The long sentence has done Angela good. It’s taken her briefly out of herself and made her forget the class. Still, she’s not a great reader. She goes too fast, in a nasal monotone and a faint Jersey accent. Even so, Swenson’s enchanted by the language and by the image of the girl dreaming of her music teacher among the incubators and eggs.
For one terrifying moment he thinks: Oh dear god, I’ve fallen in love. There is no remedy, nothing to do but try everything, risk anything to be with her. What a time to realize this—in the middle of class! Meanwhile his students are squirming. Angela’s still reading.
“Thanks,” he says. “That was great.” Angela turns on Swenson with the grumpy face of a kid waking from a nap.
“What’s the matter?” she says.
“Nothing. That was terrific.” He never says anything like that. “Who wants to start?”
“I will,” says Meg. “Well, first of all, I just didn’t believe it.”
Fine. They can write that off. Everyone recalls how Angela tore into Meg last week. It’s payback time. That’s how the system works, except in the rare cases of unusually generous, honest, or masochistic students who can get their hearts ripped out and the next week praise their attacker. But no one’s that selfless in this class. No wonder they’re all writing about having sex with lower life forms. It spares them the complications of love for their fellow humans. Well, some classes are just that way. It’s chance, the luck of the draw, group dynamics. All of which means that Angela could be in for a very rough time.
“What didn’t you believe, Meg?” Swenson labors to purge his voice of contempt.
“The whole thing,” says Meg. “Every word. Even the a’s and the the’s were a lie. Like Mary McCarthy said about Lillian Hellman.”
Comparing Lillian Hellman and Angela Argo strikes Swenson as so hilarious that he’s afraid he’ll dissolve in hysterics that may lead to wrenching sobs. “Yes, well, I suppose that before we get into Hellman and McCarthy…someone should say what’s good about the piece.”
“I thought some of the egg stuff was…okay,” Carlos offers.
“Oh, come on, Carlos,” says Claris. “It was all so heavy. So obvious and symbolic. And fake.”
“You go, Claris!” says Makeesha. “Don’t be giving us that egg shit, Angela.”
Claris looks Swenson full in the face, and everything becomes clear. Cool appraisal flickers in her yellow-green eyes. He glances through Angela’s manuscript. How well he knows those first pages. He can hardly remember how his own novel begins.
“I didn’t believe the voice,” Meg says. “A teenage girl wouldn’t think like that.”
“She doesn’t use any teenage expressions,” says Nancy. “It was, like, totally unrealistic.”
“I have to say I felt the same way,” Danny says. “I kept wanting this girl to say something that made me believe in her as a character, instead of which we get this weird…old person going on with this disgusting stuff about hatching eggs.” Awfully high-toned sentiments from a guy whose hero has unnatural relations with the family dinner.
Jonelle says, “We don’t hear anything about the narrator. I kept waiting to learn something about her…as a character.”
“Well, it’s only the first part of the first chapter of a novel,” says Swenson.
“Still,” says Meg. “All the more.”
“Yeah,” says Carlos. “I mean, a novel’s got to have something to keep you reading, and I wasn’t sure I was going to stay with this story about some chick, ha ha, some chick hatching eggs and having fantasies about her teacher.”
Swenson’s paging through the manuscript, this time with the vague intention of asking them to point out the parts they don’t believe. But before he can speak, Courtney Alcott announces, “I totally agree with everything everyone’s said. This is, like, the worst thing we’ve read in class all year.”
Tears are shining in Angela’s eyes. Red patches bloom on her cheeks. She’s on the edge of breaking apart, and Swenson’s let it happen. She can’t just shrug the whole thing off, as the others have learned to do. This is Angela’s heart’s blood, and Courtney’s drained the last drop.
Swenson feels the thrum that precedes the bells. As they toll, he closes his eyes, and the room disappears. The sound fills his mind, working its way into the folds of his brain. There’s no space left for distraction, for trivial, useless thoughts. He enters a deeply meditative state. He could be a Tibetan monk blowing one of those six-foot trumpets, in search of instant enlightenment through oxygen deprivation.
When the bells stop and he opens his eyes, the world appears washed clean. Now, in his exaltation, he feels less like a monk than like a prophet or a madman or the…oracle at Delphi. All he has to do is open his mouth for pure truth to come burbling out. He’s never felt so guided, so certain of his mission.
“Sometimes…” Swenson pauses to listen to the silence so deep it’s roaring, or maybe it’s the lingering echo of the bells. “Sometimes it happens that something new comes along, something fresh and original, unlike what’s been written before. Once in a lifetime or once in a generation, there’s a Proust or a Joyce or a Virginia Woolf. Almost always, hardly anyone understands what the writer’s doing, most people think it’s trash, so the writer’s life is a hell.”
How banal his little oration is! Every moron knows this. And what is he doing, mentioning Joyce and Woolf? Suggesting that Angela’s novel is Remembrance of Things Past?
“As good as Angela’s chapter is—and it’s very good—you realize I’m not saying that Angela’s writing Ulysses.” A few students giggle. Do they know what Ulysses is? “But her writing’s original, the rest of you need to see that, because if there’s anything I want you to take away from this class, it’s the ability—the generosity—to recognize the real thing.”
Two hot dark coals of resentment glow in each student’s face. Let them find out for themselves that life is unfair. Talent isn’t doled out equally to everyone at birth. Plus, Angela, gifted as she is, works ten times harder than anyone else. How dare these little thugs presume to tell her how to write? He knows his anger isn’t pure, or purely on Angela’s behalf. He has his own reasons for being enraged: the hours he’s spent in this hellhole, the pages of grisly prose that have furnished the text for hours of classroom discussion. The years he’s sacrificed! How little time is left, and how much of it he’ll have to waste in rooms like this one—in this one—pandering to these children’s silly ideas about something that means so much, something he might be doing right now if he weren’t watching time trickle away in the company of his adolescent jailers.
“What should be obvious to you all is that Angela’s manuscript is a thousand—a million—times better than anything we’ve seen in this class this semester.”
“That’s bullshit, too,” says Carlos.
The others are temporarily incapable of commenting on whether it’s bullshit or not. Swenson stands and gathers his papers and—without a thought for how long the class is supposed to last—leaves the room before anyone can ask him whose story they’re doing next week.
Hurrying across the quad, Swenson feels confident, energetic—capable, for the first time in weeks, of telephoning Len Currie. He won’t be calling about himself, his book or lack of book, won’t be asking for a favor or for personal attention, for patience or impatience with him for not having written his novel. He needn’t wheedle or apologize, manipulate or boast, resort to the various strategies writers adopt with their editors. No, sir. He’s doing something generous and large, something in keeping with his standing in the literary world and his vocation as a teacher.
Clearly, his classroom aria on the subject of Angela’s work was a dress rehearsal for his conversation with Len. Every adjective he used was a dry run for what he’ll say when he calls down to Manhattan. He unlocks his office door, throws down his coat, picks up the phone, and dials.
Some higher power must know that Swenson’s on a crusade. Len’s assistant asks
Swenson’s name and immediately puts him through. Len not only picks up, but sounds happy to hear from Swenson.
“Hey, man,” he says. “How are you? It’s been a million years. When are you coming down to New York? It would be great to see you.”
Isn’t that what you always hear: call your editor after lunch. After the two martinis, they’re in more receptive moods. At least that’s what you used to hear. No one drinks at lunch anymore. It’s all Perrier and decaf. Even Swenson knows that. Or does he? What does he know? He’s been away twenty years. For all he knows they’re drinking again. Because the fact is that Len sounds…drunk. Or in some other sort of artificially assisted good mood. Maybe he’s been carrying on a noontime romance with some assistant publicist. Which means that he and Swenson have a little something in common…. In any case, Swenson understands that this moment is unusual, and fleeting. If he wants to see Len, he should take him up on it now.
“Well, actually, that’s why I’m calling. I’m going to be in town…the week after next.”
“Let me check my calendar,” Len says. “The week of the twenty-third? That’s Thanksgiving week. Really?”
That’s not what Swenson meant at all. Ruby’s coming home for the holiday. It’s the one time in the entire year Swenson can’t come down. He could postpone classes, faculty meetings, student conferences. But blow off Ruby’s visit? He just said the week after next without knowing what week it was.
Len says, “Actually, you know what, that Friday is perfect. It’s the only lunch slot I’ve got free on my schedule for the next year. Only kidding. But it’s almost that bad. That Friday would be fabulous. I’m not going into the office. By lunchtime I’ll be climbing the walls to get away from the wife and kids.” He pauses. “Don’t tell anyone I said that.”
Maybe, just maybe, it’s possible. Swenson could fly into town Friday morning. Ruby would understand. She probably has plans of her own, plans involving Matt. Ruby and Sherrie could have some time together, and they’d all be heartened by this evidence that the man of the house has a life, a professonal life beyond Euston.
Of course, it’s just as likely that Ruby will hate him for skipping out on her first weekend home in a year, and Sherrie will never forgive him. Well, so be it. He’ll have to live with that. He welcomes it, in a way. If he’s going to do something wrong—cheat on his wife, skip out on his daughter—he might as well do everything wrong. Let’s show the world how bad he really is: bad husband, monstrous father. What is this sick Dostoyevskian craving for punishment and expiation? Possibly something he inherited from his dad, like some late-onset degenerative disease, latent until middle age.
“Ted,” says Len. “Are you still there?”
“Sorry,” says Swenson. “I spaced out for a second.”
“Jesus,” says Len. “You writers. All right, then. See you Friday, at one. You know the Norma? On East Twenty-second? Twenty-second and Park Avenue South.”
“I’ll find it,” Swenson says.
The protocol for Ruby’s visit has been as elaborately orchestrated as the plans for the arrival of some volatile, powerful head of state. Sherrie’s told him not to question Ruby’s decision to arrive on Thanksgiving morning—after all, she’s staying till Sunday. Sherrie doesn’t have to point out that Swenson has lost the right to comment on anyone else’s comings and goings, since he himself is ducking out in the middle of the holiday weekend, apparently the only day all year when he can have a business lunch with Len. Sherrie and Ruby each said something like that once, and then acceded to Swenson’s plan with a speed and ease that he found demoralizing and ever so slightly insulting.
It’s been decided that Sherrie will pick Ruby up at the bus station—Swenson’s a little vexed that Sherrie so obviously doesn’t trust him to handle this delicate overture—and bring her home, where Swenson waits, pretending to read, pretending to watch TV.
At last he hears Sherrie’s car pull in. Should he stay in his chair, with his newspaper, and rise to kiss her, the classic, dignified dad? Or should he run outside and throw his arms around her in an effusive papa-bear hug? Why can’t he remember what he used to do? He opts for a compromise position—outside, but on the doorstep, smiling, giving Ruby a choice.
Ruby’s gained weight. Her face is a pale white moon, and there’s a certain blurriness, a thickness around her chin. In her baggy jeans and sweatshirt, she looks like a student at State, some local kid—which is what she is. When Ruby sees him, a look comes into her eyes that he chooses to read as affection, though the alternate reading is distant pity. Has he shrunk, or aged drastically? The debilitated daddy, hovering on the doorstep? She hugs him dutifully—she can’t get past him without submitting—and then pats him roughly on the head.
She stands in the living room, looking around. Who can tell what she’s seeing as she sniffs the air, incuriously. “Hm, turkey,” she says. “Cool. I’ll go put my stuff away.”
When they hear her door shut, Sherrie says, “This feels familiar.”
“Back to square one,” says Swenson.
“Maybe not,” says Sherrie. “Maybe she’s just putting her stuff away. Anyhow, it’s her room.”
Sherrie always takes Ruby’s side. But what side is that, exactly?
After Ruby’s been in her room for almost two hours, Swenson knocks on her door. “Can I come in?”
Ruby says what sounds like, “Sure.”
Ruby’s kneeling on her desk, which seems dangerously fragile. Swenson imagines the scenario in which she falls over backward, just as when she was small he used to visualize, obsessively, terrifying cinematic images: Ruby tumbling down the stairs, Ruby’s school bus crashing. “Redecorating?” he asks.
“This stuff’s kind of babyish.” Ruby’s prying out thumbtacks, letting her pictures of film and rock stars drift to the desk. Swenson can’t help thinking of Angela’s room, with its varied, stylish, attractive faces—Chekhov, Akhmatova, Virginia Woolf, all with their excellent bone structure. Ruby and Angela are the same age. There’s no point dwelling on that. It crosses his mind that in the past, Ruby’s changing her room decor meant she was entering some new phase that she wanted, or needed, to broadcast all over the walls. But now there’s nothing going up, only coming down. He thinks: She’s not redecorating. Ruby’s moving out.
“So…how’s school?” he asks.
“Good,” says Ruby. Down comes Suzanne Vega, down comes Magic Johnson.
“What’s happening with Magic Johnson’s health? He seems to be doing fine.”
“Yeah,” says Ruby. “Sure, Dad. I guess.” Down comes some empty-eyed kid with long stringy hair. “Who’s that?” he asks.
“Beck,” says Ruby.
“Right. I forgot.” Why go on? Swenson’s just about to leave when Ruby says, “How’s your novel coming, Dad?”
He must have heard her wrong. But what else could she have said? “Great,” he replies. “It’s going great!” And for a moment, he thinks it is. All he needs to do is write it! “In fact, I was just going to go take a look at it. Call me when dinner’s ready.”
Jimi Hendrix slips to the desk as Ruby turns to face Swenson. “Doesn’t Mom need help?”
“She probably does. I’ll go and see.”
“I will,” says Ruby, combatively.
“Mom would love that,” Swenson says.
“Whatever,” Ruby answers.
Swenson slinks off to his study. My Dog Tulip is still in the living room, and he’s hesitant to go get it. He picks up a chunk of his novel, stares at the first page, but is afraid to read it. So much for the resolution he felt when Ruby asked how it was going. He looks for Angela’s manuscript. Where the hell did he put it? Here. It’s in his briefcase, in preparation for its trip to see Len. He takes it out of the envelope and reads a few pages, reassured to discover it is as good as he thought. He holds the pages up to his face, as if they’re an article of clothing on which he can pick up Angela’s scent. He can’t believe he’s doing this. His beloved daughter is fi
nally—at long last—back in their home, and he’s off alone in his room, pining for a student his daughter’s age.
He wanders into his bedroom and briefly falls asleep, dreams of bottles of olive oil with stained, greasy labels that, for some reason, he knows he’s supposed to read. Then someone is reading them to him, a woman’s voice, a genie that appears in a cloud of delicious smells…. It’s Sherrie, calling him for Thanksgiving dinner. Callinghim to carve the turkey that they will eat together as they always did, their little family on Thanksgiving Day, ever since they moved out of the Euston dorm, where they suffered through those grim cafeteria dinners with the students stranded at school.
Compared with that, this isn’t bad. In fact it’s pretty good. A warm house, his wife and child. They love each other. They’re together.
Ruby heaps her plate as if she hasn’t eaten since she left home. Hasn’t she heard of seconds? Well, Swenson should be grateful, he has a dozen colleagues with anorexic kids. Ruby’s manners have gotten worse. Perhaps it goes with the extra weight. A slippery wedge of meat disappears between her glistening lips.
“When did your classes end?” asks Sherrie and then looks in panic at Swenson. Please don’t let Ruby take this as a criticism of when she came home.
“Actually we didn’t have classes this week.”
“Why not?” Sherrie asks.
“They had a teach-in,” Ruby says.
“A teach-in,” says Swenson. Perhaps that explains why Ruby was asking about his father. Maybe the teach-in was about Vietnam. Maybe someone mentioned the Buddhist monks and the guys, like Swenson’s dad, who immolated themselves. “What kind of teach-in?”
“About the Mikulsky case.”
“Oh, Jesus, no,” says Swenson.
“Ted,” says Sherrie. “Let Ruby talk. Okay?”
“I can’t believe they cancel classes so they can spend two days debating whether that poor schmuck did or didn’t smack his lips over a Greek sculpture.”
“Ted,” says Sherrie. “You’ve got to shut up now. I mean it.”
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