Page 44 of The New Place

“So what is it?” he asks.

“Spelling.” She laughs so hard she spills the spoonful of flour she’s holding.

“Easy, tiger,” Ned says as Abbot rescues the bowl from toppling over. The counter’s still a mess, and Ned tries to sweep the flour into his hand. It’s too much to hold, so he reaches for the newspaper.

“Ned—” Abbot says.

Ned unfolds it, holding it beneath the lip of the counter, and sweeps a handful of flour over the photograph of the admin building at Adams University. Financial Woes Force Adams University Closure, the headline reads.

“Ned,” Abbot whispers.

“Baking soda has cream of tartar,” Peggy says.

“Oh,” Dad says. “Smoked salmon. Of course. That’s a fishy breakfast treat right there.”

“It’s baking powder that has it,” Abbot says. “Ned?”

“Because it needs the acid,” Peggy says.

“Yes, that’s exactly right,” Abbot says. “Ned.”

“But can you fry smoked salmon?” Dad asks. “We can try, I suppose.”

Ned sinks into a chair. He brushes the flour away, but the picture remains, as does the headline. He reads the first paragraph of the article, then has to read it again because he didn’t absorb any of the words. After a third time, he gives up.

Adams is closing, after this semester. That he can manage to comprehend, as the rest of the words swim before his eyes.

His new job. His tenure-track professorship. His entire career. Just gone. Poof.

“What acid?” Dad asks, too loud and cheerful. “Peggy, tell me all about what you’ve learned from Henry about baking.”

“Ned.” Abbot sits next to him, taking his hand.

Steve was supposed to be wrong about Adams. That was the way this was going to go. Ned has his future at that school. The years and years to come of teaching and research and commuting to that campus day after day, season after season. Peggy is going to college there, since it’ll be so cheap for her with him being faculty, and she’ll graduate from a private university with no debt.

Oh, he’s going to be sick.

Abbot rubs his palm over the back of Ned’s hand. “It’s going to be alright.”

That’s a huge fucking lie. Abbot doesn’t know that. Ned has bills to pay. A kid to support. A life he just stitched back together after all that time barely clinging on with his fingertips, staying in Pat’s extra room, waiting for every other Friday to arrive so he could see his daughter, charging more and more to his credit card.

He’s been trying to pay that off now. And he has a new, nicer car he’d let himself get. Something he could be prouder to drive, like at least outwardly he doesn’t have to be humiliated by the weight of the balance he owes.

Yeah, sure, great advice from Steve to go find something. Exactly what Ned will do, the most junior faculty in the department, up against professors swarming the job market with publications and funding and prestige.

Professors like Abbot, who Newbury is recruiting. And Ned’s Ned, and he’s suddenly hotly embarrassed Abbot’s sitting here holding his hand.

“I should take Baxter out,” he mutters, but Baxter’s leash is wet with melted snow when he grabs it because Baxter was just out minutes ago and doesn’t want to budge from the rug.

“Get up,” Ned pleads, tugging him. He can’t be in here. He’s sweating, and the paper is still sitting right there, and Peggy’s asking for chocolate chips, and this morning was so wonderful before it slid sideways.

Outside, he hurries to zip his coat. He should’ve grabbed a hat and gloves, but he also should have a job to go back to next fall. What the actual fuck? They can’t just go and close an entire university. What about the students? And the buildings, what will they do with those?

The door behind him opens. Baxter stares balefully at the house before Abbot pulls it closed behind him.

“I’m fine,” Ned says quickly.

Abbot puts Ned’s hat on for him, as if he’s little like Peggy, and then folds him close so Ned can bury his freezing hands between their bodies, Baxter’s leash clutched tight.