Page 37 of Hushed

He purses his lips, like he wants to tell me what he really thinks about it, but says nothing.

The thing is that, normally, I would have been happy to go over the result of my findings. I spent years doing this work. I would have wanted to share my enthusiasm and at the very least go over my findings. But now, it’s like I’m back at the disciplinary hearing, and every word I say can be used against me. This stranger has effectively rendered me, a qualified expert with thousands of hours of field research, speechless.

“And was it effective?” one of the women in the Sociology table prompts. She has a rich, unmistakably French accent, and curtains of thick blonde hair.

I turn to her and try to hide my relief that she’s jarred me from my downward spiral. “Self-perception over time continued to be high, and there were far fewer relapses of depression, violence, or antisocial behavior over the course of the study. In fact, some of the people who entered had tried almost every conventional therapy and were still experiencing flashbacks and periods of PTSD-related hyperawareness which either decreased or stopped altogether over the four years of our study.”

“And any negative results?” Preston presses, as if he’s about to have his own little gotcha moment.

But I’ve got my wind back in my sails thanks to this prompt. “I can get you a copy of my most recent article for that, but around twenty percent had no appreciable short- or long-term benefit, five percent reported that it made their condition worse. Self-harm among this cohort, however, was remarkably below the levels for combat veterans receiving standard care, which suggests that the treatment itself could have greater long-term potential.” I can’t believe I just got that out so evenly.

“Excellent!” Dean Hughes says, tidying up the papers on his desk. “Well, that concludes this morning’s meeting. I’m sure you’ll have a lot to do. Remember that syllabi must be filed by Friday, and your online sections will go live with our first classes on Monday. Let’s make it a great term. If you have any problems, please see your individual chairs,” he says.

The group stands up, looking relieved to get back to our offices, and I join the line at the coffee urn.

The French woman approaches me. “Delphine Mercier, Sociologie,” she starts in French. “I was so excited to hear that they had hired another Francophone. Well, whatever it is you Québécois pass off as French, anyway,” she says. She has a Parisian accent, and speaks at a rapid-fire clip that takes me a second, even though it’s my native language. “I hope that we are to become friends. I love people who think outside the box. I research prostitution, and that causes many raised eyebrows.”

“Oh!” I feel a wave of relief at that. She, at least, I think, will be a kindred spirit. “And how did they take that here?”

“Badly. But I don’t give a shit.” She laughs and winks at me. “Welcome to the lion’s den. Only the strong survive here. Anyway, I have the office next to you,” she says, escorting me across the deserted hallway. “We’ll probably have a lot of talks through the air conditioning vent. We share it between our offices, you know.”

“Good to know,” I say, but we don’t get to talk more before some other people from the department welcome me. A few minutes later, I’ve gone upstairs to the fifth floor to unlock the door to my office. It’s a standard academic office. There’s shelving down the left-hand wall, two utilitarian chairs facing the desk, and about a half-dozen Bankers Boxes full of books I fetched out of my car this morning waiting for me to put them on display. I start putting the books on the shelves.

“Sébastien!” Dean Hughes says, coming in through the open door. “Wanted to drop by for a quick chat. Just something that wasn’t relevant for the meeting,” he says as he scans my office. “I assume you’ve been warned about your pounding.”

“My…I beg your pardon?”

He laughs heartily at my discomfort. “It’s an old Southern tradition I like to keep alive. They used to do it in every department, but they’ve given it up in the others. Even in History! But Psychology, Sociology, and Anthropology, we’ve done it forever. Just a welcoming dinner party. We bring a pound of things for your house and you host the dinner.” He settles down, uninvited, in one of the utilitarian chairs in front of my desk, looking at me indulgently.

Dear God, what fresh hell is this? I make myself swallow at his unmitigated presumption that, as a new professor with a budget I’ve far exceeded for the year in moving and hotel bills alone, I would be expected to host some elaborate soirée to prove I belonged in the club.

“Umm, exactly how many people should I expect?”

“All the full-time faculty in our department, which isn’t that big. Preston, Darlene, Julia, Molly, of course, as she’s your chair, and me.”

“And any partners?”

“Oh, yes, those too, so no more than eight or ten,” he says offhandedly. “My wife Nell wouldn’t miss it for the world, and Lincoln’s wife Ruby will come. Let’s get that on the books.”

“I still need to find my feet here in town,” I say.

“We can wait. Things are normally quieter by midterms. October. How does that sound?”

“October sounds…great.” I lie, doing some quick calculations. I can teach myself to cook something between now and October. I think.

“We can do it for a Sunday lunch? We’ll iron out the details later.”

“Of course,” I say through gritted teeth, because even though I want to say no, I’m beyond sure that this is one of those informal things that matter a lot when the chips are down. I grit my teeth and smile.

He doesn’t stand up, though. “One more thing. I know we had planned to give you five classes this term and next, but something’s come up and one of our adjuncts is no longer with us. It’s been a mess just getting coverage.” He smiles at me genially. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to step in.”

He smiles at me, and I realize that to decline would be a very serious error, no matter what my contract says. “Of course.”

The dean beams at me, the picture of someone’s wealthy uncle. “I knew when we were in the hiring committee that you were a team player,” he says. “I had my mind made up on you after the first interview. This class will be a cakewalk to you,” he says.

I go back to my desk and activate the screen. “What class is it?”

“It’s the 1101 Intro,” he says.