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drafty faculty lounge to fill her coffee mug with the vile brew that was all Kepler could afford—the smart money was on a jealous husband.
    Julia said, “Can we please get back to the budget?” Because that was the subject of her lunch with Boris at one of the many undistinguished cafés near the div school. Claire Alvarez, their dean, under orders from the provost, had requested proposals for a 5 percent trim, and, like Scrooge, wanted their memos by Christmas. Everyone at Kepler knew bad news was coming. A cluster of students sat in a nearby booth, eyeing the two deans uneasily, worrying which of their favorite programs would go under the ax. Far more campus energy was spent nowadays placing blame than fixing problems, and it was plain where the blame would fall. Julia carried the portfolios of dean of students and acting dean of admissions—the budget no longer called for separate posts—and collected a single half-time salary for the two full-time jobs. She had prepared, unhappily, three proposals to reduce her chunk of the budget: one that would turn the foreign students against her, one that would outrage the women, and a third that would persuade the minorities that she was an Oreo cookie—dark on the outside, white on the inside—which was what they used to call her in college.
    “The budget?” Boris laughed. “They’re cutting it again.” Gesticulating with one hand, holding his burger with the other. Outside, the sky had gone the color of fresh slate. Julia was Yankee enough to read the signals: more snow was on the way. Besides, the Weather Channel said so. She watched Boris waving his burger, which, piled with every condiment known to man, was leaking. Messy sauces dripped everywhere. Other diners turned away. The waitress swung by the table to mop up the worst, and to bring him another Dr Pepper. He ignored her, as always, but he was a known big tipper. He licked mustard from thick fingers. Two wives had divorced Boris Gibbs. It was easy to see why. “They’ll always cut our budget. It’s because we’re not scientists or capitalists, Julia. We don’t splice genes or write software. We don’t build huge fortunes. We do God, so we’re not important.”
    “I’m a scientist,” she said, forcing a grin, and it was true: her undergraduate degree was in biology, and she had taught middle-school science for years.
    Boris raised notched brows like devil’s wings. His eyes bulged, but they always did. He grabbed the filthy napkin to wipe his mouth, a simple act he managed to make slurpy and loud. Sometimes Julia suspected that the whole
I’m-so-ugly-and-disgusting
thing was an act, designed less to keep the world at bay than to render intriguing what would otherwise bore. Unlike Julia, Boris also taught a class every semester, and was among the students’ favorites, even though his subject was systematic theology, a bear of a course, a rite of passage that left future pastors trembling. Julia and Boris were not quite friends, but she found his obstinate rudeness a source of endless fascination, the same way, as an undergraduate, she had been fascinated by a species of beetle that ate its siblings.
    “Well, fine. If you’re a scientist, add this up. If it was a robbery, how come they left the car? That Audi must be worth something, right? Right?” In the classroom, he bludgeoned his students much the same way:
Are you talking about Christology or soteriology? Well? Do you even know the difference?
“And how come they drove him out to the suburbs? Well? Why didn’t they just dump him in the city? It’s not like anybody would notice.” Boris sat back, very content with his argument, and immediately ruined the effect by spilling his soda.
    “I don’t know, Boris,” said Julia, as if she had not spent hours puzzling over the same questions. “I haven’t thought about it. It was an unpleasant moment, and I’d kind of like to put it behind me instead of everybody asking all the time.” A