Early Warning

“I forgot to sign up for the history-of-the-language course, but I thought I had. I already wrote my first paper over the summer.” She held out some typed pages. Henry knew they would be excellent. He took them, set them on the bookcase beside the door, and said, “Come in, I’ll give you a note.”

She squinted at him, then walked through the door. Philip’s response to Marcy wasn’t even curiosity, though whether that was because Marcy was female or because she was a mess, Henry couldn’t tell. Marcy’s response to Philip, though, was gratifying. Her mouth dropped open, and she kept glancing at him while Henry wrote the note to the registrar. Henry said, “Marcy, this is Philip Cross. He’s come over from England to do grad work at Chicago. Philip, my excellent but disorganized student Marcy Grant.”

Marcy exhibited the good manners her Wisconsin mother had impressed upon her — how very nice to meet you, hope you have a good time — but she could go no further. Philip gave her his fingertips and said, “You are very kind,” as if Marcy could now be quietly executed and removed from the company of the civilized. Henry handed her the note and herded her toward the corridor. Henry eased back into the office and closed the door.

Philip had picked up Henry’s monograph, which was sitting on the windowsill, Dialectical Variations in Anglo-Saxon Epic Poetry, Yale University Press, unreviewed in any American publication, but embraced by two scholars at Cambridge, one at Oxford, and his mother, Rosanna Vogel Langdon. Henry said, “It could keep you up at night.”

Now the expected knock came, and then Rick Kingsford pushed the door open, calling, “You here, Doc? Oh, hi. How are ya?”

Henry said, “I’m fine, Rick. How are you?”

“Well, I had this cough, but it’s not so bad today. I thought I was gonna havta go to the infirmary, but not yet.” Rick was an enthusiastic student of Old English. He planned to do a translation of “The Seafarer,” with notes, as his thesis. He also carried a thermometer with him at all times and refused to shake hands. When he saw Philip, he recoiled slightly.

“What can I do for you, Rick?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Philip was getting bored.

“I need a form you got, for the thesis credit.”

“Oh, I do have that,” said Henry. “Let’s see.”

Philip stood up and stretched, then looked out the window. Henry opened the top drawer of his filing cabinet and began to go through the folders.

Rick, looking over his shoulder, said, “That’s it, Doc.”

“Oh, good. Is that all you—”

“Hell, no! I mean, I was thinking I was going to do something like free verse; then, the other night, I thought obviously iambic pentameter, but now I’m not so sure. We could have echoes of Ibsen or something.”

Philip was at the door, his hand on the knob. Rick sat down in the chair beside the desk and wiggled around, making himself comfortable. “The words would be English, but the meter would evoke the North, you know? I’m thinking of my guy — let’s say his name is Thor — sailing almost to the Arctic Circle. It’s dark, it’s cold. No Latin-derived words, or, God, Norman French — you don’t want that. Well, maybe a few, but carefully se—”

“Just a minute, Rick, okay?”

As a known campus bachelor, Henry had to be careful, but he did step one step toward Philip.

Their gazes locked. Henry said, “Let me know if you need anything.” Then, “And give my best to Basil if you write.”

“Ta-ta!” said Philip.

The door closed behind him.

“Ta-ta?” exclaimed Rick.

“A bit of slang that could come from Swahili, oddly enough. Now, let’s get on with it, what do you say?” He sounded put out, and Rick looked alarmed.

At dusk, when he was walking home from the university, feeling not quite down but not quite up, thinking that the sixteen weeks of classes just now commencing was a long stretch of talking and reading, he sneezed and put his hand into his jacket pocket for his handkerchief. Instead of his handkerchief, which he now remembered leaving on the corner of his desk, he pulled out a slip of paper. It read, “Philip +, 312-678-3456.” Henry immediately felt much better.

—

“YOU LOOK SO GREAT,” said Ruth.

“Don’t say that,” said Claire. They were having breakfast at the pancake house, which they did every Monday morning. She had her turkey and a dozen eggs in the car, but the temperature was in the forties — she didn’t think the eggs would freeze. Paul wanted a “private Thanksgiving, just us,” but the smallest turkey she’d found was eighteen pounds. She and Ruth didn’t have much in common anymore, but they still referred to each other as “best friends.” Bradley was sitting quietly on the seat between Claire and the wall. He was holding his blueberry muffin, staring at it, turning it, and taking bites. He was concentrating. Claire smoothed his hair.

“Why not?”

“Because whenever Paul says that it’s because I’m pregnant again.”

Ruth laughed, but then said, “You don’t look…”