The Groves of Academe: A Novel (Transaction Large Print Books) by Mary McCarthy Read Free Book Online Page A

evident that the girl had betrayed him, but the point was academic now. He got up, thoughtfully, from his chair and strolled over to the window, his hands plunged into his pockets, and stared out over the snow.
    “Domna,” he said, turning suddenly, “there’s something I have to tell you. Cathy is ill, dangerously ill. She doesn’t know it herself; nobody knows it but the doctor and myself and two other persons—Esther and Maynard Hoar.” The girl gave a frightened gasp and her hand flew out in sympathy; she half rose from her seat, as though to comfort him. But he held her off and commenced to pace rapidly up and down. “It’s a heart and kidney condition brought about by Stephen’s birth. Nothing that she won’t recover from, given freedom from worry. There’s low blood pressure too and a secondary anemia, a syndrome, as they call it, embracing the whole system.” Her lips moved tensely, following him; plainly, she was trying to relate the fearsome clinical terminology to the handsome, flesh-and-blood woman who was her friend, always eager to lay down mop or carpet-sweeper for a cosy cigarette or a final mid-morning cup of coffee. “The doctors agree,” he consoled her, “that a normal life, in the circumstances, is the very best thing for her. Recreation, fresh air, light housework, even driving the car—the point is to spare her knowledge of her condition, which might affect her like any other sudden shock, that is, induce a coma or syncope that might or might not prove fatal.” The effort of pronouncing the last words in a tone of detached objectivity brought tears unexpectedly to his eyes; with a strangled sound and wry gesture, he sank into the chair, removed his bifocals, and sobbed into his handkerchief, while Domna stroked his frayed sleeve and uttered words of comfort and hope. “What am I to do, Domna?” he suddenly cried, from the depths of his extremity, pulling himself bolt upright in his chair and transfixing her with his eyes, half blind and crazily staring. “You tell me,” he demanded. “What am I to do?”
    Truly, he realized with astonishment, he had lost all control of himself. To cry brokenly before a girl nearly twenty years his junior had been no part of his intention; the utter misery of his situation had sprung on him, as he was speaking, from cover, like an animal at the throat. He wept hopelessly from sheer hatred of the universe, including the girl who was watching him and who could do nothing, of course, to help him, as he now for the first time clearly saw and admitted to himself. To his surprise, in the midst of his tears, Domna got up and left the room, locking the door behind her, coming back in a few minutes with an aspirin, a benzedrine tablet, a glass of water, and a clean handkerchief wrung out in cold water. “I’ve phoned Cathy,” she said, “to tell her you’re staying to lunch at the college. If you’d like a drink of whiskey, I’ll take you home to my house in my car.” Henry shook his head. He accepted the pills and put on his glasses, carefully, adjusting the wires over his ears. “Now,” she said, “what did you mean when you said that Esther and Maynard knew that Cathy was dangerously ill?”
    Henry bit his lips. He had added this detail on impulse and now he must make up his mind to tell her the whole squalid story, sparing neither the Hoars or himself, or forfeit the support she could give him; no half-measures would do. If Domna were satisfied that Maynard, knowing of Cathy’s condition, had determined in cold blood to fire him for shabby political motives, she would fight for his reinstatement straight up to the board of trustees; even so, he frankly hesitated, being sharp enough to see that the knife cut two ways. If Cathy’s condition or the knowledge of it imposed on Maynard Hoar the moral obligation not to fire him, should it not have imposed on her husband an even stronger obligation not to behave in such a way as to get himself