"Thomas F. Monteleone - The Secret Sea" - читать интересную книгу автора (Monteleone Thomas F)

cocoon of my desk and bookshelves. The office was small, no larger than
eight feet on a side, and it was crammed with bookcases, the desk, a guest
chair, and a few posters and pictures. All the offices in the building were
like mine, but that did not deter a colleague of mine from bringing in a
bedroll and a hot plate, and setting up his home in its torturous confines.
Seems as if his wife had left him so financially bereft that he simply could
not afford a residence of his ownтАФespecially on the salary of a college
professor. He continued to live like a beaver in his lodge for almost a year
before being discovered by Doctor Luzinski, the department chairman.
Luzinski fired the colleague, but the rest of us threatened to go on strike
unless he was reinstated. I think it was the first instance of collective
bargaining among English literature professors at the university, and I
was shocked to see that it was successful. The colleague was reinstated but
was forced to find housing off campus.

But I digress.

The issue at hand was the letter from the Vermont lawyer, and I was
now forced to attend to it, what with no students clamoring for a change
of grade. Opening it, I found a short, personal note which read as follows:
James Fairly
Attorney-at-Law
Warren's Grove Road
Brattleboro VT
Bryan D. Alexander, Ph.D
1804 Brennan Terrace
College Park MD
 Dear Doctor Alexander:

Please contact me at your earliest possible convenience during normal
business hours. As executor for the late Mrs. Agatha Rochemont, I have
been instructed to inform you of your status as the sole heir to Mrs.
Rochemont's estate.

My phone number (802)-874-1010. Thank you very much.
Sincerely, James Fairly


Although the letter implied the death of my mother's great aunt
AgathaтАФa woman whom I had not seen since I was ten years of ageтАФI
could not suppress the smile that crept upon my face like a sly cat. I found
it somehow comical to be in that most mythical of American situations: to
be the sole heir of a (presumably) rich, (probably) eccentric, and
(assuredly) distant relative.

Now I did not want any intrusions, so I Magic-Markered a hasty note:
WILL RETURN IN 15 MINUTES, pulled off a slab of Scotch tape, and
stuck it to the front of my door before closing it, sealing me in. Picking up
the phone, I dialed a 9, which patched me into one of the cold, gray fish
who pose as campus telephone operators.