exactly counted on living off some of the Hunt glassworks fortune, he had at least looked forward to the possibility. He had already played the we’re-young-and-in-love-and-poor-as-college-students game once with Eleanor, and he no longer found it amusing. But Judith might, in the end be his ticket out of here. Daniel looked around the cramped cubicle that was his office. It was painted a shiny khaki color, God knows how long ago. Sometime after the Korean War? Or World War II, or maybe even World War I? The paint was flaking in more than half a dozen places. If he ever wanted to commit suicide, Daniel reflected, he probably had enough lead in the available paint flakes for effective poisoning.
Daniel looked out the drafty window. The room was so badly heated that he kept his coat on all the time. Except, of course, in the summer, when the room was so hot that he sweated. Now it was hard to believe that he had once spread Judith on this very desk and had the energy, in the heat, to make love to her. Daniel shook his head.
He was about to finish copying out the last page when there was a knock at the door. Guiltily, he folded up the final page and thrust it deep into the unused pages of his notebook. He left the notebook lying open on the half-finished page. “Come in,” he called.
The shining blond head of Cheryl Jenkins hesitantly peeked around the door. “Is it all right?” she asked.
“Fine,” Daniel said, “just fine.” The girl entered the room, and it seemed as if the sun entered with her. It must be her “hair, Daniel thought. It was so very blond. It must be natural, because dyeing it would never leave it so glossy, so very shiny.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Cheryl said, “I mean, I know you have lots to do—”
“No, don’t worry about it. I’m just doing a little editing on my novel.”
“Your novel?” Cheryl breathed. “Oh, I really shouldn’t be bothering you.” She turned as if to go, and Daniel lurched across the small room and took her hand,
“It’s all right, Cheryl. I’d be happy to help you. What is it?”
The girl colored and took her hand away but looked up at him. She was very short, and suddenly two thoughts occurred almost simultaneously to Daniel. The first was how ungainly Judith was compared to this tiny sprite. And the second was whether Cheryl’s pubic hair was as blond as the shiny cap of hair on her head.
Cheryl was rummaging through her purse. She took out two crumpled sheets of paper. “I’ve never read anything aloud at the writers’ circle,” she said, “but I thought this wasn’t too awful. I mean, not really bad, and so I thought, maybe … well …”
Daniel took the two sheets from her trembling hand and read them quickly. The writing was clear and a lot more forceful than Cheryl was herself. In fact, it was better writing than the stuff Chuck Tasity, another student, turned out by the truckload and read promiscuously. “This is really good, Cheryl. You should read it.”
Her smile of pleasure was a delightful reward for his praise. “Really?” she asked. He nodded.
“Really,” he told her.
“Oh, I’m so glad you think so. I’ve gotten so much out of your class and the writers’ circle. It’s really improved my work.” She paused and blushed again. Daniel wondered if her nipples were truly pink—the girl was a china doll. “You’ve done so much for me, I wish I could do something for you,” Cheryl said.
Daniel smiled, resisting his impulse. Jesus Christ, it was hard to be married. “Maybe you could buy me a cup of coffee sometime,” he said.
She hung her head, then looked up from under her lashes, at him. “I could type for you,” she suggested. “I noticed that all of your drafts are handwritten. And the typed versions are—well, I could type for you,” she repeated in a very small voice.
Daniel smiled. Not only was Judith a lousy typist, but she insisted on using her stupid high school portable typewriter. “Maybe we could talk about that. Have you got a word processor?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve got a laptop. And a laser printer,” she told him.
Daniel wondered where she got the money for that kind of equipment. He looked down again at the sheets of paper in his hand. “You have real talent, Cheryl.”
“Do you really think so?” The girl blushed again. She was adorable.
“Yes, I do. Someday, with the right guidance, you could be a successful writer.”
The girl said nothing, but she was clearly transported. Those were the magic words, the words that all neophytes longed to hear. Cheryl looked up at him, full in the face for the first time. “I feel like you’ve given me so much already,” she breathed.
Do you know I’m deeply attracted to you? He had almost said it. The words had formed in his brain and his lips were about to begin moving when there was another knock on the door. This caller didn’t wait to be asked in. Don Kingsbury, the head of the department and just about the only member who still spoke to him, smiled in the doorway. Cheryl turned and, without another word, walked past him and out of the room.
Don, oblivious, raised his brows. “How’s it going?” he asked. Daniel shrugged. Don was a big guy, well over six foot, and chunky. He sat himself on a corner of the desk and crossed his massive legs. Daniel stood up to be above his eye level. He wondered how much Don had overheard of his talk with Cheryl. Don merely glanced down at Daniel’s notebook.
“Ah, the book. How’s that going?” Don asked.
“Not too badly,” Daniel admitted noncommittally. “You know, I’m not attempting art here. Just something that’s workmanlike, something that can be published.”
“Yeah. Something the movies will buy,” Don said, laughing. “Will you read it at the writers’ circle?” Twice each month Daniel led a writers’ group meeting in which participants read their current work and got feedback and, sometimes, criticism. Especially from Daniel.
“I already have,” Daniel said. “I might read some more tonight.”
“Well, I’ll walk you over there. I thought I might sit in. You know, I really do admire the way you’ve sustained that group. And you’ve done an excellent job on the seminars. Bringing up those first-time novelists for the panel discussion was a great idea.”
“I did have to pull a few strings,” Daniel said modestly. Actually, it hadn’t been too difficult to get them. After all, who the hell wanted to hear the experiences of a literary first novelist?
“And I was amazed when you got Alfred Byron up here.”
Daniel nodded. That was a coup. Alfred Byron was a prestigious agent, but when one of the young writer’s books had taken off—a young writer Byron represented—he’d been appreciative that Daniel had invited him. In return he’d agreed to give a brief talk. He’d come back again to moderate a panel discussion. And Daniel secretly planned for Alfred Byron to do much, much more.
“I think you are really bringing a breath of reality to the department,” Don said. “You know, we have so many students who want to write and don’t have a clue about what the business of getting published is all about. And then we have our ivory-tower academics who believe that any writer still living can’t be worthwhile. You’ve really added positive diversity to the department.” Daniel felt
