As a result, he had stormed out of the apartment after saying some very cruel things to her. He had also shouted at her that he never wanted to see her in private again.
Rutherford believed that he had seduced her just to get a high grade in her course, that he was using the argument as an excuse to quit making love to a middle-aged woman. She was wrong. He was compulsively attracted to older women. However, he was finding her demands too great a strain. He could no longer satisfy her, his wife, two female sophomores, two of his friends' wives, a female bartender who gave him free drinks, and the superintendent of the apartment building in which he lived.
Five, he could handle; eight, no. He was being drained of time, energy, and semen, and he was falling asleep in class. Thus, he had craftily started violent arguments with his professor, one of the sophomores (it was rumored that she had the clap), and the wife of a friend (she was too emotionally demanding, anyway).
Now, Rutherford, her watery blue eyes narrowed, said, "You've done very well in your defense, Mister Rohrig. So far."
She paused. He felt suddenly chilled. His anus tightened. Sweat poured down his face and from his armpits. He had visions of her sitting up late nights thinking of some way to get him, some horrible, peculiarly humiliating way.
Doctors Durham and Pur quit drumming their fingers. This was getting interesting. Their colleague was burning bright, like the eyes of a tiger about to spring on a tethered lamb. Lightning was going to strike, and the unfortunate candidate was without a grounding rod, unless it was up his ass.
Rohrig gripped the arms of his chair. Sweat popped out on his forehead like mice scared from a Swiss cheese; sweat, acid sweat, nibbled at the armpits of his shirt. What in hell was coining?
Rutherford said, "You seem to know your subject thoroughly. You've given a remarkable demonstration of knowledge of a rather obscure field of poetry .I'm sure we're all proud of you. We haven't wasted our time with you in the classroom."
The sly bitch was telling him that she had wasted her time outside of the classroom with him. But this was only a sideswipe, a remark meant to injure but not to kill. She was setting him up for the big fall. It was seldom, if ever, that the examining professors congratulated the candidate during the torture. Afterward, perhaps, when the board had voted that he be passed.
"Now... tell me," Rutherford drawled.
She paused.
Another him of the crank of the rack.
"Tell me, Mister Rohrig. "Just where is Wales?"
Something in him lost its hold and slid bumping down to the bottom of his stomach. He clapped his hand on his forehead, and he groaned.
"Mother of mercy! Trapped! Holy shit!"
Doctor Pur, dean of women, turned pale. This was the first time in her life she had ever heard that vile word.
Doctor Durham, who wept when reciting poetry to his students, looked as if he was about to swoon.
Doctor Rutherford, having hurled her thunderbolt, smiled without pity or compassion upon the remains of her victim.
Rohrig rallied. He refused to go down without his flags flying, the band playing Nearer My God to Thee. He smiled as if the gold in the pot at rainbow's end had not suddenly been transmuted into turds.
"I don't know how you did it, but you got me! O.K. I never said I was perfect. What happens now?"
Verdict: failed. Sentence: six months of probation with another and final inquisition at its end.
Later, when he and Rutherford were alone in the hall, she said, "I suggest you study geography, too, Rohrig. I'll give you a clue. Wales is near England. But I doubt my advice will help you. You couldn't find your ass if it was handed to you on a silver platter.''
His friend, Pete Frigate, was waiting at the end of the hall for him. Pete was one of the group of older students dubbed "The Bearded Ones" by a sophomore girl who liked to hang around them. They were all veterans whose college education had been interupted by the war. They and their wives or mistresses led a life which was then called "Bohemian." They were the unknown forerunners of the beatniks and the hippies.
As Rohrig drew near, Frigate looked questioningly at him. Though Rohrig was near tears, he put on a big smile and then began laughing uproariously.
"You won't believe this, Pete!"
Frigate did find it difficult to believe that anyone past the sixth grade of grammar school did not know where Wales was. When he was finally convinced, he too laughed.
Rohrig shouted, "How in hell could that white-haired fox have found out my weak spot?"
Frigate said, "I don't know, but she's magnificent. Listen, Bob. Don't feel so bad. I know a distinguished surgeon who doesn't remember if the sun goes around the earth or the earth goes around the sun. He says it's not necessary to know that when you're digging into people's bodies.
"But an English major ... he ought at least to know ....oh, haw, haw!"
In one of those non sequiturs the Dream Scripter so often writes, Rohrig found himself elsewhere. Now he was in fog and chasing a butterfly. It was beautiful, and what made it so valuable was that it was the only one of its kind and only Rohrig knew that it existed. It was striped with azure and gold, its antennae were scarlet, its eyes were green emeralds. The king of the dwarfs had fashioned it in his cave in the Black Mountains, and the Wizard of Oz had dunked it in the waters of life.
Fluttering only an inch beyond his outstretched hand, it led him through the mists.
"Hold still, you son of a bitch! Hold still!"
He plunged after it for what seemed like miles. Dimly, out of the corner of his eye, he could see shapes in the clouds, things standing as motionless and quietly as if they were carved from bone. Twice he distinguished a figure; one wore a crown, the other had a horse's head.
Suddenly, he was confronted by one of the objects. He stopped since it seemed impossible for some reason to go around it. The butterfly hung for a moment above the top of the thing, then settled down upon it. Its green eyes glowed, and its front legs shook the antennae mockingly.
Moving forward slowly, Rohrig saw that it was Frigate who was blocking his path.
"Don't you dare touch it!" Rohrig whispered fiercely. "It's mine!"
Frigate's face was as expressionless as a knight's visor. It always looked deadpan when Rohrig was in one of his many furies and chewing out everybody in sight. That had made Rohrig even more angry, and now it rocketed him to the point of utter madness.
"Out of the way, Frigate! Step aside or get knocked down!"
The butterfly, startled by the outburst, flew off into the fog.
"I can't," Frigate said.
"Why not?" Rohrig thundered as he hopped up and down in frustration.
Frigate pointed downward. He was standing on a large red square. Adjoining it were other squares, some red, some black.
"I got misplaced. I don't know what's going to happen now. It's against the rules to put me on a red square. But then, who cares about rules? Besides the pieces, I mean."
"Can I help you?" Rohrig said.
"How could you do that? You can't help yourself."
Frigate pointed over Rohrig's shoulder.
"It's going to catch you now. While you've been chasing the butterfly, it's been chasing you."
Rohrig suddenly felt utterly terrified. There was something after him, something which would do something horrible to him.