In the entrance way of the Biomedical Sciences Building, just beyond the reach of an intruding tongue of sunlight, a graduate student leaned against the wall and gazed out at Dr. Verna Noyes. She sat on a concrete bench at the far side of the building's little plaza. On this first, perfect spring evening, the student noticed, Dr. Noyes looked as though she were smelling sulfur dioxide. For one minute, then another, the student procrastinated as though time might bring a better moment to approach his professor.
Verna Noyes was a handsome woman in her mid-thirties, with a large, strong face and heavy black hair that was thickly parted on the right and fell below her shoulders. Her skin was white, without a trace of tan, although over her big, heavy-lidded eyes, the skin looked almost blue. Her nose was a too thick and too long, and, combined with the length of her face, gave an appearance of assertiveness and strength. To this her downcast eyes lent sadness. It was not a beautiful face, but the long nose, the high cheekbones, and the heavy lidded eyes gave it depth and dignity. A full, square-set mouth gave it unmistakable sensuality. Or so it seemed to the graduate student, studying the face for some indication of a more propitious moment to approach.
Noyes sat a stiffly, one arm straight at her side, braced on the hard bench, the other resting on a dark brown briefcase. She was gazing straight ahead and, because Dr. Noyes never lingered around the Biomedical Sciences Building after 5:00 o'clock, unless shut up in her laboratory, the graduate student thought she might be waiting for someone. That he might interrupt a special moment.
But several more minutes passed during which Dr. Noyes did not move, no one approached, and it became slightly darker, so the student shrugged and walked out of the entrance way. She noticed him only when his long shadow slid beneath her feet. She raised her chin a little and asked, "Yes?" before her had spoken.
He stated his business quickly, without greeting or comment on the delightful spring weather. Could he use the older electron microscope in the pathology laboratory, instead of the new ones on the fifth floor? The new ones, as she probably knew, had been improperly installed and were subject to vibrations that resulted in poor resolution. Until Serva-levl platforms were rigged, the new scopes were useless. Unless he could have an hour on the older microscope, he would have to postpone his work for tomorrow.
Even before his question was complete, Dr. Noyes was shaking her head. No. They would stick to the existing sign-up schedule, which was tight already without alterations. Furthermore, he should take several more days to prepare before microscope work. Did he think all research could be completed in two weeks? He was always running to the electron microscope before his specimens were adequately prepared. See her Monday if there were problems.
The student was one of her best and his respect for her, his admiration, surprised even him. It was like some corny story of admiration for your old professor, except this was not an old professor and the spring evening, with its first, warm breezes, was...stimulating as well as gorgeous. Ragged strips of white cloud, their undersides glowing pink with the sinking sun, drifting like crocodiles in the pale blue sky.
So, as Dr. Noyes spoke, rapidly, without catching his eye, the student's glance slipped down to where the jacket of her light baize business suit hung open. Beneath the thin, white sweater, her breasts were held high and tight in the bra. But if they were released, he thought, they would subside into a heavy roundness, pulling gently outward from her armpits, the nipples forced to fullness by the weight of the flesh.
And then what would the severe, brilliant, decidedly cold Dr. Verna Noyes be like? In a moment, he caught himself and hastily looked up into her face, staring hard, giving her his full attention. She looked back with an expression more unsettling than usual and he wondered, with a jolt of embarrassment, if she had sensed what he had been imagining. When she finished speaking, he thanked her with excessive formality and hurried away. Her eyes again gazed at nothing, her chin slightly raised, face expressionless.
She had sensed the young man's uneasiness and his guilty, shifting stare, but did not dwell upon it; instead, her mind skipped directly to the thought, once again, that she disliked teaching—even graduate teaching, which was least-bad if you had to teach. She had methodically packed her teaching chores into the smallest possible niche of her life, where they would interfere least with her research, which dealt with the effects of enzyme reactions on schizophrenia.
The other burden of her professional life, she reflected, was counseling students. Her training in the clinical side of psychology, before and while she earned her M.D. degree, made her a natural candidate for service as a psychotherapist in the University's health service. And that involved counseling undergraduate women who came with difficulties beyond the academic. This was worse, even, than teaching, but scarce funds for biomedical research, and the difficulty of retaining research posts at medical schools, made it impossible for a junior researcher to refuse to 'participate in the wider university community and its needs,' as the chairman of her department had put it.
She did her counseling well, as she did everything well, but with uneasiness, even occasional revulsion, at what seemed the frenzy and obsessiveness of the...frankly, 'girls,' not women...who came to see her, week after week, with the same histrionic stories of romantic comedies and tragedies. They seemed to Verna Noyes to pursue sex in a hormonal rage that degenerated, year after year, into plain promiscuity. And the candidness and intensity with which these girls, only 18, 19, 20, spilled forth their sexual cravings and described their wretchedly tangled sex lives, made her hate the seven hours a week (including weekend duty) that she spent in the small, comfortable office of the Health Services building. But such reactions could not be confessed by a psychiatrist, much less offered as a reason to be relieved of the chore.
She had continued to stare across the plaza, down Angell Street toward the Student Union. Now, she thought that the tall, slender man walking up Angell Street was her husband, but he was still too far away for her to be sure. The man walked slowly, his shoulders bent, eyes lowered; in his stride was no briskness, no lightness, only a dignity that denied any hint of the physicalistic.
Yes, it was her husband's briefcase and, over his arm, the tan raincoat made pointless by the warm evening. Verna stood up, intending to meet him half way, when she saw a student catch up with him. The two talked for a moment, then her husband put down the briefcase and settled his weight on one foot, as though resigned to a long conversation. Verna sank back onto the bench and watched them without interest.
She had married Daniel Spellman Noyes 10 years ago. At 37, he had been a brilliant historian with a rapidly rising reputation. She had been a psychiatric resident trying, even then, to steal time from ward rounds and other chores for her research. She had pursued Daniel Noyes with the determination and decisiveness she brought to every aspect of life. Had she not pursued him, he would not be married today, she was sure. He had suppressed all concerns but the scholarship that had, by then, produced three volumes on the literary and cultural history of Europe and North America. She had admired his intensity, his contempt for the gossipy and clubish university life, and, above all, his dedication and sense of mission in his career and research.
She hoped his meeting today had gone well. Again she rose and started toward him. For three years, he had been trying to convince the history department that it should offer an undergraduate major in cultural history—indeed, make the field a specialty of the department. It made sense, at least as he described it: no department could excel in all areas. Cultural history could be a badge of distinction, a niche in which to achieve excellence. Today, the department had held a plenary session, attended by the provost and chairmen of American and European literature as well as the whole history faculty, to decide the question. Daniel would be the head of the program, if authorized, and so, if the decision had been 'yes," they would have a good summer.
Daniel would prepare the courses for the fall semester; he would be busy, content. If the decision were 'no'...
When she saw he had spotted her coming toward him, she smiled and raised a thumb, her eyebrows hiked up, questioning. His expression gave no indication of an answer; his pace did not quicken; he did not smile or wave. She broke into a little run, and, when they met, she opened her arms and asked, brightly, "Success?"
He nodded. "One-hundred percent success," his voice toneless.
She threw her arms around him and hugged him. He returned her pressure, ever so slightly, and immediately lifted her arms away. They were in public, after all. He started to walk and she fell in beside him, her hand seeking his, her head leaning slightly to rest on his shoulder as they walked. "No hitches?"