Brotherhood of the Wolf

Chapter 5.1: Three's a Crowd

Clayton must know that I'm angry with him because no matter what I do, I can't get in touch with him all week. He ignores my emails. He doesn't accept my meeting requests. And he always seems to be out when I drop by his office.

I'm beginning to feel like a stalker and even my irritation at his generosity is starting to subside when I get an invitation to the president's welcome party for Friday afternoon. Specifically held for first-year students and new faculty members, I'm pretty sure that as a senior administrator, Clayton will be there. Surely he can't hide from me there.

It turns out that I'm not wrong.

Dean Clayton Ward, with his impeccable fashion sense, perfect jawline, and neatly styled hair is front and center of the action. By the way he's schmoozing up the guests in the residence's garden, you'd think that he was the host—pointing people to the buffet, shaking hands, and telling funny anecdotes.

At least that's what I think he's saying since I don't go close enough to hear. But everyone is making goo-goo eyes at him and laughing at everything coming out of his mouth.

Hanging back by the bar, I nurse my ice tea and silently plot how and when I'll catch his attention, but as soon as one group leaves his side, another appears.

"Quite the charmer, isn't he?" The question comes from a woman standing on my right.

I momentarily consider whether I can pretend that I don't know what she's talking about, but it's too late. I've been ogling Clayton for too long to deny.

"It seems like it," I say, taking a sip of my drink to try to signal that I'm not really up for chit-chat.

It doesn't work.

"You're our new anthropology lecturer, aren't you?" she asks, coming fully into my line of sight.

With a straw hat over her box braids and chunky earrings paired with a colorful maxi dress, she looks like she'd just returned from a fun Caribbean beach vacation and landed in this boring backyard cookout. But her smile is welcoming and I can't ignore the pointed question.

"Yes. I'm Barlow Milligan," I say, extending my hand.

"Althea McRae," she says in return as we shake. "I teach modern literature and an occasional drama class, if our resident thespians happen to be on Broadway. It's nice to meet you, Barlow."

"So you're not new, then?" I ask, my interest suddenly piqued.

Althea shakes her head. "Oh, no child. I just got my twenty-year anniversary pin this past spring. You can call me a lot of things, but new isn't one of them."

She laughs and I politely join in before asking, "What's the point of these things, anyway?" I motion toward the hundreds of people standing awkwardly under white event tens, holding drinks, smiling politely and squinting in the late-afternoon sun. Everyone is at least paired up, although there's one man in khakis and a light blue polo shirt grasping a glass beer bottle off on the side alone. And he's staring right at me.

But then Althea leans in and covers her mouth as though she's about to tell me some huge secret.

"The point is the same as it is with everything we do, now isn't it?" she whispers. When I shrug in confusion, she continues. "Power, baby. You need to show who's in charge before any of your new neighbors can get too comfortable and take your spot."

With that, she directs my attention to a man perhaps in his early sixties, standing more or less in the middle of the party. He's tall, towering over everyone else around him, but not in a lanky or awkward way.

"Is that the president of the university?" I ask, realizing that the silver-haired man looks familiar from the exhaustive website browsing I did prior to accepting this job.