Fall Semester by Stephanie Fournet Read Free Book Online

Degree committees would be discussed, the reading series planned; the first full meeting was ripe opportunity to seed out grads who were interested in an independent study in translations. Plans even for spring would be made. He had to be there.
    Malcolm stood before his desk and held the box in his fingertips .
    But the gun.
    Keeping it in the trunk of his car might not be enough. It would be easy—oh so very easy—to walk out and get it if La Fuente de Piedra crumbled in his hands.
    He placed the box on his desk. He wondered which choice was less wise: keep the gun in his custody or violate federal law and carry his weapon up to his office for the weekend.
    The threat of federal prosecution seemed, at that moment, meek and vaporous compared to the weight of La Fuente de Piedra. After the meeting, he would go down to his car, place the gun in the box, and leave it, blessedly, in his office.
    Resolved, Malcolm checked his watch and rushed up to the fifth floor.
    Room 530 was a glorified snack room, the favorite campus hang-out of the T.A.s, and perpetually, unceasingly, smoke-filled.
    So much for a Tobacco-Free Louisiana .
    Malcolm silently cursed Dorothy, dragged a chair from one of the interior tables to the doorway, and propped open the door to allow whatever fresh air found its way to the fifth floor some invitation. A few students had eyed his noisy furniture rearranging, but most were listening to Avery Cohen outline the requirements for the reading series.
    Malcolm scanned the room, noting that most of the other C.W. faculty members had turned up. He felt relieved that his arrival must have been noted. The two truly successful writers on the faculty, crime novelist Richard Davidson and playwright Johanna Barclay, weren’t seen at these events, were rarely seen at all.
    But with success comes sinecure.
    Malcolm sighed.
    Helene Coulter glared at him impatiently from the next table. He refocused his attention on Avery, who was now asking if the reading series should move from Café Cottage to Barnes & Noble.
    “We’d get a lot more publicity and community attention at the bookstore,” she began, cautiously. “But they have certain restrictions.”
    A collective groan went round.
    “Only G-rated material? Is that it?” asked Jess Dalton, a Ph. D. candidate who had started his own edgy short-story zine, Shat.
    Avery looked guilty.
    “Well,…not quite G, but something like that.”
    This began the inevitable debate. What was the point of a creative writing program that did not support creativity? What was the point of a reading series if there was no reliable, community audience? Malcolm read the faces of the other professors there, none of them commenting until directly asked. Gus Russo tried to look patient, encouraging. Larry MacIntosh could scarcely conceal his opinion and kept folding and unfolding his arms, pitching his chair back and forth. Sharon St. Marks kept her smiling eyes wide as though amazed with the discussion. Rainey, that old fart, was day-dreaming. What could he be thinking of? There was no doubt in any of their minds. The only answer was to go with the bookstore. The publicity alone made a little restraint worthwhile. With an entryway billboard spotlighting readers each week and advertisements in the paper and the store’s local webpage, the grad students would have to be insane to go with anything else. But it was their decision, ultimately, and so the faculty, as a whole, kept quiet.
    As the arguments continued, the girl sitting next to Helene left her seat and moved to the doorway near Malcolm. It was the French-braid girl from the faculty party. Karen.
    No, Maren.
    Malcolm remembered. He watched her lean her back against the doorsill and pull her dark braid over her shoulder. She caught his eye.
    “Too much smoke,” she whispered and smiled.
    “Too much hot air,” he replied. She smiled again and was about to say something else when Avery’s voice rose above the clamor, beseeching the