“Hi, Tracy.” Elizabeth greets me in the dim corridor with a trapped expression I recognize from our last encounter. This time she carries a sheaf of student papers under one arm.
“How’s it going?”
“Okay, I guess.” Her mouth quavers: a fluttering ribbon of a smile.
Down the hall, Eileen steers her loaded cart majestically into the photocopy room. I wait until she’s out of earshot. “Ever get through that gargantuan stack of books?” I ask.
Elizabeth nods, her laugh tight. She glances at her watch. “I’ve got another stack, though. Joanne recommended more reading. I guess I’ll need to move back my dissertation-defense date a few weeks. I just talked to Eileen about the rescheduling.”
“You’re joking.”
She shakes her head, then looks at her watch once more.
From down the corridor a beam shines across the sill of the copy-room door, then sweeps the hallway and walls like the sudden interrogation of a lighthouse. Eileen is copying with the machine’s top open. A brief pause; then the light sweeps the hall again and continues in regular rhythm, a long, diagonal bar of brightness swinging across the far wall, up our bodies, across our faces, scaling the walls nearly to the ceiling, where it snaps off. Slide . . . clunk. Slide . . . clunk. The heartbeat of the department. Elizabeth shifts her papers to her other arm, and as she does there is an instant’s desperate communication from her wide black eyes.
“You know you don’t have to do all that, right?” I offer gently. “Joanne isn’t even your adviser. I am. And the dissertation draft I’ve been reading is wonderful. It’s going to make some waves in the Dickinson world. Elsewhere too, I’d bet.”
Elizabeth watches me. The light slides up her face, illuminating her mouth; her nose; her eyes; her forehead. As it passes onward and leaves her in darkness, I have a disturbing image of her pale face looking up at me from under water.
“What are the books Joanne recommended?” I ask.
Elizabeth lists them, or starts to; after four titles I’ve had enough. “That material isn’t even relevant, Elizabeth, and we both know it.”
“It might be, if—”
“Look, Elizabeth, I’m sorry to cut you off, I really am, but this truly needs to be examined.” Pausing to listen for movement from the offices down the hall—there is none—I continue with lowered voice. “You could be nearly finished with your dissertation by now. It could be on its way to publication. But you’re getting caught in second-guessing, and I think Joanne is having”—I check myself—“a certain amount of trouble keeping in mind the best interests of your project and career.”
Elizabeth says nothing.
“I don’t mean to be hard on you. I’m just concerned.”
“I’ll think about it,” she promises. She turns on a bright, professor-pleasing smile.
“But why do the reading, Elizabeth?”
“It’s okay,” she soothes, stepping backward so the light sails off her shoulder and her face is shadowed. “I’ll just skim, in case there’s something in there I need.” Her voice is steady now, and carries a clear request to be left alone.
Jeff greets me in the faculty room with a raised glass of seltzer. “I hear you blew them away in Twentieth-Century Lit.”
It takes a moment to figure his meaning. I blink dizzily at Jeff, and at the sofa and the bookshelves and magazine racks of the faculty lounge, as though I’ve just tried on someone else’s glasses and can’t yet trust the world’s normal proportions.
“I didn’t think you had that kind of stunt in you,” Jeff continues.
The world reasserts its proper dimensions. Feeling loose-limbed, I pour myself coffee and stir in half-and-half. “I was possessed by the spirit of Beckett,” I say.
“Bullshit. You were possessed by the spirit of Mr. Tabouli. You didn’t throw that book, you levitated it with pure sexual energy.”
A grin steals onto my face, torpedoing any chance for a deadpan comeback. I sip my coffee, the usual coal-and-chalk departmental brew. “What’s that, anyway?” On his lapel Jeff wears a small button emblazoned with a picture of a smirking Brad Pitt.
“This,” says Jeff, eyeing his lapel as though a turd has inexplicably appeared on it, “is from Richard. In honor of our seventh anniversary. He worships Brad.”
“You’re wearing that to lecture?”
“Richard dared me,” Jeff says dryly.
I find it hard to imagine anyone daring Jeff to do a single thing he hadn’t already deemed was in his best interest. “He thinks you need more Brad in your life?”
“No. Not more Brad. Less dignity.” He pronounces the word with an expression so baleful it implies this seventh anniversary will be their last. He sets down his seltzer. “On a brighter note,” he says, “maybe it will help Paleozoic get the idea.” He opens his laptop.
“Trolling airfares again?” I ask.
He nods without looking up. “Download them every morning along with my e-mail, and look at them when I have a chance.” Jeff and Richard’s commitment to visit every three weeks has hit a stumbling block since fares jumped with fuel prices. “A pointless way of biding my time until the new job listings come out next month and Richard and I can scheme.”
“Again?”
“I’m serious this time. It’s not worth it to keep doing things this way. My grad school classmates who couldn’t find jobs may tell me what a lucky fuck I am to be tenured in Manhattan, but it’s rather irrelevant given my situation.”
“Can’t Richard just move to New York?”
“You know how much harder it is to find an academic job here. Plus, in other parts of the country a person can actually live well on an academic salary.”
“But doesn’t it—”
The door opens and Jeff hushes me with a tiny slice of his forefinger against his jugular. Victoria steps in, followed by Joanne, who on this warm late-September afternoon looks as sour as any winter-bitten, devil-fearing Hawthorne churchwoman.
Victoria looks displeased to find the faculty lounge occupied. “Good afternoon,” she says vigorously and with the barest of smiles. Crossing to the cupboard, she offers Joanne a coffee mug, but at a sharp shake of Joanne’s head returns the mug to its place.
I draw a deep breath. Jeff may disapprove, but it has to be done. “Joanne?”
She turns.
“At some point, when you’ve got a few moments free, I’d like to speak with you about Elizabeth.”
“What about Elizabeth?” She regards me, pale-lashed eyes unblinking.
“I was hoping you and I could discuss it in private.”
She sets a neat manila folder on the coffee table between us. “I don’t have time for secret tête-à-têtes.”
As though the rest of us loafers do.
In a heartbeat, Jeff has turned into a set of green sofa cushions, Victoria into several volumes of The Collected Works of Dante, softly sipping coffee.
Joanne lifts her chin. Goodwoman Miller, with the authority of the church behind her. The only thing missing is a bonnet.
I measure my words. “Elizabeth has been working on her dissertation for several years. She knows Dickinson inside and out, and her scholarship is first-rate. I’ve read her draft and it’s phenomenal. I’m sure if you read it you’d agree. I don’t think it’s necessary for her to do deep background reading on subjects that are tangential. Yet every time I see her she’s bent under another stack of books you told her were essential.”
Joanne’s reply is swift, spring-loaded. “I thought that was the kind of scholarship we prize in this department. Rigorous.”
“I have nothing against rigor.” The word is, despite my effort, splashed with sarcasm. “But don’t you think Elizabeth has done enough? She knows more about Romantic poetry than all of us combined.”
Joanne’s expression is mocking: Speak for yourself. “No one’s forcing her to do the extra reading.”
“Joanne, I know your aim is to help. But you’ve been a graduate student. If a
professor on your dissertation committee strongly suggests a book, you’re going to read it. Perhaps you’re unaware that because of your suggestions, Elizabeth has already requested to have her defense date pushed back?”
Joanne offers a noncommittal shrug.
“You and I know Elizabeth is one of the brightest sparks to come through this department in years. She ought to sail through the dissertation process. She should be in the downhill stage by now. Instead she’s getting more and more anxious. We’ve all seen students who are burnt out by the time they get their Ph.D.s. Most recover, but some don’t. Let’s not put Elizabeth in that position. I’m her adviser, and at this point any time I ask her about her progress she looks as though I’m with the torture squad.”
Joanne’s smile is icy. “I’m sorry you don’t have a better relationship with your advisee.”
From the book-lined wall behind Joanne, Victoria looks up, her face heavy with disapproval and a strange kind of pity.
“Joanne.” I keep my tone deliberate. “If this is something between you and me, let’s settle it, rather than playing it out through Elizabeth.”
She takes her folder from the coffee table and centers it, almost lovingly, under her arm. “My dear,” she says, “maybe everything isn’t about you.”
“Joanne,” Victoria says in a low voice.
Joanne’s words have lifted me to the balls of my feet, where I balance, calves trembling. “I’m not going to be dragged into a contest of insults. Elizabeth is an adult and free to choose her own course. I simply ask that you consider whether your advice is in her best interest.”
Joanne presses her lips into the form of a smile. “You’ve made your point.”
Exit Joanne.
Victoria, frowning, follows her without a glance at me or Jeff.
I face the shelves, bouncing lightly on the balls of my feet, scanning book spines blankly. From the sofa pillows behind me comes a soft yowl.
“Jesus!” I wheel to face Jeff. “Don’t give me that bullshit about women’s arguments being catfights. This is serious.”
Jeff emerges from the sofa like a Cheshire, sardonic grin first. “Why is it serious? Elizabeth may be timid, but surely she can take care of herself. And if she can’t, she’ll need to learn. If she wants a career in academia, she’s got to develop some basic political survival skills. You can’t do it for her. Your five-alarm response is uncalled for.”
“I disagree.”
“Why? Tracy, Joanne can’t take criticism. She never could, and this semester she’s got a bug up her butt, who knows why, and nothing you or I do is going to change that. Is she obnoxious? Of course she is. Plenty of people are. Why is this worth fomenting World War Three?”
“You think I’m the one fomenting?”
He blows me a kiss.
I have no rebuttal. What appeared logical a few moments ago now seems foolish. But I recall the cold blue light sliding across Elizabeth’s face and I know that Jeff is wrong. “I’m not trying to belittle Elizabeth’s ability to take care of herself,” I say. “But she’s got the worst case of good-student compulsion I’ve ever seen. And it’s going to get her in trouble.”
“Does it occur to you you’re being a bit controlling about this?” Eileen’s cart rattles by the faculty-room door at an excruciatingly slow pace. Stubbing the toe of my shoe into the carpet, I wait for it to turn down the far corridor.
“You think I am?”
Jeff’s hands hover over his keyboard. “Life will be much easier,” he says, “if you let this be Elizabeth’s problem.” His gaze returns to his laptop. I watch his eyes move down the screen. His fingers tap restlessly. “Great,” he murmurs. “More e-mailed excuses from my worst student.” He fires off a reply. Then his hands stop moving. “What’s this now?” He falls silent. In the space of a minute his expression changes from skeptical to stunned to boyish. I wait for him to speak.
“The chairman makes his move,” Jeff says softly.
“What chairman?”
“Emory.” His eyes are still on the screen. “They’ve been given a line for a senior hire. They’re inviting me to apply—give a job talk, meet the deans, the whole thing.” He blows out air, as if exhaling a long draw of cigarette smoke. “Richard told them last month that he was considering leaving to be with me, but we didn’t think they’d move so fast. Coca-Cola must be doling out that cash.” He lets out a sharp laugh. “So Emory is going to try to cherry-pick me.” He looks up. “I like the sound of that. I can be the cherry-cola prof of Brit lit. Of course they’d have to offer me tenure. That’s going to require playing some serious hardball.”
“You’d leave me here with White Fang?”
“In a heartbeat,” he says. His eyes drop back to his screen. He types rapidly.
A few moments pass before he looks up. “Oh, did I miss that cue?” He shuts his laptop, sets it on the sofa, stands, and regards me gravely. Then he startles me with a strong hug. “You’re the one thing about this department I’d miss.”
“Honestly?” I say, my chin on his shoulder.
He speaks the words slowly, his narrow chest thrumming. “You make this place marginally human.”
“That, Jeff, is the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in all my years in this department. Pathetic, but true.”
Pulling back, he chucks me under the chin.
The door opens and there’s a hoarse gasp. “Oh. Terribly sorry.” Paleozoic, pipe in hand, actually throws a hand over his eyes to prevent himself from seeing whatever untoward acts Jeff and I might be up to, standing here fully clothed in the faculty lounge. Ash scatters onto the carpet. Paleozoic looks confusedly at it, embarrassment stamped on his face.
Jeff snorts. “No call to be sorry.”
“I don’t need to know,” Paleozoic wheezes, warding off enlightenment with an airy, panicked wave. And is gone.
Late at night, lying on my back with one leg close enough to feel the warm fuzz of George’s, it strikes me: I am, for all the advice I have dispatched on the subject, utterly lacking in rules about relationships. During the three and a half weeks I have known George, I have been on drugs. Experiencing Technicolor flashbacks to here and now. Prone to fears and euphorias, not responsible for my actions. Love, as far as I can make it out, is contiguous with panic.
The digital clock glows green by the bed. George is fast asleep. I flip my pillow, adjust the covers.
I know a few rules of life. There is the Statute of Irrelevant Authority, which holds that if you shoot a crumpled paper across the room in the middle of a meeting, and if it drops right into the trash can, then your comments will instantly and thereafter be heard with more respect. If she can do that, what else can she do?
Then there is the Cookie Thief Paradigm: Sometimes it is better to ask forgiveness than permission. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I wasn’t supposed to eat those.
Beside me, George sighs. Who ever heard of anyone sighing in his sleep? I rest gingerly on the pillow and wonder whether this staggering weariness portends disaster. A weary man, I think. A man exhausted by his choices. My eyes open in the dark room, I conjure the bleakness of his gaze after a demanding day at work, and try to fathom what inner darkness it might signify. And remember a long-ago March weekend Hannah and I spent in Boston. It was evening; Hannah and I paused on a footbridge over the Charles River to look over the frozen, glinting surface, and it was then that the world came apart. Without warning there was movement all around. What should have been solid fractured and shifted; the horizon spun toward me in slow motion. I was twenty and recognized immediately that there was something wrong with me—a stroke, a heart attack, surely there was some terrible clinical name for this dizziness that set me clinging to the bridge’s stonework. Only as the world’s peculiar motion accelerated did I understand that I was fine. That my panic was due not to disaster but to the simple fact of change. The river had, at that very moment, broken. Chunks of ice turned, swirled deliberately, entered widening channels of black water. Ha
nnah and I ran from side to side of the bridge as the jigsaw that had been Boston’s winter spun and floated downriver, faster, irreversible, heading for the bay. Spring.
At two in the morning, with a man I’ve known only twenty-four days sighing in his sleep beside me, this metaphor is utterly unconvincing.
The Grocery Checkout Proviso: The more things you care about, the more vulnerable you are. If you are part of that epicurean minority in this country that is still offended by violations of the English language, you will be slapped in the face every time you stand in line at the market. FIFTEEN ITEMS OR LESS. Caring passionately about grammar—caring passionately about anything most of humanity doesn’t care about—is like poking a giant hole in your life and letting the wind blow everything around. Is like walking out your door with a big sign that says PLEASE FUCK WITH ME. The villain will seize the advantage, take hostages. For every single new thing or person you love, your vulnerability increases by a factor of precisely three billion. Falling in love is absurd. I am an absurd person.
Afternoon. Turning to Hannah for sanity, I find her in her apartment wiping vomit from the toilet seat.
Hannah is in her seventh month, beautiful, and head-turningly pregnant as she fills me in on the latest: Elijah, now napping, has mostly recovered from his bug, but the cough still makes him throw up. Refusing my offer of help, she finishes wiping the toilet and douses the area with air freshener. I sit on the sill of her tub—a perch where I’ve been advised through more troubles than I wish to recall. Hannah flips a wrung-out sponge onto a shelf, washes her hands, then flicks droplets of water onto my upturned face.
“Can you clip my toenails?” She sits on the closed toilet lid and grins saucily at me. “Don’t worry, I washed my feet. I can’t reach them over my belly, but I’m pretty sure I squirted liquid soap down there sometime in the last month.”
I make much of wrinkling my nose. “You’re lucky I like you.” Then I kneel on the bathroom mat, remove her thick socks, and take her broad and perfectly clean feet in my hands. She passes me the clipper and leans her head luxuriously against the rolls of toilet paper stacked on the tank of the commode. “Adam was by yesterday afternoon, to drop off a CD he pirated for Ed.”
Tolstoy Lied : A Love Story (9780547527307) Page 12