A Skeleton in the Family Read Free Page A

academic achievement. This time, it was different. For one thing, my parents were on sabbatical for several more months and, given my luck, I might be gone before they got back. For another, there was nothing like the prospect of a year of coaching anxious high school students in test-taking techniques to shift my standards.
    That edge of desperation was part of why I was wearing my best navy blue suit for this meeting, even though the adjunct job was supposed to be in the bag—I didn’t want Dr. Hardison Parker to think I was cocky. The shiny red leather briefcase I was carrying instead of my usual soft-sided bag was to convince him that I wasn’t desperate.
    Parking is a perennial problem at any college, and McQuaid had it worse than most. They’d recently embarked on a massive building campaign, so a good chunk of the parking was currently being taken up by construction equipment. Fortunately I’d noticed my parents’ parking hang tags in the basket of mail that Deborah had been collecting for them, and I’d grabbed one. So I parked in one of the conveniently located faculty spaces instead of tromping across campus in heels, hoping not to sweat in the surprisingly warm fall day.
    Since the English Department was one of the largest departments at McQuaid, it had its offices in a prime spot in Benson Hall, the most picturesque building on campus. It was, in fact, pretty much the only picturesque building. McQuaid had never had a school of architecture, and it showed in the brick-and-concrete monstrosities that made up most of the campus. Therefore Benson was featured on the college letterhead and on every year’s brochure for freshmen because it had all the traditional trappings of a New England college building—the clapboard, the columns, the ivy. Unfortunately it also had the steep stairs, antiquated electrical system, and tiny bathrooms. Charm doesn’t come cheap.
    Mrs. Speed, the English Department secretary, who was only slightly younger than the building, was looking discontentedly at her computer screen when I stepped inside the office. I’d always thought she figured that if she looked happy, people might ask her to do more work.
    â€œHello, Mrs. Speed,” I said. “I’m here for my appointment with Dr. Parker.”
    After I’d stood there an awkward minute, she said, “Want me to tell him you’re here?”
    â€œYes, please.”
    She turned her head almost half an inch, and said loudly, “The Thackery girl is here.” In a slightly lower voice she said, “Go on in.”
    Dr. Parker offered a reasonably firm, low-moisture handshake from across his desk. He was a slender man with the large forehead and carefully gelled hair of a man trying to disguise a receding hairline. His eyes bulged just a touch more than was ideal.
    We exchanged greetings, and Parker said, “Good to see you again, Ms. Thackery. It is still Thackery?”
    â€œYes, sir.” It was still
Doctor
, too, but I wasn’t going to press the point.
    â€œPerhaps we should begin with you explaining your background and qualifications.”
    â€œCertainly. If it will help, I have a copy of my CV.” I pulled it out of my briefcase and handed it to him, not bringing up the fact that I’d sent him one the previous week. Printing out fresh copies of my curriculum vitae was a habit forged by experience.
    The next hour was standard for such interviews. He asked a bevy of questions about my specialty in literature—contemporary American, with particular interest in popular culture—even though it was completely meaningless for the job. Except for very rare instances, adjuncts were stuck with freshman composition courses.
    I’d be teaching the usual five sections: three one-hour sections meeting on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays; and two one-and-a-half hour sections on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Though five sections were going to be a lot of