Chapter Two

President’s Hall was one of those little nuggets on the Northwestern campus that was kept for only the most noteworthy events. Thousands of students and hundreds of faculty could spend their entire Northwestern careers without having stepped foot in the room; not many knew about it.

The space was a dark space: deep blue carpeting with some kind of filigree pattern in an equally dark hue covered the floor, enormous and thick exposed wood beams stained a brown so dark that it bordered on black supported both the walls and ceiling, and the maroon curtains weighed down the windows so that the outside looked more like an idea than something that could possibly exist.

The initial purpose of President’s Hall was to be the board room for the University which was founded in 1851. Over the years, the board had grown in scope and purpose, and in turn had outgrown the space. President’s Hall became a formal lounge, with five distinct seating areas that included a couch, two end tables each with its own lamp, and a set of club chairs flanking either side. The few staff members with access to the room occasionally used it to catch some shut-eye on their breaks, but only if they could get past “The Eyes.”

The University had named the room President’s Hall because it became the repository for the oil paintings of each president of the University. Some of the paintings had the characteristic of the eyes following you as you moved across the room, as if the ghosts of past Presidents had you under their watch and, residing in such a dark place for so many years, were generally none-too-pleased with anyone.

To be honest, this was probably the main reason why no one knew or utilized President’s Hall. It was just too freaky.

But freaky or not, today was one of those rare days that the University flipped on the lights, removed the couches, and put together a special event: a luncheon to honor Dr. Marlowe Brown. The tables and chairs that filled the room were draped with white linens and set with fine china, as if this lightness could somehow counterbalance the room’s natural oppressive nature. At the far end, an elevated stage and podium bearing Northwestern’s purple and white crest had been erected, and from one wall to the other hung a banner that read “Marlowe Brown, Ph.D. – Distinguished Professor of Ethics.” A bouquet of purple and white balloons flanked either side of the banner, trying, again, to make things feel festive.

But there was not enough levity — and this, even their best try, was still a poor performance — to lighten the spirits of Dr. Marlowe Brown.

By the time she arrived, most of the guests were on their second round of hors d’oeuvres. Already engrossed in food and conversation, the party didn’t notice Marlowe stealing herself to the bathroom. She reviewed her hair and make-up, and reminded herself that when she woke-up this morning, no life-altering changes had occurred. If she could simply block-out the whole morning at the doctor’s office, she could make it through the luncheon without a hitch. All she had to do was sit, eat, and talk. These, she thought, encompassed three of her greatest strengths. She loved sitting especially when paired with eating, and she enjoyed the volley of impromptu conversations. Plus, her speech was fully prepared and rehearsed. She was a professor, damn it: talking to a room full of people was her forte. Smoothing out the last bit of hair, she felt confident enough to go in and wow them.

The hall was filled with the Philosophy Department’s faculty, their guests, and, of course, the president himself. Charlotte found her right away. “Marlowe!”

“Hi!” They hugged.

Charlotte Peters, Ph.D. was chair of the Philosophy Department, Marlowe’s supervisor and her closest friend. “Everything okay? I tried calling.”

“Oh, no. Everything’s fine,” replied Marlowe. “Sorry I didn’t get the call. My phone must have been off.”

“Where’s Blake?”

“Work.”

“Well,” said Charlotte, “we knew he was iffy. Sorry he couldn’t be here.” The words took on more meaning for Marlowe than was intended, but why would Charlotte have known?

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” said Charlotte.

“I don’t know if I can handle a surprise,” Marlowe replied. The voice she used sounded in jest, but she meant every word.

“Oh, you’ll like this,” and Charlotte took Marlowe by the hand, through the crowd until they came upon Charles Pasternak, the current President of the University.

“Marlowe,” he said. “What an honor. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. To tell you the truth, I’m quite humbled.”

“I wanted to be the first to let you know,” said President Pasternak, “that the Philosophy Department received an anonymous gift yesterday in your honor.”

“Wow.”

“Yes. It was 1.5 million dollars.”

“What?”

“The donor’s financial institution wired it yesterday under strict orders that it remain anonymous. This gift would be a big deal for anybody, but especially for Philosophy. Aren’t many major donors there.”

“I’m floored. I have no idea what to say,” said Marlowe.

“Well, think of something. I believe you have a speech to give,” said President Pasternak.

“Any idea who it could be?” asked Charlotte.

“No, not off the top of my head,” though she wondered if Blake would have given it, suspicious that his days were numbered. At the same time, it seemed out of character. But they say that about brain tumors — people’s personalities change. Maybe he did do it.

“Marlowe?” Charlotte asked. “Everything okay?”

“I’m fine. Just wondering who it could have been.”

“Would be nice to know,” said President Pasternak. “Not that we’d publicize it. But it would be nice to know.”

The serving chimes saved Marlowe from the awkward pause that was about to occur. Lunch was served.

- – - – -

Marlowe’s table included President Pasternak, Dean Runkles, Charlotte and two other professors from her department. Marlowe was grateful to be seated right next to Charlotte. The two had a subconscious Siamese connection: when Marlowe faulted in conversation, Charlotte picked up so well that even the two of them didn’t notice the save.

When the servers began placing desserts at the table, Charlotte had her cue. She ascended the stage to the podium, calling the audience to order. “It gives me enormous pleasure to introduce this year’s recipient of Northwestern University’s Distinguished Professor Award, Dr. Marlowe Brown.

“Today we recognize Marlowe’s professional achievements over the course of her thirty-five year career, and as for me, on a personal note, I recognize her as an intrepid colleague and dear friend. Some twenty-five years ago, when I joined the Department of Philosophy, I had the opportunity to assist in the search and ultimate hire of our newest faculty member. It so happened that my husband Bill attended law school with Marlowe’s husband Blake, and the rest is history.

“Hiring Marlowe was one of the best hiring decisions I’ve made, if today’s tribute is any measure. The majority of those present voted that Dr. Brown receive the honor of Distinguished Professor, and, just yesterday an anonymous donor awarded the Department of Philosophy 1.5 million dollar gift in her honor.”

The crowd erupted in applause, masking Charlotte’s final words, “I give you Dr. Marlowe Brown.”

- – - – -

Distinguished Professor in Ethics. This was a crowning achievement not only for Marlowe, but for the tiny department. Philosophers weren’t major players at the University — they weren’t the engineers, the journalists, the actors. The philosophers were this small group of students dedicated to understanding what was true, right and fair — ideals that seemed totally removed and isolated from the details of daily life. It had been years since the University bestowed the Distinguished Professor award to anyone in her department, and she knew that not only her reputation, but that of the department rested on this speech.

And yet, at this moment, she could have cared less.

“Wow,” was all she could say. The words weren’t coming. She took a breath, and looked at the audience. There was Charlotte, grinning ear to ear, beaming with pride; and President Pasternak; the two tables of philosophy professors; and the rest of the academic faculty interested to hear her talk.

She worked from memory. “Indeed, what a great honor it is that you have chosen to confer the award of Distinguished Professor on me,” and she couldn’t continue.

Everything came rushing at her — Dr. Zeman’s “no mistake,” Charlotte’s “sorry Blake couldn’t be here,” President Pasternak’s “you’d better think of something,” and all these God-damned eyes of dead people staring at her as if to say “your husband’s next.”

“I’m sorry. This is hard for me to say,” she apparently favored a preface, “but I got some very terrible news this morning about my husband’s health.” The room fell silent. “It overshadows this warm, welcoming, wonderful event you’ve put together for me. I feel awful not celebrating with you, but I’m sorry. I just can’t.”

She stepped off the stage, wiped her eyes, looked straight back toward the doors and kept walking until she reached her car.

- – - – -

Finally in the sanctity of her automobile, Marlowe buried her head in her hands and cried. There was a knock at the passenger side. It was Charlotte.

“Let me in,” she mouthed. Marlowe unlocked the doors.

“What happened?”

“Blake has a Stage Four, incurable brain tumor.”

“What?”

“There’s no hope. We just have to wait it out. Probably a few months and that’s it.”

“Have you gotten a second opinion?”

“It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to understand what’s happening when you look at the picture of his brain.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah.”

Charlotte held Marlowe’s hand.

“You should take some time off.”

“No.”

“Look at you. You can’t teach like this. And you need to be with Blake.”

“I’ll be fine. I just need a day. I need to digest this a little more. I’ll be fine. I need my work. It’ll keep me sane.”

“What about Blake?”

“What about Blake? I don’t know why this is so upsetting to me, to be honest. It’s not like we’re that close with each other anymore. I didn’t even have the faintest clue he was even sick! That’s how close we are.”

Charlotte didn’t know what to say to console her, or if Marlowe was in a place to accept consolation.

“Take the rest of the day off.”

“Can’t. I’m handing mid-terms back at my three o’clock.”

“Mid-terms can wait. I’ll call the students myself. Take the day off. You have a lot to digest. And don’t come tomorrow, either. Take the week. This is tough stuff. Take as much time as you need.”

“I’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Whatever you want. But call me.”

“I will.”

Charlotte left the car, leaving Marlowe to again wonder where in the world she would drive next.