Poison Ivy (8 page)

“No.” He leaned his elbows on the table. “I have my own software company. Has nothing to do with my interest in Wampanoag culture. I don't depend on the whim of some goddamned untenured professor who's got to publish or perish, excuse my language.” He pinched his thumb and forefinger together. “I'm that close to taking care of the perish part.”

A lock of Christopher's hair had fallen over his forehead. His eyes, with those glittery gold flecks and those deep, hard creases down his face, made him look a bit frightening at the moment.

“Furthermore, I already have a Ph.D. in computer science, and taught long enough to know how wicked academia can be. This was an opportunity to explore a subject I'm interested in and know a lot about, and this goddamned bitch stole my work. Sorry, Mrs. Trumbull.”

“Quite understandable.”

They were both silent after that. Victoria tapped her fingers on the checked tablecloth. Christopher stared out the window.

The guinea fowl were making their rounds, four adults and a dozen keets, uttering soft chucking sounds. They stopped next to the silver poplar stump where Victoria had scattered birdseed. The keets were about three weeks old now. One after another, they hopped onto the stump and extended stubby wings to flutter from the foot-high perch. The four adults had protected them, so far, from hawks, skunks, raccoons, and automobiles.

They watched until the guineas herded their babies across the drive and into the west pasture.

Victoria was the first to speak. “What made you decide on your research topic?”

“My great-great-grandmother was a Wampanoag.”

“Jodi's grandmother was deaf and that spurred her interest in a career in signing for the hearing impaired. Who else is that woman robbing of both credit and incentive?” Victoria stood and headed into the kitchen. “I think we could use a cup of tea.”

While the water was heating, the sky had darkened. Raindrops raised small fountains of dust in the drive. Victoria returned to her seat. “Have you spoken to the other graduate student working under Professor Chadwick?”

“No. I thought I was Roberta's only Island student until I met Jodi at a baseball game one of her boys and my daughter were playing in. We got to talking.”

Victoria nodded.

“Learned she was working on her master's. I was, too. Sociology, me, too. Advisor, Professor Chadwick? Yup.”

The teakettle whistled and Victoria stood.

“I'll take care of that, Mrs. Trumbull.”

“Next time,” said Victoria, already in the kitchen.

“Roberta submitted the abstract of my paper to the journal.” He turned to the kitchen while she was brewing the tea. “I have to tell you, Mrs. Trumbull, I feel positively murderous toward that woman.”

Victoria carried the teapot into the cookroom and poured tea into mugs. “I assume you've come to see me for a reason, not simply to complain about the situation.” She handed a mug to him. “Do you take anything in your tea?”

“Black is fine.” He leaned forward. “I need your help, Mrs. Trumbull. Between us I think we can make a small dent in an outrageous practice.”

Victoria held her own mug in both hands. “Have you tried going through the university's grievance channels?”

“Yeah.” He snorted. “Good ole buddy network. They closed ranks. I'm just a student, after all. They're tenured professors, and Chadwick is up for tenure review.”

“Do you have a suggestion as to how I can help?”

“Have you met Chadwick?”

Victoria shook her head. “I've only heard about her. Jodi was quite enthusiastic about her at first.”

“She puts on a good act. Comes across as warm and fuzzy.” He sipped his tea and set his mug down. “She thinks of herself as a big sister to her students. A lot of crap.”

“If you think it would help, I'll speak to her.”

Christopher ran his hand through his bright hair. “It wouldn't hurt for you to get to know her. Then you can decide what to do.”

“If anything,” said Victoria. “Jodi insists that I not get involved. I think I can meet with Professor Chadwick on a professor-to-professor basis.” Victoria set her mug on her envelope. “If there's some other way I can help, let me know. Her appropriation of your papers is far beyond what academia ought to accept.”

Christopher stood up. “Thanks, Mrs. Trumbull.” He glanced out of the window. “Really coming down hard.”

“Someone left an umbrella in the entry. You're welcome to take it. It's been there at least a year.”

“I'll bring it back,” he said. “Give me an excuse to call on you again.”

Victoria smiled.

 

C
HAPTER
9

After Christopher Wrentham left, Victoria watched as rain poured over the edge of her gutters. She'd have to have them cleaned out, which meant Robert, who seemed willing to do anything, getting up there with a long ladder.

She didn't intend to get deeply involved in this particular dispute between students and a faculty member. However, she decided it wouldn't hurt to invite Roberta Chadwick for lunch.

“What about tomorrow?” she asked after Professor Chadwick accepted with alacrity.

“Tomorrow is fine. I've heard so much about you, Mrs. Trumbull. I look forward to meeting you.”

The following day, wind howled and shrieked and whipped brittle branches off the maple trees. The nor'easter had set in to stay. There'd be plenty of kindling for her evening fires. Horizontal sheets of rain rippled across the drive, now a muddy river.

An ancient Volkswagen surged through the puddles and parked away from the falling branches. The driver shoved the car door open against the wind and hunched out, tugging the hood of her yellow oilskin over her head. She wore black rubber boots that came up almost to her knees.

Victoria greeted her at the entry door. “I picked a fine day for our luncheon, Professor Chadwick. You can leave your boots and slicker out here and dry off inside.”

Roberta Chadwick tossed her hood back and grinned, a gap-toothed grin that made her look quite young. “I love storms, and always have.” She kicked off her boots, exposing socks with a pattern of pink kittens on a lime-green background. She hung her wet jacket on a nail in the entry. Underneath the jacket she wore a pink sweatshirt over a white turtleneck and jeans, wet in front from her knees to midthigh where her jacket and boots hadn't protected her from the deluge.

“Can I get you a towel to dry off a bit?” Victoria asked.

“I'm fine. My jeans didn't get really wet.” The professor held out her hand. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Trumbull.”

Victoria hadn't planned to like this woman, but she couldn't help herself. A free spirit who appreciated weather. She held the kitchen door open with one hand and shook the professor's hand with the other. “Please, come in.”

Roberta Chadwick was not at all what Victoria had expected. She was comfortably plump, her brown hair was short and tightly curled. She projected an image of complete trustworthiness. In her pink sweatshirt with chickadees printed on it and her green-and-pink socks, she was the image of niceness. Victoria remembered Jodi's initial enthusiasm for this almost-like-a-sister teacher, and reminded herself to be careful.

Before they went into the cookroom, she said, “I think a glass of wine might help brighten a day like this. I have some chilled Chardonnay. Would you care for a glass?”

“That sounds wonderful. Can I help?”

Victoria handed her the unopened bottle and a corkscrew and the professor set to work.

“Um, I think this is a screw-top, Mrs. Trumbull. I've just punctured the cap.”

“Never mind, I have a spare bottle cap.” Victoria smiled. “I think screw-tops make more sense than corks. The only problem is they make one think inferior wine.”

“Not anymore, Mrs. Trumbull.”

They took their glasses and the bottle into the cookroom, where Victoria had laid two place settings.

She poured and lifted her glass. “To your successful tenure application, Professor Chadwick.”

“Please, keep your fingers crossed on that tenure bit, and I'm Roberta. That's what my students call me.”

They touched glasses.

“You said when you called, Mrs. Trumbull, that you wanted some advice from me. I can't imagine what.”

Victoria nodded.

The professor continued. “I'm not the one to be giving you advice. It's the other way around. You have so much more experience than I do.”

This was not the way Victoria had planned the conversation. “I have very little experience in the academic world.”

“I'm in awe of your publishing credentials.” Roberta's cheeks were shiny and rosy. Her eyes were a pleasing shade of blue-gray.

“Poetry publishing is quite different from academic publishing.”

“Different, but I understand poetry is extremely difficult to publish. It's hard enough to publish academic work.”

This was the opening Victoria had hoped for. “Must you publish a certain number of papers in order to get tenure? We're all aware of the phrase ‘publish or perish.'”

Roberta ran her fingers over her short hair. “I'm expected to publish three to five peer-reviewed papers in each academic year. It's unbelievably stressful.”

“I can imagine.” Victoria produced a sympathetic look. “One paper a semester would be a challenge.” She set her own glass down after taking a sip of wine. “I don't see how you can possibly meet that kind of goal. And you're expected to do community work as well as teaching, I understand.”

Roberta looked up at the baskets that hung from the exposed rafters, at the green waxy vine that twined partway around the wall, at the bookcases that took up a large part of the small space. Then she looked out of the window, away from Victoria's deep-set dark eyes. “I'm advising three Island students. You know, of course, my student Jodi Paloni, who's taking your wonderful poetry course. Advising counts as community service.”

“Jodi is delighted with your support of her work.” Victoria paused a moment. “I should think your schedule wouldn't leave you much time to do your own research.”

“It's not easy, Mrs. Trumbull.” Roberta glanced up. “This is such a pleasant place.”

Victoria frowned at the sudden change in subject, but said, “In my childhood, this was the summer cookroom, and we've always called it that even though we no longer cook here.” She leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I'm interested in your research, Roberta. What is your field?”

“As you know, it's sociology.” Roberta smiled and turned her wineglass around. “It's a broad area.”

“I should have said your specialty.”

Roberta blushed. “Oh, sorry. It's the social structure of communities.”

“No wonder you've been able to give Jodi so much help. You must be interested in her work on the deaf-mutes of Chilmark. As I'm sure she told you, I've given her quite a bit of firsthand information.” Victoria stopped and looked out of the window. The steady rain rattled against the small panes. Wind flattened the leaves of the lilac bushes. A gull swept by overhead.

Roberta sat still.

Victoria reminisced. “I remember many of the families of the Chilmark community and have kept in touch with their children and grandchildren.”

Roberta looked down at her wineglass.

“Jodi has a great deal of original information that no one's ever tapped before. She's thrilled that you're making it possible for her to publish it.”

“What has Jodi been saying to you, Mrs. Trumbull?” Roberta finally met Victoria's eyes.

Victoria realized she'd gone too far. She hadn't meant to invoke Jodi's name. “She's very fond of you and talks about you constantly, how supportive you've been, how generous with your time, and your enthusiasm about all the work she's done.” Victoria hoped this had taken the conversation in a different direction. “She's excited about the paper, her first academic triumph. I'll have you both over to celebrate when her paper is published.”

Roberta looked down at her hands again. “She didn't tell you that her name won't be on that paper? I'm the author.”

Victoria avoided her eyes. “You've been a wonderful advisor to her. Surely you won't let the journal make such an egregious mistake?”

“It's not a mistake, Mrs. Trumbull. Jodi can't possibly publish under her own name.” Roberta cleared her throat and looked out at the gray sky and the pouring rain. “I invested a huge amount of time on that paper.”

Victoria said, “I understand it's common practice for a thesis advisor to list one's name as junior author. I've never heard of an academic policy that sanctions a professor taking credit for a student's work.” Victoria folded her hands on the table. She was afraid she'd done exactly what Jodi had warned her against. Well, too late now.

“Mrs. Trumbull, it's a fact of life. Jodi has to learn the way I had to learn. This is how the academic world operates.”

“You've made a difference in Jodi's life with your encouragement,” said Victoria. “You've turned her around from a young woman with no hope of a successful career to an enthusiastic scholar with dreams of making a difference. She trusted you.” Victoria hesitated.

“Mrs. Trumbull…” Roberta blurted. “You don't understand. I am under a huge amount of pressure, both on Jodi's behalf and on my own. It's critical for me, as it will be for Jodi later on, to publish.”

Victoria looked up. “I would drop out of a university that allowed me to steal a student's work.”

“Mrs. Trumbull, it's not stealing. This is the way things are done in the academic world.”

Victoria felt her face get hot. “It's plagiarism and it's thievery.”

Roberta shoved her wineglass to one side. “That's a terrible thing to say to me. I've worked hard with Jodi. I have a legitimate claim on publication of that paper. I assure you, she would never be published under her own name.”