letter? How can he not be reminded of another letter, a really amusing letter?
    As a matter of fact, one of Erica’s first ideas after reading that letter had been that it was intended to amuse—that it was some sort of esoteric joke. A colleague had sent it—Leonard Zimmern, perhaps; there was