Leslie pointed out how the
Ménagier de Paris
—a kind of domestic instruction manual written by a thirteenth century merchant for his young wife and a familiar, beloved source for medieval social historians—insisted that arguments between man and wife belonged in the privacy of their own bed, and should not be conducted before servants or guests. Lines, she noted, were being drawn between public and private deeds, which was a facet of the same movement from communal focus to individual focus.
Another student who focused on comparative literature noted about the emergence of first-person storytelling in literature, and the many various recountings of personal quests and dreams. Jean de Joinville’s personal memoir, the first vernacular autobiography in French, was presented as another obvious example of this trend toward focus on the individual.
Ideas were flying across the lecture hall, the students were animated, and Leslie was having the time of her life. She was thrilled at the wide variety of topics they had explored and how all of the information complemented the working thesis. She redirected and provided citations and made note of items that they had missed or that she felt should be granted greater emphasis.
Suddenly, Fatima, one of her graduate students, looked up from the back of the hall and tapped her watch.
Leslie glanced at her own watch and was shocked at the time.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have two minutes to sum up,” Leslie said, incredulous at how quickly the time had passed. She laughed and put her hands on her hips. “But that’s impossible. We’ve had a fabulous exchange of information here today and have seen many facets of medieval society in transition. First of all, I’d like you each to write a short summary, either using Mr. Carmichael’s thesis or one of your own, focusing on your particular area of research. Keep it brief, no more than three pages and a bibliography please, just so I’ll have a firmer idea of what everyone explored. Although this won’t be assigned a grade on its own, you can rest assured that one of the optional essay questions on the final exam will build upon this assignment. It will be good preparation for you. I promise.”
She took a deep breath and smiled at her students, who were clearly waiting for the other shoe to drop. “In conclusion, I have to say that this class far exceeded my highest expectations. I want you all to give yourselves a round of applause for a job well done. This was exemplary.”
Leslie began to clap. She stood at the front of the room and applauded her students, their work and energy and enthusiasm, none of which she’d really glimpsed before. She was delighted as the students joined in. Their faces were alight and she knew they had learned something, maybe more than they had learned thus far in her course. They were engaged.
This was what teaching should be.
This was what she had signed up for.
Leslie had no chance to gloat, though. She looked up to where Dinkelmann had been sitting just in time to catch his scowl. He turned and marched out of the lecture hall, his shoulders hunched in disapproval.
She was going to guess that he wasn’t persuaded of the power of what had happened here today.
In fact, she wasn’t going to wait for him to summon her. She packed up her notes, thanked her graduate students for their help, then left the hall, making a beeline for Dinkelmann’s office.
Might as well beard this lion in his den.
* * *
“That went well, didn’t it?” Leslie asked, sparing only a rap for Dinkelmann’s door before she entered his office. He looked up from his desk and sputtered a greeting. Leslie continued with confidence. “I have to say that I was enormously impressed with how much preparation the students did and how much enthusiasm they showed for what can be a very elusive subject.” She took the seat opposite him, crossed her legs and smiled triumphantly. “That was education! Those kids were totally engaged with the material, and it was sophisticated material.”
Dinkelmann took a deep breath. “You needn’t be so self-congratulatory about that fiasco.”
“What fiasco? I was encouraging their academic passion.”
“You can’t teach like that all the time. You can’t just let the class descend into chaos! What kind of exam question can you fabricate from
that
?”
“Oh, that’s not difficult. One of the essay answer choices can be to write about their research for that class.”
“But what are you teaching them, other than the fact that you are able to abdicate your responsibility?”
“I beg your pardon?” Leslie got out of her chair. “They each went into the library to research a specific facet of a major social change. There was no bibliography, no cheat sheet, no way they could ask each other, no breadcrumbs through the medieval studies section. They had to do research all by themselves, which means they had to formulate a research plan and undoubtedly learned a great deal about the indices available as library resources, and then in class, they had to formulate and defend a thesis related to that research.”
“You should have taught a lecture,” Dinkelmann insisted grimly. “That’s your job, Dr. Coxwell.”
Leslie stood up. “My job, Dr. Dinkelmann, is to teach history and to teach academic skills to those who will go on to graduate work. Both of those objectives were met in that lecture hall today.”
“You went too far. You obviously are distraught and are trying to pretend there is success in a failure on your part. I will not excuse this kind of behavior...”
“I am not distraught, though I am considering its merits at this point in time.”
Dinklemann pushed to his feet. “I told you to take a week off. Do you see now the wisdom of my advice?”
“I have a family funeral to attend tomorrow, so I will not be in. I have cancelled my lectures and appointments, but I will be back on Thursday.” She straightened and looked Dinkelmann steadily in the eye. “I have a job to do here, Dr. Dinkelmann. There is academic excellence to be encouraged and the future of scholarship to be assured.”
“You are going about this the wrong way.”
“We have a deal, Dr. Dinkelmann, and I’m going to see it through. Have you had the grade point averages of my students calculated for comparison at the end of the term?”
“The dean will not support this kind of whimsy.”
Leslie laughed. “I didn’t know it was whimsy to try to improve students’ marks. What is this institution coming to? Why will they need professors and department heads, Dr. Dinkelmann, after they decide to just give every registered student an A? Why bother teaching courses? They could just save the payroll cost and not have any professors at all.” She leaned closer and tapped her fingertip on his desk. “You may think that you’re compromising, that maybe it’s just a little compromise, but as an historian, you should be able to discern the evolution of a trend. This is the beginning of the end and I will not capitulate. I will fight the good fight to my last breath.”
She held his gaze for a long moment, then pivoted. “I will see you Thursday, Dr. Dinkelmann.”
He cleared his throat. “I assume your graduate school referral letters are done?”
Leslie turned on the threshold of his office and smiled sweetly. “They’re not due until Thursday. I had quite a number of requests this year and as I’m sure you can appreciate, personal events of this past week have interfered in my ability to complete them. They’ll be done on time, though, you can be assured of that.”
With one last achingly sweet smile, Leslie left Dr. Dinkelmann with something to think about.
She went back to her office, booted up her computer, logged on and replied to a message in her Inbox.
Dear Graham:
Please call me at home, at your convenience.
Sincerely,
Leslie Coxwell.
She included her home telephone number and hit
Send
before she had a chance to reconsider.
* * *
Beverly Coxwell was certain that the demon child—as she had come to call Annette—would make her crazy. She’d left the funeral home, paused at the house to drop off the dogs, then gone shopping because she’d been certain the child would have nothing to wear to a funeral.
The quest for a suitable dark suit, one that was ladylike but not too old, one that was flattering but not too cute, one that also would fit a girl the size of Annette, had not been an easy one. It had, in fact, left Beverly in dire need of a shot of nice amontillado sherry.
Instead, she had persisted against all odds, found a suit, haggled over the price and returned to the house triumphant (if sherry-free).
Where Annette had curled her nose. “I’m not wearing
that
!”
“You’re not wearing
that
,” Beverly retorted, gesturing to the black T-shirt and jeans with impatience. She didn’t understand the logo on the T-shirt and didn’t much care: wearing clothing with writing on it was vulgar. “You must wear something appropriate and your mother won’t have time to shop for you by the time she gets home.”
“I’ll wear something I have.” Annette sulked in the corner of the kitchen. “What happened to all of those chocolate chip cookies?”
Beverly could relate to the need for an indulgence all too well. “They’re gone,” she said dismissively, remembering that her sherry had been similarly discarded. “And there won’t be any more of them in this house anytime soon.” She drew herself up to her full height when Annette looked as if she might balk. “All right. What do you have to wear?”
Annette fidgeted. “Something.”
“No. You show me exactly what.”
Annette turned to face her, squaring her shoulders and standing up straight for once. “You’re only worried about appearances, about what everyone else thinks—” she began, clearly gearing up for a teenage tirade.
But Beverly had survived four teenagers, more or less, and wasn’t that easily ruffled. “You’re right. I want people to think that my family had respect for my husband, and that means that you will dress appropriately or you will not go.”
Annette’s face lit and Beverly realized her mistake a bit late. “Bonus!”
“No bonus.” Beverly smiled a slow cold smile, one that made Annette shiver just as children before her had shivered. “Because if you do not extend the courtesy of attending your grandfather’s funeral, I will find a way to make you regret it. You can count on that.”
Annette reached for Champagne’s collar. “You won’t take the dogs away.”
“They have a trust fund,” Beverly said, only realizing the import of that now. “It might be my obligation to house them in the style to which they’ve become accustomed, which would be, of course, in a condo downtown that is reasonably inaccessible without a car.” She shrugged, though she was touched by Annette’s horror at this prospect. “Which might mean that I had to get rid of the Jag, maybe for a Corolla or something more practical.”
“I thought you were going to teach me to drive in the Jag!” Annette wailed.
Beverly arched a brow, letting the child do the math all by herself.
“You’re not supposed to play dirty like this,” Annette muttered. “Adults are supposed to take the high road and set an example.”
“I decided a long time ago that I couldn’t be an example, so I might as well be a horrible warning instead,” Beverly said, quoting a quip she’d once heard somewhere.
Annette almost laughed. “You don’t mean that.”
“I’m serious about the funeral. You need to go and you need to look like the pretty young woman that you are.” She held out the suit on its hanger, the plastic bag from the store bunched around the hook of the hanger. “You could at least try it on. You might be surprised. It is of excellent quality, because I don’t believe in wasting my money on garbage.”
The fact that it had been expensive kindled the girl’s interest, which Beverly thought a good sign. “Do I have to get a paper route or something lame to pay you back for it?”
“No. It’s a gift, even if it’s one you don’t want. Look at it this way: I’d rather not be buying you a suit to wear to your grandfather’s funeral.”
Annette looked surprised. “But if I have to go and I have to wear something appropriate and I don’t have anything that’s right, then you mean you wish he wasn’t dead.”
Beverly held her granddaughter’s gaze. “That’s right.”
“But he wasn’t...I mean, he wasn’t nice.”
“Are you always nice?” Beverly shook her head, not waiting for an answer. “I’m not, but I hope that doesn’t mean that there’s a long line of people wishing me dead. If so, I don’t intend to oblige them anytime soon.”
Annette took the hanger with some reluctance, and didn’t move further. Beverly crossed the kitchen, shed her coat, and looked in the fridge. Great. There was cranberry juice. Hip hip hurray.
It would have to do.
She poured herself a glass, aware that Annette was watching her. She turned slowly and looked the girl up and down, ignoring her stricken expression. “You could have had the worst over with by now. It’s not an enormous concession that I’m asking of you.”
Annette passed the hanger from one hand to the other, looked away, then impaled Beverly with a glance. “Are you really sad that he’s dead?”
“Yes.” She smiled slightly at Annette’s shock. “I knew him for a long time and, though we weren’t always nice to each other, it was comforting in a way just to know that he was there.”
She might have stopped there but the child was watching her so intently that she felt obliged to continue.
“I believed, even after we separated, that if I really needed anything, that Robert would have helped me. I’m not sure whether that was true, but it doesn’t matter. The idea that there was someone I could rely upon was one that reassured me. And now he’s not here anymore, which means there’s no one to call. My parents and siblings are all dead already, and I think it’s a bit tacky to keep counting on your kids to help you out.” Beverly laughed a little, without humor. “Especially when you need as much help as I tend to.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t live alone.”
“I have the girls now.”
“I mean, without other people. Because then there’d always be someone around.”
“I can’t imagine that anyone would put up with me.”
“We’re doing it.”