Physics Can Be Fatal (4 page)

     Donald’s favorite topic of conversation lately seemed to be Professor Alan Sidebottom, and specifically, the hindrance to Donald’s career Professor Sidebottom posed.  When Sheila pressed Donald for details, he would vaguely reference Sidebottom’s antagonistic attitude toward him––some old resentment over something––and then change the subject.  Because Sheila’s worldview lacked subtlety, she really had no great need for details. She could plainly see that Donald was unsettled by the older professor’s presence at Cushing, and that was reason enough for her to take an adversarial stance. Professor Sidebottom would become her sworn enemy, too. Anything to ally herself with Donald.

     Sheila got up from the sofa and prowled around the house looking for other ways to improve herself, ways to make herself irresistible to Donald.  The little wheels started to turn and she began to focus on the possibility of a new avenue toward winning over Donald’s affections. 

     She sat at the computer and typed in ‘Alan Sidebottom’

*

     Helen Mann knocked on Mitchell Fender’s office door.  She heard a soft ‘thud’ and a muffled response that she took for ‘come in’.  She swept into his office.

     Helen’s knock had awoken him.  Mitchell stood up quickly from the crumpled sofa and cleared his throat several times.  Clearly embarrassed, he hurriedly tucked in his shirt and attempted to smooth out the wrinkles in it with a series of brisk hand swipes.

     “I’ve not been sleeping very well at night,” he said apologetically.  “I lay down for a short rest and must have dozed off.  Please, sit down.”

     Helen took a seat in a chair facing Mitchell.  She hunched forward, her pants-suited legs apart, elbows resting on her thighs, hands clasped.  She evoked the image of a coach gathering her thoughts for a heart-to-heart talk with a struggling player.

     “You should be taking something at night to help you sleep, Mitch.  Stop by the pharmacy on your way home and pick up a sleep aid, okay?  But that’s not what I came to see you about,” Helen said.

     “I’m concerned about you and Alan Sidebottom,” she continued.  “We can’t have any internecine feuds going on.  Getting Alan here at Cushing this semester is going to translate into big contributions from our alums––and in turn, extra-funding for the department.  I wouldn’t blame you for whatever ill will you might harbor against Alan––everyone knows the man’s a prick.  Highly successful, but a prick, all the same.  I just don’t want the department getting sidetracked by having to choose sides in an old fight.  I think you read me, am I right, Mitch?  You follow me?  We on the same page?”

     Mitchell tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger.

     “You can count on me,” he said solemnly.  “I’m a team player all the way.”

*

     Edwina arrived at Sanborn House early Friday evening.  She knew her early arrival was not really necessary because of the fact that Charlotte Cadell, the Sanborn House Librarian, was nothing if not efficient, and lived for events such as these.  Charlotte would have everything ship-shape for the reception, Edwina knew.  But the job of organizing the cocktail party for Professor Sidebottom had fallen to Edwina in the first instance, and with a mostly unforgiving conscience, Edwina knew it was only right she be there early alongside Charlotte to make sure everything was as it should be.

    Charlotte Cadell felt a deep devotion to the library, and indeed to all of Sanborn House.  She had what could be described as an ardent attachment to the place.  At forty years of age, the Sanborn House Librarian appeared more middle-aged than youthful.  In part this was because although Charlotte was quietly pretty in a faded sort of way, she did not make much of a fuss about her appearance.  But it was more than that.  Charlotte had suffered a profound disappointment in her youth. Instead of moving away from this heartbreaking experience, she chose to remain attached to it.  She allowed it to define her life.  She measured all experiences before and after by this event.  And after so many years of holding the disappointment close to her, it became the thing that comforted her.  It was what gave her life meaning, and she allied herself fervently to this defining event from her youth.  With no family of her own to look after, and none to look after her, Charlotte took her responsibilities at Sanborn House and in particular to the library, very much to heart   It was her province, her arena, her life. 

     Edwina, on the other hand, was girlishly lissome and people often took her for younger than her twenty-five years.  With a spirited disposition circumscribed by indomitable curiosity Edwina gave the impression that somehow the downward pull of gravity had less effect on her than on other people, as if she weren’t wholly earthbound. 

     Edwina was dressed in a short, black gabardine dress that showed off her slender figure.  This dress came out of the closet anytime there was a ‘do’ at the library; it was her workhorse dress. Otherwise, her only concessions to the evening’s function were a bit of mascara and a dab of pink lipstick.   

    Charlotte Cadell was busy fussing around the library, plumping sofa cushions and straightening tablecloths.  Pressed white linens covered the long study tables.  Glasses of champagne in perfect rows, and trays of nibbles sat at the ready, alongside damask cocktail napkins.  The library was gleaming, and everything looked perfect.

     “You look nice tonight, Charlotte,” Edwina said, taking a glass of champagne for herself and handing one to Charlotte.

     “Oh, thank-you, Edwina, “ Charlotte said, brushing an invisible piece of lint from the bodice of her frock.  “So do you,” she added demurely.

     “What do you think about our celebrity visitor?” Edwina asked.

      Charlotte took a sip of champagne.

     “Pretty exciting, I guess,” she replied primly.  “I’m not sure what to think––Professor Sidebottom seems to have quite a reputation.  From what I’ve heard.”

     Edwina had the impression that Charlotte was parsing her words carefully.  

     “Well, all I can say is, I bet we don’t have a dull moment around here all semester!  Bottoms up!” Edwina said.

     How true that would be.

*

     The library filled up quickly.  It looked as if the whole department had shown up.  Teachers and students, used to seeing each other in the casual, everyday dress of jeans and fleeces, were turned out in various versions of cocktail garb, from patterned maxi dresses to suits and ties.  Soon enough a convivial hum of conversation and laughter filled Sanborn House.  The partygoers drank and chatted excitedly in anticipation of Professor Sidebottom’s arrival.

      Lois Leiberman stood in a group with colleagues Ravi Kapoor, Paolo Rossetti, and Seth Dubin and his wife.  Paolo’s umber hair was brushed neatly in place, and fell just over the back of his shirt collar.  Like Ravi, Paolo wore a jacket and tie and jeans.   

     “You look fetching this evening,” Paolo remarked, taking in Lois’s ensemble of a chiffon skirt, black angora sweater, and black tights.

     “This reminds me of my parents’ cocktail parties when I was a kid,” Lois said.  “I remember sneaking downstairs to spy on them, and being shocked by the parallel universe in the living room.  A sea of beautiful, glamorous people––the women in little black dresses and pearls, gossiping and smoking cigarettes––the men in suits and ties, looking very alpha and predatory . . . everyone throwing back high balls like there was no tomorrow . . .”

      “Seth, have a drink, for Christ sake,” Sheila Dubin snapped.  “You’d think it was your prom night and your date didn’t show up, you look absolutely miserable.”

     Ravi Kapoor took a glass of champagne from a tray, and handed it to Seth.  Ravi and Paolo clinked glasses with Seth.

     “Cheers, my friend!” Ravi said, his dark eyes sparkling, as he patted Seth gently on the back.

     “
Cin cin!”
said Paolo.  “Drink up!”

*

     A rangy six feet four, dressed in tweed jacket, corduroy trousers, and a pair of fisherman’s sandals with thick socks, a wild mane of silver hair framing a bemused face, a blithely cheerful Alan Sidebottom appeared in the doorway of Sanborn House Library at eight o’clock, propped up by Donald Gaylord.  Registering annoyance, but looking resplendent in an Armani suit, Donald settled the guest of honor onto the nearest sofa. 

    Professor Sidebottom promptly embarked on a loud conversation with anybody who happened to be nearby, and launched into an off-color joke about two string-theorists and a sausage, oblivious to the looks of consternation and astonishment around him. 

     Donald Gaylord sidled up to Edwina and slid his arm around her waist.  His cologne smelled of orange blossom and amber. 

     “Sidebottom is smashed out of his skull!” Donald whispered in her ear.  “He insisted on stopping for a drink on the way from the airport, and I couldn’t get him back in the car until he’d had three scotches!”     

     Professor Alan Sidebottom looked distinctly relaxed.  His rangy figure was comically folded into the deep-cushions of the sofa, his long legs crossed, a plate of hors d’oeuvres balanced precariously on one bony knee.  He was gesturing broadly in an animated conversation until––inevitably––the plate of food fell to the floor.

     “Goddamned Isaac Newton!” he laughed uproariously.

     “He seems to be having a good time,” Edwina said, observing all of this.  “Why don’t you just enjoy the party?  Have a drink, Donald.”

     “Yeah, you’re right.  Nothing I can do about it,” Donald said, straightening his tie.  “Listen, would you mind very much seeing Professor Sidebottom home after the party?  I can only stay tonight for an hour––I’ve got to get back to Boston.  He’s staying at the carriage house––it’s only a five-minute walk.  I dropped his bags off on the way here, and left the front door unlocked.”

     “Sure thing, Don,” Edwina said.

     Donald smoothed back his hair, picked up a bottle of champagne and roamed around the library like the lord of the manor––joining in conversations, dispensing compliments, and refilling empty glasses.

     Mitchell Fender, to everyone’s great surprise, chatted amiably with the guest of honor, his walrus moustache moving comically up and down as he spoke, his mouth concealed by it.  Mitchell hooked his fat thumbs through his suspenders, and rocked gently back and forth on his heels as he traded stories with Alan Sidebottom, who was sprawled on the sofa. 

    Mitchell’s colleagues were under the impression that since Mitchell had publicly accused Alan of plagiarizing his work, calling him out in a letter to the editor of
Reviews of Modern Physics
for theft of intellectual property, Mitchell would altogether refuse to speak to Alan – perhaps not even come to the party––let alone engage him in good-natured banter.  But tonight Dr. Mitchell Fender and Professor Sidebottom chatted and drank companionably, making the whole, ugly thing look like a trifling spat.

     “How many theoretical physicists specializing in general relativity does it take to change a light bulb?” Professor Sidebottom asked a blank-faced Mitchell Fender.

     “Two!” a drunken Sidebottom shouted. “One to hold the light bulb and one to rotate the universe!”

     Mitchell blinked his eyes solemnly like a Great Horned Owl, and suddenly doubled over, roaring with uncontrollable laughter.

      Edwina ventured across the crowded library carrying a plate of hors d’oeuvre and a glass of champagne for Professor Nedda Cake.  Professor Cake, at eighty-nine years of age, the oldest member of the department, sat with two graduate students on a sofa in a quiet corner of the library. Professor Cake had shrunk with age from her youthful, willowy height, but was still a handsome woman with beautiful posture.  Braided white hair encircled her head like a crown.  She wore a heather gray sweater, a string of pearls and a dark skirt.

    Edwina was glad to see her friends, Laura Brenner and Nate Harris keeping company with Professor Cake. She set down the food and champagne at Nedda’s elbow, and joined the group.

     “What do we think of our distinguished visitor?” Edwina asked.

     Professor Cake took a sip of champagne, her eyes gleaming.

     “I knew him when he was a student at Oxford, you know.  Alan is a good scholar but he can be a rather disagreeable man,” she said, biting into a date wrapped in crispy bacon, “when he’s not busy being charming.  Charm has always been the great English blight.”