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No matter what anyone says, it's the wives who run this town. I suspect this is true of most college towns, but it's definitely the lay of the land in Hancock. I should know. I'm the Dean's wife.

When we first came to Hancock in 1964, Herb was fresh out of Michigan with a Ph.D. in classics. Twenty years later, he was pulled from the ranks to become Dean of Arts and Sciences. So I've been the Dean's wife for going on twelve years now. Herb is going to step down next year, return to teaching classics, and the town is buzzing as to who will replace him, as if anybody could.

Herb is a wonderful scholar and no one works harder than he does. When he was just a mere faculty member, he served on every committee, attended every meeting, got his grades in early. He edited an important collection of papers on Herodotus (his introductory essay is widely cited), and had a hoard of student advisees. There's only one thing wrong with Herb, and that's Herb himself. He's a bit on the stiff side, not exactly a people person.

That's where I come in. I tease my husband that for all the entertaining I've done during the last twelve years, I should be a paid employee of the college. Who welcomes the new faculty members every year with a barbecue? Who plans a monthly faculty dinner with a rotating guest list everyone's dying to be on? Who greets people in the receiving line at homecoming, making enough chit chat to fill an ocean so no one notices Herb's silence? It's me, but that's not all I do. Not by a long shot.

Every speech Herb gives to the faculty is reviewed (and improved) by me. I look over the agenda for each faculty meeting and anticipate who's going to say what and who's going to oppose what. I coach Herb, get him ready: "When you talk about faculty evaluations, don't let that windbag Sanders digress about the good old days when everyone was a family. Oh, and if Joe Koczyk tries to hold court about how they do merit raises at other institutions, suggest he go teach someplace else for a few years and then report back. That ought to get a few chuckles."

A minor influence some might call me, but if they knew the full story, they'd be shocked. Ask Sheila Martins, who had me to lunch seven times the year her husband, Ted, was up for tenure. That was cruel of me, I know, sinking my teeth into those sumptuous biscuits with the black currant jelly in the center, all the while knowing I wasn't going to put in a good word to Herb. The thing was, Sheila was just too eager to be settled in Hancock, to preen around town as the wife of a tenured faculty member. You have to understand, in a college town, such wives are the equivalent of homecoming queens. After they're throned they review and make judgments about the educational pedigrees of the incoming faculty men, and their over-educated, unemployed wives. Compassion is a lonely virtue among the academic.

Now, Anne Siddons will be grateful to me for the rest of her days. Her husband's tenure case was wildly controversial. Ned had been refused tenure at Amherst before coming to Hancock, and it appeared as if the same thing were likely to happen here. It was his own fault; you can hardly get ghastly teaching evaluations year after year and think that no one's going to notice. And there was talk about a tête-à-tête with a student the semester Anne was nursing her mother back east.

But I couldn't abandon Anne. After dining with us, she always wrote me a note thanking me (and Herb) for such a lovely evening. She complimented me on my outfits, remembered to get my son a gift when he graduated from high school. She would die before she missed my annual women's tea, always offering to hand-letter the place cards. Mind you, Anne had no illusions about her husband; she knew he wasn't top drawer, but she was desperate not to have to move again, not to uproot Justin and Jason, her twin sons who were still in elementary school.

Anne never came right out and asked me to speak to Herb, but one dismal morning we met for coffee, and she confessed to me that the Psychology Department had split six to five on the tenure decision, and that Ned hadn't slept in two weeks. Well, what could I do? I placed my hand on hers and said, "People can be so cruel." She nodded, sniffling into a tissue, and continued, "I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have you to talk to. You're such a comfort, Liz."

I paid for the check that day in a big way. Of course, I didn't have to get involved, but I was genuinely moved by Anne's unspoken request; she believed I could do something about a personnel matter if I chose. So many people had underestimated my role in the life of the college, but Anne understood that I was a woman of powerful influence. If I managed to get Ned tenure, it would be my biggest success. I'd be finishing out my term as wife of the Dean in a blaze of glory.

When I first approached Herb about Ned's tenure, he said flatly, "Elizabeth, there's nothing I can do. I cannot tell the Tenure Committee to overlook the Psychology Department's recommendation."

"But you can influence them!" I protested. "As soon as the committee realizes what you want, they'll do your bidding. They always do."

"Elizabeth, personnel matters are confidential. Confidential." He went into the den and turned on the television. When Herb is watching Jeopardy, even the threat of the faculty unionizing couldn't lodge him from his easy chair.

Well, I had my work cut out for me. It was easy enough to find out who was on the Tenure Committee; lists of committee members are distributed each fall semester, and Herb keeps a copy in his study. The members of that year's committee appeared to be largely from the sciences, a pretty no-nonsense bunch, but, thankfully, Simon Rupple from the French Department was included. His wife, Elise, and I were close friends, having arrived in Hancock the same year.

I called her one afternoon before Herb was home on the pretense of asking about her daughter, Ginny, a sophomore at Smith, my alma mater, and about to celebrate her twentieth birthday.

"Oh, you don't have to send her anything," Elise said, "it's awfully considerate of you, but really -"

"But I want to! She's such a dear, sending me copies of the student newspaper and volunteering me to help with the alumnae phonathon." Truth to tell, I could have killed Ginny for that. Five solid nights phoning miserly Smithies and begging for money. But I pushed that memory aside and said, "I thought perhaps a Fair Isle sweater or a new purse. And of course, I want to send her a goody box full of cookies and brownies."

Elise was moved. "Liz, you're an angel. Ginny will be delighted with whatever you send. This is so kind of you."

Now, the tricky part, to segue into the real matter. "Well, it's nice to be involved with something pleasant. I've been trying to cheer up poor Anne Siddons, but I'm afraid I'm not doing a very good job."

There was momentary silence on the other end, but I knew Elise was dying to launch into the subject, to act concerned about someone having a bad time of it. "Oh?" she said, struggling to sound concerned. "Is Anne ill?"

I walked with the phone and looked out our front window for any sign of Herb. The coast was clear. "This whole tenure mess with Ned, it's just about killed Anne."

"Ohh," Elise said, "Ned's not going to get tenure? I forgot this was the year he was up." This was probably true. Her husband was not an important figure on campus; Simon's appointment on the Tenure Committee was no doubt as the token humanities person. I was always filling Elise in on campus politics.

"Yes, Ned's up this year. But his department has decided not to recommend him for tenure, and poor Anne can't bear the thought of starting over somewhere else. You know, this is Ned's second turn-down."

"Right. I remember now. Was it Williams that turned him down the first time?"

"Amherst."

"Amherst, that's right."

I could hear a bit of clanging in the background and I guessed that Elise was cooking while we chatted. I asked, "The little Siddons boys, do you know them? Justin and Jason?"

"Yes, they're so adorable. Ten years old and they still dress alike."

I wondered if Elise really did find them adorable; I remembered them as screaming brats at the Memorial Day college picnic. Still I said, "They're cherubs, both of them. And so happy in Hancock. It would be a shame if Ned had to drag them off to God knows where. No one's going to be clamoring to get him after two negative tenure decisions."

"Mmm," Elise answered and I imagined she was tasting whatever she was cooking. "Thank God we got to raise our children here, huh, Liz? Of course, there was never any doubt that Simon and Herb were going to get tenure."

I tapped my fingernail against the phone. "Yes. But times were different then. There wasn't as much ... backstabbing."

"Backstabbing?"

"Yes." I lowered my voice although I was alone in the house. There was absolute quiet on the other end of the phone as Elise anticipated my next remarks. "From what I understand, there's a real shrew in the Psych Department. A woman. Anne thinks, well, I can't say for sure, but I gather Ned told her that this woman is poisoning everyone against him."

I heard Elise's quick intake of breath, one of her trademarks. "That's terrible!" she cried.

"Yes, her name is Helen Leep. Do you know her? I hear she's a real bitch, pardon my French."

"Helen Leep, Helen Leep. That doesn't sound familiar. Who's her husband? Do they have the same last name?"

Vaguely, I heard a car motor pass our house, but when I looked out the glass, it was just our neighbor down the street. "She's not married," I told Elise.

"Oh, one of those."

"Yes, the number's up to nine now."

Elise sighed impatiently. "Can you imagine coming to this little town alone? I mean, what do those women do when they're not teaching?"

"Steal husbands. Ask Cindy Harper," I answered breezily, referring to last year's scandal. Ken Harper hasn't been invited to our house since.

"Is Helen Leep on the make?" Elise asked quickly.

I smiled at Elise's eagerness to indict the woman. "I've heard that she wants the Psych Department to hire another woman, and the only way that can happen is if Ned's bounced."

"Ahh, so she wants more single women in town."

"Strength in numbers. And it seems the ends justify the means."

"What do you mean?"

I swallowed, wondering whether I had the nerve to say what I'd rehearsed before dialing Elise's number. "Well, mind you, this is all rumor so take it with a huge grain of salt. I don't want to pass anything off as truth when there's even the slightest possibility it might not be -"

"I understand. Tell me," Elise implored.

Pausing for emphasis, I whispered, "Well, I know you're the soul of discretion Elise, so I'll tell you. The word is she made some ... overtures ... to Ned that were rejected."

A small shriek at the other end of the phone lassoed my eardrum. Holding the phone an inch away from my head, I continued, "And then this Helen Leep attacked Ned on every front; she criticized his collegiality, his teaching, his research, his committee work. By the time she was done, the Psych Department surrendered.

Stunned silence is one thing, but Elise was wordless for so long I worried that she wasn't buying my story. Finally, she said,"This is an outrage. An outrage. Who does this woman think she is?"

Relaxing, I joked, "Helen of Troy. Able to get the Psychology Department to take up arms for her."

"Well, it's the most despicable thing I've ever heard."

"Now remember, you didn't hear this from me, Elise. In fact, I can't even remember who first told me about all this, but apparently it's all over town."

"Oh, don't worry. I won't say a word. But it's just the most awful thing."

I heard a car door slam and this time it was Herb. "I agree. But let's talk about happier things. Now, what size sweater is Ginny?"

Elise couldn't keep a secret if her life depended on it, thank God. By the time she was done spreading the news, every faculty wife in Hancock wanted to take out a contract on Helen Leep's life. Their husbands got an earful and I wasn't surprised when I heard that the Tenure Committee asked the Psych Department to reconsider their recommendation and they voted to give Ned tenure after all.

I couldn't talk openly about it, but I had brought the whole thing off. Anne and I never discussed Ned's tenure again, but she sent me a five-pound box of Godiva chocolates with a little note that said, "To the sweetest woman I know. Enjoy!" I enjoyed my success in secret, reveling in my greatest victory.

Helen Leep. Yes, I did feel some small needling of guilt, but then I asked myself why. The woman already had tenure; no real harm was done to her. And besides, I detested the woman.

She had arrived in Hancock with a huge chip on her shoulder, letting everybody know that she would have preferred to be at a university instead of a liberal arts college. At the new faculty barbecue, you could hear her voice over all the others droning, "The library here is pitiful. It's positively rinky dink. I don't know how anyone expects us to do research. And to think I had Stanford's libraries at my fingertips."

I wanted to shove potato salad down her throat until she cried, "Uncle!" I watched her as she ambled around our backyard, flicking her cigarette ashes on my tulip beds. Yes, she was attractive in a certain bohemian sense, with her long batik skirt and silk tank top. Clearly she was into the no make-up look, but her eyes were arresting, alarming actually, those turquoise ovals outlined with black lashes that whipped back almost to her eyebrows. She scanned the trays of my famous marinated shish-kebobs and whined, "Isn't there a vegetarian entrée?"

In the receiving line at homecoming that year, she told Herb that she was going to make an appointment with him to discuss concerns of the junior women faculty. "I'm their designated representative," she informed him while the line behind her lengthened. "We have a number of issues we'd like to address."

Poor Herb. He just nodded and smiled and said something like, "Call my secretary." I was prepared to simply shake the woman's hand and mumble a brief, "Good evening," but she didn't even bother to stop in front of me. As far as she was concerned, I was just window dressing. Over the next years, I observed Helen Leep making inroads on campus. She chaired the Women's Studies Committee and was brought up for tenure a year early. "A shoo-in," Herb told me one night at dinner while I grilled him about that year's nominees. "Her research is cutting edge. She's a real star."

Not in my book. We dutifully invited her to the dinner honoring the newly tenured faculty, a Hancock tradition, but she couldn't make it. She didn't call or drop me a note; she simply e-mailed Herb that she'd be out of town presenting a paper at some conference. In the years since, she's never shown me the slightest consideration.

I hoped that Ned's tenure would rile Helen enough that she'd leave Hancock, go be a star on some other campus. But, truth to tell, I don't even know if she voted for or against Ned. Anyway, she stayed in town, which probably meant that the rumors hadn't reached her. What's worse, Ned proved all of his detractors right. Psychology students knocked on Herb's door and complained about their professor who was always unprepared for class and unavailable during his posted office hours.

One night as Herb and I ate dinner at the Hancock Inn, we were approached by Phil Epstein, chair of the Student Life Committee of which Ned was a member. He sat down at our table and proceeded to rant at Herb: "How the hell did Siddons get tenure? That guy was bad news from day one."

Herb set his knife on his plate and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. "Phil, everyone's got their opinions -"

"We haven't gotten a damn thing done on Student Life this year because Siddons gets everyone off track with the stupidest, most irrelevant garbage. He's a loose cannon; you never know what he's going to come up with. Last Wednesday, we had a two hour meeting and got nothing accomplished because he kept trying to convince us to suspend meetings during the summer." Phil wiped his brow with his hand and exhaled like he had just finished some excruciating physical labor. "Everyone's complaining to me, like it's my fault the guy's still around."

Phil's voice rose louder and I noticed some of the other diners surreptitiously glancing our way. Debbie Green, wife of Ben Green in Sociology, was all but taking notes.

"I don't think this is the time or place -" I began, but Phil slapped his hand heavily on the table, causing the ice in our water glasses to rattle. "Either Siddons gets taken off the committee, or I'm resigning as chair."

A fool's statement. I won't let Herb take ultimatums from anybody, except me, that is. Phil didn't know he shot himself in the foot, but I was already mentally erasing him and his wife, Edith, from the bridge club that met at our house on the first Friday of every month. And I would talk to my husband about re-appointing a more suitable chair for the committee before Phil had a chance to grandstand by resigning.

Herb said, "Phil, why don't you drop in my office on Monday and we can discuss your concerns?"

"I've said everything I want to say. It's Siddons or me." As Phil walked back to his table, I smiled and beckoned to the waitress for coffee. I didn't want any, but it was important to let the gawkers know that we hadn't been affected by Phil's bad manners, not one little bit.

But I watched as Herb looked forlornly at his half-eaten cheesecake; that little encounter had taken away his appetite.

"Eat up, honey. You don't want the chef to think you didn't like it." After the waitress filled my cup and left the table, I said, "You know, Herb, I'm glad you only have a few more months as Dean. Let someone else know what it's like to try and please all of the people all of the time."

He picked up his fork and dove it into his dessert. "You're right. It is going to be such a pleasure to just teach, to just be a regular faculty member."

I poured cream into my coffee, but it curdled, nasty little islands of white marring the black liquid. Pushing the cup and saucer away from me, I asked, "So who's the latest favorite for the job?"

"Could be Phil," Herb said simply, glancing across the dining room.

My fingers involuntarily began to claw the napkin on my lap. "You're not serious!" I choked out.

Herb chuckled, pleased to have fooled me. "Nah," he said, eating the cheesecake more vigorously. "Helen Leep's the lead runner."

There was nothing I could do and it killed me. Oh, I did try to caution Herb one night as we lay side by side in bed reading our books. As I turned a page, I said as nonchalantly as I could, "Isn't Helen Leep the one who tried to sabotage poor Ned Siddons a while back? You'd think the Dean's Search Committee would be concerned about that."

Herb grunted something incoherent and kept reading some new translation of Homer.

"Herb? Are you listening?"

Slapping his book shut, he took off his glasses and set them on his night stand. "That's probably why everybody likes Helen. Siddons is such an asshole." He slumped down beneath the covers and within a minute was asleep, snoring with that little whistle that would be endearing if it weren't so jolting. As I wedged each earplug into place and fastened my mask over my eyes, I wondered if it wasn't too late to start singing the praises of another faculty member, a more appropriate person for the job of Dean. Why, Jeff Hogarty in Philosophy was a peach, very open to suggestions, very malleable. His wife was this timid little thing with a stutter who always deferred to me at meetings of the Hancock Women's Association. Why, they'd be the perfect, just perfect.

The next day I tried to come up with a plan, but spent the day staring at a blank sheet of paper. Then Herb came home and announced, "Well, it's all but official. The Trustees were bowled over by Helen Leep. As of July first, I'm out of that office for good."

"They've decided already?" I asked.

"Yup."

"Isn't this a bit rash? There might be other worthy candidates -"

"Who cares! It's over."

As I watched Herb happily loosen his tie, I wanted to hang myself with it. Two days later, I stared at a large picture of Helen Leep on the front page of the campus newspaper. The caption read, "Dean Leep has plans to revitalize the faculty." It was the end of an era.

I knew it was time to cut my losses, put a new perspective on things. Resilience is my middle name. Poor Helen was going to need a lot of help, a lot of advice and support. She had no idea of the scope of her job, and I was the only one who could brief her. Yes, Herb could orient her regarding academic responsibilities, but I would take her under my wing and explain all of the social obligations she would be performing. I would see her through her first homecoming reception, advise her on guest lists for her monthly faculty dinners, and, perhaps, give her a word or two about who to listen to and who to avoid when it came to significant college matters.

The next morning, filled with an almost beatific resolve to assist Helen, I cut a few irises from the garden and walked to campus. The Psychology Department was on the second floor of Elsford Hall; I followed the wide corridor along until I found the door with the sign, "Professor Leep." I knocked and heard the ungracious reply, "Yes?" Be nice, I reminded myself, and I opened the door.

There I was stepping into her office with my hands full of flowers. Something momentous was taking place, a changing of the guard so to speak, and I felt myself become excited with my new role of mentor. I seated myself in front of Helen's desk and opened with, "Hard at work, I see."

She glanced down at the papers on her desk and nodded.

"Oh," I said, placing the flowers gently on her desk, "these are for you. Congratulations on the new job."

"Thank you," she said finally. I guessed she was overwhelmed by my visit, by my graciousness in forgetting the past and extending her best wishes. But as I searched her eyes, those alarming turquoise eyes, I couldn't find the slightest hint of jest or sarcasm when she said, with more sincerity than I could bear, "Excuse me, but do I know you?"