There were a few feeble yeahs.
“I can’t HEAARRRR you!!!” Tiffany theatrically cupped one of her ears. “I said, ARE YOU ALL WITH ME???”
“Yeah!” a few more people joined in.
“Go Wolverines!” Tiffany screamed, doing a fist pump with her right hand.
Adam had come in during Tiffany’s mini pep rally and was standing to one side, watching her jump up and down. He now whispered something in her ear and then took the microphone from her.
“I just wanted to thank all of you personally for volunteering in our campaign,” he said. “Asking people for money is one of the hardest parts of my job, but I also know how important it is. I was a scholarship kid, and I wouldn’t have been able to attend college if it weren’t for people like you—alums, staff, faculty—pitching in their time and money. With the money we raise, we can help attract and retain those who wouldn’t necessarily consider Fairfax a possibility. So thank you on behalf of the college but also on behalf of our future students.”
His speech reminded me why Adam had initially dropped out of Princeton. The story didn’t appear in any of his official PR materials, but he’d confided in me that summer we’d exchanged letters. Adam had been working in the dining room one evening, scraping food off plates coming down the conveyor belt, a job that was both messy and relentless and left him, at the end of his shift, “smelling like steamed garbage.” His friends had long since quit their dining hall jobs for easier gigs working in the library or doing office work for departments, but the dish room paid the best and Adam needed the money. He was in the middle of his shift, stacking dirty plates into plastic racks, when some jerks from his hall spied him through the kitchen door. Smirking, they took syrup jugs and ketchup bottles from the commissary and poured the contents into cereal bowls and dishes, watching as the plates made their way down the belt to Adam. As he tried to dump the contents into a garbage can, spattering himself in the process, the guys burst out laughing. “I requested a leave of absence soon after,” he’d written to me.
There was a ripple of applause, and I watched Adam start circulating around the room, shaking people’s hands. Watching him now, I wondered what he was thinking. Did he even remember telling me the story?
“Hi, Anne,” Adam said when he got to my seat. “Listen, thanks for helping out. I really appreciate it.”
“It’s a great cause,” I said. “Your personal anecdote was really moving.”
“It’s all true. I often think of how different things would have been if I hadn’t gone to college.”
“You don’t regret it at all? I know how hard it was, at times . . .”
Adam shook his head emphatically. “No, going back and finishing was the best decision I ever made. For lots of reasons.”
His words hung in the air. I wanted to reach over and touch his hand, let him know I understood because I’d been there. Adam, too, seemed to recognize the strange intimacy of the moment. His hand went to his mouth for a second, as if he were wondering whether to say more. I caught his eye, and he smiled slightly.
“What about you?” he asked. “Do you have regrets?”
“Me?” I asked, a little taken aback. “I— Well, every month, when I see I have another thirty-odd years of student loan payments remaining . . . yeah, I have some regrets.”
Adam looked surprised. “I thought your dad paid for college.”
“He cut me off, just like he threatened to,” I murmured.
“Because you went to graduate school?”
I nodded. “I took out loans, maxed out my credit cards, deferred payments for as long as I could. Grad school wasn’t exactly cheap, either,” I said with a bitter laugh. “My stipend barely covered my rent, so I had to take out more loans to cover living expenses. I figured I could pay it all off once I landed a job—but then the economy crashed and, well, you know . . . I guess I have no one to blame but myself—it’s what I wanted to do.”
“So would you do it over again?” Adam asked. “Knowing everything that you know now?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, was it worth it? Are you happy?”
Now it was my turn to be tongue-tied. I thought of the piles of grading, the manuscript to submit, the fund-raising calls. I thought of the years bouncing around from temporary position to temporary position, living out of suitcases and half-unpacked boxes. I thought of how lonely I’d been, how many nights I’d spent in the library, surrounded by nothing but books. I blinked at Adam, then forced myself to smile.
“Of course,” I said brightly. “Like you said. It was all worth it.”
I turned away before Adam could see the doubt clouding my face.
*
AFTER THE TRAINING SESSION, I headed to my office to collect my overdue books and return them to the library, piling as many as I could into two large file boxes and then struggling to get them downstairs to the book return bin. As I took a break to catch my breath, I heard the whine of a motorcycle and Rick pulled up to the curb next to me.
“Hey!” he said, taking off his helmet. “I was just taking off for the day. Do you need help with those?”
“That would be great,” I panted. “They’re heavier than I thought.”
Rick easily hefted up a box and carried it to the bin, tipping the box over and letting the books cascade into its maw.
“How was your fund-raising meeting?” Rick asked as we returned for the second box.
“Oh, you know. It was pretty much what I expected. Lots of rah-rah Fairfax speak.”
“Speaking of which—” Rick muttered under his breath.
I turned around and saw Adam and Tiffany walking toward us.
“Hello,” Adam said, glancing at Rick and then at me. His voice was aloof.
“I don’t think we’ve met yet!” Tiffany said, smiling broadly at Rick and introducing herself. “Whatcha guys doing there?” she asked, glancing at the remaining file box resting at my feet.
“Rick’s helping me return some overdue library books,” I said.
“It looks like you’ve got half the library in there!” she joked. She turned to Rick and winked. “That’s our Anne. Always got her head stuck in a book.”
“You should’ve seen the other box she had,” Rick said. “That was the other half of the library.”
Listening to their friendly banter made Adam’s stiff posture all the more striking. He just stood there, making no move to contribute to the conversation and looking eager to go. I tried to catch his eye, but he only gave me a polite half smile and then avoided my gaze altogether, glancing at the footpath or off into the middle distance, where some students were noisily heading to the dining hall. After a minute more of small talk, they wished us a good evening and left.
“What a jackass. He couldn’t even look me in the eye,” Rick muttered, hoisting up the second box and dumping it into the bin.
“That was awkward,” I said. “What happened? You must’ve done something to really piss him off.”
“Oh, you know—I stood up for the rights of the faculty. Resisted the corporatization of the university. Helped unionize university employees. Terrible, terrible things.” Rick laughed ironically.
“Well, looks like he’s carrying a grudge.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it. He pretty much single-handedly ousted me from Houston. I was really happy there, getting some decent writing done, enjoying my teaching, plus making some real political headway with the union. He put an end to all that.”
“How?” I asked. “Could he really fire you over something like that?”
“He wanted to, and he did. He was clever about it, though. He knew I’d have legal standing to sue, so he used the excuse of ‘budget cuts’ and ‘reorganization.’ But I knew—everyone knew. He’s a bad guy. Very vindictive. You’ve got to be careful around him.”
“That’s awful,” I said. “And scary. I can’t believe he’d do that.”
“Oh, believe it,” Rick said, pulling me in for a ki
ss. “But don’t be scared of him. He’s a bully, that’s all. He gets off on making people feel small and pathetic. You can’t let him get to you. Always remember this: You must never back down from a bully. Never.”
Rick took my hand and brought it to his lips, and I couldn’t help but smile at the gesture. He wanted to protect me, and I was touched by his concern. While I still couldn’t quite believe Adam was capable of such terrible things—was Rick getting him mixed up with someone else? had there been some terrible misunderstanding?—I also wondered why I was even defending him. I barely knew Adam anymore.
From: Jerome Corey
To: Anne Corey
Subject: PLEASE BRING MORE AA BATTERIES NEXT TIME YOU VISIT
Date: October 3
I ALSO NEED
1) 2 LITER BOTTLES PEPSI ONE (NOT DIET PEPSI)
2) MICROWAVE POPCORN
3) MORE PLASTIC GARBAGE BAGS
4) ALMOND ROCA
*
From:
To: Anne Corey
Subject: Re: hey
Date: October 5
whats a governess? is that like a governer? what’s a governer?
*
From: Lauren Corey Winston
To: Anne Corey
Subject: Dad
Date: October 6
The nurse at the facility mentioned that Dad has a new girlfriend? Named Margie??? I know it’s supposed to be about companionship etc but I’m totally skeeved out. Since when does Dad date???? Do you think she’s out for his money? You need to talk to him.
I can’t come visit this weekend. Hayes has soccer and Tate has speech therapy. I’ll be in DC the week after to chaperone Archer’s class trip and then we’re busy with his school’s fund-raiser/silent auction. FYI, Archer’s selling raffle tickets for $10/ticket. I told him you’d buy a couple books (10 tickets/book). Send a check made out to St. Andrew’s Academy ASAP—he’s trying to sell the most tickets in his class.
Lauren
*
From: Library Circulation Desk
To: Anne Corey
Subject: URGENT: Library Items (FINAL Overdue Notice)
Date: October 7
Dear Anne Corey,
The following Library materials are overdue. Please return them as soon as possible to avoid accruing more late fees. You currently owe $702.55.
Your borrowing privileges will be suspended if you do not settle your account. If you have any questions or would like to work out a payment plan, please contact us at—.
You can check your online account by visiting our website at: http://www.Fairfax.edu/ChandlerLibrary/AccountInfo.
This is a system generated e-mail. Please do not reply directly to this e-mail.
Total Overdue Items: 4
Due Date: September 1
(. . .)
chapter ten
“OH GOD, I’M SWEATING,” Larry said, fanning himself in my car. We were on our way to the Huntington Library, and Larry had pointed all the vents toward his face. “Can you crank up the AC?” he begged.
“It’s already up all the way,” I said. “Sorry. Old car.”
“I’ve honestly never felt this way before,” Larry sighed, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. “I’m totally besotted with Jack. I’m just worried he’s going to break things off.”
“Why?”
“He’s worried about his image. Jane Vampire’s his shot at the big time—he doesn’t want to jeopardize it. He warned me we might have to cool things off when the movie premieres and he’s doing wall-to-wall press.”
Larry lifted up his sunglasses and glanced nervously at the rearview mirror.
“Is anyone following us?” he asked.
“No, Larry. I don’t think there are any paps tailing a 2001 Honda Accord.”
“You never know,” Larry said. “I mean, OK, fine. Jack’s kind of B-list right now. I’d say he’s maybe higher on the food chain than the Real Housewives. But if his movie’s a hit? All that’s going to change—there’ll be people stalking him 24/7!”
“You need to stop freaking out,” I said, flashing my reader badge to the security guard at the parking kiosk. “Jack’s clearly into you. I mean, isn’t he risking his career right now, meeting up with you?”
“Maybe he’s a masochist. Maybe I’m a masochist. Ugh, I just can’t stop.”
I pulled into a loading zone in front of the library and hopped out.
“See you in a few hours?” I said as Larry climbed into the driver’s seat. He flashed a peace sign and drove away.
I headed into the library, checked my bags, and made my way to the reading room.
An archivist was ready with my requested documents, presenting me with a large, flat file that she carried in both hands like a tray. Placing it carefully onto my desk, she whispered, “We just catalogued these, Dr. Corey. You’re literally the first person to see them!”
“Are they Brontë’s letters to Monsieur Heger?” I asked. I’d put in a request weeks ago and been waiting impatiently to see them. The archivist smiled and nodded.
I reached for the letters eagerly. For years, they’d been in private hands, preserved by the descendants of Constantin Heger, Brontë’s French tutor and the founder of a school in Brussels where she’d gone to teach in her twenties. Though he was married and had children, Brontë had fallen in love with Heger, writing him as often as twice a week after she returned home. Madame Heger was, predictably, unamused. She instructed Brontë that she could only write twice a year. Undeterred, Brontë continued to send letters, but Heger responded curtly, infrequently, and then not at all. Most of Brontë’s love letters to Heger had been destroyed—burned or tossed out—and the handful that had survived had been sewn back together from scraps retrieved from the trash can. Experts speculated that Monsieur Heger had torn up the letters and his wife had fished them from the garbage.
The letters were sealed in a stiff, clear envelope to prevent further deterioration. I held my breath as I looked at them for the first time. The pages were yellowed with age, spotted with stains, pieced back together like a crossword puzzle. Brontë’s script, demure and even, crossed the page. As I looked more closely, I realized Brontë was writing in French—French because, as she wrote in a short postscript, it was the language “most precious to me because it reminds me of you—I love French for your sake with all my heart and soul.”
I, on the other hand, did not love French with all my heart and soul, but only with enough force of will to pass my PhD language exam. Borrowing a French dictionary from the reference desk, I began, arduously, to translate. For the next few hours, I transcribed Brontë’s letters to my computer, stopping only for a quick bite to eat at lunchtime.
As promised, Larry picked me up a few hours later, honking from the curb in front of the library and startling several tourists and a flock of pigeons.
“You look happy,” I said, sliding into the passenger seat. “How was Jack?”
“Dreamy,” Larry said. “How about you? Did you get a lot of work done?”
“I have to tell you about these letters I just read,” I said. “You’ll die. They’re Brontë’s letters to her tutor Monsieur Heger.”
“Who’s that?”
“Her tutor when she was living in Belgium. She was desperately in love with him, but he was married and had kids.”
“That sounds awfully familiar,” Larry said, looking at me sideways.
“No, no, no—it’s not like you and Jack. Brontë was obsessed with Heger, but he didn’t love her back. She wrote him all these love letters, pretty much spilling her guts to him, and get this—his wife was reading all the letters.”
“Shut. The. Front. Door.”
“I’m serious! And Brontë knew—but she didn’t care! She just kept writing him, even when he didn’t write her back, even when
his wife wrote her to say, ‘Cool it.’ Can you imagine? I mean, how incredibly sad is that?”
“Why sad?” Larry asked, his voice turning serious. “She was in love.”
“But I wish she’d just pulled herself together and moved on.”
“Oh, Anne,” Larry said, looking at me fondly. “Haven’t you ever been in love? It makes you do crazy things.”
“But she was old enough to know better!”
“Um, look at me! I’m forty years old and carpooling to LA with my best friend so I can use her car as a decoy to meet my much-younger, married, closeted boyfriend in Best Westerns around the city. I don’t know about you, but that sounds pretty sad, to use your word.”
“Larry!”
“It’s true, though. Isn’t it? I’m a loser. I’m old enough to know better.”
“Larry, stop it. You’re not a loser. You’re a lover. You’re a hopeless romantic.”
“I guess you’re right,” Larry sighed. “I just wish I’d find the right guy.”
“You will,” I said. “I think you’re highly lovable.”
“Thanks,” Larry said, giving me an affectionate shoulder bump. “I think you are, too. And trust me—one day, you’ll fall in love, and you’ll understand what I’m talking about.”
I instantly thought of Adam and felt my ears burning. I didn’t say anything, though, and let Larry ramble on about Jack for the rest of our drive to Fairfax.
*
HAD I BEEN IN love with Adam? At the time, I would have said yes. There was nothing I felt more sure of, no doubt in my mind that what we had was the real thing. Now that I was older, though, I wasn’t so sure. The love letters, the engagement, the heated declarations of love—they all seemed so melodramatic now. In the end, we’d broken up in such a predictable way—on grad night, a final prom-like celebration held in the school gym the night before the commencement.
Adam’s mother had been scheduled to fly in later that night, and he was fretting about whether her plane would be on time, how she would get from the airport to his dorm room, whether she’d agree to take his bed or insist on sleeping on the floor, how she would react to the pomp and circumstance of commencement.
By the Book Page 11