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  Copyright © 2017 by J.L. Newton

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

  Published 2017

  Printed in the United States of America

  Print ISBN: 978-1-63152-212-3

  E-ISBN: 978-1-63152-213-0

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016959503

  For information, address:

  She Writes Press

  1563 Solano Ave #546

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  Cover design © Julie Metz, Ltd./metzdesign.com

  Formatting by Kiran Spees

  She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  To “Polly” and Bill

  and to the women and men of “Haven Hall”

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  Aterword

  Recipe Index

  Credits

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Monday, October 11, 1999

  I’d dressed carefully that morning for the coffee date I’d agreed to in the afternoon—a silky dark green skirt, a thin white blouse, and malachite earrings, which gave my eyes a greenish cast. It was important about the eyes because my hair, as usual, hung straight to the middle of my neck. It had pretended to obey the curling iron at home, then slyly unfurled itself as soon as I stepped outside. I’d been divorced for a year, and though I’d dated several men, I hadn’t yet found another to share my life. My daughter, Polly, lived at the heart of my existence, but I missed the third component of a family—not Solomon, God knows, my cantankerous and cheating ex-husband—but someone to take the role that he had filled, a partner for myself. Ten days ago, I’d placed a personal ad in the Valley Bee describing myself as “an academic, early forties, bright and good looking, the mother of a ten-year-old daughter, and the owner of a large, marginally trained dog.” What I had not disclosed was that my field of work was women’s studies. That often put men off and could wait until potential suitors met me.

  I’d received several responses, one from a man with a teenage son. “Talk about the marginally trained,” he’d written. But, uneasy about meeting men I’d never seen, the only letter I’d answered was from a colleague at my university—Wilmer Crane, professor of mathematics. I’d never dated a mathematician before, preferring men whose work I could actually understand, but a colleague, even in math, attracted me. As a member of my own community, he seemed familiar and somehow safe.

  I enjoyed my solitary walk down Lupine Avenue and the pleasing views it gave me of the lawns and pathways between the gray stone buildings of the university. Taking a bite of the corn and cherry scone I’d bought for breakfast—it was part of my new research on food to make and sample recipes involving corn—I watched a gray fat squirrel dart after an even fatter one up the trunk of an acacia. Finches chattered in high tweeting sounds, two skipper butterflies fluttered orange and brown above the lawn, and the air, already warm against my skin, smelled pleasantly of newly mown grass. I was fond of this campus, which had the well-earned reputation of being an easygoing place, where people were smart but not pretentious. Perhaps a legacy of its agricultural college past—when students had come to study plants and pigs and cows—Arbor State had struck me, when I’d first arrived, as unusually communal and humane.

  In the last few years, however, as the university sank more of its resources into research on new technologies, as it was less supported by the state, and as it increasingly took on the world views of corporations that were funding it, the outlook for small programs like my own had darkened. Several rounds of budget cuts, indeed, and the arrival of a new vice provost had begun to make such programs look expendable. And now a new move to split the College of Letters and Sciences into three distinctive units had thrown the fate of Women’s Studies into further question.

  The proposed separation into science, social science, and humanities was fine for discipline-based departments like English and Sociology, but faculty in the women’s and ethnic studies programs took their approaches from English and sociology and from many other disciplines as well. They were interdisciplinary. Where were they supposed to go? That the new vice provost had called a meeting that very day “to discuss the programs’ fates” filled me with a sense of dread, and so, reluctantly, I turned my thoughts from squirrels and birds and butterflies to getting ready. When the higher-ups referred to “fate,” it was never promising.

  I took a final, comforting bite of the tart-sweet scone, still warm and pleasantly rough against my tongue, wrapped its remains in a crumpled Kleenex, and lodged them in my purse. I’d ask the Farmer’s Collective Bakery for the recipe. I passed my hand across my mouth to check for crumbs, brushed the front of my blouse where they had landed, and gave my skirt a shake just to be sure they hadn’t migrated there as well. I was a messy eater—something having to do with the lack of eye-hand coordination that kept me from playing tennis, ping-pong, golf, and any other game involving the propulsion of small objects to a goal—and it was time to meet with Vice Provost Vogle. I needed to look presentable.

  “Emily, wait up.” Alma Castillo, director of Chicana/o Studies, hurried across the street, slightly out of breath. “Can you believe it?” she said, her thin brows arching behind a pair of oversized glasses. “How’re we going to choose between social science and humanities? We’re being forced to take on an identity that doesn’t fit. Not that they care.” Her rounded cheeks and a head of gray spiked hair gave Alma a piquant, even impish, look.

  “Every time there’s a crisis in the budget,” I said, feeling a familiar warmth in my arms and chest, “we have to justify our right to exist. Never mind that we’ve poured our lives into developing our programs.” I shortened my stride to match Alma’s slower one. “And if we’re split into different divisions, we’ll lose touch with each other. I’d hate to see that happen.”

  “More and more this place is being run like a corporation. Large departments are becoming larger and strong ones stronger. Too bad about the rest of us.” Alma closed her lips in a tight, firm line. “We’re like weeds,” she said, her lips barely parted, “weeds in their golden fields of corn.”

  Alma’s pale blue blouse, tied at the neck with a soft, loopy bow, made her look like a schoolteacher or a secretary, both of which she had been on her way to her PhD, but, to fashion-conscious me, the way Alma dressed seemed politically strategic. You wouldn’t know from looking at her modest blouses and pencil skirts that Alma had been a farm worker and a fierce political organizer in her youth and that she continued to be one of the most outspoken women on campus. I favored outspoken women, being one myself, and had grown fond of Alma over our years at Arbor State. If I wanted someone to tell me what she really thought, I went to her.

  We’d reached the Social Science building—a stark configuration of concrete bl
ocks and swooping, science-fiction ramps—where the meeting would take place. The “Deadly Planet,” as it was often called, was supposed, in some oblique fashion, to gesture toward the geography of California. Its large rectangles were ostensibly aligned with distant fields; its silver color was intended to suggest the Sierra Nevada mountains, and the curving pathways that joined the blocks together were meant to replicate the paths of winding rivers. Fine on paper, but what about the human part of the natural world?

  The building, an experiment in theory and technology, was detached from the needs—and certainly the comforts—of human life. The five-story towers were linked by high external walkways, some of which were grated—much like cattle crossings—presenting unsuspecting visitors, and me as well, with vertigo-inducing glimpses of the distant ground below. Inside, the unfinished concrete walls imposed a dungeon-like effect, and many of the hallways either ended without warning or led to doors that were always locked. On my way to meetings in the Deadly Planet, I felt as if I’d stepped into a trap.

  “This building is like a maze for laboratory animals.”

  “Si,” Alma said, “and we’re the rats.”

  * * *

  Vice Provost Lorna Vogle, a small woman with short blonde hair, was sitting at one end of a highly polished walnut table as we entered the basement meeting room. We smiled at the four colleagues who’d already arrived and nodded politely to Lorna. She was not a woman to whom we felt close. Lorna was wearing a bright green suit with a green and plum-colored scarf tied artfully around her neck, an outfit that prompted me to gawk at her in wonder. A suit, on a day that would soar into the nineties, and a scarf as well? And the colors! With her long, thin nose, Lorna looked like a hummingbird. But I knew, and not without sympathy for the attempt, that Lorna was determined to appear well turned out—and more. She was bent on projecting a certain perkiness as well, perkiness being a subtle way of expressing spirit, if not authority, with the men who actually ran the show.

  Alma and I had barely settled ourselves into our seats when Lorna squared her papers with a series of authoritative taps and began the meeting. I hoped she couldn’t tell what I was thinking.

  “As you know, your programs will have to choose between being housed in Humanities or in Social Sciences. There are simply no other options.”

  She paused for effect, coolly surveying the six of us gathered round the table, like someone who’d been trained in crowd control or who’d underlined The Management Guide to Running Meetings.

  She continued with careful emphasis, “As we make this transition, we need programs that are strong and productive.”

  I knew that meant departments with high enrollments in their majors and five hundred students squeezed into their lecture rooms, both of which brought monies into the coffers of Arbor State.

  “Small programs like your own will have to prove that they are able to keep up. Only strong and productive units will get resources from now on. Weaker programs will have to become part of big departments like English or Sociology.”

  Outrage burned the veins of my arms and chest and I raised my hand abruptly.

  “Emily?” Lorna ruffled slightly with annoyance.

  It wasn’t time for questions yet, and I knew it.

  “Has the university shifted its priorities? Instead of supporting small programs, which provide services that big departments can’t and wouldn’t want to if they could, have we moved to a system in which only the biggest and strongest survive?”

  Lorna placed one hand on her scarf, widened her hazel eyes, and gave me a raptor-like look.

  “No, we have not,” she said.

  Lorna’s assistant, a plump, cheery-looking woman, eased her way forward in her seat.

  “I think Emily is right. Priorities have shifted in the last few years.”

  Lorna raised her eyebrows, as if in warning, but then the director of Asian American Studies broke in.

  “What needs to be remembered is that we’re an advantage to Arbor State. The ethnic studies programs are experts on race and ethnicity and on minority cultures. No other units have that as their goal.” He was an older man with thick eyebrows and a wide smile, and he’d devoted twenty years to getting Asian American Studies established on the campus.

  “Yes,” I said, nodding vigorously in support. “Something similar is true of Women’s Studies. And all the programs are crucial in mentoring students who would otherwise be marginalized.”

  “I’m just telling you what the future is going to look like,” Lorna said.

  The director of African American Studies, a slender, quiet man from Jamaica, rolled his eyes and then looked down at his papers. The white-haired director of Native American deepened the creases between his brows, and the director of American Studies, a thin slip of a man, tightened his grip on his ballpoint pen as if he’d like to lob it in Lorna’s direction. Alma, like a ripening concord grape, visibly swelled with emotion.

  “The humanities are also underfunded. This is just the reality.” Lorna laced her fingers together on the table, the white tips of her manicure shining like chips of ice, when Alma abruptly launched her upper body forward.

  “Well, I guess people in the humanities are second-class citizens, too, much like those of us in women’s and ethnic studies.”

  The director of African American Studies stifled a laugh and then returned to studying his papers. The director of Native American Studies parted his lips as if he’d thought about smiling and then reconsidered it. Lorna’s body stiffened ever so slightly behind the table.

  “Here’s what I want from you in the next two weeks, a report that makes a case for the continued funding of your programs.”

  The continued funding of our programs? She was threatening our existence right to our faces. I was furious but took notes on her directions nonetheless. Obsessive note taking, or, as I preferred to think of it, keeping track of information, had become second nature ever since I had moved, as a scholarship student, from a working-class town to an upper-class university, where I was so intimidated that I’d written down everything my professors said. Since that time, I’d recorded my impressions about everything—books, lectures, meetings, phone calls, films. It focused my attention, served as a memory bank, and often helped me deal, as now, with unpleasant feelings. I was known on campus as a careful researcher.

  After the meeting, the six of us filed out, our faces grim.

  “She’s threatening to make us disappear.” Alma rested one fist on an ample hip.

  “We need to meet,” I said, looking at the director of Native American Studies, whose usual composure had vanished.

  “I’ll try to find us a time and reserve us a room.” The lines between his eyes had deepened into a scowl.

  The directors of Asian American and American Studies nodded their assent. The director of African American shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of habitual weariness, and we all walked on, indignation crackling among us like an electric storm.

  “It’s all work, low pay, and no respect.” Alma paused at the bottom of the stairs, her back against the gray, pockmarked concrete wall. “We’re cheap labor, and we’re dispensable—we’re Mexicans! And when I think about it, I’m Mexican three times over. I’m Mexican. I’m in ethnic studies. And now I’ll probably be assigned to the humanities!”

  * * *

  The quad stretched before me, a large green rectangle surrounded by cork oak trees and pines. In the early 1900s it had been a field of barley and alfalfa, but now it was a campus lawn where groups of students sprawled on well-trimmed grass. It being noon, some talked or ate their lunches in the shade, others threw Frisbees back and forth in the sunny part of the open space, and just beyond these pastoral borders, faculty and students poured in and out of the student union—like rivulets crossing back and forth in a rock-filled stream. I looked longingly at some tables in the shade but dutifully stationed myself at the bottom of a flagpole that stood at the end of the path dividing the quad in two.
/>   The flagpole area—crowded, baked by sun, and lacking benches—was a lousy place to wait, but I was meeting Tess Ryan of Plant Biology. And like most women in science, she was so busy running a lab and writing grants to support research that she could spare no more than fifteen minutes for a conversation and only in places that didn’t take her too far from her work. Collaborating with women scientists often felt like holding a series of conversations with migratory birds. You had to catch them when they had time to perch. And those, like Tess, who were determined to have a family as well as a serious career were particularly hard to snare, although Tess, to her credit, deliberately made time for supporting women’s research on campus. She’d even agreed to chair a panel for a Women’s Studies lecture series on gender and the environment.

  A tall, lean woman with short red hair appeared in the distance, taking long, deep strides and quickly covering the distance between us. Younger than me by at least fifteen years, Tess radiated life. Her tanned skin shone, her eyes looked impossibly clear, and she had the body of an athlete. Standing still, she often reminded me of a young and vigorous stalk of corn. Today, however, she appeared distressed. I gave her what I hoped was a gently inquiring look because what I really wanted to say was “spill the beans.”

  “Bad things are happening,” she said, by way of answer. “One of my colleagues, Peter Elliott, was taken to the hospital this morning in a coma. They found him lying in the hog yard. They think he might have been poisoned.”

  “In the hog yard?” That seemed an unlikely spot. The hog barn and its yard lay in the science part of campus, but I’d occasionally walked past them—always trying to hold my breath, for the stench they exuded, especially in October’s heat, almost smacked you in the face. “What was he doing there?”

  “Probably checking on his pigs. He’s been feeding them with a genetically modified corn, and he’s measuring the rate of their weight gain.”

  “Do they know how it happened?”

  “No.” Tess rumpled her forehead. “It could have been food poisoning, I suppose, but I’m worried, frankly, that it might have involved Save the Fields.”