Emperor of Ocean Park

by Stephen L Carter

  “Lynda,” I say at last, “I need time.”

  “That sounds like a but to me.”

  “Not time to think over what you’ve said. What you’ve said makes perfect sense.” I am not very good at obsequiousness, but I have to try. “I want to go back to that old Talcott Garland—the one everybody loves, you said—I want that very much. I just need a little time to figure out what’s going on.”

  “That sounds like the conspiracy again.” Her voice is hard. When a dean’s voice is hard, the pressures are immense. Probably Lynda Wyatt is following somebody else’s script, which suggests that a part of what she says is true: she has gone to bat for me. The university administration may be pushing her to get rid of me, and perhaps she has persuaded them to give me one last chance. The administration, in turn, has dictated terms which she dares not vary. Still, if I am right, if she has gone to bat for me, then … maybe …

  “I’m not seeing any conspiracy anywhere, Lynda. I don’t think anybody is out to get me. But it is a fact, not a fantasy, that the man who was asking me questions about my father is dead. It is a fact, not a fantasy, that somebody trashed my father’s house in Oak Bluffs. It is a fact, not a fantasy, that I was beaten up in the middle of the campus by somebody who asked questions about my father. And it is a fact”—I stop suddenly. Lynda is watching me closely. I was about to mention the pawn. Which would persuade her absolutely that I have gone round the bend.

  Lynda sighs. “Well, then, Tal, your turn to listen. It is a fact, not a fantasy, that you were almost arrested. No, don’t say anything. It is a fact, not a fantasy, that somebody from up here sabotaged Marc, and a lot of people think it was you. It is a fact, not a fantasy, that you were shoving and screaming at Jerry Nathanson in the hallway day before yesterday. It is a fact, not a fantasy, that lots of people on this campus think you are beginning to lose it. It is a fact, not a fantasy, that I think …”

  “Two weeks,” I say suddenly.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Give me two weeks. Two weeks to wrap everything up. If I—”

  “I can’t let you miss more classes.”

  “I’ll teach my classes. I won’t miss a class. I promise you. But I have to have a little more time.”

  “Time for what?”

  I take a breath, force myself to stay calm. What am I supposed to say? That whoever is on the outside trying to ruin me is being helped by someone on the inside, somebody here at the law school? Somebody who knows where I am going to be almost before I do—and is in a position to smear my ethics as well, perhaps to make it even less likely that anyone will listen to whatever I might discover?

  I say quietly, “Just time, Lynda. That’s all. I won’t miss any classes, but I need to work things out.” She just waits. “I won’t hurt the law school or the university. This school has been good to me. And, right now, this school is all I have.” I hesitate, wanting to say more, but not daring to open the painful subject of my waning marriage. “I’ve asked you for very few favors since you’ve been dean, Lynda. Now, you know that’s true. There are people who are in your office every week, complaining about their salaries or their committee assignments or their teaching loads or the size of their offices. I’ve never done any of those things, have I?”

  “No, you haven’t. That’s true.” The ghost of a smile dances over her face.

  “So I’m asking this one thing. To hold off those pressures just two weeks more. And then, after two weeks, I promise you, either I’ll be a good little boy or … or I’ll resign from the faculty and save everybody the trouble.”

  My dean shakes her head. Her look is unhappy. “I’m really not trying to get rid of you, Tal. I respect you and I like you. I know you don’t believe it, but it’s true. What Stuart said about biased scholarship, for instance. You didn’t hear me say it. I know you wouldn’t do it, and even if I thought you would, there’s no way to prove it. It’s ridiculous. Besides, we live in a world of only”—a wan, cheerless grin—“imperfect objectivity. Scholarship is argument, isn’t it? And argument is advocacy. Were we to take the claim of bias seriously, any one of us might be open to the same charge. But …”

  “But you have to think of the school,” I finish for her.

  “You’ll have to apologize to Jerry Nathanson. No way out of that one. And Cameron Knowland, bless his heart, is still waiting to hear from you.”

  More pain. “I’ll call Jerry. I tried to call Cameron but he wouldn’t talk to me.”

  “Then try again,” she says crisply. Professors are not ordinarily subject to the dean’s orders, not at a school as eminent as ours. But these are no ordinary times.

  “I will. I promise.”

  Lynda conjures a small smile. She stands up. So do I. We shake. We both know our meeting is over, and that the deal has been made. Probably it falls within whatever parameters she was given by the university. But, just to make sure, she repeats the agreement as she escorts me to the door: “Two weeks, Talcott. No more.”

  “Two weeks,” I echo.

  Hurrying back to my office, I am weak with relief: after all, I might have been asked to resign on the spot. By the time I am behind my desk, however, the burden of reality has settled once more upon my shoulders. I still do not know what the arrangements are. Or what my father meant by his cryptic note. Or which one of my colleagues is trying to ruin my career. I do not even know whether I will still have a job tomorrow or the next day … or, for that matter, a wife.

  All I know for sure is that I have fourteen days to figure it all out.

  CHAPTER 43

  A CHOICE IS MADE

  “WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” asks Kimmer in a tone that I cannot at first identify. I have been home perhaps five minutes. Finding no one on the first floor, I came upstairs, kissed a slumbering Bentley good night, and walked into a storm.

  “I … had a meeting with Dean Lynda. And then, well, I told you I might have to work late. The draft of my paper is overdue, remember?”

  “I called your office, Misha. Three times.”

  “Maybe I was in the library.” I do not know why I am being so cagey.

  “You never go to the library.” My wife is sitting up in bed, extra pillows propped behind her, work strewn over the blankets as she flips through the channels with the remote. Her eyes seem puffy, as though she has been crying, but she does not look at me. “Or, when you do, you get in trouble,” she adds.

  “The truth is … I went for a walk.”

  “A walk? For two hours?”

  “I had a lot to think about.”

  “I’m sure.” But there is a catch in her voice. What is going on?

  “Kimmer, are you okay?”

  “No, I am not okay!” she flares, rounding on me at last. “My husband, who has lately been acting crazy, can’t be found for two whole hours! Two hours, Misha! Did it ever occur to you that I might worry?”

  I cross to the bed, sit next to her, try to take her hand. She snatches it back. “No, I guess not. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry. You’re sorry.”

  “What do you want me to say, Kimmer? Tell me, and I’ll say it.”

  “I shouldn’t have to tell you what to say.”

  “Look, darling, I’ll apologize to Jerry. I was out of line. I know that.”

  “There’s nothing going on with Jerry. There never was! Why can’t you just believe me when I tell you these things?”

  Because you have lied to me before. Because a man called the house looking for you and said baby, a fact I have yet to mention to you. Because you and I once cheated on André, so you and somebody else could be cheating on me. Dr. Young is right, so right!

  “I believe you,” I whisper.

  “Oh, Misha.” Her voice breaks. And, quite suddenly, the tears flow. I am stunned. I have not seen my wife cry since the night Bentley was born. At first I am not sure how to react. I put my arms around her. She writhes free. I hold her again, pulling her close, and her head finally settles against my
chest.

  “Kimmer, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Were you … were you with somebody else, Misha? Because I could understand it if you were. I’m such a bitch.” Jealousy? From Kimmer?

  “No, darling, no. Of course not. I told you, I went for a walk.” Which is the truth but not the whole truth. Even now, I am not ready to tell her where I walked. I do not want her to think I am crazy.

  “Misha, Misha,” she whispers, lightly punching my chest. “Misha, what happened to us? It was so good. It was so good.”

  I shake my head. I have no answer. “I love you,” I breathe. I am stroking the back of her neck, the way she used to like, and her pain seems to be subsiding. “You know there’s nobody else in my life but you and Bentley. And please don’t call yourself names.”

  “Why? I am a bitch. I’m horrible to you. You should leave me. You would if you had any sense.” And then more tears. I think of my encounter with Gerald Nathanson, his anger arguably previous to mine. Maybe he and Kimmer ended their affair (if there was one, if there ever was one), and she is unhappy about it. But my wife’s pain at this moment seems more profound, and, besides, the little slice of macho competitiveness I usually try to cover up is unwilling to accept that she would weep over Jerry when she has me.

  “Come on, darling, what is it? Tell me.”

  Kimmer shakes her head. I stroke her neck some more. She whispers something. I can’t quite hear it. She says it again, louder. And, for a moment, I am as crushed as she is.

  “Ruthie called. She … she said the President picked somebody else.”

  “Oh, Kimmer. Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” She sniffles, wipes her face on the sleeve of her long nightdress. “I guess it wasn’t meant to be.”

  “You still have me and Bentley,” I murmur. “It’s not your fault the President didn’t pick the best candidate.”

  “That’s right.” Kimmer tries to smile. “I knew I shouldn’t have voted for him.”

  My eyes widen. “You voted for him?”

  She manages a shaky grin. “I told you I flipped a coin.”

  “I thought you were joking.”

  “Well, I wasn’t.” She kisses me suddenly, then whispers something inaudible against my lips. She says it again, louder: “Don’t you want to know who he picked?”

  “Uh, sure. Okay.” Actually, I do not, especially if, somehow, the resilient Marc Hadley has found a way to rescue his candidacy. But I am bound to hear sooner or later, so I might as well hear from my wife.

  “Lemaster Carlyle.”

  “What!”

  “Lemaster Carlyle.” She laughs, harshly this time, then coughs, and a few more tears burst through her self-control. “Oh, that snake. That snake! I know you think he’s like the best thing since sliced bread, but I think he’s just a snake in the grass!”

  Despite my wife’s pain, I have to smile at the way the rest of us outsmarted ourselves. When Ruthie told Kimmer that two or three of my colleagues were in the running, we stopped at Marc Hadley. When Ruthie told Marc that the President was interested in diversity, Dahlia and Marc stopped at Kimmer. And there all the time was Lem Carlyle, at the intersection, a colleague and diverse, fitting both descriptions yet unexpected; good old Lem, waiting patiently on the sidelines for something to go awry—a charge of plagiarism, a crazy husband, anything—lurking and lurking like … well, like a snake in the grass. At least now I know why he has lately seemed so nervous around me.

  “I can’t believe it,” I finally whisper.

  “Liberals for Bush,” Kimmer reminds me.

  “Oh, right.”

  “Maybe it’s for the best,” my wife suggests, but neither of us can think of a reason why. So we do what used to be one of our favorite things instead. We walk down the hall with our arms around each other and stand in the doorway of Bentley’s bedroom, gazing at him in wonder. We say a little prayer of thanksgiving. Then we go back to our room and put Casablanca in the VCR, and Kimmer eventually brightens a bit as she gets into reciting her favorite lines. But her eyes have closed by the time Ingrid Bergman goes to the bar to beg Humphrey Bogart for the letters of transit. I turn off the tape and Kimmer opens her eyes at once. “Are you sure there’s not another woman?” she asks. “Because I need you right now, Misha. I really do need you.”

  “I’m sure.” Maxine flits briefly through my mind, but I push her away. “I only love my wife,” I tell both women, truthfully. “And my son.”

  “And your father.”

  “Huh?”

  Although my wife’s tired eyelids have resumed their droop, her full lips curve into a smile. “You love that old man, Misha. That’s why you keep searching so hard.”

  Love? Love the Judge? This is, tragically, a concept I have not previously considered. Maxine said she knew I couldn’t stop chasing the arrangements. Now Kimmer is saying the same thing. “Maybe so,” I finally say. “I’m sorry. I just want to know what happened.”

  My wife seems to understand. “No, no, it’s okay, honey. It’s okay.” Her eyes have drifted closed again, and her voice is starting to slur. “I understand, Misha. I do. But promise you’ll come back to us.”

  “Come back to you from where?”

  “From Aspen,” Kimmer murmurs. She yawns.

  “Aspen?”

  “Oh, come on, Misha. I’m not gonna be a federal judge. That’s over. So you might as well go see your Uncle Jack.” She opens one eye, winks, then closes it again. “Just say hello to the FBI for me, okay?”

  “Uh, okay.”

  “Bastards,” she mutters, and is asleep. I sit awake for a while, stroking her back, on the one hand confident that she loves me after all, on the other wondering who phoned the house and called her baby.

  Two weeks.

  CHAPTER 44

  STORMY WEATHER

  (I)

  I HAVE VISITED the small and stunningly rich community of Aspen, Colorado, three times in my life, the first time on a ski vacation with my old college friends John and Janice Brown, back before Bentley was born, a misbegotten expedition in which I sprained my ankle quite badly on the very first day, in the very first hour of my very first lesson, and so spent the remaining four days alone in the tiny condo, the world’s thickest snowflakes swirling outside, the television cable failing intermittently, and the fireplace too grimy to be of use, as John and Janice, veterans of the sport, went streaking down the slopes, and Kimmer, who used to ski in her college days at Mount Holyoke but hardly ever since meeting dull me, reconnected with her lost skill. On that first visit, the bumpy, prayer-inducing descent in the turboprop persuaded me that the four-hour drive from Denver up through the Rockies, high, winding, fenceless passes and all, was the less intimidating choice. Indeed, I swore at the time that I would never fly to Aspen again. So, for my next two trips, both to attend excellent seminars at the Aspen Institute—one with Kimmer, one without—I rented a car at the Denver airport and drove up.

  But there are such things as blizzards that bury mountain highways, and the only way to be sure the roads are always open is to stay away from the mountains unless it is summer. Since that first trip, John and Janice have often invited us to join them on the slopes, or even to use their time-share when they can’t. Kimmer has gone twice, once with the Browns and once, just last year, ostensibly alone: “Some time apart to think will do us both some good, Misha, honey.” I have stayed home both times, honoring my oath never again to try to get into Aspen in the winter. But the Lord, we all know, has ways of confounding proud mortals who swear oaths too lightly. So here it is February, and here I am on my way to Aspen in another snowstorm, flying in defiance of my own rules, the small jet buffeted by the gusty Rocky Mountain winds, the skiers drinking hard, the rest of us turning green.

  The plane lands safely, and, by the time we roll to a stop, the mid-afternoon sky even begins to clear. It occurs to me, as I scurry across the tarmac to the small but modern terminal building, that the people who live he
re year-round are not as crazy as I have always thought. The snow-dappled mountains are gorgeous in the winter sunlight, which picks out the details with a crystal clarity. The evergreens marching toward the summit are, if anything, more dramatic in February than in August, like winter-weather troops wearing green-and-white alpine uniforms. Most of my fellow passengers are wearing uniforms too, after a fashion, and their brightly colored ski parkas look very serious indeed.

  I have time to savor this vision only until I turn toward the baggage claim area and find waiting there the lean bodyguard I remember from the cemetery, whom I know only as Mr. Henderson. The temperature is in the teens—the very low teens—but he is wearing only a light windbreaker. He summons a dazzling smile and even a few words: “Welcome to Aspen, Professor,” delivered in an eerily familiar voice, a voice so sleek, so velvetly delicious, that I can readily imagine anybody he tries to seduce sliding willingly downward to oblivion. Yet there is nothing of the voluptuary about Mr. Henderson. He is, instead, rather standoffish—as a good sentinel surely must be—as well as alert, energetic, feline in his compact grace, somehow complete.

  “Thank you for meeting me,” I reply.

  Mr. Henderson nods politely. He does not offer to take my bag.

  Moving on remarkably light feet, he leads me out to the car, which, this being Aspen in winter, is a silver Range Rover. He reminds me to buckle my seat belt. He tells me in his sinuous voice that Mr. Ziegler has been looking forward to renewing our acquaintance. All of this while, apologizing for the necessity, he runs a hand-held metal detector over my clothes and then, when I assume the indignities are done, repeats this activity with a small rectangular device complete with LED digital readout, perhaps to discover whether I am broadcasting. I keep my tongue in check: the meeting, after all, was my idea. “It will take us half an hour or so to get up to the property,” Mr. Henderson says as we pull out of the parking lot. Not the house, I register. Not the estate. The property. A good Rocky Mountain word.