They passed through the old town and headed west toward one of the shopping centers that had sprung up, with their cluster of surrounding subdivisions. "I thought we'd try that new Mexican restaurant at the mall," Peggy explained. "They say the food is pretty good."
"You're just trying to get as far away from campus as possible," Karen said. "Don't worry, I won't leap out and try to escape. You were right; I do need a break. Thanks."
"For what? My motives were purely selfish, as they always are."
Karen studied her with an affectionate smile. Peggy's gruff voice, deepened to bass-baritone by years of chain smoking, and her disdain for feminine fripperies concealed a personality as soft as marshmallow. It wasn't surprising that Joan and Sharon, Karen's closest friends on the faculty, had appealed to Peggy; everybody unloaded on her, including students in other departments. Even the least perceptive of them realized within a week that there was a mother hen under the gruff facade. Peggy yelled at them and scolded them and was always there when they needed her.
As she was for me, Karen thought, dutifully stuffing herself with the taco salad Peggy had made her order. She hadn't realized how hungry she was until she had actually eaten most of the monstrous object— chili, guacamole, lettuce and tomatoes and shredded cheese and a mound of sour cream in a casing of puffed dough.
"You can have a margarita now if you want," said Peggy. She had had two.
"No, thanks."
"Coffee, then." Peggy summoned the waitress with a peremptory flourish of her arm. With a wry smile, Karen nodded agreement. The preliminaries having been concluded, Peggy was about to get down to the real business of the meeting.
"Has somebody been complaining about me?" Karen asked for openers. She was pretty sure she knew the answer.
"You've missed two classes and God knows how many student conferences," Peggy said. "But of course you know who's done the complaining—your favorite departmental chairman, Joe Cropsey. All under the guise of fatherly solicitude. Perhaps you've been ill? Perhaps you've had bad news from home? Perhaps—giggle, smirk, nudge, nudge—your personal life has gone sour?"
"He would think of that," Karen muttered, shoving a wilted scrap of taco around the plate.
"He wants to be part of your personal life," Peggy said. She added dispassionately, "Nasty little prick. You'd better tell me, or you'll have him oozing around offering to console you."
"A fate worse than death. I'd like to tell you, actually. I guess I've reached the stage where I need some dispassionate advice. I hadn't ..." She brushed a lock of limp brown hair away from her face. It was long overdue for a shampoo. She went on, "I hadn't realized how madly preoccupied I've been. It may take a while; do you have the time?"
"I have all day," Peggy said.
She had finished her coffee by the time the tale was told. She accepted a refill and asked the waitress to replace Karen's untouched, tepid tea.
"So did you dope the old gent?"
"Of course not." With a wry smile, Karen added, "I wouldn't have gotten away with it; he watched me like a hawk. In the end he consented to take my check. He made me read some of the manuscript first, though, honorable soul that he is. Not that he had to force me. That's why I stayed the night and missed half my appointments next day. I'm too noble to steal and copy it, but I'm not noble enough to resist the chance to read as much as I could."
"So what is it?"
"It is a novel. A Gothic novel."
"Ruined castles, dastardly villains in hot pursuit of the helpless heroine's virginity?" Peggy grinned. "I used to read that sort of thing. I was still in my twenties, which is some excuse."
"You're thinking about the imitation Gothics, most of which were nothing of the sort, that were all over the bookstores thirty years ago." Unconsciously Karen assumed her lecturer's pose. "The original Gothic novel began with The Castle of Otranto in 1764, and reached its height in the novels of Mrs. Radcliffe thirty years later. They were certainly overburdened with dastardly villains and vapid heroines, ancient castles and Deadly Secrets; but the Gothic romance represents a significant development in the history of the modern novel. The images of imprisonment and danger represent the social, intellectual and economic frustration of women in a rigid paternalistic society—"
"Spare me. I'm not knocking literary criticism, but I just don't give a damn about analysis of that sort, be it Freudian or feminist. The only thing I care about is whether it's a good read."
"Do you consider Jane Eyre a good read? How about Wuthering Heights?"
"They aren't Gothic novels."
"They are in the Gothic tradition. Gloomy, isolated old houses, glowering Byronic heroes, threatened heroines—"
Peggy's eyes narrowed. "But those are great works of literature. Are you saying that this manuscript is of the same caliber?"
"I don't know what it is yet," Karen said in a low voice. "Simon gave me a copy of the first thirty pages. He's doing the same, damn him, for all the other potential buyers. I've spent the last week going over and over those pages and making a typewritten copy. The text is awfully hard to read. The ink has faded, the handwriting is minuscule—paper was expensive in those days, they crammed as much as they could onto a page—and there are a lot of interpolations and abbreviations and interlineations. I can only do a few pages at a time before my eyes start aching."
"I see." Peggy lit another cigarette. "At least I think I do. This is really important to you, isn't it?"
"It could be the most important thing that's ever happened to me. Or ever will happen. Grants, job offers from big universities, a step, maybe two steps, up the academic ladder, national recognition."
"Whew. That big, huh? For heaven's sake, relax," she added
