Blue Angel (37 page)

It takes Swenson a while to figure out that Bentham is not waiting for an explanation, or an expression of gratitude and self-abasement, but for an apology. This is Swenson's big chance to make his Dostoyevskian confession of sin, his impassioned, reckless plea for foregiveness and redemption. And in fact, Swenson
is
sorry. Sorrier than he can ever begin to say. He's very very sorry that he wrecked his marriage and his career, that he sacrificed his beautiful, beloved wife for some adolescent fantasy of romance. He's sorry he fell in love with someone he didn't know, who couldn't be trusted. He's sorry that he ignored Magda's warnings and his own suspicions and doubts. But, as it happens, he is not particularly sorry for having broken the rules of Euston College, which is what he is supposed to say. The committee couldn't care less about the rest. But he can't possibly tell them the painful details, nor would they want to hear them. Which brings up something else that he is sorry about. He is extremely sorry for having spent twenty years of his one and only life, twenty years he will never get back, among people he can't talk to, men and women to whom he can't even tell the simple truth.

That is, if he knew what the truth was, or why exactly he did what he did. It's become progressively more mysterious to him, increasingly harder to fathom, as each new version of Angela has obscured and erased the one he was drawn to in the first place. He can't imagine how he'd begin to explain. The will to argue leaves him. He doesn't bother to go the table. He can speak from where he is.

He says, “I admit my behavior toward Angela was unprofessional. But I don't agree with the way it's been presented here today. It was personal. And complicated. It was never a business transaction.”

Transaction
. What kind of word is that? And what does he mean by
complicated
? He supposes it's one way of describing how one thing led to another.

“I guess that's it” is Swenson's stirring summation of his rousing self-defense.

“Thank you, Ted,” says Bentham. “We appreciate your honesty. Your forthrightness. We know this hasn't been easy for you. It hasn't been simple for any of us.” The others mumble, in chorus, Thank you thank you thank you.

“Hey, any time,” says Swenson. He gets up and, turning to leave, casts one last, long, burning, melodramatic look in Angela's direction. But she won't return his gaze, not with her parents there. Their eyes seek him and find him, bore into him, shielding their daughter with preemptive strikes: defensive earth-to-air missiles. He climbs a few steps, then ducks and sits, pushed into the nearest seat by the shock of seeing rangy Matt McIlwaine—charged up, pink-cheeked from the cold—bounding straight toward him. Matt's eyes are bloodshot, puffy. Obviously drugs. Or perhaps he's just woken up.

“Am I too late?” he says. “My car broke down.” The lie is so reflexive that no one pays attention. It seems more like a tic than a conscious act. Why would he need his car to get across campus? Doesn't it bother the committee to depose a witness who's lying before he even takes the stand? Bentham looks at Lauren. Lauren looks at Magda. Swenson's the one they should check this with; he knows why Matt might take real pleasure in destroying him. They probably know that already. The committee's done its homework. They also know enough about Matt to suspect that he could make plenty of trouble if his testimony's not heard.

“Better late than never, I suppose,” Francis Bentham says. In for a penny, in for a pound. What's it to him? It's nowhere near time for lunch.

Lauren takes one look at Matt and hands him over to Bentham.

“Matt,” says Francis, “why don't you tell the committee what you told me in my office?” So they're in collusion. Whatever lies Matt's come here to spread are no surprise to the dean, who's permitted—advised—him to add his evidence to the rest. Swenson's trying to remember how the dean responded earlier, when it had seemed that Matt wouldn't show up for the hearing. Was he disappointed or relieved?

“I'm not actually a student of Professor Swenson's,” says Matt. “That would be pretty stupid. Because I'm, like, a friend of his daughter's—”

“Ruby?” says Magda, proprietarily. Swenson can hardly stand to hear his daughter's name spoken aloud in this room, among these people who wish him and Sherrie ill, and who would wish Ruby harm, if they knew her.

“Ruby,” says Matt. Swenson steels himself for whatever new torture awaits him.

“And I just thought the committee would want to know that Ruby used to talk about how her dad, like, messed around with her when she was a kid—”

“Messed around?” asks Bentham.

“You know,” says Matt. “Sexually.”

“I see,” says Bentham.

But what does this have to do with this case—with Angela's complaint? This is a violation of Swenson's human rights. Besides which, the kid is lying. Anyone can see that! Swenson loves Ruby. He would never hurt her. And he never has.

But the committee doesn't understand. Swenson's all alone here. They all, very suddenly, have a lot of paperwork to do, notes to scribble, papers to check. So perhaps they do know it's a lie—or, in any case, irrelevant. Then why don't they say that? Because they have taken off their masks. Jonathan Edwards, Cotton Mather, Torquemado. Swenson's crime involves sex, so the death penalty can be invoked. No evidence is inadmissible. They're hauling out the entire arsenal for this mortal combat with the forces of evil and sin.

Swenson lets himself wonder: Did Ruby tell Matt that? He wants to believe she didn't. He can only pray that she didn't.

“That's it,” said Matt. “That's all she wrote.”

“Thank you,” Bentham says. “And thank you all.” Class dismissed. “Ted, the committee will be letting you know its decision in, shall we say, two weeks?”

The committee members nod. Two weeks would be grand. As long as it isn't tomorrow, they'll agree to anything.

“Thanks.” Swenson's on autopilot. He stands and grabs his coat. Then he sees something that stops him. The committee members' preparation to leave is just background activity, the bustling of extras behind the important scene in which Matt goes over to Angela, who stands on tiptoe and kisses him on the cheek.

They turn to chat with her parents. Matt's arm is around her shoulders. Is Matt her boyfriend? Was it Matt who answered her phone? Did they cook all this up between them? Were they pretending to be near-strangers when Swenson met them outside the video store? Maybe they weren't faking it and hardly knew each other then, and Swenson introduced them, brought the happy couple together. He feels like Herr Professor Rath seeing Lola Lola entwined in the arms of Mazeppa the Strong Man. Angela's too smart for Matt. She'll chew him up and spit him out.

Angela's parents stand, and Matt places a steadying hand on Angela's father's shoulder. What hell they've been through together! Angela's mother gazes at him. How thrilled they are that young Sir Lancelot has rescued their fairy princess from the pervert professor King Arthur. Who wouldn't want Mazeppa as a family member? Matt would make the ideal son-in-law. He's rich. He's going to be richer. Why didn't Swenson see that? Sorry. His mistake. Perhaps all this was Matt's revenge. But that seems unlikely. Matt isn't nearly that competent, nowhere near that together. Angela is. But why would Angela want to destroy him? Her only agenda was to get published.

But that is just how it appears now. Not necessarily how it was. Angela's the only one who knows—who will ever know—the truth.

Swenson's not planning anything as he walks downstairs. If his mind weren't empty, he couldn't move at all. There's a flutter of uncertainty, he's heading in the wrong direction. Hey, that creep in the camouflage pants is unpacking his weapon! But he's a civilized professor, so they must assume he's coming up to shake his colleagues' hands.

Instead he goes over to Angela. He knows he's standing too close. Angela's father and Matt tense. Swenson can feel it without looking. He puts his face next to Angela's. Matt puts out his arm, protecting Angela, not quite touching Swenson. Her father does the same. Their reflex, their posture, the entire scene is patriarchal, biblical. They should be bare-chested, wearing turbans and beards in some Renaissance painting.

Then the men and Angela's mother float out of Swenson's peripheral field, and his gaze swims toward Angela, past her clothes, his clothes, her skin, his skin, her body, his body. His soul is swimming toward hers like some desperate little sardine looking for that ocean they navigated together, when she was bringing him chapters and wanted to know what he thought, and he put off telling her until he couldn't wait any longer.

Angela's eyes take in everything and give nothing back, certainly not the slightest sign that she's ever met Swenson before. All the air has been sucked from the room. Swenson feels like he's drowning.

He says, “Just tell me one thing, okay? What the fuck were you doing?”

“Huh?” says Angela. “What?”

“Ted!” says Lauren. “Control yourself. Please. Act like an adult.” Her request—or is it a warning?—is taken up by the other committee members.

Maybe what they're objecting to is Swenson cutting so directly to the chase. Or maybe all they hear is Swenson saying
fuck
to a student.

Francis Bentham, their fearless leader, wades into the standoff. He gently grabs Swenson's elbow. Swenson shakes off his hand. He's breathing shallowly, something's blurring his vision, but unfortunately, consciousness hasn't deserted him. He understands that if he takes this further, makes a fuss, it will only get worse. Sadly, he's aware enough to know that he couldn't bear it, couldn't stand being hustled out of this joint by Matt and Angela's father. Oh, where was that sensible, self-protective voice when he went to Angela Argo's dorm room?

What a favor they're all doing him, showing him their true selves. What could he have been thinking to have wasted almost twenty years here? But he's still got time left. He should be thanking Angela! Had this not happened, he'd have stayed at Euston, secure, preembalmed—till he grew old and died and never noticed that he was in hell. He's not being fired, he's being promoted from the inferno to purgatory. Swenson knows he's not having an optimistic moment so much as an intimation of what an optimistic moment might feel like.

He won't allow Benthan to touch him, but he lets himself be walked upstairs. Professor Rath being driven from the Blue Angel by the angry mob.

“We'll be in touch,” says Bentham, but Swenson doesn't answer. Hunched against the shocking cold, he walks onto the snowy quad.

The lawns and paths are empty. Soft curls of mist rise above the snow and give the edges of things an unfocused cottony blur. The college buildings have never looked so lovely, their austere white clapboard, colonial brick, and gothic stone beauty untainted by nostalgia or by personal sadness at his being about to leave them. Swenson feels like a tourist visiting some historic site. He feels chosen, privileged to be here!

Just at that moment, a deer—a doe—appears and gingerly minces along the path. She looks at Swenson, who looks back. The doe stares at him calmly, with something like—he could swear it—the affirmation or understanding he tried and failed to get from Angela. Which medieval saint saw the cross between the horns of the stag? Obviously, the deer is a sign of hope, of possibility and forgiveness. Perhaps a reincarnation of one of Elijah Euston's daughters. Suddenly, the doe lifts its head, and stands there. Attentive, listening. What does she hear that Swenson doesn't?

A moment later, he does hear. The bells tolling, joyously raucous. What victory are they celebrating? The beginning of Swenson's new life? Somehow that seems unlikely. How beautiful they sound! All his years here, he never listened, never responded except with impatience and annoyance. But who could blame him? He was up too close. The bells interrupted his classes, resonated in his skull. He remembers staring at Angela while the bells tolled the hour. He checks his watch. It's twenty-five past, so why are they ringing now?

Then gradually, it dawns on him. It's the Women's Alliance, announcing their triumph over another male oppressor, one small step along the path toward a glorious future. He's glad to be out of that future and headed into his own. Not that he's sure what his will bring. He'll just have to wait and see.

Why didn't the bells frighten off the deer? Even as their ghost echo fades, the doe calmly crosses the quad, delicate, flamingo-like, poking her nose in the snow. From farther away, she turns again, and looks through the mist at Swenson. What is she seeing? What does she expect? Swenson has no idea. But how strangely lighthearted he feels, what a relief it is to admit, even just for one moment, how much he will never know.

Francine Prose
is the author of thirteen books of fiction, including the novel
Blue Angel,
a finalist for the National Book Award. Her most recent book is
The Lives of the Muses: Nine Women and the Artists They Inspired
. A recipient of numerous grants and awards, including Guggenheim and Fulbright fellowships, she was a Director's Fellow at the Center for Scholars and Writers at the New York Public Library. She lives in New York City.

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