The Emperor of Ocean Park (72 page)

“Yes, but . . .”

“I don’t want to hear the word
but,
Tal. I don’t want to hear you tell me you
have to think about it.
All I want to hear is your promise, your solemn word, that all this nonsense is over. I want you to say you’ll go back to being the serious scholar and hardworking teacher we all know and love, or did until October. I don’t want you to get so much as a traffic ticket for the next five years. That’s what I want.”

“Or what?”

Lynda brushes curly gray hair away from her long neck and shrugs.

“You wouldn’t dare,” I whisper.

“I wouldn’t dare what? Get rid of a professor who makes insane accusations, conducts a whispering campaign against a colleague, screams at people in the hallways, and abuses students in class?”

I hardly know where to start, so I pick the silliest charge of all. “I didn’t abuse Avery Knowland.”

“That depends on how you look at it. Or, more to the point, it depends on how I look at it. Right now, I imagine you’re thinking that it wouldn’t matter so much if we were to ask you to leave, that you have something of a reputation, that you could always get a position at another law school. But that depends a great deal on what I decide to say about you to the dean of whatever school considers hiring you. I could sink you with a word, and you know it. Theo couldn’t protect
you. If you keep carrying on the way you have been, I doubt he would even try.”

I reflect again on my friendlessness. Suddenly my allies on the faculty seem very few indeed. Who would speak up for me? Lem Carlyle? Not if it would hurt his impeccable reputation. Arnie Rosen? Not with his run for the deanship coming up. Dear Dana Worth? Certainly, but nobody listens to her. Rob Saltpeter, perhaps. But he is a very long way from the top of the heap. I imagine the knives being sharpened even now up there in the top tier, where those who possess influence and reputation gather: Peter Van Dyke, Tish Kirschbaum, and, of course, the estimable Marc Hadley, not so long ago a friend, would all be delighted by my departure.

“Lynda,” I say at last, “I need time.”

“That sounds like a
but
to me.”

“Not time to think over what you’ve said. What you’ve said makes perfect sense.” I am not very good at obsequiousness, but I have to try. “I want to go back to that old Talcott Garland—the one everybody loves, you said—I want that very much. I just need a little time to figure out what’s going on.”

“That sounds like the conspiracy again.” Her voice is hard. When a dean’s voice is hard, the pressures are immense. Probably Lynda Wyatt is following somebody else’s script, which suggests that a part of what she says is true: she has gone to bat for me. The university administration may be pushing her to get rid of me, and perhaps she has persuaded them to give me one last chance. The administration, in turn, has dictated terms which she dares not vary. Still, if I am right, if she has gone to bat for me, then . . . maybe . . .

“I’m not seeing any conspiracy anywhere, Lynda. I don’t think anybody is out to get me. But it is a fact, not a fantasy, that the man who was asking me questions about my father is dead. It is a fact, not a fantasy, that somebody trashed my father’s house in Oak Bluffs. It is a fact, not a fantasy, that I was beaten up in the middle of the campus by somebody who asked questions about my father. And it is a fact”—I stop suddenly. Lynda is watching me closely. I was about to mention the pawn. Which would persuade her absolutely that I have gone round the bend.

Lynda sighs. “Well, then, Tal, your turn to listen. It is a fact, not a fantasy, that you were almost arrested. No, don’t say anything. It is a fact, not a fantasy, that somebody from up here sabotaged Marc, and a lot of people think it was you. It is a fact, not a fantasy, that you were
shoving and screaming at Jerry Nathanson in the hallway day before yesterday. It is a fact, not a fantasy, that lots of people on this campus think you are beginning to lose it. It is a fact, not a fantasy, that I think . . .”

“Two weeks,” I say suddenly.

“I beg your pardon.”

“Give me two weeks. Two weeks to wrap everything up. If I—”

“I can’t let you miss more classes.”

“I’ll teach my classes. I won’t miss a class. I promise you. But I have to have a little more time.”

“Time for what?”

I take a breath, force myself to stay calm. What am I supposed to say? That whoever is on the outside trying to ruin me is being helped by someone on the inside, somebody here at the law school? Somebody who knows where I am going to be almost before I do—and is in a position to smear my ethics as well, perhaps to make it even less likely that anyone will listen to whatever I might discover?

I say quietly, “Just time, Lynda. That’s all. I won’t miss any classes, but I need to work things out.” She just waits. “I won’t hurt the law school or the university. This school has been good to me. And, right now, this school is all I have.” I hesitate, wanting to say more, but not daring to open the painful subject of my waning marriage. “I’ve asked you for very few favors since you’ve been dean, Lynda. Now, you know that’s true. There are people who are in your office every week, complaining about their salaries or their committee assignments or their teaching loads or the size of their offices. I’ve never done any of those things, have I?”

“No, you haven’t. That’s true.” The ghost of a smile dances over her face.

“So I’m asking this one thing. To hold off those pressures just two weeks more. And then, after two weeks, I promise you, either I’ll be a good little boy or . . . or I’ll resign from the faculty and save everybody the trouble.”

My dean shakes her head. Her look is unhappy. “I’m really not trying to get rid of you, Tal. I respect you and I like you. I know you don’t believe it, but it’s true. What Stuart said about biased scholarship, for instance. You didn’t hear me say it. I know you wouldn’t do it, and even if I thought you would, there’s no way to prove it. It’s ridiculous. Besides, we live in a world of only”—a wan, cheerless grin—“imperfect
objectivity. Scholarship is argument, isn’t it? And argument is advocacy. Were we to take the claim of bias seriously, any one of us might be open to the same charge. But . . .”

“But you have to think of the school,” I finish for her.

“You’ll have to apologize to Jerry Nathanson. No way out of that one. And Cameron Knowland, bless his heart, is still waiting to hear from you.”

More pain. “I’ll call Jerry. I tried to call Cameron but he wouldn’t talk to me.”

“Then try again,” she says crisply. Professors are not ordinarily subject to the dean’s orders, not at a school as eminent as ours. But these are no ordinary times.

“I will. I promise.”

Lynda conjures a small smile. She stands up. So do I. We shake. We both know our meeting is over, and that the deal has been made. Probably it falls within whatever parameters she was given by the university. But, just to make sure, she repeats the agreement as she escorts me to the door: “Two weeks, Talcott. No more.”

“Two weeks,” I echo.

Hurrying back to my office, I am weak with relief: after all, I might have been asked to resign on the spot. By the time I am behind my desk, however, the burden of reality has settled once more upon my shoulders. I still do not know what the arrangements are. Or what my father meant by his cryptic note. Or which one of my colleagues is trying to ruin my career. I do not even know whether I will still have a job tomorrow or the next day . . . or, for that matter, a wife.

All I know for sure is that I have fourteen days to figure it all out.

CHAPTER 43
A CHOICE IS MADE

“W
HERE HAVE YOU BEEN
?” asks Kimmer in a tone that I cannot at first identify. I have been home perhaps five minutes. Finding no one on the first floor, I came upstairs, kissed a slumbering Bentley good night, and walked into a storm.

“I . . . had a meeting with Dean Lynda. And then, well, I told you I might have to work late. The draft of my paper is overdue, remember?”

“I called your office, Misha. Three times.”

“Maybe I was in the library.” I do not know why I am being so cagey.

“You never go to the library.” My wife is sitting up in bed, extra pillows propped behind her, work strewn over the blankets as she flips through the channels with the remote. Her eyes seem puffy, as though she has been crying, but she does not look at me. “Or, when you do, you get in trouble,” she adds.

“The truth is . . . I went for a walk.”

“A walk? For two hours?”

“I had a lot to think about.”

“I’m sure.” But there is a catch in her voice. What is going on?

“Kimmer, are you okay?”

“No, I am not okay!” she flares, rounding on me at last. “My husband, who has lately been acting crazy, can’t be found for two whole hours! Two hours, Misha! Did it ever occur to you that I might worry?”

I cross to the bed, sit next to her, try to take her hand. She snatches it back. “No, I guess not. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry. You’re
sorry.
”

“What do you want me to say, Kimmer? Tell me, and I’ll say it.”

“I shouldn’t have to tell you what to say.”

“Look, darling, I’ll apologize to Jerry. I was out of line. I know that.”

“There’s nothing going on with Jerry. There never was! Why can’t you just believe me when I tell you these things?”

Because you have lied to me before. Because a man called the house looking for you and said
baby,
a fact I have yet to mention to you. Because you and I once cheated on André, so you and somebody else could be cheating on me. Dr. Young is right, so right!

“I believe you,” I whisper.

“Oh, Misha.” Her voice breaks. And, quite suddenly, the tears flow. I am stunned. I have not seen my wife cry since the night Bentley was born. At first I am not sure how to react. I put my arms around her. She writhes free. I hold her again, pulling her close, and her head finally settles against my chest.

“Kimmer, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“Were you . . . were you with somebody else, Misha? Because I could understand it if you were. I’m such a bitch.” Jealousy? From Kimmer?

“No, darling, no. Of course not. I told you, I went for a walk.” Which is the truth but not the whole truth. Even now, I am not ready to tell her where I walked. I do not want her to think I am crazy.

“Misha, Misha,” she whispers, lightly punching my chest. “Misha, what happened to us? It was so good. It was so good.”

I shake my head. I have no answer. “I love you,” I breathe. I am stroking the back of her neck, the way she used to like, and her pain seems to be subsiding. “You know there’s nobody else in my life but you and Bentley. And please don’t call yourself names.”

“Why? I
am
a bitch. I’m horrible to you. You should leave me. You would if you had any sense.” And then more tears. I think of my encounter with Gerald Nathanson, his anger arguably previous to mine. Maybe he and Kimmer ended their affair (if there was one, if there ever was one), and she is unhappy about it. But my wife’s pain at this moment seems more profound, and, besides, the little slice of macho competitiveness I usually try to cover up is unwilling to accept that she would weep over Jerry when she has me.

“Come on, darling, what is it? Tell me.”

Kimmer shakes her head. I stroke her neck some more. She whispers something. I can’t quite hear it. She says it again, louder. And, for a moment, I am as crushed as she is.

“Ruthie called. She . . . she said the President picked somebody else.”

“Oh, Kimmer. Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.” She sniffles, wipes her face on the sleeve of her long nightdress. “I guess it wasn’t meant to be.”

“You still have me and Bentley,” I murmur. “It’s not your fault the President didn’t pick the best candidate.”

“That’s right.” Kimmer tries to smile. “I knew I shouldn’t have voted for him.”

My eyes widen. “You voted for him?”

She manages a shaky grin. “I told you I flipped a coin.”

“I thought you were joking.”

“Well, I wasn’t.” She kisses me suddenly, then whispers something inaudible against my lips. She says it again, louder: “Don’t you want to know who he picked?”

“Uh, sure. Okay.” Actually, I do not, especially if, somehow, the resilient Marc Hadley has found a way to rescue his candidacy. But I am bound to hear sooner or later, so I might as well hear from my wife.

“Lemaster Carlyle.”

“What!”

“Lemaster Carlyle.” She laughs, harshly this time, then coughs, and a few more tears burst through her self-control. “Oh, that snake. That
snake!
I know you think he’s like the best thing since sliced bread, but I think he’s just a snake in the
grass!”

Despite my wife’s pain, I have to smile at the way the rest of us outsmarted ourselves. When Ruthie told Kimmer that two or three of my colleagues were in the running, we stopped at Marc Hadley. When Ruthie told Marc that the President was interested in diversity, Dahlia and Marc stopped at Kimmer. And there all the time was Lem Carlyle, at the intersection, a colleague and diverse, fitting both descriptions yet unexpected; good old Lem, waiting patiently on the sidelines for something to go awry—a charge of plagiarism, a crazy husband, anything—lurking and lurking like . . . well, like a snake in the grass. At least now I know why he has lately seemed so nervous around me.

“I can’t believe it,” I finally whisper.

“Liberals for Bush,” Kimmer reminds me.

“Oh, right.”

“Maybe it’s for the best,” my wife suggests, but neither of us can think of a reason why. So we do what used to be one of our favorite things instead. We walk down the hall with our arms around each other and stand in the doorway of Bentley’s bedroom, gazing at him in wonder. We say a little prayer of thanksgiving. Then we go back to our
room and put
Casablanca
in the VCR, and Kimmer eventually brightens a bit as she gets into reciting her favorite lines. But her eyes have closed by the time Ingrid Bergman goes to the bar to beg Humphrey Bogart for the letters of transit. I turn off the tape and Kimmer opens her eyes at once. “Are you sure there’s not another woman?” she asks. “Because I need you right now, Misha. I really do need you.”