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Open Season
Character study for lotruniversity.
In the fall, before Billy goes to the conference
in Edinburgh.
The sign outside Billy's primary classroom reads simply enough.
PHIL
421 senior seminar Wednesday session cancelled. Please reschedule
office hours appointments for this Wednesday with dept. secretary or
email professor.
It does not, however, tell quite the full story. Billy is neither sick
nor out of town. He is
walking at a faster clip than usual toward the hidden copse of trees he
likes to call his own, but he's not doing so to hide from his students
so much as to spare them the mood he's not been able to shake since his
early morning meeting—and who the fuck thinks it intelligent to
schedule a meeting early in the morning?—with Dean Hillerman, the
philosophy department's chair.
---
Hillerman's
a peculiar rodent of a man, not physically imposing or particularly
brilliant, but toady and smart enough to have survived almost twenty
years at Baskerville. And when he peers at Billy from above the glasses
that slip constantly down his nose, Billy feels gooseflesh rising all
over himself. Until Hillerman speaks, and then the only feeling Billy
can pay real attention to is one he's actually trying to ignore: the
rising urge to stand and leave the man's office and Baskerville, too,
and never return.
"Bill, can you tell me honestly that St.
Andrews has read over this article and approved it for publication?
Because in all seriousness, I can't imagine how they would. Your
evidence against their educational practices is hardly something they'd
want publicized—"
"And yet," Billy smiles, coaxing himself to
relax in his chair. "They have approved it, and they plan to publish
it, unless of course you stop them."
Hillerman purses his lips
and shoves his glasses to the top of his head, where they are
immediately lost in his wild mane of unnaturally blue–black hair. "Our
editorial review board cannot force you to withdraw the paper, Bill,
you know that. But we also cannot endorse it, and in fact Dean McKellen
has asked that you remove the references to Baskerville in the paper
itself and in your biographical material."
"Remove—" Billy can
feel the blood rush from his face, a stark contrast to what is usually
a rush upward that colours even the tips of his ears. The calculations
he makes are quick, barely accurate things, but they distract him from
saying anything worse. "That's at least a quarter of the paper, John;
you can't—he can't be serious."
"May I ask who served as your readers, Bill? And why you did not ask
anyone on Baskerville's editorial review board to do so?"
"My
readers are listed clearly in the acknowledgements," Billy says, very
quietly, even as his fingers of his left hand curl white and hard
around the arm of his chair. "And as there are no other professors
besides myself at Baskerville, much less on the review board, currently
teaching educational philosophy, I didn't think anyone was—" Qualified.
"In a position to read with the background I felt was necessary."
"You're selling your colleagues rather short,
Bill." Hillerman plays with the thick edge of Billy's manuscript, and
Billy watches the page rise and fall under the man's fingertips. "And
unless you've queried them all on their concentrations beyond what they
currently teach, then you've made an error in both judgement and
collegial respect."
Billy
blanches again, still focusing on the manuscript. Hillerman continues,
but in his mind Billy is already at his trees, speeding down a
motorway—anywhere but here. "I'm returning the manuscript to you, Bill,
in the hopes that you'll consider the edits we're proposing, especially
those Dean McKellen has personally suggested—"
"You're telling me he actually read
it?" Billy asks, and it's only by sheer will that the words do not come
from between clenched teeth. "Or did he scan your summary, John?"
"He
read it." Hillerman replaces his glasses on his nose and hands the
manuscript to Billy. "I think you'll find, Billy, that at Baskerville
we do not advise on a publication's merit just by reading the
acknowledgements and looking for our own names. This is not St.
Andrews."
How fucking dare you. "I hardly need
reminding," Billy nods. "And I think you'll find, John, that I am the
last man who'll rally to their defense in any other case. But you'll
understand that I mean this with the greatest collegial respect when I
say I valued the opinion of my readers very highly, and would choose
the same people again without another thought. I never imagined—"
"Professor
Boyd." Hillerman sighs deeply, splaying his hands flat on his desk.
"Please, Bill. Take my advice and do as McKellen asked, at least, even
if you can't stomach the other suggestions—"
"Remove the fact
that I'm a tenured professor here, John? Remove the results of the
research I undertook, most of which was under your own supervision,
in my first year?"
"Professor."
Billy stands his ground, keeping his breathing steady. "We'll talk
soon, John."
Hillerman nods slowly. "Yes, we will."
----
At
the foot of the tree, Billy stands and stares up into its canopy, into
the welcoming, still just barely multicoloured riot of leaves and
branches. His hands ache from feeling so clenched, first around the
chair's arm and then around the thick manuscript as he walked back to
his office, but after only a bare moment's weighing of pros and cons,
Billy's reaching for a handhold on the tree and scaling it quickly.
And
it hurts, it fucking hurts when he catches his fingers against some
ragged piece of bark and his skin is torn into small shreds. Billy
blinks at the sensation and continues moving, scuffing his shoes and
listening for the rasp of his trousers against the lower, dead and
dusty leaves. Inside he knows this is a child's reaction to a scolding,
to run and sit by oneself alone to seethe and burn until one's insides
are raw, but at the same time it's healthier than several other
alternatives he can think of. And he still has another class to teach
late this afternoon.
If, of course, he decides to do so.
He's
almost up into the crook of branches he so loves when Billy slips, and
he hisses in surprise as he feels himself falling. He's in no real
danger—the heavy, crossed branches about eight feet below him catch him
well enough, if not particularly kindly—but Billy tries to recollect
himself before he makes another mistake that would plunge him all the
way back to the ground. Moving more slowly and ignoring again the pain
the shoots up and down his back from the fall, Billy climbs until he's
nestled where he wants to be, high in the leaves.
The smell of
fall is strong up here. Billy breathes it in and waits for the pounding
in his head to lessen before he reaches for a handful of red and yellow
leaves, folding them gently in his palm, grateful that they're still
yielding and bright. When Billy looks up again, he can see through the
tree the outline of Baskerville's buildings, and he closes his eyes,
picturing other buildings, other times. He wonders if he will ever
teach for more than a few years in any one place without the bitterness
of winter seeping into his mind and heart as it did in St. Andrews, as
it has here. For the moment Billy pushes away his thoughts of the paper
and the hours of work he might have lost to that bitterness, and he
tries to remember the good parts, the times he felt at home. The times
he felt he was doing something right.
There's a rustle beneath
him, and Billy opens his eyes slowly and peers down at Dominic,
standing at the base of the tree and staring up at him.
"You cancelled class," Dominic says gently, and Billy nods. "Are you
alright, Billy?"
"I
don't know," he answers honestly, and sits back in his little nest,
propping his feet up on an opposite branch. "I don't know, Dom."
The
next thing Billy hears is leaves crunching and branches straining as
Dominic climbs to his side. At no point does Dominic slip, at no point
does he even hesitate, until he's half in Billy's arms and holding
Billy's torn–up right hand.
"What happened, Billy?"
"Winter," Billy sighs, and closes his eyes again.
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