Chapter 2

Martin set his briefcase on his desk, unzipped it and pulled out a stack of quizzes. He poked his head out his door he looked toward Irene’s office. The light was on.

He walked into her office. “Irene...”

“Get out,” she said. “Get out!”

“We need to talk...”

“GET OUT!” she shrieked.

He backed from her. “All right ... all right.” Martin headed back to his office. He sat at his desk and began grading the quizzes. His phone rang. “Hello?”

“Doctor Lang, it’s Margot.”

“Margot. I was going to give you a call...”

“Doctor Lang -- Dean Barnes wants to see you.”

“When?”

“Right now.”

“I’ll be right there.” He hung up the phone and headed down the corridor to a door with a sign reading, Dean of the School of Arts and Sciences.

“Go right in,” said Catherine.

“John...”

“Martin -- have a seat.” He pulled up a chair. “Martin -- you know my thoughts on interpersonal relationships here on campus.”

“I think I do.”

“We want to keep things on a professional and collegiate level. We can’t have our good work undone by ... histrionics caused by ... inappropriate entanglements.”

“I understand ... I think.”

“As the team lead of an important project, Martin, it’s your responsibility to keep these things on an even keel.”

“What are you getting at, John?”

“I just got off the phone with Irene Wagner.”

“And?”

“She wants off of the fungus project.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Did she tell you why?” Martin asked.

The dean shook his head. “She said she didn’t want to make a federal case out of it. She did say she didn’t think she could work with you.” He took off his glasses and glared at Martin. “What the fuck is going on, Martin?”

“I ... You got me swinging, John.”

“If she takes herself off the project...”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Martin replied. “Not only we won’t have our sensitivity and spectrum studies, we’ll have screwed over at least two grad students and their theses...”

“I saw you two leaving together after the Christmas party.”

“That was Margot’s idea. Irene was in no shape to drive to East Colton. Not with the roads the way they were. Margot thought she should sleep it off at my place.”

“Did something happen between you two?”

“Oh, something happened all right. I don’t want to go into it, but if anyone deserves to be upset it’s me at her, not vice-versa.”

Barnes sat back in his chair and nodded. “I believe you, Martin. We gotta figure out how to defuse this. This project is too important.”

“I’ll go talk to her.”

“Thanks, Martin.”

He headed back toward her office and saw she was conferring with a student. He paced the corridor until she was free.

Martin stepped into her office and closed the door behind him. “Irene.”

“Get out!” She picked up the phone. “Get out or I’ll call campus security and have you removed.”

“Dean Barnes sent me.”

She put down the phone. “What did he say?”

“He said you want off the fungus project. Your reasons were a bit murky.”

Irene’s mouth opened and closed as she attempted to form words. “How can I stay after what happened?”

“What happened?”

“You know what happened!”

“Does this have to do with the other night, after the Christmas party?”

“You know damned well it does!”

“What’s your recollection of that night?”

“I ... I remember walking to your place. The next thing I know I woke up in your bed. How did I get there? How did I end up in your bed, Martin?”

“I put you there.”

“How did I end up out of my clothes?”

“I took them off you.”

Her lip quivered. “Was it good for you? Was it? And, what was it you gave me?”

“Look -- I don’t like the direction where this is heading ... your accusations. I’m sure once you got home you looked yourself over carefully and you know nothing happened.”

“Nothing actionable.”

“Nothing happened. Nothing. You don’t remember anything?”

“I don’t ... All I remember is walking to your house.”

“That was Margot’s idea. She didn’t like the idea of you driving in your condition. Do you remember having one too many eggnogs at the party?”

“I remember feeling a little tipsy.”

“I don’t know if it was the walk or the cold air or what, but you were pretty lucid by the time we got to my house. It started out rather civil. You were looking at my collection of artifacts. I showed you my blow gun. Do you remember that?”

She shook her head. “I don’t.”

“So, you blacked out. Do you remember wanting to taste-test my collection of local liquor? You had two generous helpings of cane liquor plus some Chinese maotai -- all pretty potent stuff. Do you remember?”

Irene shook her head again. “I don’t...”

“I blame myself for that -- it was my bad judgment to serve you. Believe me, I did not slip you a mickey or a roofie or whatever they call it these days. You were doing a fine job of getting hammered all by yourself. Next, you got silly -- you played keep-away with my blowgun. Then, the last round of cachaça hit you like a ton of bricks and you got the spins. I put you into my guestroom -- in your clothes -- so you could sleep it off. You had just about hit the mattress when stuff started coming back up.”

“You mean...”

“You started vomiting. You decorated your top and your skirt, as well as my guestroom bed, including the quilt my grandmother -- God rest her -- hand sewed for me when I was an infant. I couldn’t leave you like that, so I cleaned you up, undressed you and put you into my bed. Yes, I did glimpse your breasts -- they’re lovely by the way. But that’s not why I did it.”

Irene sat in her chair, her hands in her lap and averting her gaze from him. She began blushing beet red.

“I stripped the guestroom bed and did a load of laundry, including your duds. The quilt will have to go to the cleaners and I hope they can do something for it. From the look of it, I’d say you consumed quite a bit of pizza. It makes a stain with staying power.”

“Oh, God -- I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll pay for the cleaners.”

“Is any of this coming back to you?”

“It’s so foggy ... I do remember feeling sick ... I remember the hangover. I was in bed ‘til one in the afternoon.”

“I checked on you during the night to make sure you were okay. Once I figured you were past any danger I crashed on my sofa. I was going to offer you breakfast and my own, often-imitated, never-duplicated, secret hangover cure. Instead you bolted out of my place like a bat out of Hell. Now, do you believe my account of what happened? If push comes to shove, it’s what I’ll have to tell John.”

“Martin, I’m so sorry ... I’m humiliated.”

“Irene -- do you have a problem with alcohol?”

“I guess I do. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened to me, but it has been a while ... I mean ... I am capable of social drinking. However -- once I reach a certain point, I lose control.” She stood and faced him, looking him in the eye. “I do believe what you’re telling me and I really am sorry. And, I really appreciate the fact you were taking care of me.”

“Apology accepted, Irene. As far as I’m concerned, this is behind us. It’s a dead issue.”

Irene nodded. “I appreciate it. Thanks.”

“And, it’s just between us. I won’t breathe a word to anyone.”

“I appreciate that, too.”

“I hope you’ll stay on our team for the fungus project.”

She stared at the floor. “If you still want me after this.”

“Want you? Irene -- we NEED you. There isn’t anyone on that team who isn’t critical ... critical, Irene, to our success. Especially you.”

“I really appreciate hearing that.” She brushed tears from her eyes.

“And, I’ll try not to be such a prick.”

“What?”

“Don’t you remember calling me a prick?”

She blushed beet red again. “Oh, God -- no, I don’t. I apologize, Martin. It must’ve been the liquor talking.”

“No need to apologize. It was something I needed to hear. I’ll amend my behavior ... try adding some humor to my lectures.”

“That’s ... that’s gracious of you, Martin.”

“I also forgive you for what you did to my pet hamster.”

Irene’s eyes popped and her jaw dropped. “I did WHAT?”

“Just kidding -- adding some humor.”

She placed her hand on her breast. “At this point you could tell me I did anything and I couldn’t refute it.”

“I’ll go to the dean and tell him everything’s okay. Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll go to him, too, and tell him I was out of line.”

“You don’t have to do that, Irene.”

“I want to do it.”

He extended his hand. “Friends?”

She reached for it and grasped it. “Friends.”

Martin sat at his desk. He was keeping his office hours and his door was open. “Knock-knock,” he heard from the corridor.

He turned to see Irene. “Come in.”

She handed him a bakery box. “Peace offering.”

He looked in the box. “Jelly donuts ... Thanks.”

“I saw Geoff in the corridor and asked him what you like. He said he thought you like jelly donuts.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“I wanted to apologize again for my behavior...”

“I told you it’s behind us, Irene. Forget about it.” His eye was caught by a piece of paper. “Say ... Just to prove there are no hard feelings...” He held up a certificate. “This is a gift certificate for the Parkside. I received it this past spring as a faculty appreciation award. I had forgotten about it until I ran across it looking for some papers. The thing expires at the end of the year ... which is only a few weeks away. I figured I have to use it or lose it. Maybe you’d like to join me.”

“The Parkside?”

“Yes. It’s a nice place. The certificate is for a hundred dollars -- which probably would cover two entrees and a modestly-priced bottle of wine. What do you say?”

“I ... I don’t know what to say...”

“How about, yes? It’s not a place where I’d go by myself.”

“All right, Martin. I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t have to sound so enthusiastic,” he replied. “I’m not twisting your arm.”

Irene faced him and forced a smile. “I’d be delighted.”

“Thank you. What day is good for you? Friday?”

“I think Friday works.”

“Then I’ll make reservations for six. Shall we take your car or mine?”

“Why, what do you drive?” she asked.

“Tell me what you drive.”

“I have a Toyota Prius.”

He snorted. “It figures. I have a 1978 SAAB model 99. With three hundred thousand on the clock.”

“We had better take my car.”

“You’re probably right. If the place has valet parking, and if he set the handbrake then I’d have to crawl under it to release it.”

Irene smiled, this time genuinely. “You said it’s a nice place. What’s the dress code?”

“I’ll wear a shirt and tie.”

“Men have it so easy.” She wandered around his office looking at journals and reprints of papers scattered on his desk, table and window sill. She picked up a saddle-bound booklet. “Campus Lampoon,” she said.

“That’s the campus humor magazine.”

“I like a good joke.”

“You won’t find one in there. It’s full of undergraduate, male-centric, sophomoric humor. Think Adam Sandler or Rob Schneider -- only juvenile.”

“No junior or senior humor?” She flipped through the pages and stopped. “What the...” She showed the page to him. “Female Prof Rankings.”

“It’s an annual feature -- Rack ‘Em, Stack ‘Em.”

“I’m sure we’re not being ranked on our academics...”

“You’d be wrong. The rankings are by the student body using an on-line survey. Academics are part of the survey.”

“Martin! This is outrageous! These descriptions ... all of them are critiques of our physical appearances!”

“That’s the Lampoon staff’s contribution,” he explained. “They take the survey results and cast them in those terms.”

“I ... I won’t stand for it!”

“Relax and take a chill pill,” Martin replied. “It’s all in good fun.”

“It is not! Women will never advance in STEM studies so long as we’re objectified like this!” She threw the magazine onto his desk. “Don’t tell me you condone this!”

“Did you notice that the Tech student body is three-quarters male?”

“I am constantly reminded of that,” she replied, “every time I walk across campus.”

“There is nothing obscene or indecent in the article,” Martin replied. “You’re fairly high on the list. You should treat it as a compliment. It means you’re well-liked by the students who you’ve taught. Here...” He picked up the magazine and began reading aloud.

“Associate Professor of Microbiology Irene Wagner, age thirty-four...”

“They put my age in this?” She grabbed for the magazine but he snatched it away and continued reading. “Bachelor of Science from SUNY Buffalo, 2003, PhD Cornell, 2006.” Martin looked up and nodded. “PhD in three years. Impressive.” He continued reading. “Assistant Professor of Microbiology at Rochester Institute of Technology from 2006-2010, spent four years at University of Pittsburgh and now eying a tenured chair here.” He looked up at her again. “See? They cover your academic cred.”

“They merely cribbed it from my online profile.” She rolled her eyes and sighed. “Can we just get on with it?”

“Doctor Wagner is the sort who prefers to hide her candle under a bushel. Tall, slim, flat-chested...”

Irene glowered at him. “Since when does someone’s bra size come into this?”

“ ... hair pulled back in her signature bun and bespectacled Doctor Wagner likes to present an image of studious sobriety -- the campus school marm. But, hey -- small boobed chicks can be hot, and we think there’s plenty of heat under that bushel. Catch her smiling and you’ll get a glimpse of her stealth beauty.” Martin looked up. “They’re right. I think you have a pretty smile.”

“When have you seen me smile?”

“You were smiling when you walked in here.” He held up the magazine. She continued glowering at him, clenching and flexing her jaw muscles as he continued reading. “With her sultry voice and stealth good looks we’ll bet she has the goods under those granny skirts she wears...”

“That’s enough!” Irene snatched the magazine from him.

“There’s nothing libelous or scandalous in there.”

“I am here to educate these kids,” she replied, “not to be the object of their sexual fantasies.”

“These are guys. This is what guys think about. It’s human nature, Irene. Once in a while some co-ed comes into one of my classes and I’ll speculate on how she looks naked.” She stared at him, her jaw dropped. “It doesn’t mean I do anything about it. I do believe you make yourself look cold and stern on purpose.”

“You don’t know what it’s like being a woman.”

“Guilty as charged. I do not know what it’s like to be a woman.”

“We have to work twice as hard just to stand still.” She threw the magazine onto his desk. “This sort of ... crap doesn’t help our cause in the least.”

“It’s all in good fun. You should lighten up about it.”

“How would you like it if you were judged like a piece of meat? By some bunch of gay students, for example? How much fun would that be?”