Emerald Aisle (2 page)
NANCY BEATTY'S FATHER taught in the History Department and that meant she paid only room and board, her tuition covered as a faculty perk. But after freshman year, there was a proviso that she had to work a number of hours each week in return, so she had found a job in the law library, which is how she had met Larry Morton in her senior year. He was then in his third year of law school. The summer before he had interned in a Minneapolis firm and had been offered a job there after graduation.
“How would you like to live in Minneapolis?” he asked Nancy.
“Why do you ask?”
“Why do you think?”
And so they had become engaged.
“A lawyer?” her father had queried.
“He's a wonderful young man,” her mother said.
Her parents met his when they visited campus, and they got along. Mr. Morton was in salt, the kind that is strewn on icy roads in Minnesota during the winter months. There were five Morton children of whom Larry was the oldest; and Mrs. Morton, a still beautiful woman whom childbearing had made more beautiful, decided that Larry had made an excellent choice. But Nancy's father was more grudging in his approval. “I thought you were going to graduate school.”
She had been admitted to every program for which she had applied, something that filled her professorial father with pride. He
obviously found it difficult to believe that she would turn aside from a promising academic career.
obviously found it difficult to believe that she would turn aside from a promising academic career.
“I can take some courses in Minneapolis.”
This did not mollify Professor Beatty. He knew all about part-time students. But Nancy's interest in graduate work had waned. She had heard her father's grumbling over the years and knew that all was not idyllic in the groves of academe. Being Larry's wife was future enough for her. Besides, she could go on with the life of the mind in the way Prof. Roger Knight had done before coming to Notre Dame.
“Roger Knight!” Her father was wary of the hotshots brought in from time to time by the administration, a practice that was not exactly a vote of confidence in the faculty members who had borne the heat of the day in the lean years as well as in the more recent fat ones.
“I wish you would make an effort to get to know him.”
“He knows where my office is.”
Professor Beatty's office was a warren in Decio, cluttered with books and papers and the mechanical typewriter he had bought years before as a graduate student. When she told him of Roger Knight's devotion to the computer, his brow clouded. “I'm not surprised.”
Nancy had read of the Luddites who had tried to stop the Industrial Revolution by destroying machinery. Her father would willingly have taken an axe to all the computers on campus where students spent more time than they did among the books in the library.
“Dad, they're all available on the computer.”
He just looked at her. Books and computers did not belong in the same sentence.
Nancy told Roger Knight of her father, and one day the huge
Huneker Chair of Catholic Studies knocked on Professor Beatty's door in Decio. A cloud of tobacco smoke emerged when the door opened, and a young female instructor who was passing in the hall coughed dramatically and brought a Kleenex to her face.
Huneker Chair of Catholic Studies knocked on Professor Beatty's door in Decio. A cloud of tobacco smoke emerged when the door opened, and a young female instructor who was passing in the hall coughed dramatically and brought a Kleenex to her face.
“Professor Beatty? Roger Knight.”
The meeting became a legend in the family. The two men hit it off immediately. Her father had not known of Roger Knight's book on Baron Corvo and their conversation had centered on the last decade of the nineteenth century, the period of the
Yellow Book,
when platoons of aesthetes had joined the Catholic Church, not least among them Oscar Wilde. But it was a shared interest in Ronald Firbank that clinched the new friendship. Professor Beatty had despaired of ever having a colleague who knew the work of Firbank.
Yellow Book,
when platoons of aesthetes had joined the Catholic Church, not least among them Oscar Wilde. But it was a shared interest in Ronald Firbank that clinched the new friendship. Professor Beatty had despaired of ever having a colleague who knew the work of Firbank.
“He influenced Waugh.”
“Powell wrote about him.”
“His style is exquisite. His work, like his person, was more style than substance.”
“Wodehouse.”
And so it had gone on. Nancy was delighted. Of all her professors, Roger Knight was the one who had influenced her most. She had taken every course he offered, getting special permission if they were graduate courses. She was writing her senior essay on F. Marion Crawford, and of course she had brought Larry to meet the overweight genius.
“What kind of law will you practice?”
“Trusts.”
“Ah.”
Actually, Larry got along better with Philip Knight, with whom he could exchange arcane lore about Notre Dame athletics. When Larry gave Nancy a diamond, Roger Knight was the first one after
her parents to be told. They had come to the Knight brothers' apartment the day after the brothers returned from Minneapolis to make the announcement. Neither of the brothers was married, but they approved of the institution and were appropriately congratulatory.
her parents to be told. They had come to the Knight brothers' apartment the day after the brothers returned from Minneapolis to make the announcement. Neither of the brothers was married, but they approved of the institution and were appropriately congratulatory.
“If it is seemly to congratulate a future bride.”
“Just don't commiserate with her,” Larry said.
“When is the big date?”
“June 17. I hope you'll be here.”
“You'll marry on campus?”
“Of course.”
IN HIS SEVENTH YEAR ON campus, Larry Morton was at last emotionally prepared for his departure. He would leave Notre Dame with a new wife and a great job awaiting him in Minneapolis. All the years of study now seemed worthwhile. His father was finally reconciled to the fact that Larry would not take over his business, but at least he was returning to his native state.
“If salt lose its savor,” Professor Knight murmured.
Larry said nothing. He had become used to such “gnomic utterances” (Nancy's phrase) from the professor. Often Larry went off with Phil to basketball and hockey games while Nancy visited with Roger. Afterward they would gather in the Knight apartment where Roger would make popcorn while Larry and Phil rehearsed the game and Nancy and her favorite professor would continue with their own conversation. It was clear that Nancy would miss these sessions with Roger Knight, but Minneapolis was not a million miles away and she would be coming back from time to time to see her parents. It was understood that she would model her life, to the degree possible, on the preacademic years of Roger Knight.
“You mustn't confuse learning with education or with being on a campus.”
Nancy nodded. Had she ever disagreed with Roger Knight? There had been a time, blessedly brief, when Larry had felt jealous of the huge man's influence on Nancy. But after all, it was Knight's example that had decided her against graduate school, something
that would probably have postponed their marriage since she had planned on attending Northwestern.
that would probably have postponed their marriage since she had planned on attending Northwestern.
Nancy had been surprised when Larry told her that they could be married in Sacred Heart.
“Don't they have a waiting list?”
“I was lucky.”
“You should have taken me with you.”
But he did not want to explain to her that he had secured the date years ago and why. He had not seen Dolores Torre since graduation, and Nancy knew nothing of her. There seemed no need to explain the youthful love that he and Dolores had thought would lead to marriage. How different it had been from what he felt for Nancy. Sometimes he missed the uncalculated way in which he and Dolores had plunged into talk of marriage. He had had a cool head when he'd proposed to Nancy, but then he was older now by half a dozen years. He had not as yet spoken with Father Rocca, but he had the copy of the note the priest had given him, assuring him that he could marry in Sacred Heart on June 17, 2002. One day he decided to drop by the Basilica and confirm the reservation.
“The young woman lives elsewhere?” Father Rocca asked, as if explaining to himself why the prospective groom had come alone to his office.
“I just wanted to make sure June 17 is all set.”
“This June!”
“Yes.”
The priest opened a ledger and began to flip pages. He found what he was looking for and then looked abjectly at Larry.
“June 17 is all booked.”
“One of the weddings will be mine.”
“But there is no way ⦔
That is when Larry showed the priest the note Father Rocca had
written years before. Father Rocca read it and then looked uncomfortably at Larry. “What is your fiancée's name?”
written years before. Father Rocca read it and then looked uncomfortably at Larry. “What is your fiancée's name?”
“Beatty. Nancy Beatty. Her father is in the English Department.”
“But this note says Dolores Torre.”
“We broke up.”
“Larry, Dolores is getting married here on June 17. I remember it now. She showed me this same note when she confirmed the date.”
Larry left the rector's office in a daze and wandered toward the lake. How could he explain this to Nancy? Canada geese and ducks provided a sound track for his jumbled thoughts.
Relief came two days later while he was still trying to think of a way to break the news to Nancy that they would not be married in Sacred Heart. The truth was he couldn't accept the loss of that reservation. He had as much right to it as Dolores. And then came the call from the firm in Minneapolis he would join in June. Could he come up for a seminar offered to new lawyers in the firm. Immediately, he left a message for Dolores.
WHEN SHE FOUND LARRY Morton's message on her answering machine at work, Dolores had felt a little lurch inside at having the past invade the present.
“I'll be in Minneapolis on Thursday and would like to see you. If this is impossible, let me know. I'll come by for you at noon.”
Just like that. But of course Dolores had a sudden suspicion why Larry would get in touch with her after all these years. She had felt sneaky when she claimed the reserved date at Sacred Heart Basilica that she and Larry had made so long ago. It had almost surprised her that she still remembered it; but when Dudley, her fiancé, had mentioned a Notre Dame wedding he had attended while they were discussing their own plans, Dolores remembered the visit to Father Rocca when she and Larry had told the rector that they wanted to reserve June 17, 2002, for their wedding. There were times when she thought that setting the date had been the beginning of the end between her and Larry. It was one thing to fall in love with a classmate and have someone to go out with, but the prospect of marriage had been sobering and, with time, suffocating. Graduation no longer loomed as a door into a vast unknown future but only the prospect of returning to campus for three years of law, after which she and Larry would be married in Sacred Heart. It was as if her life was already over.
Of course this realization came on gradually, and she continued to like Larry. He had been smart and fun and impressive in the
ordered way he lived his life. She didn't stop liking him, loving him even; but she simply wasn't ready to get married, to Larry or anyone else, until giving up her job with West and joining a Minneapolis law firm as assistant to Dudley Fyte had changed all that. Kunert and Skye had contracted with her to computerize their files and records on the model of West's huge legal databases. Within a week, she seemed to fit into the firm as if she had been there for years. She was receptive when Dudley broached the subject of her staying on permanently.
ordered way he lived his life. She didn't stop liking him, loving him even; but she simply wasn't ready to get married, to Larry or anyone else, until giving up her job with West and joining a Minneapolis law firm as assistant to Dudley Fyte had changed all that. Kunert and Skye had contracted with her to computerize their files and records on the model of West's huge legal databases. Within a week, she seemed to fit into the firm as if she had been there for years. She was receptive when Dudley broached the subject of her staying on permanently.
Dudley was ten years older than she, already a partner at Kunert and Skye, and obviously the hotshot of the firm.
“It happens as often as not,” he had said to her, when several girls had informed him they were leaving to get married. “I factor it into my estimates of strength in this division. A woman will work, often extraordinarily well, for a few years, and then she leaves.”
Dudley seemed to see this as a problem amenable to a computerized solution. Dolores felt that she should say something on behalf of her sisters in the firm, but the fact was that she almost envied the women who were leaving to marry.
“You could work for a while after you marry,” Dolores suggested to one of them, Josie.
“I began a savings plan just so I wouldn't have to do that. I want a house, I want a garden, I want kids.”
Josie's eyes lit up as she talked. Obviously, working had been merely a stage on life's way for her, and now that stage was over. Dolores thought of a house in the suburbs, a garden, kids. Suddenly it all seemed overwhelmingly attractive.
“You can always hire replacements,” Dolores said to Dudley.
“Correction.
You
can. I want you to make the original cuts among the applicants, whittle the number down to ten or so, and bring
them in for an interview. When you have reduced the possibles to three, I'll decide.”
You
can. I want you to make the original cuts among the applicants, whittle the number down to ten or so, and bring
them in for an interview. When you have reduced the possibles to three, I'll decide.”
This was responsibility indeed, and one she didn't particularly relish. Being assistant to Dudley apparently made her a jill-of-all-trades. Looking over the applications, particularly those from young women just finishing college, it occurred to Dolores that her own application, despite her previous work experience, had been reviewed like this only a few years ago. Of course there was nothing on the application to indicate how long the person intended to work. What had she herself thought when she sent in her application? The future had not seemed finite, but wide open, and going to work was the entry into that future. It seemed to her now that she had removed all plans of eventual marriage from her mind. If she had thought of it, it would have seemed an aspect of a future that began with taking a job. Most working women are married, aren't they? And vice versa. Dudley's matter-of-fact remark about the longevity of women in the workforce made her realize that she would no longer want to go on working after she married. Like Josie, it seemed, she had come to think of work as preparation for marriage.
She asked Dudley if he would like her to try unobtrusively to get a sense of how long women applicants intended to work.
“Better not. Besides, they wouldn't know.”
“You've become quite an expert on the subject.”
“Let's discuss it over dinner.”
Dinner with the boss. Well, well. Of course it would be just business. Maybe he was just being ultracareful, not discussing such a delicate subject as women employees in the office. Nonetheless, for the rest of the day she took notice of Dudley in a way she really hadn't before. “Distinguished” was the word that came to mind, followed
by intelligent, ambitious, a little vain. He seemed to be studying her as well. Several times their eyes almost met. For heaven's sake. Dolores made herself scarce until they would leave the office for the restaurant.
by intelligent, ambitious, a little vain. He seemed to be studying her as well. Several times their eyes almost met. For heaven's sake. Dolores made herself scarce until they would leave the office for the restaurant.
“How long do you intend to work?” he asked, far along in the meal, with the glow of two cocktails upon them and a portly Italian waiter whose hovering somehow did not seem to matter. His English was apparently confined to the items on the menu.
“I haven't given it much thought.”
“No fiancé? No special friend?”
The career girl she thought she was would have stopped him right there. He had no right to pry into her private life and ask such personal questions, but the sense that he was her boss seemed to have deserted both of them.
“I was engaged in college. Nothing came of it.”
“You broke up.”
“Uh huh. It really wasn't serious.”
“I should think an engagement was very serious.”
“Not when you're that young. It was like going steady.”
“I never went steady.”
“That's hard to believe.”
Even harder to believe was the way that one dinner altered forever their attitude toward one another. He asked her out a lot after that, to plays, to music, to exhibits, to baseball games when the Sox played the Twins. They attended Josie's wedding together, and Dolores envied the bride's radiant beauty.
“Now she'll have her house and garden and kids.”
“Do you ever think about such things?”
“Of course.”
“Of quitting work and marrying and all the rest?”
“I'd have to have an offer.”
“Of course.”
He made his offer later that day. They had both drunk deep of Josie's champagne, but their heads seemed clear as bells. Dolores caught the bridal bouquet when Josie tossed it into a throng of unmarried women, having to lunge to get it; and she was holding it like a bride when Dudley kissed her for the first time.
“Hey, I'm the bride,” Josie said. “You're supposed to kiss me.” She puckered up and leaned toward Dudley, who obliged.
“That's the first time I've kissed a married woman. I look forward to making a habit of it.” And he kissed Dolores again.
That was the first version of his proposal. It was just fine with Dolores. In subsequent days they started to make their plans. When the site of the wedding came up, Dudley mentioned a wedding held at Notre Dame that had impressed him.
“That's where we're going to get married.”
“Is that a perk of alumni?”
“Nae.”
“It's not?”
“Alum
nae
as well as alumni.”
nae
as well as alumni.”
“I was using it inclusively.”
“That's Alums.”
She called Father Rocca and reminded him of the time she had reserved for her wedding on June 17. He made a note in the registry, and it was all set. She and Dudley would get married on June 17 at ten in the morning in Sacred Heart Basilica.
“And the groom is Lawrence Morton?”
“No, Father. He changed his name to Dudley Fyte.”
The rector was puzzled but didn't pursue it, and the date was secured.
And now she had received a message from Larry Morton, with whom years ago she had made that June 17 appointment, and he pretty well insisted on seeing her on Thursday.
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