Compliments by Mari K. Cicero Page A

condominium development in a heavily wooded section of Manderson. I’ll need some time to get ready and then drive back across town through weekend-getaway traffic. I’m about one-third of the way home and just crossing off campus when I go to peddle and my feet spin wildly. At first I think my shoes must have slipped off the pedal, but when I push again, I still get no traction. I look down and see my chain has not only come off the gears, it’s broken clear in two pieces. By the time I manage to walk home with my disabled bike, I’m sweaty, angry, and running late.
    In the shower I discover that not only is my hot water out, but I’m out of shampoo. I rub the bar of soap into my scalp, but it takes longer than usual to rinse it out, and leaves my hair feeling stiff. Some things are even beyond the abilities of the best conditioners. By the time I make myself presentable and grab my car keys, I’m rethinking going at all.
    When I arrive to Dr. Woo’s building, it’s fifteen minutes past when I was told to be there. I’m hoping that unlike most mathematicians, those inside will believe in the practice of being “fashionably late.” However, my bad luck rears its ugly head again and I find that all of the visitor parking nearby is full. I circle a few times and am about to pass by Dr. Woo’s again when I catch sight of Prof. Harrison on the sidewalk.
    He sees me through my window and waves me down. I pull over to the curb, where he leans in and sticks his head through the open window.
    “I’m know I’m really late and I’m so sorry,” I say before he has a chance to speak.
    He shakes his head dismissively. “Don’t worry. Woo’s still showing off his original Matisse, going on and on about how he bought it after scamming the tables in Vegas. I was worried you got into an accident or something came up. I’d thought I’d come down to see if you might be milling about down here and, lo and behold, there you are.”
    “I can’t find a place to park.”
    Harrison’s head swivels right. He eyeballs a place across the street and points at a very distinctive “no parking” sign. “Over there.”
    “But the sign …”
    “Don’t worry, it’s safe unless one of the neighbors calls it in. We have private security and they only react if someone complains.”
    “We?” It didn’t escape me.
    He winks. I don’t know if it’s meant to look cute, but I think it makes him look ridiculously geeky. “Woo’s not the only math faculty living in this building.”
    “Um, okay. Thanks. Just, just a second.”
    Prof. Harrison waits for me at the sidewalk, then escorts me to the door of the building. It’s only three stories high, and not nearly as intimidating as I was worried it might be. Suddenly I’m relieved that he’s down here to let me in. I’d hate to reemphasize how late I am by calling up to Prof. Woo’s flat and asking for someone to buzz the door.
    “Woo lives there,” Harrison says. He points to the left side of the building where silhouettes mingle behind the curtain of a grand window. Then he shifts his hand to indicate the other side. “And I live over there, on the second floor. Though, I have to say, Woo’s unit is quite a bit bigger than mine. I guess it’s good to be the chair.”
    There’s a keypad next to the door, and Harrison punches in a series of numbers, letting the locks disengage. He waves me in with a gesture of his arm and a tongue-in-cheek, “After you.”
    Above, the other faculty and their invited students mix near Woo’s piano. I’m amazed at how much space there still is where bodies are not. Even if Harrison’s unit is half the size of Woo’s, it must be huge. I’ve always thought industry and not academic jobs were the more lucrative career path. Perhaps Hawk has the right idea about what he wants to do with his life.
    Prof. Ferris, leaning over the baby grand, grimaces when our eyes meet. No doubt she thinks I expected her to ask me—and not Kyle Luddington,