by David Hicks
*
That Saturday was mild and sunny, and the trees on Younger Drive were finally beginning to bud. Flynn and Briggs were sitting on the front stoop, drinking the iced tea Briggs had made, when the students next door—a different group than the year before—came outside carrying garbage cans. They waved to Briggs and Flynn and told them they were having a kegger that night. “You guys want to join us?”
Flynn started to say “No thanks,” but then Briggs said, “Sure, we’ll call our friends!”
The students arrived that evening by car and by foot, from all directions, as if magnetically drawn to the gleaming aluminum keg. The other grad assistants came to Flynn’s house, and Flynn anxiously scanned the growing crowd from his front stoop, hoping he wouldn’t see any of his students. But then he did: three freshmen from his fall composition class, who, when they spotted Flynn, slunk away into the back yard.
The party lasted well into the evening, during which Flynn and the other graduate students sang along to the music the seniors were playing on their boom box, took swigs of schnapps that Amita had brought, and complained about Professor Tscherpel. By ten o’clock the crowd had spilled over onto Flynn’s front yard. Some tee-shirted male students were gathered around the keg, taking turns sitting in a beach chair and having beer funneled down their throats, their chanting growing louder each time, and Flynn saw one of his freshmen in the scraggly bushes making out with an upperclassman. The smell of marijuana wafted over from next door, and at one point Flynn noticed Dani and Nicolette, the English majors, but as soon as he lifted his hand in a wave, Nicolette stumbled and fell to the ground, her legs splayed, her panties revealed in the glow of the porchlight.
Then the students decided to abandon the boom box and blast music from the stereo inside their house, sticking the speakers out the windows: AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck.” Briggs ran over to tell them that wasn’t such a good idea, that their angry neighbor had already yelled out from his window to shut the fuck up and their elderly neighbors would probably call the cops on them, and this left Flynn and Amita alone on the stoop. “Come on,” she said, taking his hand and pulling him into the house. She kissed him at the base of the inside stairway, her lips tasting minty. Then she led him up to his bedroom.
“What about G.I. Joe?” Flynn asked, but it came out slurry. He told himself that was enough drinking for the night; in high school and college he had overdone it at times, and he needed to learn when to hit the brakes.
“Never mind him,” Amita said, as she unbuckled his belt. For a moment, Flynn worried he was too drunk to be aroused (he pictured Faustino replacing his nameplate with “Jake Barnes, English Department”) but then he turned his head away, belched, and everything was all right after that.
Afterwards, Amita curled into him on his bed, her black hair soft on his shoulder, her arm a rich-brown boundary separating his pale heart from his pale loins. Flynn felt a small wave of shame—he hadn’t washed his sheets in months—but then closed his eyes, trying to enjoy the smell of Amita’s perfume, feeling her breath on his neck (acrid and minty from the Schnapps) and remembering the passage from “Fathers and Sons” in which Hemingway describes Nick’s isolated, faraway feeling after sex. That’s when he heard a boisterous roar in his back yard, and when he sat up he saw licks of flame out the back window. He jumped up, dressed quickly, and ran outside to find that the students had started a minor bonfire, using twigs and branches, with Briggs and the other grad students (three of whom were in their underwear) looking on, drunk and amused—but apparently they had run out of branches, so several of them were off looting the neighbors’ yards for wood.
That’s when they all heard Baby growling viciously, and Flynn looked over in time to see the dog hurling himself repeatedly against the length of his chain until he tore it from its holdings and sprinted after the student who had climbed over the fence to get at the firewood. The kid screamed and leaped back over just before Baby got to him, but the dog’s owner then appeared at the back door wielding a rifle and yelling at Flynn to get “these goddamn faggots” off his property before he “put some lead in their pansy-asses.”
Flynn immediately called out that the party was over, ran over to the garden hose, opened the valve, and began to douse the fire with water, much to everyone’s chagrin. He was still doing that, making sure it was out, when he saw the partygoers suddenly running in every direction.
He dropped the hose and walked out to the front yard, where there were two police cars at the curb, their flashing lights sweeping into the windows of the houses across the street. Two officers got out of the lead car and went next door, and the two in the rear car came right up to Flynn and asked if he resided at this property. “I do,” Flynn said, checking to make sure his fly was zipped. He looked around, but Briggs was nowhere in sight. Then one of the officers held out handcuffs.
“What?” Flynn said. “What’d I do?” He started trembling.
“Disturbing the peace, for starters,” the officer said as he dropped the cuffs, took Flynn by the arm, and led him to the squad car. “And stealing firewood. Firewood’s very important to people around here.”
“Plus serving alcohol to minors,” the other officer said, his voice sounding familiar to Flynn. “We got a whole bunch of stuff on you college boys.”
“I’m not a college boy,” Flynn said as he got into the back seat. “I’m a professor.” And the two officers burst out laughing.
At the police station, which was oddly bright and welcoming, he and the students waited a long time in the lobby before they were all fingerprinted, charged, issued a summons to appear in court, and told they were free to go. Flynn thought about calling Briggs for a ride, but then he remembered how much his roommate had drunk that night. One of the seniors put a quarter in the payphone and told Flynn he could ride back with them, but when the car pulled up outside the station, Flynn recognized the driver as one of the tee-shirted guys who had been funneling beer, so he shook his head. He knew the way home, he said, and in any case he needed to sober up.
He walked along Route 394, trying to keep a steady course. He wondered if he had just been officially arrested, if this was the kind of thing that would hurt him in the future. But if he had been, they would have taken a mug shot—that was something they did—and he would probably be in a cell, “awaiting bail.” Besides, what evidence did they have that he had done anything wrong? Stealing firewood—how stupid was that? He hadn’t stolen any firewood. And what kind of lame-ass cops in what kind of lame-ass small fucking town arrested people for stealing firewood? Briggs was right—what a stupid fucked up depressing place this was! (Briggs was right about everything, actually! He would tell him this when he got home.) And serving alcohol to minors? Well, he’d like to see them make that stick. First of all, it wasn’t his beer, he hadn’t paid for it, it wasn’t on his property, actually it wasn’t even his property, it was his landlord’s property, and yes, people were drinking it, but he certainly never served it, not technically speaking anyway, to anyone he knew for a fact was a minor. But that probably didn’t matter. He hadn’t asked for anyone’s ID—nobody had—and ignorance was one-tenth of the law, or something like that. The freshmen! He had known damn well they were minors and he hadn’t said anything. Fuck. He was screwed. He was guilty in the indirect way that someone who drives without knowing his taillight is out is guilty . . .
He was trying to remember the other charges against him when a station wagon pulled over to the curb, ahead of him. Flynn saw the reverse lights come on and thought about fleeing, but then he recognized the license plate: “PAPA.”
“They called you?” Flynn yelled into the open passenger window.
Faustino leaned back. “Who?” he said. “I saw you walking. It’s getting cold. You’re three miles from home.” He gestured. “Get in, son.”
Flynn opened the door and flopped into the seat, keeping his eyes on the dashboard.
“What’s going on? I was at the hospital,” Faustino said, pointing behind him.
“I’m so sorry,” Flynn said, then felt his throat close up and tried not to cry. “Is your wife okay?” He had heard from Slowick that she had cancer. Then, “I think I’ve been arrested.” As they approached downtown Madisonville, Flynn told him, trying to keep his voice steady, what had just occurred.
“Well, did you do it?” Faustino asked, after Flynn was finished.
“I did not,” Flynn said. He was trying to pronounce his words carefully so Faustino wouldn’t know he was drunk, but he felt sure he had already incriminated himself. His breath probably smelled like Amita’s. “Of course not. Never.”
“Well, you stood by as minors were served beer, correct?’
“Well yes, but—”
“Then you’re guilty,” Faustino said. “And you’re drunk. And students were there? Your students?” He shook his head, staring at the road. “Jesus.”
They rode in silence past campus, Faustino quietly scratching his beard. Finally he clenched both fists around the steering wheel. “You can’t imagine what I would think of you,” he said in his gravelly voice, “if you allowed my 18-year-old child to drink beer on your property, and he died in a car accident on his way home.” He made a left turn onto Younger Drive.
“Well, you don’t ha—” Flynn said, then stopped himself.
When they pulled up to Flynn’s house, Faustino kept the car idling, staring at the litter of red cups on the lawns. Flynn smelled the dampened ash and realized he had left the hose on this whole time. He put his hand on the door handle. “I am so sorry,” he said. “I am.”
Faustino lifted two fingers from the steering wheel and pointed toward the house.
*
On Monday morning, James Faustino hung up his office phone and kept his hand on the receiver. He had considered canceling his next class meeting with Flynn, had considered aborting the course altogether. He had even considered kicking Flynn out of the program. But after speaking with Slowick and (just now) to the dean, he knew he should exercise restraint and show some compassion.
By the time Flynn came by his office that afternoon, Faustino had spoken to his friend Allen in the Madisonville Police Department, the one who had been on duty the night of the party.
“You’re off the hook,” Faustino told Flynn. “Your neighbor dropped the charges.”
Flynn sat back in the student chair, swiped his wet hair (it was raining outside) from his forehead, and looked at the floor.
“It was trumped-up anyway,” Faustino said, “according to Allen. Some kid stealing firewood, no idea which kid it was . . .” Faustino sat up straight and folded his hands on his desk. “But serving minors,” he said, pointing both index fingers, “that’s serious.” He paused to see if Flynn recognized the gravity of the situation. “You’re lucky Allen isn’t up for a witch hunt. ‘No harm done, but make sure the kids never do that again’, you know, with graduation parties coming up and all that.”
Flynn shifted in his seat, his head still bowed. “I did do it,” he muttered. “I am guilty. There were freshmen there.”
The kid looked like he was going to cry.
“I should turn myself in,” Flynn said. “Make a full confession.”
Faustino blew out a sigh. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “After all, thank God, nothing happened.” Flynn had his hands over his eyes now. “After the party,” Faustino said. “According to Allen, I mean. No accidents, no crimes.” He rested his hands, palms down, on the table. “I suppose I myself was guilty of my own”—he breathed deeply through his nose, his belly extending—“youthful indiscretions. When I was your age.”
He considered reaching over and patting the kid on the arm. “Easy, son.”
*
That Thursday, Faustino came home from the hospital a few minutes after six and found Flynn waiting on the porch, looking no longer sullen, but something else: repentant, perhaps, or determined to redeem himself; but it came across as defiant. They went inside, Faustino offered him some chips (“I’m afraid this is all I have”), but Flynn said no and held up his book, ready to get to work. Faustino shook his head and went over to his armchair, thinking, If this is what it’s like to have a son, I’m glad that ship has sailed. He picked up his copy of The Old Man and the Sea, licked his index finger, and turned to the opening chapter, his mind suddenly elsewhere—on what had just happened in Room 312 at WCA.
“What’s your line?” Flynn asked, and Faustino lifted his head. The kid was pointing at his book, opened to the title page. Faustino held it up so that it faced the kid. Man can be destroyed but not defeated.
Flynn widened his eyes and showed Faustino the title page of his own book, where he had scribbled the same line.
Faustino offered a weak smile. “That one true sentence,” he said. “He finally got it, in 1952.”
But Flynn looked down at the book, shook his head, and mumbled something.
“What,” Faustino said.
“Nothing,” Flynn said.
Faustino sighed. “Come on, son. What is it.”
The young man looked down at his book. “Well, I loved this book.”
Faustino thrummed his fingers on the lamp table next to him. “But?”
“But,” Hawkins said. “This line—it’s a great line. But after I wrote it down, I realized . . . it might be a lie.”
Faustino cringed. A lie?
Had he been like this, at that age? He remembered having strong opinions, but at the same time he had been acutely aware that he was an inexperienced person reading lines written by men of experience—and a certain amount of deference came with that. And now that he was older, he indeed found that great works spoke to him with more truth and relevance than when he was young. This kid, he was just inventing ways to be contrarian and skeptical, taking issue with some of the most beautiful lines in the English language simply to feel intelligent, to bolster his frail ego.
“I mean, a man can be both destroyed and defeated,” Flynn said. “I’ve seen it with my own two eyes.”
*
When Flynn arrived at Faustino’s office the following Monday, he found the professor’s door shut and a note in his mailbox: “Could you cover my classes this week and maybe next? Syllabi and notes attached. Also let’s skip Islands and Feast. No more class meetings, in other words. Just work on your essay, which I’m sure will be stellar. — Papa.”
Flynn stood by his mailbox and looked over the syllabi. For Modern Drama, Long Day’s Journey into Night was scheduled for the final two weeks; Flynn would stay up all night if necessary to read the play and study Faustino’s notes. But he wondered: was Mrs. Faustino in dire straits? He put a note in his professor’s box: “Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered.”
Four days later, after trying his best to teach the longest and most depressing but most magnificent play he had ever read, Flynn received an email from Faustino: HOPE CLASSES ARE GOING OKAY. WATCH OUT FOR JACOBY BY THE WINDOW, HE’S A BULLSHITTER AND HE HAS SOMEONE’S NOTES FROM LAST YEAR. VISIT IF YOU CAN. JOANNA WOULD LOVE TO SEE YOU. CALL FIRST.
But Flynn knew he wouldn’t.
*
Two weeks later, he had finished Faustino’s classes, administered the final exams, and encouraged the students to send their professor cards and notes. After the American Drama final, Dani and Nicolette stopped at the front of the room looking worried. “I’m sure she’ll pull through,” he said. He pictured Mrs. Faustino’s eyes, her smile, her faded yellow cardigan. She was hearty; she would be fine. “She’ll beat this thing,” he said.
A half-hour later, Flynn was sitting alone in the Graduate Assistants office, staring at the M.A. in English Examination grades posted on the wall. He had passed with a B. He had officially earned a Master’s degree. Briggs had earned an A. Flynn probably could have pulled off an A too if he hadn’t
spent so much time preparing for Faustino’s classes.
He heard a gentle cough in the hallway, then Dr. Slowick came in and sat down in the chair opposite Flynn. The professor ran his hand over his bald head and straightened his glasses. Flynn was afraid to speak. What would compel Slowick to come into school during his sabbatical?
“It has fallen to me . . .” Slowick started to say, but then his face flushed and he got up and left the room.
*
James Faustino lay face down in his marital bed, clutching the sides of the mattress as if he had been flying through the air, hanging on for dear life, before landing with a profound thud in this room. His face was buried in his wife’s pillow, his hair spread like an old mop over the white collar of his pressed shirt and the jacket of his black suit. He had never allowed any part of himself to touch her pillow—his body odor would stain the cloth, or a long strand of his gray hair would mar its smooth surface—but a half-hour earlier he had plunged his face into it, choking out sobs and not bothering to wipe his nose.
He heaved himself over and stared at the ceiling, at the cheap plastic squares he had always promised his wife he’d replace, at the water stain above the closet door. This was nothing he could bear. This was not the outcome he had planned on. He was the one: Type A, gargantuan, poor eating habits . . .
“Jo—” he choked out, but on his mind was not his wife’s name but a phrase from A Farewell to Arms, one he had quoted to her in the hospital three days earlier as if it were his own line, after she had told him (her hand stroking his beard, touching the lids of his eyes), “If this gets me, honey, I want you to move on. I want you to live and love again.”
“I don’t live at all when I’m not with you,” he said back, and then imagined young Hawkins finding his statement ridiculously romantic. Well to hell with him. He loosened the tie that was strangling him.