'May I ask why?' June said.
'June,' I said. 'I know you want to string this out so you may spend more precious minutes with me. But Dr. Silverman here is my honeybunch and she's alert to even the most subtle of love ploys.'
'Please do not be offensive,' she said.
'Oh, June,' I said. 'How transparent.'
'You won't leave without the list, will you,' she said.
'No,' I said.
'I can call the registrar and have Dwayne's schedule over the past four years Xeroxed. You'll have to make the list yourself.'
She then made her phone call, prefacing the request with the phrase, 'President Cort wonders if you would. . .'
In an hour we were having a spot of lunch at the Lancaster Tap. In a manila envelope on the table beside my water glass were copies of Dwayne's classes over the past four years.
'And what are you going to do with all those class schedules?' Susan said.
'I'm going to talk to all his teachers.'
Susan shook her head. 'You are a piece of work,' she said.
'Says so,' I said, 'on ladies' room walls all over the country.'
'No,' Susan said. 'It doesn't.'
24
FOR the next week I interviewed professors. Susan came with me when she could on the assumption that she was more academic than I was and could add some insight. George Lyman Kittredge couldn't have added enough insight.
I was alone when I talked with J. Taylor Hack, Francis Calvert Dolbear Professor of American Civilization. Hack was tall and portly and well tailored except that his shoes weren't shined.
'Woodcock,' he said. 'No, I'm afraid I can't remember the boy.'
'Took your course in The Frontier Hypothesis, last spring,' I said.
Hack smiled graciously. 'It's quite a popular course,' he said. He dipped his head modestly. 'I'm just not able to recall all of my students.'
'Gee,' I said. 'That's too bad. I thought maybe because Dwayne is six feet nine inches tall and the best college basketball player in the world, you might have noticed him more than others.'
'The best, really, how interesting. I don't pay much attention to basketball, I fear.'
I was looking at my notes. 'Dwayne got a B- in your course.'
'Well, he did very well. It's rather a demanding course and for a, ah, basketball player to do that well, Dwayne must be an unusual young man.'
'He can't read,' I said.
'I beg your pardon.'
'He can't read.'
Hack was absolutely silent.
'Probably gotten an A,' I said, 'if he could read.'
'It's not possible. Someone must have taken the exams for him,' Hack said finally.
'Probably,' I said. 'And probably wrote his papers for him. You wouldn't have known if someone sat in for him during class?'
Hack paused a long time before he answered. Finally he said, 'No, I wouldn't ... there are forty or fifty people in this class, I give it every semester. I have two other classes each year. There're papers, and my own research.'
'Anyone ever ask you to give his grades any special attention?' I said.
'No. Good God, no. No one would intrude on the grading process like that.'
'Of course not,' I said. 'And you never heard of Dwayne Woodcock?'
'No.'
'Amazing,' I said.
'I do not,' Hack said, 'spend my time poring over the sports pages.'
'I know who Frederick Jackson Turner is,' I said.
'I don't see the relevance.'
'There's a surprise,' I said.
Susan was with me when we talked to a young assistant professor named Mary Ann Hedrick. She had an office about the size of a confessional, in the humanities building.
