I pretended to listen while inspecting the books' spines.
Academic texts: sociology, psychology, political science. A bit of fiction, but none of it dated after Hemingway.
Interspersed among the volumes were certificates and trophies.
The brass plate on one was inscribed: SINCERE THANKS TO MR. C. L.
JONES III, FROM LOURDES HIGH SCHOOL ADVANCED PLACEMENT CLUB.
YOU SHOWED US THAT TEACHING AND LEARNING WERE JUST PART OF FRIENDSHIP.
Dated ten years ago.
Right below it was a scroll presented by the Yale Tutorial Project to CHARLES 'CHIP' JONES FOR DEDICATED SERVICES TO THE CHILDREN OF THE NEW HAVEN FREE CLINIC.
On a higher shelf was yet another tutoring award, issued by a fraternity at Yale. Two more plasticized plaques, granted by the College of Arts and Sciences at the University of Connecticut at Storrs, attested to Chip's excellence in graduate teaching. Papa Chuck hadn't lied.
Several more recent testimonials from West Valley Junior College: the Department of Sociology's Undergraduate Teaching Citation, a gavel on a plaque from the WVJC Student Council thanking PROF. 6. L. JONES FOR SERVING AS FACULTY ADVISOR, a group photo of Chip and fifty or so smiling, shiny-cheeked sorority girls on an athletic field, both he and the girls in red T-shirts emblazoned with Greek letters. The picture was autographed: 'Best, Wendy.'
'Thanks, Prof. Jones-Debra.'
'Love, Kristie.' Chip was squatting on a baseline, arms around two of the girls, beaming, looking like a team mascot.
Cindy's got the tough job. I can escape.
I wondered what Cindy did for attention, realized she'd stopped talking, and turned to see her looking at me.
'He's a great teacher,' she said. 'Would you like to see the den>' More soft furniture, crammed shelves, Chip's triumphs preserved in brass and wood and plastic, plus a wide-screen TV, stereo components, an alphabetized rack of classical and jazz compact disc.
That same clubby feel. The sole strip of wall not covered with shelves was papered in another plaid-blue and red-and hung with Chip's two
diplomas. Below the foolscaps, placed so low I had to kneel to get a good look, were a couple of watercolors.
Snow and bare trees and rough-wood barns. The frame of the first was labeled NEW ENGLAND WINTER. The one just above the floor molding was SYRUP TAPPING TIME No signature. Tourist-trap quality, done by someone who admired the Wyeth family but lacked the talent.
Cindy said, 'Mrs. Jones-Chip's mom-painted those.'
'Did she live back east?'
She nodded. 'Years ago, back when he was a boy. Uh-oh, I think I hear Cassie.'
She held up an index finger, as if testing the wind.
A whimper, distant and mechanical, came from one of the bookcases. I turned toward it, located the sound at a small brown box resting on a high shelf. Portable intercom.
'I put it on when she sleeps,' she said.
The box cried again.
We left the room and walked down a blue-carpeted hall, passing a front bedroom that had been converted into an office for Chip. The door was open. A wooden sign nailed to it said SKOLLAR AT WIRK. Yet another book- filled leathery space.
