Tolstoy Lied : A Love Story (9780547527307) by Rachel Kadish Page B

then raises his fingers in lazy salute. “Mea culpa,” he says dryly.
    â€œYou too, Elizabeth,” says Joanne.
    Some of the graduate students wear expressions of barely disguised horror. Rather than provoking jealousy among her fellow grad students, Elizabeth’s peculiarities inspire awe and a touch of protectiveness.
    â€œI believe, Elizabeth, that you’ve been a particularly egregious offender,” says Joanne. “You gave almost sixty percent of your students A’s or A-minuses.”
    Until now, Joanne has always seemed to like Elizabeth. Thismeeting has started to feel like a declaration of war, though on whom and for what purpose is unclear. Across the table from me, Elizabeth is flushed hot pink and looks as though she might pass out.
    Steven Hilliard raises his hand—actually
raises his hand,
so Oxford is he—and contributes a question. “What standards do we agree upon for grading? How, for example, shall this department
define
a C?”
    It’s a question that would be eminently reasonable were he an actual faculty member, rather than a visiting prof who shouldn’t be in this meeting in the first place. For now, though, no one is in a mood to rebuke him. On the faces around the room, irritation at his presence—at the bizarre format of the meeting altogether—is overruled by gratitude for his civil intervention. Surely when Newton penned his law—for every action, an equal and opposite reaction—he had academic politics in mind. And now that Joanne has bared political knuckles, politeness springs up like a force of nature. A recent hire clears his throat and makes a first modest suggestion. A grad student offers another. The definition of a C billows between the walls of the conference room. C means average. C means no ability but some effort. Speakers defer to one another; those who don’t speak wear mainly neutral expressions, in compliance with that basic rule of academia: To survive in the wild, a professor must develop the instincts of a small rock-dwelling animal. When an eagle flies by—or when sniping begins in your presence—freeze. Then camouflage. If you are able to turn translucent, do so immediately.
    Only when the discussion has lulled does Victoria speak up. “I don’t believe it’s necessary to single out individuals,” she says. “This is a departmental problem, one in which we all have a stake.”
    I’ve always respected Victoria, who speaks her mind in a terse New England manner that invites no closeness and allows no bullshit. With her snow-white pageboy and clear blue eyes, cream blouse and tailored gray skirt, Victoria is my definition of unruffleable. There are nods around the table.
    â€œIt is quite clear,” Victoria continues, “that we can all benefit by addressing the grading issue.”
    There is vehement agreement, and the ensuing discussion, moderated by Joanne, rapidly produces a draft of new grading standards and a provision for evaluating our progress as a department. Joanne paces the room’s perimeter restlessly. Pausing to make notes on a pad, she towers over Paleozoic, who sits mummified in his chair with lids at half-mast—his pug nose tilted to the ceiling, emitting a slight whistle so it’s impossible to tell whether he’s sleeping or just listening hard.
    I’m silent during the discussion—unusual for me. Something holds me back. I keep my eye on Joanne. I’ve always found her difficult, but there’s something odd about today’s ferocity. Joanne wears a look of naked, exhausted triumph that makes me think she’s about to crow, or cry.
    As the meeting winds down, the older faculty begin snapping briefcase latches and checking watches. Tuning out Joanne’s closing comments, I find myself wondering what George would be doing if he were here. For an instant I envision the stuffy room flash lit with his humor. And see his