Free A Hideous Beauty by Jack Cavanaugh

Jana and try to talk her into a late dinner. I wanted to patch things up with her before returning to Washington, D.C. Then I’d grab a red-eye flight home. Come morning, I’d start knocking on White House doors until I got someone to listen to me.

    Small colleges attract prospective students with their small teacher-to-student ratios. Large universities advertise programs, facilities, and faculty credentials. The moment I stepped into Heritage College’s library, I was reminded why I chose to attend a major university.
    The entire library could have fit inside the domed atrium at San Diego State University. There was no circular descending staircase and no subterranean passageway. It had a front door, a circulation desk, and rows of closely spaced metal bookshelvesin what appeared to be a converted elementary-school classroom.
    Upon arriving at the college, I began my search for Professor Forsythe in the faculty building. He wasn’t in his office. A student who was scanning the Employment Opportunities bulletin board suggested I try the library. Which I did. Another student at the circulation desk directed me to the study area in the far corner.
    I found two men seated at a table beside a wall of windows that overlooked a distinctively Southwestern garden with a variety of cacti and rocks.
    One of the men had his back to me. He was lecturing. He spoke in a hushed tone, but it was definitely a lecture. The other man, seated in a wheelchair, hung on every word as though it was gospel truth.
    The lecturer had the shoulders of an all-American lineman. It amused me to think that a professor of theology had at one time played football. Most of the college linemen I’d met would have defined eschatology as the study of Eskimos.
    The man seated at the end of the table was older. He had a full head of white hair and intense, blue eyes. I recognized the type.
    His kind were retirees or widowers or both who hated golf. To pass time, they reenrolled in college. They took a single class at a time, devoted their entire life to it, treated the professor as their best friend, and inevitably succeeded in blowing the top off the class grade-point average, causing serious damage to all the other students, who were taking a full load, working, and trying to have some semblance of a social life.
    In this case, instead of being retired, the man was disabled. He sat with his chin cupped in one hand and showed all the signs of hero worship.
    On behalf of all the students whose grade-point averages he was undermining, I felt no pangs of remorse interrupting this one-course wonder. “Excuse me, Professor Forsythe?”
    The lecture came to an abrupt halt. His shoulders tensed at the interruption.
    â€œProfessor, I apologize, but I must speak to you. It’s important.”
    He refused to turn and acknowledge me.
    I recognized the power-play tactic. Politicians in Washington are masters at playing power games. Here, if the professor let me interrupt, he would lose control. By not acknowledging me, the professor retained control by forcing me to return at a different time, thus admitting that his schedule was more important than mine.
    I refused to be intimidated. This wasn’t Capitol Hill, it was a small college in east El Cajon. The least he could do was to have the decency to turn around, even if it was to tell me to go away. “Professor, I’m sorry if this is a bad time, but it’s imperative I talk to you today.”
    The man in the wheelchair checked his watch. “It’s later than I thought,” he said. “You’re right, I’m afraid this is a bad time. I have a class starting in a few minutes. If you’ll check with my assistant, maybe we can find some time for you.”
    â€œProfessor Forsythe?” I’d mistaken the professor for the student.
    The man in the wheelchair turned in the direction of the book stacks. “Miss Ling!”
    An attractive, young Asian woman