“Is it your usual MO, going through life with your badge in your pocket? Not wanting people to know who you are?”
“Pretty much.”
“So I’ve gathered. When I made inquiries, nobody seemed to really know you. I believe the phrase was, ‘He keeps to himself.’ ”
“And you think maybe I’m a serial killer?”
“No, I’m just wondering if Seven Storey Books will end up biting me on the keister.”
“I hope not,” he said, trying as best he could to match her rueful smile and to not look at the keister in question.
“Me too,” Theresa said, playfully. “Because if it does, mine will not be the only keister bit.”
That night, halfway through a bottle of chardonnay, he recalled her remark. Was he odd? If so, had he always been, or was it a recent development, the result of having lived alone for so long? Was this oddness obvious to everybody? If so, why was someone pointing it out only now?
Teddy also remembered that at the door to Theresa’s office, when they shook hands, hers had been warm. And when she turned around to go back to her desk, he’d noted there was nothing wrong with her keister. What was odder? he wondered. For him to have noticed these things? Or to have acknowledged, even in the moment, that he would not act on them?
He also wondered if she too was eating alone.
* * *
—
FOR AN ACADEMIC TITLE The God Project had done well, winning a small but significant award and bringing the college some welcome attention. Also, an onslaught of manuscript submissions. To Teddy, it seemed that almost as many people were writing books about faith as were reading them. Most of the submissions were dreck, but a few small gems were mixed in. No new Thomas Merton, of course, but then he hadn’t expected there would be. What flagged during those early years, even as the press’s reputation grew, was Teddy’s enthusiasm. Gradually, he came to understand that he was unlikely ever again to replicate the experience of The God Project. Most writers weren’t desperate enough to just hand over their book and let Teddy revise it, free of authorial griping and interference. Having written the damn thing, they tended to think of it as theirs. Moreover, the possibility that they themselves sucked, no matter how richly warranted, never seemed to occur to them, as it had to poor Everett. Indeed, many were arrogant dickweeds who refused to accept criticism, no matter how carefully and sympathetically couched. They openly flouted Teddy’s most reasonable suggestions, and a few even called him names for making them. Mostly, though, they were like the author of the book he was editing on the ferry, hopelessly trapped, without realizing it, in a contemporary idiom that was ill suited to their timeless subject matter. What this particular guy was writing about, whether he knew it or not, was sin and redemption, but those words had gone out of fashion, so he refused to use them. The books Teddy had been publishing for the last decade weren’t bad, but neither were they the kind of books Tom Ford would’ve approved of. They weren’t urgent or necessary. They flowed with the cultural current, never against it, because the men and women who wrote them weren’t on fire.
Anyway, this would probably be Seven Storey’s last year. After a decade as president of St. Joseph’s, Theresa, the press’s primary champion, had been offered the position of provost at a large Catholic university out West and was stepping down. When Teddy half-heartedly floated the idea of moving the press to her new school, she’d been less than enthusiastic, perhaps because it meant that he, and not just Seven Storey Books, would be following her there. It was hardly that they weren’t fond of each other, and over the years there’d been talk about them. They’d gone out a few times, to dinner or the occasional concert, and enjoyed each other’s company, but that had been it. Teddy didn’t doubt that Theresa was disappointed when their relationship hadn’t evolved into something more intimate, but he didn’t know this for a fact and couldn’t think how to ask. Before her arrival on campus, the conventional wisdom had been that he was gay. It was possible she’d heard that rumor and, when he didn’t try to get her in bed, concluded it must be true. It was also possible that their friendship had cost her politically. After all, she was the college president and he a lowly adjunct who’d been given a cushy position that many “regular” faculty were envious of. If they weren’t having sex and he wasn’t giving her free drugs, then what on earth did she want with him? Whatever her reasoning, she seemed to desire a clean break.
Probably just as well for him, too, though he had to admit he was sorry to see Theresa go. In addition to mutual attraction—he hadn’t imagined that, had he?—they had a fair amount in common. As a young woman, she also had thought she might have a vocation and had flirted with the convent much as Teddy had with divinity school. And he sensed that somewhere in Theresa’s past there dwelt a profound sadness or disappointment that she never spoke of, something she’d either prevailed over or fought to an honorable draw. Did it have something to do with her being biracial? Had she been made fun of as a child? He’d thought about inquiring, but if she was generous and trusting enough to confide in him, he would’ve needed to decide on the spot whether to reciprocate, and he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to.
Of course this worm had been in the apple long before Theresa appeared on the scene. Maybe it’d been there from the start. Fixing Everett’s book, helping him get tenure, had looked so much like acts of kindness that Teddy had almost convinced himself they really were. But face it, he hadn’t even liked the guy. Genuine kindness would’ve involved sitting down with Everett and helping him understand what he was doing wrong, showing him how to fix everything that required fixing. Teddy had told himself there wasn’t time for any of that, but truthfully he’d just been impatient, and this, when examined honestly, looked a lot like contempt, maybe even misanthropy. Worse, he knew all too well how he came by it. How many times as a boy had he asked his parents for help only to have them snatch the paper or pen out of his hand and just do whatever it was he needed help with, as if his presence in their lives and incessant demands on their time were just too exhausting for words. Clearly, he wasn’t worth their effort. If he had been, they’d gladly have spent that time with him.
Apparently, this was the kind of man he’d become. Not just odd—Theresa’s verdict—but the sort of person who snatched things. Definitely not the kind you take with you on a new adventure.
So, what next? Retire? With only himself to provide for, he could afford to. Maybe move someplace warmer and nicer than Syracuse. He had no desire to return to teaching when the press went under, which was probably just as well. His department chair had long been resentful of Teddy’s cushy editing job, and with Theresa gone there was nothing to prevent the man from terminating his contract. If that happened, he’d have to find some other way of keeping busy. Possibly as a freelance copyeditor. A lot of books he read these days needed one, and copyeditors weren’t expected to work with writers, just to correct their mistakes and pick the spinach out of their teeth. Necessary work. But was it necessary for him? A whole new endeavor would make better sense, but what? How could he decide? It would be like being asked to choose a college major all over again at age sixty-six. Maybe life didn’t allow you to remain a generalist forever.
When the announcement came over the speaker that the ferry would be docking shortly and that drivers should return to their vehicles, Teddy discovered that he’d edited less than a page since leaving Woods Hole. He might as well’ve gone out on the deck and basked in the soul-warming sunlight. Why the hell hadn’t he?
Outside, the glare was so intense that Teddy, emerging from the relative dark of the snack bar, had to shut his eyes tight. Could it really be this bright, or was the intensity a harbinger of nasty things to come? Sometimes his spells were preceded by general heightening of the senses. At the railing, with one hand shading his eyes, he squinted down at the crowded pier, hoping to spy Lincoln, who’d promised to meet his boat. He’d just a
bout concluded that his old friend must’ve been delayed when he spotted him among the throng. In the nearly a decade since they’d last laid eyes on each other, Lincoln’s hair had gone completely white, and his posture was ever so slightly stooped. The real shock, though, was his companion, the dark-haired young woman whose shoulder he had his arm around. Jacy! Was it the sight of her after all these years or the side of the ferry nudging the slip that caused Teddy to momentarily lose his equilibrium and grab on to the rail for support?
It’s not her, he told himself, shutting his eyes once more against the blinding sunlight. It’s not. Because it couldn’t be. The girl on the pier below was in her twenties, and Jacy would be in her midsixties now, on the cusp of old age. Before such irrefutable logic he reminded himself that his brain would have little choice but to genuflect, yet he was afraid to open his eyes. When he finally did, the world was still intensely bright but less painfully so, and he now saw that the girl in question wasn’t really with Lincoln, just standing next to him. And of course he didn’t have his arm around her. That had been a trick of light and shadow. Nor, once he really looked at her, did she resemble Jacy at all. No, it was the island that had conjured her up. That, plus the girl’s physical proximity to his old friend, and bingo! His too-susceptible mind had been tricked into believing the impossible.
And tomorrow, to this volatile mix, add Mickey. Was it possible that the three of them here on the Vineyard again after so many years might just blend a magic potion powerful enough to summon her? If so, he thought, feeling panic rise in his throat, he should just stay on the boat. Return to Woods Hole. He could be back in gray Syracuse by early evening.
But it was too late. Lincoln had seen him, too, and was waving. There was nothing to do but wave back.
The girl who wasn’t Jacy was also waving, and for a moment she seemed to be waving at him, but, no, it was the boy at Teddy’s elbow, whose presence he felt before turning to verify it, before the kid called “Hey, babe!” and began prancing down the gangplank toward this girl who was clearly the love of his young life. He would lose her, of course, because that’s how these things worked. What you can’t afford to lose is precisely what the world robs you of. How it knew what you needed the most, just so it could deny you that very thing, was a question for philosophers. Answer it and you’d have the kind of book Tom Ford would’ve considered worth writing: urgent and new and absolutely necessary. To write it, though, you’d have to be on fire.
* * *
—
“JEEZ,” TEDDY SAID, studying the photo of Lincoln’s family, the sun less intense on the deck of a tavern overlooking Oak Bluffs Harbor, with their cold pints of beer sweating on the wide railing. Teddy couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a beer. Their server had recommended a local IPA, and the first taste was so bitter he thought he should send it back. Now, the pint half gone, he’d revised his opinion. Somehow the bitterness had become almost pleasant. In his experience, bitterness had a tendency to do that.
The photo in question was on Lincoln’s iPad, which allowed Teddy to expand each face with his thumb and forefinger. Three girls, three boys, all medium height, slender, the girls strikingly beautiful, the boys all grinning, sandy-haired Robert Redfords. Their grandkids radiating health. “It’s like you and Anita have made it your personal mission to eradicate ugliness from the species.”
“Blame her, then,” Lincoln said, though he was clearly proud of his handsome brood. And it was true. The girls, especially, did take after their mother, who’d been a Minerva beauty herself. Yet Lincoln’s genes were also on display with the boys, their relaxed postures reeking of athleticism, probably tennis. They weren’t tall enough for basketball or brutish enough for football. Maybe baseball. And, knowing Lincoln, golf.
“Where’s Wolfgang Amadeus?” Teddy wondered, returning the iPad. He’d met Lincoln’s father only a handful of times, but he’d certainly made an impression and not just because of his name. “I’m surprised he allows family photos that he’s not part of.”
“We generally don’t show ’em to him for fear he’ll photo-shop himself in,” Lincoln said. “He’s lost some ground since Mom died, but he’s still Dub-Yay. Couple years ago we flew him up to Vegas for Clara’s wedding, and he stood up to give a speech at the rehearsal dinner. Nobody’d asked him to. He just assumed that people would want to hear what he had to say, even if most of them were strangers. Cody had to practically tackle him to get him to shut up and sit down.”
Teddy chuckled. He could see it all in his mind’s eye, the damned old fool.
“Anita’s the only person I’ve ever known to have the slightest effect on him. Maybe because she’s a lawyer. Most of the time he’ll do what she says.”
They continued to stare out over the water as a small freighter backed into the now-empty slip, the ferry Teddy had come in on already steaming back to the mainland.
“How about your folks? Are they still in Ann Arbor?”
“Madison,” Teddy corrected him. Somehow, despite being high-school teachers, they had managed to worm themselves into a retirement community named Burnt Hills that catered to Wisconsin faculty, the main draws being weekly lectures on a variety of topics given by still-active professors, free bus transportation to concerts and other campus events that were open to the public, as well as on-site classes in computer science and poetry writing that could be taken for academic credit, though Teddy couldn’t imagine what people their age would want with that. They’d started out in an apartment of their own, then transitioned into a larger communal building that offered varying degrees of assistance; two years ago they’d graduated, if that was the word, to something akin to a nursing home. Teddy had always assumed the day would come when they’d regret not making more room for him, but the quality of their lives in Burnt Hills had rendered any such regret unnecessary. In old age they remained brutally self-sufficient, a closed emotional loop, apparently content with each other’s company, the daily New York Times and all those books they hadn’t had a chance to read because they were always grading papers. Quite a few former students visited them there, and Teddy sometimes ran into them. His parents always greeted him warmly, though no more so, it seemed, than their other guests. Even when they knew he was coming, they looked puzzled when he actually appeared, almost as if they were trying to place him. What year had he been in their homeroom? What had he written his senior essay on?
“I have to say I’m disappointed in him,” Lincoln mused, back on the subject of his father.
“How so?” Teddy wondered, genuinely curious. How could you be disappointed in a man who’d exhibited so few admirable traits? Wouldn’t the Good Ship Disappointment have set sail long ago? His own certainly had.
“I don’t know. I guess after Mom died, I expected him to be lost. You know how old married couples are sometimes? One dies and the other rapidly declines? Becomes disinterested in the world around them? I kind’ve thought Dub-Yay might be like that. Maybe they weren’t the most affectionate couple you ever saw, but they shared a bedroom for forty-five years. I figured there had to be more to their marriage than met the eye. But no, he came home from the cemetery and hired a housekeeper. As if that was all Mom had meant to him. Someone to feed him, clean up after him.”
“All marriages are mysterious,” Teddy offered, though he was actually thinking more about Lincoln’s marriage to Anita than Dub-Yay’s to Lincoln’s mother. They weren’t mismatched, exactly, but Anita had always struck Teddy as being more interesting. It wasn’t so much that she was smarter than Lincoln, though she probably was. Rather that she’d always seemed more open to life’s possibilities. She had more room to grow, to become. Lincoln was more fixed. Even back at Minerva, the shape of the man he would become was already visible, his husk already hardening. Like, well, his father. Though Teddy supposed he was hardly one to talk.
“Anyway,” Lincoln continued, “Anita’s pretty sure he�
��s seeing some woman.”
“Seriously? How old is he?”
Lincoln scratched his chin. “Ninety? Ninety-one? Maybe he’s just tired of paying for a housekeeper, but who knows?”
“You think it might be the sex?”
“Nah. He’d be bragging if that’s what it was.”
“You must be coming into some property when he dies, though, no?” Not that it was any of Teddy’s business.
Lincoln chuckled. “If he dies, you mean. Yeah, there’s a split-level ranch in Dunbar that hasn’t been updated since he bought it in 1950. Whatever that would bring.”
“And the Chilmark house.”
“That’s already mine,” he said. Was it Teddy’s imagination or was there some reluctance in this admission? “It belonged to my mother.”
“Really?” Though, yeah, now that he thought about it, he did remember hearing something about this.
“You?” Lincoln said. “Any inheritance in your future?”
Teddy shook his head. “I’m not privy to the details, but when my folks sold their place I’m pretty sure they turned over the proceeds, plus their social security and retirement accounts, to Burnt Hills, that nightmare they’re in.”
Lincoln nodded. “That’s how it worked with Anita’s folks.”
“The good news is I don’t really need anything. Over the years I’ve squirreled away some savings, and there’s just me.”
“I doubt Mick’s got much coming, either, not with seven sisters and him the youngest sibling.”
“I was reading the other day where the transfer of wealth from our parents’ generation to ours is the largest in history,” Teddy said. “How’d we manage to miss out on that?”
“Good question. It’s true, though. There’s a lot of money out there, even after the recession. If you read between the lines of the Minervan, most of the people we knew there are one-percenters now.”
Chances Are . . . Page 6