“I’ll take Regulation,” Cornelius said. “And Eukaryotic Genetics.”
“You can have Eukaryotics and the 2000-level introductory course,” said Qaiser. “Can’t give all the plums to the same person.”
Cornelius nodded philosophically. “Deal,” he said.
“Well, in that case,” said Devon Greene, another white male, another sessional instructor, “can I have the Regulation of Gene Expression course?”
Qaiser nodded. “It’s all yours.” She looked at Karen Clee, a black woman the same age as Mary. “Can you take—let’s see—how ’bout Ms. Klein?”
The sessional instructors couldn’t supervise Ph.D. students; those duties had to go to full-time faculty. “I’d rather have the bird guy,” said Karen.
“Okay,” said Qaiser. “Who wants Ms. Klein?”
No response.
“Let me put it this way,” said Qaiser. “Who wants Ms. Klein and Mary’s old office?”
Mary smiled. She did have prime office space, with a nice view overlooking the greenhouse.
“Sold!” said Helen Wright.
“There it is,” said Qaiser. She turned to Mary and smiled. “It looks like we’ll be able to muddle through without you this year.”
After the departmental meeting, Mary returned to her lab. She wished that Daria and Graham, her grad students, were in today; she really owed them personal explanations.
And yet what explanation could she give? The obvious one—a great job offer in the United States—was only part of the story. Mary had had overtures from U.S. universities in the past; it wasn’t as though she had never been courted before. But she’d always turned them down, telling herself that she preferred Toronto, that she found its climate “invigorating,” that she’d miss the CBC and the wonderful live theater and Caribbana and Sleuth of Baker Street and Yorkville and Le Sélect Bistro and the ROM and smoke-free restaurants and the Blue Jays and The Globe and Mail and socialized medicine and the Harbourfront Reading Series.
Of course, she could tell them about the job’s perks—but the main reason she was leaving was the rape. She knew rapes happened everywhere; she’d be no safer in another city. But just as getting away from the reminders of it had helped spur her on to Sudbury to investigate the crazy story of a live Neanderthal found there, so, it seemed, the same thing would drive her now to leave Toronto again. Perhaps, had Daria been in, she could have told her about it—but there was no way she could discuss it with Graham Smythe…or any other man, at least in this world.
Mary set about packing her personal effects from the lab, putting them in an old plastic milk crate that had been kicking around the department for years. She had a wall calendar with pictures of covered bridges; she also had a framed snapshot of her two nephews, and a coffee mug with the Canada AM logo on it—she’d been on that show almost a decade ago, after she’d recovered DNA from a thirty-thousand-year-old bear that had been found frozen in Yukon permafrost. Most of the books on the lab’s shelves belonged to the university, but she retrieved a half dozen volumes that were her own, including a recent edition of the CRC Handbook.
Mary looked around the lab, hands on hips. Somebody else could take over trying to sequence DNA from a passenger pigeon—that had been what she’d been working on before she’d left for Sudbury. And although Mary herself had bought most of the plants in the lab, she knew she could count on Daria to water them.
So: everything was set. She picked up the milk crate, which was quite heavy now, and headed for the door, and—
No. No, there was something else.
She could leave them here, she supposed. No one would throw them out in her absence, after all. Hell, there were specimens in there that belonged to old Daniel Colby, and he’d been dead for two years.
Mary set down her crate and crossed over to the refrigerator used to store biological specimens. She opened the door and let a blast of cold air wash over her.
There they were: two opaque specimen containers, both labeled “Vaughan 666.”
One contained her panties from that night, and the other—
The other contained the filth he’d left inside her.
But no. No, she wouldn’t take them with her. They’d be fine here, and, besides, she didn’t even want to touch them. She closed the refrigerator door and turned around.
Just then, Cornelius Ruskin stuck his head in the lab’s door. “Hey, Mary,” he said.
“Hi, Cornelius.”
“Just wanted to say we’re going to miss you around here, and—well, I wanted to thank you for the extra course work.”
“No problem,” said Mary. “I can’t think of anyone better qualified to do it.” She wasn’t just being polite; she knew it was true. Cornelius had been quite the wunderkind; his undergrad had been at U of T, but his Ph.D. was from Oxford, where he’d studied at the Ancient Biomolecules Centre.
Mary started toward the milk crate. “Let me get that,” said Cornelius. “You taking it out to your car?”
She nodded. Cornelius bent from his knees, just like you’re supposed to, and lifted the crate. They headed out into the corridor. Coming the other way was Jeremy Banyon, a grad student, but not one of Mary’s. “Hello, Professor Vaughan,” he said. “Hello, Doctor Ruskin.”
Mary saw Cornelius manage a tight little smile. Mary and the other full-time faculty were always called “Professor,” but Cornelius wasn’t entitled to that honorific. It was only in the halls of academe that being referred to as “Doctor” was the consolation prize, and she could see in his expression how much Cornelius coveted the P-word.
Mary and Cornelius went down the stairs and out into the sultry August heat. They made their way over to the parking lot by York Lanes, and he helped her put her things in the trunk of her Honda. She bade him farewell, got in, started the engine, and drove off to her new life.
Chapter Seven
“Interesting that you started another relationship so quickly,” said Selgan, his tone neutral.
“I wasn’t starting a relationship,” snapped Ponter. “I had known Daklar Bolbay for over 200 months by this point.”
“Oh, yes,” said Selgan. “After all, she had been your woman-mate’s woman-mate.”
Ponter folded his arms across his chest. “Exactly.”
“So naturally you had known her,” agreed Selgan, nodding.
“That’s right.” Ponter had a defensive tone in his voice.
“And, in all that time that you had known Daklar, did you ever fantasize about her?”
“What?” said Ponter. “You mean sexually?”
“Yes, sexually.”
“Of course not.”
Selgan shrugged slightly. “It’s not that unusual. Lots of men fantasize about the females their women-mates are bonded to.”
Ponter was quiet for a few beats, then, softly, he allowed, “Well, there’s a difference between idle thoughts and fantasizing…”
“Of course,” said Selgan. “Of course. Had you often had idle thoughts about Daklar?”
“No,” snapped Ponter. He fell silent yet again, then: “Well, ‘often’ is a subjective term. I mean, sure, now and then, I suppose, but…”
Selgan smiled. “As I said, there’s nothing unusual about it. A lot of pornography exists devoted to that very theme. Have you ever partaken of—”
“No,” said Ponter.
“If you say so,” said Selgan. “But I detect an undercurrent of discomfort. Something about this change in your relationship with Daklar disturbed you. What was it?”
Ponter fell silent again.