“The fact that you have to ask—the whole thing is—”
“I believe you,” Soleimani said. “We all do. There is a presumption of innocence.” He glanced at the other man. “I understand how you feel.”
Jonah said, “Do you?”
“Not—no, but I sympathize, you must feel a bit under the microscope—”
“Good guess.”
“And I understand that.”
“When did she call you?”
“This morning.”
“And what did she say?”
Soleimani looked for guidance. “I…I am not sure we should discuss that.”
“Oh come on, you can’t sit there accusing me of—”
The man on Soleimani’s left, Dr. Pierre, the dean of students, folded his veiny hands across his knee and said, “Nobody’s accusing you of anything. We’re trying to determine the truth, if any, of Ms. Hutchins’s allegations.” The dean sat back. “We’re trying to get to the bottom of it. It’s in your interest to be cooperative.”
Jonah said to Soleimani, “You were with me the entire time.”
“That is almost true, but if we are completely honest we must remember that—”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“—that it was not the entire time.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Ten minutes,” Soleimani said. “Unattended. The door was closed.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
The dean said, “Calm down, please, Jonah.”
Overheating; mildew in the carpet; shelves crammed with books on child development; walls papered with spindly line graphs, bibliographies, fMRIs. Soleimani declined to look Jonah in the eye, preferring to flick at a green Slinky on his desk, or to mess with the paperweights holding down a looseleaf manuscript of The Early Intervention Handbook, ed. S. I. Soleimani, M.D., MPH.
Of all the things Jonah wanted to say, he could find none not easily corrupted by an unkind interpretation.
I want to work with kids
I have never been accused of this before
I want to speak to my lawyer
It almost seemed easier to wave a white flag: he understood; sure, liability, sure, of course, sure. For the first time in his life he had an inkling of why people confessed to crimes they hadn’t committed. Living with certainty—regardless how bad—had serious advantages over squirming, and he had been squirming but ten minutes.
The dean said, “I’ve asked Ms. Hutchins to come down here so we can discuss this together.”
“What did DeShonna say?” Jonah asked. “Ask her, she’ll tell you the truth.”
“I will talk to her,” said Soleimani, “as soon as—”
“Ask her,” Jonah said. “Call right now, ask her.”
“I think everyone needs to take a nice deep breath,” said the dean.
“This could ruin my career,” Jonah said. “I can’t breathe it away.”
Soleimani said, “A problem like this—”
“I am not a problem.”
“I’m sure not,” said the dean. “And we’ll have it all resolved immediately. In the meantime, however, please take the day off. Dr. Soleimani will be in touch with you as soon as is expedient, and we can get back to work.”
“What about the Shelf?” Jonah demanded.
“Pardon?”
“I’m supposed to take the Shelf on Friday.”
“For now let’s focus on resolving this issue in the immediate. You’ll take the exam when it’s appropriate.”
On his way out, Dr. Pierre left the door ajar. Soleimani got up to close it.
“I am sorry this has to happen.”
Jonah said nothing.
“For what it is worth, I still think my original impression of you is the correct one.” Soleimani came around and sat on the edge of his desk.
“Whoop-de-doo.”
Soleimani frowned. “I want to help you.”
“Then believe me.”
“I do—”
“You’re going to take the word of an adolescent crackhead who DeShonna doesn’t even like? Isn’t this about the most transparent thing in the universe?”
“Do you hear me arguing with you?” Soleimani swatted the Slinky so it folded over. “We, the hospital, the department, as an institution, need to be careful. Even a hint of impropriety. You have to understand, the press. To question the victim—”
“There’s no victim.” Jonah felt his temper rising again. “It’s a third party.”
“Okay, but you must see that the bandwagon gets rolling, and it ceases to matter who is guilty—and I am not saying you are, okay? I am not saying that. People sling mud. They do not stop to think. They assume, and that is harmful for you and for us.”
“It would be,” Jonah said, “if there were any chance that it was true. There isn’t.”
“Perception, how people see the—and, and okay, I can see that you do not—”
“No. No. No. No.”
“—let me—let me ask you something: you agree that we do good work here. Yes? And you agree that it is important that we be allowed to keep working. No one else serves this community with the same professionalism and competence. You saw the way the girl lives. Our program is a haven. We cannot endanger ourselves, either by sullying our reputation or by…If the problem were real—I can see you becoming upset again….”
Jonah shook his head. “This is bullshit.”
“Hypothetically,” Soleimani said, “if the problem were real, then you would agree that the issue at stake is larger than you and your career. Are we in agreement.”
“Fine. Yeah. Whatever.”
“No. Not whatever. It is a serious—look,” Soleimani said, leaning in, “it so happens that this would not be the first time our department has confronted this issue.”
Jonah said nothing.
“I will not discuss the details with you, because it is far, far under the rug. But I assure you that the last thing this hospital needs is another child molester on staff.”
Jonah said, “I am not a child molester.”
“Of course not,” said Soleimani. “Of course.”
AS INSTRUCTED, He left work, skipping his afternoon lecture.
Do not beat yourself up, Jonah. We will clear this up faster than you can say boo.
He was tempted to go over to the housing project, find Adia Hutchins, and drag her straight to HUM. Or—better yet—bring in DeShonna herself. She would vindicate him. If Dr. Pierre wanted to accept a tall tale, go ahead. Jonah would sue. Defamation of character. Harassment. Malice aforethought. He could retain Roberto Medina.
His walk down Madison Avenue coincided with the final bells of neighborhood schools. He sorted the fleeing kids by dress and demeanor: coed and corduroy-pantsed from Hunter College HS; prep anorexics in dark tights and sky-blue blouses, plundering the corner markets for Diet Coke and wasabi peas. Chatting on phones and chomping on pizza; comparing SAT tutors and dissing their teachers.
the last thing this hospital needs
During his first year he, like all his classmates, had contracted Medical Student Syndrome. If his feet throbbed from a long day in the anatomy lab, he had gout. If his head and neck pounded from hours hunched over a textbook, he had meningitis, West Nile, a brain tumor.
Now he began to do the same thing, except that the faults he found were moral instead of physical. What if DeShonna really did think he’d molested her? He could not imagine why, but his brain was in overdrive. What if he’d inadvertently crossed some line? You never knew what a kid was thinking—especially not a thoughtful, reticent, damaged one like her. Abuse might have left her sensitive to being touched even in the most innocent way: his hand on her shoulder, causing her to regurgitate a trauma. What if—somehow—anyhow—he really had molested her, full-on sleazebag molested her—but now he couldn’t remember? He tried to tell himself that that was impossible. He knew it was impossible. But had you told him five months ago that he would stab a ma
n to death he would have called that impossible, too. Look at how he had changed. How she had changed him, brought ugliness to his surface, like pools of fat rising in soup.
Fuming, he marched to the crosstown stop on 97th Street. As he strode to the back of the bus, he gleaned from the startled reactions of other passengers that he had on a hostile expression. Good he thought. The better to play nice with.
THE DOORMAN AT Eve’s building was different, a young Hispanic man with close-cropped hair and glasses.
“Carmen Cove,” Jonah said.
“Your name, please?”
“Jonah.”
The doorman called up. “Mr. Jonah is here? Yes ma’am.” He set the phone down. “Eighth floor, eight G.”
In the elevator he couldn’t stop cracking his knuckles. Stepping out purposefully—ready to barrel through her door—he collided with her.
“How nice of you to drop by,” she said.
“Fifty bucks,” he said.
“Pardon me?”
“A hundred?” He ran his palms down his pant legs. “You bought her a vial of crack, was that it?”
“I must confess I don’t know what you’re—”
He punched her. Her head snapped back against the wall, making a sound like two hardcovers slapped together; she stumbled sideways, forward, and fell, finally, in a heap.
“Jonah Stem,” she mumbled, “how I’ve missed you.”
He knelt and forced her face into a pucker; blood oozed out.
“I vit my tfongue,” she said.
“I know you did it,” he said. “I want to hear you say it.”
Her eyes, liquid and vibrating, honestly so confused, and he began to think he’d made a mistake, that she had nothing to do with Adia Hutchins. Eve could not be blamed every time his life malfunctioned. He had made a mistake; he had made a terrible mistake; and shame divided, redivided, metastasized. He owed her an apology. He was going to give it to her—and then, beneath his fingers, her cheeks bunched into what would’ve been—had he not been juicing her face—a smile. The transformation dropped a sinker of revulsion through him. He backed away.
“You sent those two uniformed beasts round here to harangue me,” she said. She sat up, wiped her lips. “What was I supposed to do? You did a bad thing, Jonah Stem, and you deserved a warning. I regret any inconvenience that this recent turn of events may have caused you. But frankly, you should be thankful. I could have told Officer Krupke and Co. about how you beat me.”
“It’s not going to work,” he said. “You’re going to lose.”
“I’m an Ivy Leaguer, we hate to lose.” She cleared her throat. “Would you care to come in for a cup of tea? This is not a conversation I care to have in the hall.”
“Marisa Ashbrook,” he said. “Did you lose to her?”
For the first time ever, she looked caught off guard. Then she shrugged. “There”—she wiped her mouth again—“you’ve got it wrong. She was nothing like Raymond, or you for that matter. We had a special relationship, and what happened to her, while tragic, was nonetheless purely accidental.” She rolled toward him to stroke his ankle. If he wanted to, he could kick her throat in. He forced himself to take another step back.
“Don’t touch me, you cunt.”
“Jonah Stem. I know for a fact that you weren’t raised to speak that way. Speaking of—how’s your family? I didn’t have that growing up, Mayberry. My parents fought like cats and dogs. Life was rough. It was either listen to Dad whaling on Mom all night long or step in to stop it—in which case I got the belt. Sometimes I tried to help her and she gave me the belt for interfering. They had strict rules, my parents, unwritten and subject to constant revis—”
“Which parents would those be?” he said. “The ones who died of cancer, or the ones who split up when your mother ran off with Lou Reed?”
She laughed. “Clever boy. All right, if you must know. My father is an accountant. My mother is a teacher. They live in Bal-di-more. Could I concoct a more prosaic creation myth? And for the record, they never fought. Not once, never. Très ennuyeux. I don’t think they’ve had sex in eons.”
He had to leave. Before he hit her again. His black double was whetting itself, and she seemed to have read his mind; she smiled a little and sat up a little and spread her legs a little and said, “Come here.”
He summoned the elevator.
“You know I saw you kissing her.”
He did not turn around.
“That woman,” she said. “With the lips. It made me very jealous. I’ve half a mind to let her know how I feel.”
The elevator came.
He did not get in.
The elevator closed.
He said, “That’s Vik’s girlfriend.”
“Waaall, she looked mighty enamored of you.”
“Keep away from her.”
“Maybe I’ll go over and mark my territory.” She stood up.
He called the elevator again.
“Think of history’s great romances,” she said. “Antony and Cleopatra. Romeo and Juliet. Humbert and Lolita. Tom and Jerry. All forged in agony. They may be fictional but they’re our only consistent cultural truths. Fashions change, their stories remain. You know, I was expecting you to show up sooner rather than later. It’s nice to know you’re still the reliable man I fell in love with.”
He stepped into the elevator. As the doors closed, she said I love you.
• 32 •
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 17, 2004.
CHILD AND ADOLESCENT PSYCHIATRY, WEEK THREE.
HE WAS NOT TO take the Shelf; that would be made up at a time TBA. He sat in Dr. Pierre’s office with Soleimani, Yvette, Adia, and the dean himself, who conducted the proceedings with a sort of detached, neurotic precision: Perry Mason as scripted by Franz Kafka. Judging by her loose carriage, Adia was sober. On the particulars she did not fare well, venturing a number of competing, equally ambiguous accounts. When asked to clarify how the alleged abuse had come to her attention, she said She told me.
Then they brought DeShonna in and spoke to her alone. Adia and Jonah sat outside the dean’s office, in the waiting area presided over by a HUM seal. Adia switched off between sneering at him and retreating to the privacy of her poofy green jacket—its seams smoking with wisps of synthetic down—in a way that made her look very frightened and very young. Irate, Jonah got up and went to the men’s room. When he returned to the waiting area, she was gone.
The dean opened the office door and hooked a finger at Jonah. “Where’s Adia?”
“I don’t know. She left.”
The dean frowned. “Come in.”
DeShonna was crying. Yvette stood behind her, stroking her hair. As soon as Jonah stepped into the room, DeShonna turned to him and said I didn’t say nothing to her, I swear. Yvette said Cmon honey let’s take a walk.
DeShonna rose to promises of an ice cream sandwich. On her way out she clamped her arms around Jonah’s waist. Soleimani and the dean both stared at the carpet.
“It’s okay,” he said. He knelt down. “Go with Yvette.”
She nodded and let go. Yvette said Chocolate or vanilla.
SOLEIMANI BOUGHT HIM lunch and they went to the MD lab, a humorless room on the twentieth floor, with northern and eastern panoramas of eddying snow, blight forests, two bridges, Randall’s Island.
“Did you know that the East River flows in both directions?”
Unoccupied, the room had a slight echo.
“It is not a river but an estuary. It changes direction depending on the tide.” Soleimani chewed, swallowed. “I think I intended that as the start of a metaphor. But now I cannot remember what I wanted to say.”
Jonah said nothing. Soleimani sipped his coffee and set it atop the lab station’s hard, black, resin countertop. Like all the others, the station had two high-legged chairs, two microscopes, and two lockers, each labeled with the name of a second-year student. Jonah could see his desk from last year, where he’d spent so much time pretending he knew
what medicine was.
“I want you to know that I think you are a gifted doctor. This week should not affect the way you think of yourself or your future. It is all politics. I never mistrusted you. A hospital is a bureaucracy. I hope one day you will understand my position.” Soleimani wiped his glasses on his coat, peered through the lenses: dirtier than before, now smeared with salt and lines of Funyun grease. “How are you spending your break?”
“Going to visit a friend.”
“Enjoy yourself. You deserve it. Allow me to say one thing, though. My intention was to protect the department, not to defame you. You have performed admirably, and I will do everything I can to ensure that this will not affect your grade.”
That was sort of funny. For his trouble, he’d end up with honors. He’d have to send Eve a thank-you card. Jonah said, “Good to hear.”
“I want you to know.” Soleimani wiped his glasses, held them up. Still dirty.
AT VIK’S HE deflated the air mattress and bagged his clothes. Vik—after getting the full story—had gone to stay with Deanna in TriBeCa for the week. Jonah wanted them to leave town early for their ski trip, but Vik promised to keep an eye out.
You should call the police.
He explained that he’d tried, told him what the cops had said.
Vik said You should get a gun.
Which Jonah laughed at. Upon reflection, though, it seemed like a decent idea.
He had neither enough nor the right stuff, so he cabbed erratically back to the East Village to pack. The apartment felt foreign. They’d switched the heat off before leaving, and he left his jacket on as he rummaged through his dresser for sweatshirts and jeans. Outside it had started to come down hard, the forecast calling for the season’s first serious heavenly dump. He found the wool socks with holes in them, and the wool socks he’d mended himself. Once, on a lark, Hannah had shown him how to sew.
Status check: window intact; surfaces appropriately dusty. He could probably afford to spend one night here. He called George.
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