I smile at the reference librarian as I circle his long desk. He does not smile back: he is on the phone and, if the rumors are true, is probably placing a bet. On the other side of the desk is the Faculty Reading Room, as my destination is pompously called. I am about to use my faculty key to unlock the FARR when the double doors of frosted glass open in front of me and Lemaster Carlyle and Dana Worth saunter out, laughing together, evidently at some Worthism, because Lem is laughing harder.
“Hello, Tal,” says Lem quietly. He is his usual dapper self, sporting a medium-gray sports jacket and a crimson Harvard tie.
“Lem.”
“Misha, darling,” murmurs Dear Dana, and I remind myself to tell her not to call me that in public. She, too, is nicely turned out, in a dark business suit.
“Dana, do you have a minute?”
“That depends on how you plan to vote on Bonnie Ziffren,” Dana smiles, naming one in the endless stream of candidates recommended by the faculty appointments committee to whom Dear Dana, on one ground or another, objects. “I know Marc thinks she’s the next Catharine MacKinnon, but, in my opinion? She’s a zircon in the rough.”
“You shouldn’t talk about potential faculty appointments in public,” Lem reminds her piously. He is, once more, avoiding my gaze. “By university rule, personnel matters are confidential.”
“Then come into my parlor.” She points to the FARR.
“No, thanks,” murmurs Lemaster. In fact, he remembers that he has to run: dinner with some visiting potentate from the American Law Institute. You can always count on faculty politics to drive Lemaster Carlyle away. He yearns for the law school’s lost golden age, which he missed entirely but nevertheless loves, when the professors all got along with each other, even if those who were there, such as Theo Mountain and Amy Hefferman, recall it differently. He rushes off without a farewell, still unable to look me in the eye.
What is going on with him? Kimmer’s lover? The deliverer of the pawn? I rub my forehead, furious again, not at Lem but at the Judge. Dear Dana Worth, noticing the sudden change in my mood, lays a gentle hand on my arm. She waits until she is sure Lem is out of earshot and then asks me softly what I want.
“We better discuss this in private,” I tell her, still wondering what might be wrong with Lemaster, and whether it has to do with . . . well, with everything.
“Come into my parlor,” she teases again. I hesitate, not wanting to be seen sneaking into the FARR with a female colleague, especially a white one, even if she has no interest in men, and my hesitation ruins everything. Dana is already smiling over my shoulder, greeting a new arrival, when the sharply spoken words rattle from behind me like bullets:
“I think we need to talk, Tal.”
I turn in surprise to find myself staring into the angry face of Gerald Nathanson.
(III)
“HELLO, JERRY,” I say quietly.
“We need to talk,” he says again.
Jerry Nathanson, probably the most prominent lawyer in the city, was in law school with Kimmer and myself, married back then to the same unprepossessing woman who is his wife today. He is perhaps five foot eight, a trifle overweight, with a fleshy chin not quite able to spoil his 1950s-style boyish good looks. His features are clear and even and a little soft. His dark hair is curly, and he is balding, just a bit, in the middle of his head. He is an impressive figure in his light gray suit and dark blue tie. His hands are folded over his chest as though he is waiting for an apology.
“I don’t think we have anything to talk about,” I tell him, forgetting every lesson that Morris Young has tried to teach me. I might as well be one of the boys he tries to save from the corner, doing my macho styling for the sake of macho styling.
“Misha, I’ll see you,” says Dana, still grinning, but weakly now. She wants no part of what is about to occur. “Call me.”
“Dana, wait . . .”
“Let her go,” Jerry Nathanson commands. “We need to talk alone.”
I look him up and down, moving the Columbia Law Review to my left hand, perhaps to free up my right. Then I force myself to calm down. I shake my head. “No, Jerry. I can’t just now. I’m busy.” Showing him the book. “Maybe some other time.”
As I try to walk around him, he grabs my arm. “Don’t you walk away from me.”
My fury is about to boil over. “Let go of my arm, please,” I whisper without turning around. I am aware that a couple of students are jostling and pointing, which means that a crowd will shortly be gathering.
“I just want to talk,” mutters Jerry, also noticing the attention we are drawing.
“I don’t know how many different ways I can say that I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Don’t make a scene, Talcott.”
“You’re telling me not to make a scene?” I glare, wondering if I am supposed to punch him. Surely there exists somewhere a rule book for the behavior of a cuckolded husband upon meeting the likely object of his wife’s affection.
“Calm down, Talcott.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down!” I am about to say more, but I restrain myself, for his fifties movie-star features no longer look angry. Instead, he looks puzzled.
“I have to go,” I tell him, walking around him and striding for the exit. I can hear him hurrying behind me, and I begin to move faster. Now half the students in the law school seem to be watching, along with a faculty colleague or two. Still, nothing to do but get out and worry about the rest later.
Jerry catches up with me just outside the ornate double doors marking the main entrance to the library. “What’s the matter with you, Talcott? I just wanted to talk to you.”
I have had enough of self-restraint. I swing around in bright red fury. “What is it, Jerry? What exactly do you want?”
“Here? You want to talk here?”
“Why not? You’ve been chasing me all over the law school.”
He draws himself up. “Well, in the first place, I wanted to tell you congratulations, in advance. About your wife, I mean. She told me”—he glances around, but now that we are outside the library, the few students standing around pretend not to be listening—“she told me, uh, about Professor Hadley.”
In bed? On your office sofa? Despite the promise I made to Dr. Young, I am not able to shake off my anger—or perhaps my anguish—now that I am face to face with Jerry Nathanson. “Professor Hadley has not taken his name out of the hat,” I snap.
“Oh. Oh. I didn’t know that.”
We have somehow started walking again, down the dimly lighted corridor toward my office. No students have dared follow, but a few office doors are standing open, and we might still be overheard.
“Well, it’s true,” I mutter. “It seems that Professor Hadley thinks he can explain it all away, that it’s all a big misunderstanding.”
“I see.” Jerry’s voice is small and hesitant. He tries a smile. We are standing outside my door. “Well, I’m sure your wife will get the job.”
And it pours out of me. “My wife. My wife. My wife!”
He tilts his head to one side, eyes narrowed. “Yes. Your wife.”
“I want you to stay away from her.”
“Stay away from her? We work together.”
“You know exactly what I mean, Jerry. Don’t play games with me.”
“I do know what you mean, Talcott, and . . . and it’s completely ridiculous.” Jerry’s astonishment seems so genuine that I am sure he is playing me. “I don’t know how you could think . . . I mean, me and Kimberly? What would give you an idea like that?”
“Maybe the fact that it’s true.”
“It isn’t true. Please don’t think that.” He rubs his hands over his face. “Your wife . . . Kimberly . . . she, uh, she told me a few months ago that you seemed to think that there was something, uh, between us. I thought she was joking. Please, Talcott, believe me.” His eyes grow earnest, and, for a second time, he puts an uninvited hand on my arm. “I happen to be a happily married man, Tal
cott. My relationship with your wife is nothing but professional. It has never been anything but professional. And it never will be anything but professional.” Waiting for this to sink in. “Your wife is the best lawyer in the firm, the best lawyer in the city, the best lawyer in this part of the state. Maybe I . . . maybe we work her too hard, maybe we keep her away from home too much, but, Talcott, please believe me when I say that it is only work that is keeping her away.”
“I don’t know why I should believe you,” I sneer, but I am on less certain ground now, and we both know it. I have shot off my ammunition, but all my powder was wet. Maybe it is Jack Ziegler, or the Judge, at whom I should be venting my fury.
Jerry Nathanson steps back again. He is no longer nervous. He is a fine lawyer and knows when he has the advantage. When he speaks again, his voice is cold. “Your wife also told me you were behaving in what she called an irrational manner. I told her not to worry, but I guess she was right as usual.”
“She told you what?”
“That your behavior is starting to frighten her.”
This is too much. I step close to him. It is all I can do not to grab him by the front of his hand-tailored shirt. “I don’t want you discussing me with my wife.” I do not realize how absurd this sounds until I have said it. “I don’t want you discussing anything with my wife.”
“I have a news flash for you, Talcott.” Jerry’s own anger rises afresh. He jabs a finger at me. “You need some serious medical help. Maybe a psychiatrist.”
Ah, but men are horrible! I slap his finger away and say something equally useful: “If you don’t stay away from my wife, Jerry, you’re going to need some serious medical help yourself.”
His face reddens. “That’s a threat, Talcott. Do you hear yourself? That’s just the sort of thing Kimberly was talking about.”
“You’ve got a lot of nerve, Jerry.”
“Oh, yeah?” He taps the front of my sweater, goading me. “And what do you intend to do about it?”
“Don’t push it,” I snarl. He laughs. Were we not a couple of intellectuals in an Ivy League town, we would no doubt come to blows. As it is, we shove a bit. Probably I shove harder. Even though I can see we are attracting a fresh audience, I cannot make myself back down, the world is too red around me. “Just stay away from my wife.”
“You’re crazy, Talcott.” He composes himself with an effort, backs away, breathing hard. “Get some help.”
When Jerry has gone, all of Oldie is staring at me.
CHAPTER 42
DEADLINE
“WE’RE A LITTLE CONCERNED ABOUT YOU,” says Lynda Wyatt without preamble.
“I know.”
I am determined to be contrite. Dean Lynda called me on Tuesday afternoon and asked me—told me, really—to be in her office on Wednesday at three, and her tone told me I am in serious trouble.
“You’re family, Talcott,” she continues, her eyes hard. “Naturally, when a member of the family is having problems, we want to help.”
By we, she means herself, and Stuart Land, and Arnie Rosen, the three most influential members of the faculty and, by coincidence, the current dean, the former dean, and a strong candidate to be the next dean. The seriousness of the occasion is signaled by the absence of Ben Montoya, who usually does her dirty work. For this meeting, Lynda wants the heavy guns.
We are sitting in Lynda’s office on the furniture arranged for conversation. I am in a wooden armchair, Lynda and Stuart are on the plush sofa that runs off at a right angle from my spot, and Arnie’s wheelchair is right next to me. I can see where the mate to my chair has been pushed aside to make room. Usually Lynda has coffee and donuts on a side table, but not today.
Stuart takes his turn. He has less patience with circumlocutions, which is why he was a very bad dean and is a very good man. “Let’s look at the evidence, Talcott. The reasons we are worried. Number one, we have the increasingly wild conspiracy theories you have been busily pursuing, even though some of us have warned you. Number two, we have that bizarre incident with the police, not what we need with the racial tension in this town. Those are old problems, of course, so let us put them aside for a moment. Number three”—ticking them off on his fingers—“you haven’t been meeting your classes regularly. Number four . . .”
“Now, wait a minute,” I interject, displaying my usual lack of feel for the nuance of a conversation. As a lawyer, I should know enough to let them lay out the charges first, take the time to think it through, and then rebut it all at once. But remember what they say about those who can’t do. “You know I had a good reason to miss those classes . . . .”
“My father died on a Monday morning and I taught that afternoon and the next day and the day after that,” Stuart says coldly. “Besides, your family difficulties would explain only the classes you missed in the fall. Not in the current semester, which is only a month old.”
Arnie Rosen lays a restraining hand on my wrist before I can offer an ill-considered response. “Tal, please, just listen first. Nobody here is out to get you.”
I decide to hold my tongue.
“Number four,” Stuart resumes, “we have what I suppose we would have to call your little shoving match with Gerald Nathanson, a graduate of this law school and a prominent member of this community. Do you have any idea how many people overheard you? And, number five . . .”
“Just a minute,” I interrupt, forgetting my resolution. Having been through this with a livid and chagrined Kimmer, I do not want to do it again. “Just a minute! If you’re about to blame me for that argument, I’ll have you know . . .”
Stuart has no capacity for retreat: “None of this has anything to do with blame. We are talking about what is happening to you, Talcott.” Steepling his fingers. “Months ago, I told you that we needed the old, lively, optimistic Talcott Garland back. But you ignored that warning, as you have ignored the rest of my warnings.” He pauses. “And we have not even begun to discuss your efforts to sabotage Marc Hadley’s chances for judicial appointment.”
“I had nothing to do with that!”
“Number five,” Stuart resumes, relentlessly, “there is some talk around the place that you have written scholarship that is biased toward the needs of a paying client . . . .”
“That’s completely ridiculous!” I sputter, having all but forgotten my interview with Arnie back a million years ago.
“Calm down, Talcott,” says Lynda in her steely voice, and it occurs to me that Theo Mountain, if we were still on the close terms that once marked our relationship, or if he were a few years younger, would be in this room, trying to protect me, for he used to be a power on the faculty and would never have countenanced this ganging up on his protégé. “Stuart is simply explaining how things look from the law school’s point of view.”
“Gerald Nathanson was thinking of filing some sort of complaint,” says Stuart, “but I talked him out of it.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I mutter, my head swimming.
“There is a pertinent university rule,” Stuart continues in his blunt fashion. “Officers of the faculty do not go around abusing prominent citizens this way.”
“I didn’t abuse anybody,” I protest, hopelessly. “He started it.”
“The ethics of the kindergarten.” Shaking his head as though I am beyond redemption.
“What we’re saying,” says Arnie Rosen with plain reluctance, “is that it is time for the institution to think about how to protect itself.” Behind the small, round lenses his eyes are soft with sympathy. He is not the sort of liberal who can easily criticize a black man.
“Are you . . . are you firing me?” I blurt, my gaze leaping from one impassive Caucasian face to the next.
“No,” says Stuart icily. “We’re warning you.”
“Which means what, exactly?”
Stuart is about to speak again, but Dean Lynda holds up her hand. “Stuart, Arnie, will you excuse us for a moment?” Arnie immediately gets his wheelchair moving, and
Stuart leaps to his feet with such alacrity that I am certain the entire display was orchestrated in advance, for no dean, not even the scary Lynda Wyatt, could ever make Arnie Rosen and Stuart Land jump if they didn’t want to.
A moment later we are alone.
“I’ve always liked you,” Dean Lynda begins, which is probably a lie, except that her definitions of words, in good decanal fashion, do not always match what others understand. Deans must have that trait to survive, for they must be able to say to some student activist, with the utmost compassion and sincerity, Oh, did you think what I said before was a promise of action? I just said I would look into it, but as Dean my hands are pretty much tied. It’s really up to the university provost. Good deans not only say these things every day or two, they have the trick of making the students, and sometimes the faculty, believe that they are telling the truth.
The Emperor of Ocean Park Page 56
