by Amy Gentry
“Come on, Mac, don’t take it personally.” She’s stopped trying to correct herself on my name.
“Does he hate me?”
“His feelings were hurt pretty badly. But I think mostly he just wants to forget that part of his life. I do, too.”
“You don’t remind each other? How nice for you both.”
“Connor was there for me during some tough times, right after I left,” she snaps. “I helped him leave, too. It wasn’t easy for either of us.”
“You make the Program sound like an abusive relationship.”
“You said it, not me.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little hyperbolic?”
She stops cold and looks at me, and I realize we passed the lounge area long ago and walked the hallway circuit instead. We’ve looped back; we’re nearly to her room again.
“No, I don’t,” she says, with an intensity I haven’t felt from her before. “The Program changed you.”
“I’m not the only one.”
“Doing anything to get ahead—”
“Keeping secrets—”
“What you did to Connor—”
“Playing innocent one minute, and the next—”
“—ruthless.”
“—shameless.”
The words came out at the same time.
“ ‘Shameless’? What’s that supposed to mean?” she says.
We stand looking at each other. I haven’t mentioned Rocky’s name yet—not that I remember, anyway. I wonder whether she did, at the bar. I was alone when I saw her ring. Maybe she was in the bathroom, crying, too.
But I can’t gamble on that right now. “Nothing.”
She stalks toward her room, and I race after her to stop her. “All I’m saying is that you suddenly had a lot of new friends.” I pivot back to the theme of Connor. “And I find it interesting that now we’re all out of it, you’re still the one who does.”
She looks at me in disgust. “Poor Mac. Poor Research I, tenure-track Mac. It makes you furious that I don’t want any of this.” Her gesture takes in the hotel, the conference, everything. “It’s not enough for me to be happy for you. You want me to want it, too, so that you can feel good that you got it instead of me.”
“For the last time, it’s Claire.” I allow my fury to come through in my voice. “And no, I know you’d rather be skiing in Aspen and throwing parties in your Italian castle, despite what you want everyone to think.”
“And what do I want everyone to think?”
“That you hate your money. That you’re ashamed of it.” My eyes burn. “When as a matter of fact, you love it.”
“Yes! I like having money!” She throws up her hands. “Is that what you want me to say? It makes life easier. It always has. I’m thankful for all the good things in my life. I liked that my father was there for my childhood, and that my mother was functional, and that I didn’t have a sister who needed constant care. Haven’t you made me pay for it? When will it ever be enough for you?”
Toward the end of this speech, her voice churns with a wild, desperate mix of anger and pity, and she starts crying. I know that if I keep pushing her, she’ll spill the truth of what she knows.
Ten feet in front of us, the elevator doors start to slide open, laughter spilling out.
I catch a glimpse of our reflection in the black windows: two maudlin drunks shouting at each other after closing time. We’re a mess. Twin messes. And the hotel is chock-full of my colleagues.
Our eyes meet. Gwen doesn’t want to be seen in this state any more than I do. She turns back toward the room, but then a door down the hallway opens. Raucous, last-round laughter echoes from the elevator. In a moment, we’ll be surrounded.
“In here.” I open the stairwell door and pull us both through it. The heavy fireproof door swings shut on the sound of partyers with an echoing, metallic crash. “If we’re going to fight, let’s at least do it where no one can hear us.”
“I don’t want to fight, Mac.” Gwen chokes back her tears.
I don’t want to fight either. For once in my life, I don’t even want to win. I want to kill. I’ve felt it before, and I know the difference.
Bad Habits
10
In the cold light of day, it seemed impossible that I had gone to the Parlor last night, wasted twenty bucks on beer, gotten drunk, and then come home and watched a movie afterward. Those were scenes from my normal life, before I’d known about Gwen and Rocky and the Joyner, before I’d slept with Bethany and lost my job and extorted money from her. Now only two things mattered: my Joyner project, and the envelope of cash that would buy me the time to keep working on it.
The money was supposed to be in my mail folder, but the Program office didn’t open until 8 a.m., and it was 6 a.m. now. So, I headed to the library. Tucked away in my study carrel, my mind kept drifting back to the $400 waiting for me in my mail folder. Even the stained-glass window above my carrel reminded me of money. One of many artistic tributes to industry that dotted the campus, it depicted a couple of pickaxes crossed under a golden sun that looked like a coin.
I forced my attention back to the task at hand.
“Don’t go to grad school if you don’t want to write,” one of my Urbana professors had warned me. I had nodded, secretly annoyed. At the time, I churned out A-level papers in one night. But now, staring at the blank page, I felt profoundly empty. Nothing came to my head. Nothing at all.
Thank god I had recorded Bethany’s lecture. Maybe without her in front of me, I could finally get some clarity on what she was actually saying. I put in my earbuds and found the file, and there I was, back in her office, surrounded by her. I had intended to transcribe, but I found my mind wandering to Saturday night.
I heard a noise behind me and yanked out my earbuds, half expecting it to be her. Outside, a pigeon flapped against the stained glass. When it flew away, the silence was deafening.
Not knowing why, I opened the web browser and searched for Bethany’s name. I started with her faculty bio, then moved on to blog posts and interviews, then an image search. I saw Bethany lecturing at a podium, hands sculpting the air; Bethany in a group photo at a conference; Bethany at a reception holding a wineglass. It wasn’t enough. I wanted to see her shopping, brushing her teeth, crying at a movie. Being a person. I found ProfTalk.com and read hundreds of student reviews. “So cool.” “Too hard.” “I dream about her.” “She’s brilliant.” “I’m obsessed with her boots.” “She really cares about her students.” “She’s a heinous bitch.” “She walked out of my presentation.” “I keep wondering whether she likes me or not.” “She made a girl cry in class.” “Intense.” “The smartest woman in the world.” “Bitch.” “I worship her.”
I snapped my laptop shut.
Hands trembling, I pulled out my notebook and flipped through it at random, hoping to refresh myself on economimesis. Grady’s paper was just as important, and I was seeing him later today. I found and read my dubious notes from early in the semester:
Economy: resources in a society OR careful management of available resources
Mimesis: imitation of life in a work of art (e.g., birds pecking at Zeuxis’s painted grapes)
Econo + mimesis: careful management of available resources in an imitation of life
An imitation of life. It reminded me of the Douglas Sirk film, which reminded me of what Rocky had said in the car on the way to the retreat: the world needs movies more than it needs academics. A film was an imitation of life that I could wrap my brain around. Maybe I could write my paper about a film.
While I was still puzzling over this, the campus clock tower tolled 8 a.m. Thank god. I scooped up my things and hustled out of the library. Once in the department, I hurried to the racks of folders along the mail wall and slipped my hand into my folder, fishing out a letter-sized envelope that felt satisfyingly heavy. Cash, at least, was real.
Before I could look inside to count it, Margaret came out of her office.
“Oh.” I had been planning to make the deposit right now, before Grady’s office hours.
“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you get paid for your time. I just need to get this letter printed out and walked over to the Dean’s office as soon as possible.”
Clearly, I had no choice; my work-study job was beginning now. I thought of the Joyner letter I needed from Margaret, took a deep breath, and sat in Lorraine’s ergonomic chair, which Margaret held away from the desk expectantly.
“Now, let’s see, she keeps all the passwords there.” She pointed to a manila folder sitting neatly erect in an upright file holder to my right. I opened it and found a single sheet of legal paper with a list of passwords. “Yes, that’s the one.”
For the next five minutes, Margaret used me as a living keyboard and mouse to search for her file, indicating which folder she wanted me to open by pointing over my shoulder.
“Lorraine has a place for everything, I just don’t know how to find it. Ah, ‘Disciplinary,’ that could be it.” She jabbed her finger toward a folder that we could have found in ten seconds by looking at the “recently opened” tab. Moving the cursor to open it, I started at the file name: “filmore_tess.”
“Yes, that’s the one. If you could just open that up, print out a copy on letterhead, and bring it to me to sign. Shouldn’t take a minute.”
She retreated to her office while I skimmed the letter, feeling more and more nauseated.
Dear Dean Cadwallader,
It is with deep regret that I write to initiate disciplinary proceedings against Tess Filmore, a first-year student in the Emerging Studies Program. While Ms. Filmore’s classwork has shown promise, her poor attendance, antisocial tendencies, and lack of initiative outside of class suggest motivational impairment. As you are well aware, the attrition rate among students of color in the Program is problematically high, and we have made it our policy to address signs of motivational impairment early on, so as to give all of our students the resources and support they need to succeed. Unfortunately, Ms. Filmore has responded to my concern with hostile and threatening behavior.
Ms. Filmore displayed antisocial tendencies as early as the First-Year Orientation Retreat, where she refused to participate in team-building exercises and influenced a student who has since left the Program to do the same. Anonymous sources report that she has repeatedly rejected offers of faculty mentorship. She has also had several absences in my class. My assistant, Lorraine Cho, witnessed Ms. Filmore’s violent outburst when asked if she needed financial or emotional assistance. During this incident, I feared for my safety.
While I do not wish to be rash in stigmatizing a student, I feel it is our duty to require Ms. Filmore to seek immediate assistance from mental health services. For my safety and that of my staff, I recommend that she be required to provide an affidavit of mental competence before she is allowed to reenter the Program offices.
I hope Sheila is well, and that we are all able to have brunch again sometime soon when the weather gets a little better—
“I don’t hear the printer,” Margaret called from her office.
I ripped myself away from the awful letter. “There was a paper jam.” I got up, shaken, and opened and shut all the printer doors in rapid succession. Then I dropped a piece of letterhead into the printer tray and went back to the computer. While it printed, I pulled out my phone and snapped a quick picture of the screen, scrolling down to capture the second page. Then I brought the printed letter to Margaret’s desk.
“Mackenzie, you’re a lifesaver! Bethany said you would be.” Margaret signed the bottom of the second page, slashing through “Dean Cadwallader” and writing “Jim” over the strike-through. She handed it back. “If you could just run this down to the Dean’s office on your way out, I would be so grateful. And don’t forget to log this on your timesheet! Let’s round this up to an hour. Our little secret.” She winked.
I closed my thumb and forefinger around the corner of the signed letter, feeling about it as if it were something that had come straight out of her asshole, and turned to go. Once out of Margaret’s office, I took a detour to the bathroom, where I locked myself in a stall to read it again.
The whole thing was ridiculous. Insubordinate, for buying a pie. The rest—motivational impairment, emotional problems—defied comprehension. I recalled the conversation I had overheard through the office door yesterday and almost laughed out loud at the thought of Margaret, nearly six feet tall, quaking in her chair from fear of Tess, who stood all of five foot two. I remembered Tess’s argument with Matt at the party, her dry sarcasm. Tess had a coolness to her I couldn’t imagine someone like Margaret disrupting.
I held the letter, not sure what to do, longing to drop it in the toilet and flush. I imagined it backing up the department toilets, and Margaret, up to her ankles in bilge water, yelling for an absent Lorraine.
Racked with indecision, I slid the letter into my bag and got out my phone. The very least I could do was warn Tess. I texted, Tess, you need to see this. Prepare yourself, it’s bad. Then I sent the snapshots of the letter.
The bathroom door opened, and I heard sturdy shoes shuffle and squeak toward the accessible stall. I could barely see Margaret’s clogs through the gap in the stall. I flushed and fled.
Downstairs, I stood outside the Dean’s office for a moment, the letter weighing a metric ton in my hands. To deliver it was to betray Tess. But if I delayed or destroyed the letter, there would be email follow-ups from Margaret, or perhaps they really would get brunch with Sheila sometime and discover what had gone wrong. The misdelivered letter would be traced back to me.
I needed a recommendation from Margaret. Three letters for the Joyner, and Rocky was a nonstarter. It had to be Margaret.
I walked into the Dean’s office and dropped the letter in the receptionist’s in-box. The Dean would never believe this pile of tripe. Tess would apologize, Margaret would back down, and the whole thing would blow over.
As I walked out of the building, my phone started vibrating with responses from Tess. A long string of invectives, some extremely creative—more or less what I’d expected. Her last text read: When did this go out???
I paused, then checked the tiny date on the picture of the letter. I’d been too upset to update it before printing out the letter. After some hesitation, I typed and sent: Yesterday. So sorry.
* * *
Patiently, I sat in Grady’s office enduring his definition of economimesis, which was exactly the same every time I asked, and which I understood no more or less than the first time I’d heard it. Grady had a well-controlled stutter that only came out rarely, when he got terribly excited; at all other times, including now, he spoke slowly and calmly, measuring his words as if in perfectly leveled teaspoons, rectangular glasses millimetering down his nose with every word.
“I was thinking about writing my paper on a film,” I said, waiting half a beat after one of his sentences stopped. It was sometimes hard to tell when Grady was finished talking, since he used almost no inflection. “Something about dinner parties? I was thinking of Resnais, or maybe Buñuel.”
Grady paused reflectively, as if assessing his response in advance so as not to accidentally surprise himself. “That would be appropriate,” he said in four-four time by the metronome, “though not necessarily successful.” He paused. Just as I was about to open my mouth, he finished. “Buñuel, I am inclined to think, more so than Resnais.”
“I was thinking more of Buñuel, too.” I launched into a quick reading of The Exterminating Angel as an economimetic structure. Whenever Grady began to purse his lips, I backpedaled or reversed course, until I’d produced a skeletal argument that appeared to satisfy him. I finished talking and waited for his opinion.
The heavy glasses had wiggled themselves down to the bridge of his nose, and he pushed them up against his brow bone before he began. “Or perhaps, after all, Resnais.” He finished this pronouncement with a squint that launched the glasses once more on their infinitesimal slide. “If executed well. I’ll look forward to reading it, Mackenzie.”
I took his use of my name as my signal to change the subject.
“Professor Herschel,” I said, waiting for him to tell me to call him by his first name, Grady. He did not. “I was wondering whether you might be willing to write a letter of support for my Joyner application.”
Grady’s eyebrows shot up above his frames, and the glasses actually hopped downward.
“I’m getting a letter from Bethany,” I added.
Grady nodded slowly, but only once. Then he reached up and removed his glasses. Without them, he looked younger, his bare eyes blinking beneath thick eyelashes. “Of course, I’m happy to write you a letter, Mack-k-enzie,” he said. “I d-didn’t know you were int—” He paused, took a breath, and continued, “in terested in the Joyner.”
“Isn’t everyone?”
“N-no.” He wiped his glasses with a Kleenex he drew from a box on his desk. Then he replaced the rectangular black frames at the very apex of his nose’s slope, transforming his face back into that of a cartoon robot. “The Joyner is for students who come in with a strong project and stand to benefit from a faster pace. There have been—m-missteps.”
Who would benefit more from getting through the Program quickly than someone with a family to support? His answer chilled me. Despite Bethany’s confidence, it felt like everywhere I went, I was haunted by subtle suggestions that I wasn’t cut out for the Joyner. I squared my jaw. “It doesn’t hurt to try, right?”