The Famine of Men

On that December evening, Susan Rogulski stood in the living room of her new apartment in the Back Bay considering which box to unpack. Instead, she poured herself a drink. The movers had left most of the furniture in reasonable spots, but there were piles of boxes filled with books, lamps, and dishes to be opened and emptied. Her mother had already arranged Susan's clothes in the closets, neatly, slacks and blouses, separated and all facing the same direction. Now, on her second Dewar’s and soda, Susan was losing enthusiasm for digging through more boxes. Perhaps she would leave it until morning. She'd sent her mother home when the snow started, and was grateful for the solitude. Although the bed was made, she wasn't ready to sleep, and, instead, settled onto the cushion in the bay window, rubbed away the condensation, and sipped her drink. Commonwealth Avenue was empty, the parked cars slowly losing shape under the silencing snow. Branches near her window were piled with ridges of snow; even the smaller twigs had two inches of lacework that the wind had not yet been disturbed. Below her, on the Commonwealth Avenue mall, a chef's hat of snow grew on the statue of William Lloyd Garrison. She examined her reflection in the glass. She looked all planes and angles, the hollows beneath her cheekbones shadowy, her dark hair, parted starkly, made her look, to her own eyes, strong, but tired. And she was. Susan had almost forgotten her fight at the lab. Now the scene swam back to her through a haze of Dewar's. Professor Maxwell had been furious with her—although she still wasn't quite sure why. An imperious man in his late sixties, Maxwell had been a titan in the field of protein structure. He was famous for nailing himself to the cross of his laboratory. A wife, long departed, had left him to science. He was estranged from a son and a daughter. But in his own laboratory he was a king as well as a martyr, and he could scold his graduate students and postdocs for being inadequate to his quest for a Nobel Prize. They called him Il Duce. When Susan had announced her departure, his fury had surprised her. Sick of his misogyny, bruised by his mean spirit, she'd lashed back, matched his invective. Everyone had heard, the noise echoing beyond his office, into the lab, into the halls. She knew the others would be on her side—"So Susan's finally letting him have it!"—but his brutality and raw sarcasm still pierced the armor she'd developed. Now, snug in her new apartment, she replayed the scene. It hadn't been dignified, but it had been necessary. And he'd had it coming, the bastard. "You will go nowhere in science," he'd screamed. "Just watch me," she'd countered. Then, loudly, "You old prick."