The Redhunter Read Free

each of the widowers—had been invited. The dinner party worked. There had now been a meeting between the two widowers,
     who had professional reasons to be in touch.
    Ed Furniss was a natural diplomat. He had no problem using his house for official purposes. As a widower, he recognized that
     he needed to give extraordinary attention to domestic arrangements. What on earth had his wife done, he made himself wonder
     out loud, pencil and pad in hand, to make one guest professor comfortable? On that list today were fresh limes, essential
     to a proper gin and tonic. That was the drink Harry Bontecou had requested at the chaplain’s dinner.
    “You know, of course, about Campari?” Furniss’s voice sounded to Harry, seated in an armchair in the handsome book-lined living
     room with ornithological prints nicely spaced along three walls, as if he were speaking from deep inside the refrigerator.
    “What do you mean, Ed? Do I know that Campari exists? Or are you asking me for recondite knowledge about Campari? My field
     is history.” He attempted to make his voice sound solemnly reproachful—better to break the ice that way than to answer routinely.
    “Don’t slight Campari when you’re making a proper gin and tonic. I use one teaspoonful per jigger of gin. Since I will be
     giving you two jiggers of gin, which I would not have been permitted to do by Edith—she insisted on three jiggers—I will be
     giving you two teaspoonfuls of Campari.”
    “That follows. How much tonic?”
    “Ah. People are careless on the subject. The ratio must be exact. One and one-half ounces of tonic water for one ounce of
     gin. Otherwise the tonic taste simply takes over. I don’t really like the taste of tonic, come to think of it.”
    “You know what, Ed,” Harry moved into the orderly New England kitchen, where Furniss was mixing the drinks, “I don’t know
     you very well, but I’d bet you have a cup there that holds five ounces, which is what the average cup holds. So to make it
     sound highly calibrated, you come up with the one-point-five measures of tonic for one gin, but what it all boils down to
     is a cup of tonic water and a regular two-jigger splash of gin.”
    “Plus the Campari bit.”
    “Plus the Campari bit.”
    Ed Furniss laughed and, seated back in the living room, raised his glass and started talking about the upcoming baseball season.
    Harry let him go on a bit. But after the refill was served he took his pen from his pocket and tinkled his glass, as though
     summoning a dinner party to a toast. “Ed, you want to talk to me about when I plan to pull out of UConn?”
    Furniss raised his own glass and sipped from it, a philosophical smile taking shape. “Well, yes.”
    “The Old Age Act no longer shelters me, Ed?”
    “Yes, it does. But—well, who knows the situation better than you do? There’s a lot of pressure, and not unreasonable pressure.
     Allthose young cubs gasping for the pure air of tenure. But,” he said with resignation, “we can’t move any without a corresponding
     vacancy, not with Hartford’s budget, and that budget ain’t going anywhere.”
    Harry had several years before resolved not to pay out his federal anchor line beyond the point he thought seemly. He had
     no financial obligations he couldn’t handle. His third book,
Victorian Disharmony,
was on its way to the University of Chicago Press. He had fitfully planned to visit Europe (his wife hated to fly, so he
     had been there only twice). But everything was now different, and he knew that he really yearned to be away. He’d make it
     easy for Furniss.
    “Tell you what, Ed. I’m not due for a sabbatical until 1992. Give it to me instead at the end of this semester. I’ll go off
     for the summer and fall, come back after that and teach one more year, then quit. Okay?”
    “Done,” said the provost.
    Harry was oddly grateful for this nudge by Official Connecticut. Before he had finished his second drink, Harry was talking