The Faculty Club: A Novel (13 page)

"Yes, I heard," he said into the phone. "I think it's best you speak now, before the article comes out. Mm-hm. Yes." Professor Bernini scratched his scalp. "You'll need to make five points. First, you are saddened by the situation. Second, your office is committed to honesty and fairness. Third, you are going to place him on paid leave. Don't forget to say
paid
--you're splitting the baby. Fourth, you are going to sponsor an independent and fair investigation into the matter. Say those words:
independent
and
fair.
Fifth, you'll take appropriate action once the results of that investigation are in." Bernini winked at me. "That gets you a month. After that, a human sacrifice may be required. Okay, very good. No, I've seen worse. Call if you need me." He hung up the phone and pointed a remote over my head. He clicked a TV on and muted it. He
nodded at the phone. "A former student of mine. Now," he said, smiling, "to the matter at hand. It's finished."

"What's finished?" My voice was weak.

"The draft. My
History of Law
. Nine hundred pages, give or take."

He rested his fingers on top of a pile of paper.

"We did it, Jeremy," he said. "I owe you my gratitude."

He reached behind his desk and produced two glasses. The sprightly man popped open a bottle of champagne and filled the flutes.

"Congratulations and thank you," he said, raising his glass.

"Thank you, sir," I said.

We clinked glasses.

"Do you know what this
is,
Jeremy?" He tapped his fingertips on the immense stack. I was still reeling from my conversation with Daphne; I resisted the insane urge to say:
a book?

"It's a very important work . . ."

He waved my answer away.

"It's glue. Social glue. There's nothing original in this book. I'm not saying anything John Stuart Mill didn't say. Or Jefferson or Lincoln. I'm just repeating it. We have to
repeat
it, Jeremy. Did you know Germany was the cultural center of Europe before the Nazis came to power? It happens so fast." He leaned toward me. His eyes were wide. "Believe me. I was a child when the fascists took over." I'd heard the stories. His father was a democrat who opposed Mussolini. He died in a political prison--no lawyer, no trial, no press. Bernini was eleven; after his father's death, he fled the country with his mother, first to England, then to America. "It's the same story," Bernini said. "Point anywhere on a map, I'll show it to you. There is always a man who would become a
dictator. There is always a crowd that would become a mob. The law is a muzzle on an angry dog. We need it. But it's a cold instrument, fragile and intellectual. Remember that, Jeremy: intelligence isn't virtue. The law needs our goodness to give it life. Ah." He unmuted the television. A prominent congressman was holding a press conference. We listened as he repeated Bernini's words almost verbatim. He looked grave, honest. The wind whipped through his gray hair.

When it was over, Bernini clicked the TV off.

"You should be proud of this book, Jeremy. You are very much a part of it. It was a pleasure to work with you."

I felt a cold sensation.

"Professor Bernini, you said it's just a draft, right?"

"Yes."

His eyes danced around, reading my expression, my body language, betraying nothing.

"Won't you be revising it?"

"Yes," he said after a pause. "Almost certainly."

"Well, if you need more research, I'm happy to do it."

"I appreciate that, Jeremy," he said kindly. "But you've done so much. And a book could always benefit from a fresh perspective in the next round."

He folded his hands and waited.

"I understand." I stood. I felt like layers of myself were melting away. I just wanted to get out of his office before there was nothing left. "Thank you for the opportunity." I started to walk out quickly.

"Jeremy?"

"Yes?" I said, stopping, turning around.

Tell me something good.

"My key?" he said patiently, holding out his hand. His kind eyes smiled at me, but the twinkle was muted, out of respect for the freshly dead.

I fished the keys out of my pocket. I had to suffer the indignity of winding his key off my ring, something I fumbled with in the best of circumstances. Finally, I dropped it in his palm, and he closed his hand.

He walked me to the door. He patted me on the back and said, "Best of luck to you, Jeremy. You'll be a fine lawyer."

Coffin shut, nailed, dropped.

I started down the hallway.

Coming in the opposite direction was none other than Humpty Dumpty himself, Arthur Peabody: short, waddling, charging head forward, bow tie askew, long jowls jostling with each step. He looked me over, snorted, glanced past me down the hall.

"Another one of your victories, Ernesto?" he called down the hall to Bernini.

"Good morning, Arthur," Bernini said flatly from behind me.

As Arthur Peabody passed, I smelled the cloud of liquor.

"Was this one too good or not good enough?"

"That's enough, Arthur."

There was a warning in his voice. I had no idea what Humpty meant. I didn't care anymore. I just wanted out of that hallway.

"Why don't you tell him the joke?" Humpty Dumpty said. "Maybe he'll thank you."

"Enough,"
Bernini snapped. I'd never heard him so angry. "Remember your deal," he said to Peabody.

Two doors slammed behind me, moments apart.

The fucking elevator couldn't come fast enough.

* * *

I called my parents for the first time in a month. My dad answered the phone.

"We thought you were dead," he said dryly.

"No, Dad. Just crazy. Too much work." I tried to sound light-hearted. "I won the mock trial."

"Hey, that's great. Way to go. You're not letting the big shots push you around, are you?" This was a common theme for my dad, ever since he decided that he was a speck in the universe, meaningless, powerless.

"No way, Dad. I'm pushing
them
around."

"That's my boy."

"Hey, let me talk to Mom, okay?"

"Sure."

My mom picked up the phone.

"Hi sweetie."

"Hi Mom."

"Honey, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, Ma. How's Dad doing?"

"He's fine. How are you?"

"Is he taking his medicine?"

"Yes, honey. We're taking care of everything. You don't need to worry."

"He hates the beta blocker. Make sure he's really taking it."

"Honey, what's wrong? Is everything okay at school?"

"Yeah. Everything's great. I've got lots of friends. I'm learning a lot." I closed my eyes. "I need to run to class. I just wanted to say hi."

"Honey?"

"I really need to run, Mom."

"You call me if you need to talk. Okay, sweetie? Anytime."

"Okay, Mom. I love you."

"I love you too."

I hung up.

Daphne left her house at seven o'clock. I'd been waiting in the park across the street. She was reading something small, then put it back in her purse. I stopped her in the middle of the road.

"Jeremy, what are you doing here?"

"Where are you going?"

"What do you mean, where am I going?"

"Answer my question."

"Jeremy, you're freaking me out."

"I gave you
everything,
" I snapped. She took a step back. "I won that fucking trial for you. I
destroyed
that girl. I took her apart. I did that for
you
."

"Jeremy, this isn't going to help anything."

"Help? Help? Bernini just took his fucking key back." I felt my head pounding. "I did everything you said. Tell me what's going on.
Please
."

She paused.

"You know I can't."

She actually looked sorry.

"What's in your purse?"

"Excuse me?"

"Give me your purse."

"Jeremy, don't do this."

I grabbed for her purse. Jesus Christ, what was I doing? She
put her hands up, let me take it. She stood back and folded her arms. I went through it roughly: makeup, pens, aspirin, coins. There was a square of off-white card stock, familiar.
We are delighted to request your attendance . . .
Today's date. Seven thirty. Delighted. I handed her purse back.

"Did Nigel get one?"

For a while she just stood there. I felt my fists balling up, clenching. Then she nodded.

"John?"

Another nod.

I pressed my hand over my face.

"Bernini took his key back," I said again. I looked at her. "I'm going to fail my classes. I haven't opened a book all semester. Even if I pass, I won't get a job. Everything I did means nothing now, doesn't it?"

She tried to put her hand on my shoulder.

I had never seen her in direct sunlight before. Always indoors, in the library, the classroom, the ballroom. She was still beautiful, but more real. Her hand was on my shoulder. She looked brittle; how badly she wanted all this!

"What do you think I could do?" she asked me.

I had no answer.

"I'm sorry, Jeremy, I really am."

She slung her purse.

"Please don't follow me."

When the weekend arrived, I realized I had no friends. Nigel and John had avoided me all week. I couldn't even think of Daphne without remembering the other night outside her house and cringing. In the first months of school, I hadn't bothered to spend time with anyone else.

I went to the library. I decided to start from the beginning. I opened my Torts book, and it was suddenly clear that it was an impossible task. We were hundreds of pages deep into every class. Exams were in two weeks. Most people were reviewing now. And I was on page one. Humpty Dumpty ruled over the library; tonight, I didn't see him in the flesh, but his ghost was here. The specter of failure.

I felt someone watching me. It was one of the librarians, a painfully shy little man who always looked down and never said a word to anyone. He was more ruffled and ignored than half the books. He saw me looking and went back to stamping returns.

After a while I couldn't take it and went to the Idle for a drink and cheap dinner. A pretty girl sat next to me at the bar. I was lonely. She made me think of the neurosurgeon who spilled her oranges in the yard. "How's it going?" I asked. She mumbled an uninterested "Fine" and looked back to her friends.

"Let me show you," said a voice behind me, as two large hands fell on my shoulders. John Anderson walked around to another of the girls. He was a foot taller than her. He gave a magical smile. "How's it going?" he said amiably. "Good," she said, "how are you?" "Good." He grinned. One of the other girls smiled back. "Hey," she said, "my friend just got her glasses today. Don't they look sexy?" He laughed and agreed. I threw some money down and started to leave.

"See," John said. "It's not what you say. It's who says it."

"Fuck you," I said.

"No, fuck you. I never liked you."

He clapped me on the shoulder. I shrugged him off and walked away.

I saw him go back into the main bar, where he joined Nigel and Daphne. He put his arm around Daphne. He kissed the top of her head.

Something bad was turning in my brain. I walked the campus. All those images: greatness, Daphne, money--all gone. I hated John. I hated Daphne. I hated the V&D. I passed the red-bricked dormitories with cannon marks from the Revolutionary War. I passed the gothic Centennial Church, the renaissance porticoes of Creighton Hall, the statue of our founder, handsome and proud. I hated this place, but it was beautiful. I hated it
because
it was beautiful.

I wasn't tired, and I was sick of feeling sorry for myself, so I went back to the library. I found an empty floor. I opened the Torts book to page one and started reading again. The case was
Scott v. Shepherd
. The defendant had thrown a lit firecracker into a crowded indoor market. A surprised vendor picked it up and lobbed it away from himself to another part of the market.
Another vendor picked it up and lobbed it again. Finally, it struck the plaintiff (you have to love old English) "in the face therewith" and exploded. The question was, who
caused
the injury: The initial thrower? One of the intervening lobbers? It occurred to me that since I'd come to this place, I hadn't
caused
a thing. I'd just been swept along.

The shy little librarian passed by, pushing his cart. He must have been on night owl reshelving duty. He took books from empty carrels and placed them on his cart. He grabbed two books off my desk.

"Um, excuse me," I called after him. "I still need those."

He stopped, made a big production of turning around and rolling over to me. He set the books back on my desk and rolled the cart away.

There was a piece of paper sticking out from one of the books. It hadn't been there before.

I pulled it out and looked at it.

It was an article. The word
DRAFT
was typed across the top. Someone had written in pencil below:
Come on, can't you make me sound a little more impressive? --HJM.

I was surprised to see a picture of the man I met at the first V&D event, the retired lawyer with the bad red toupee. The one who wanted to talk about my grandfather, then blindsided me by knowing all about me.

The picture showed the same face: friendly, a thick rug of hair slightly off-kilter.

I read the text below the picture and froze. I felt my blood run cold. I looked for the librarian, but he was gone.

I was alone on the floor.

Below the picture, the article began:

Henry James Morton, retired law professor and
chief White House counsel under presidents
Kennedy and Johnson, passed away peacefully
in his sleep on November 20, 2006.

November 20, 2006.

That was in two days.

Shock was my first reaction. A draft obituary, predicting an exact date of death. And the soon-to-be-dead-man, completely on board. What did it mean? What was the V&D up to?

Very quickly, a new thought shot through my mind like a lightning bolt: