“Yes, I remember.”
“And are you familiar with the letters of Abelard and Heloise?”
“They were lovers from the Middle Ages, as I recall.”
“He was a teacher, and she was his young student. I simply pointed out that Heloise and Abelard may have inspired other writers to explore teacher-student affairs in contemporary fiction. And how these situations are driven by the characters’ circumstances.”
She nodded. “I was an English major. I understand the point you were trying to make.”
That was encouraging. “The male characters in these novels are all flawed and vulnerable. They have unhappy marriages, or they’re lonely, and they’re hungry for intimacy. That leads to the affairs. I was not advocating any such behavior, and it’s ludicrous to think that I was. I mean, what instructor would do that?”
“Yes, I understand. But you can appreciate, given current events, that we’re especially sensitive to any hint of sexual misconduct.”
“Of course. I’m all in favor of disciplining men who harass and abuse. But I can’t believe anyone in class felt threatened by a discussion of fictional teachers having fictional affairs with fictional students.”
She looked at her notes. “The student who filed the complaint also reported that you said you understood why it could happen. Why a professor would have an affair with a student.” She looked up at him.
He felt his face flush in anger. “That’s not what I said. In fact—”
“Professor Dorian.” She held up her hand. “I also interviewed other students, and one in particular described the incident exactly as you just did. She was very insistent that you were discussing only characters in a book, and nothing else.”
She. Was it Taryn Moore who’d defended him? It had to be.
“So I’m going to assume this complaint was merely a misunderstanding.”
He released a sigh of relief. “Then . . . that’s it?”
“Yes. However, for future reference, you might consider including trigger warnings on your syllabi. Other professors are doing that, alerting students that some of the course material might be offensive because of violence, sexual abuse, racism, et cetera.”
“I know others are doing that, but I have a problem with trigger warnings.”
“Why?”
“Because feeling uncomfortable is what a college education is all about—being exposed to disturbing aspects of human experience. We’re talking about twentysomething adults who are exposed to a lot worse in the daily news. I’m not going to infantilize them.”
“I’m certainly not going to tell you how to teach your courses. But just consider it.”
He got up to leave.
“Just one more thing,” she said. “The university strictly prohibits retaliation against anyone involved in a Title Nine investigation.”
“I wouldn’t do that even if I knew who complained.” But he did know, or he had a pretty good idea. He could picture Jessica now, exchanging sly winks and conspiratorial whispers with her roommate, Caitlin, whenever they disagreed with anything he said. And he remembered the C-minus he’d scrawled on Jessica’s paper, a grade she’d angrily challenged.
But he would not retaliate. He’d simply show up for class and carry on as if nothing had happened. He shook Elizabeth Sacco’s hand, thanked her for dropping the charge, and walked out, feeling fifty pounds lighter.
And thinking: Thank you, Taryn.
CHAPTER 12
JACK
“What did the student complain about?” Maggie asked as they drove to the clinic to meet Charlie. They were both feeling anxious about his appointment, and to fill the silence, he’d mentioned his meeting with the Title IX coordinator.
“We were discussing the letters of Heloise and Abelard. You know, the two lovers from the twelfth century,” he said, as if that explained things. But it didn’t.
“Heloise and Abelard? Isn’t there an exhibit about them at the MFA? I saw a banner for it on one of the buses.”
“Right. The exhibit opens this week.”
“So what do Heloise and Abelard have to do with your Title Nine issue?”
Suddenly he wished he had never brought up the subject. Since the complaint had been dismissed, he felt exonerated, a victim of a vengeful student. On some level, he’d thought that sharing the situation with Maggie would neutralize any suspicions she might have. But on another level he felt as if he were recklessly confessing to a crime he’d never committed. “I explained to the class that the Heloise-and-Abelard affair served as a model for contemporary stories like Gone Girl and others.”
“Wasn’t Abelard her teacher?”
“Yeah.”
“And he was a lot older than she was?”
“Yeah. As a result of the affair, he was castrated and served out his days in a monastery. And Heloise was shut away in an abbey.”
“Why did the student report you to the Title Nine office?”
“It was a dumb misunderstanding. And the charges were dropped.”
“Jack, what was the complaint? What did you say to make the student uncomfortable?”
“I said—I told them there might be reasons why a teacher would have an affair with a student.” Out of the corner of his eye he could see her staring at him.
“And have you?”
“Have I what?”
“Had an affair with a student?”
“Jesus, Maggie!” he snapped. “Why would you even ask that?” Was he protesting too much? As if, in some dark recess of his consciousness, he had actually considered the possibility?
“It’s just that . . .” She sighed. “My job’s been crazy lately. It’s gotten hard to carve out enough time for us.”
“I miss it, you know. The way we used to be.”
“You think I don’t miss it too?” She looked at him. “I’m trying, Jack. I really am. But there’s so much I have to juggle. So many people who need me.”
“And what happens if we ever have kids? How are they going to fit into your schedule?”
She stiffened and turned away. At once he regretted mentioning the possibility of a child, knowing how devastated she’d been by her last miscarriage. The ghost of that lost baby still haunted them both. “I’m sorry,” he said.
She stared straight out the window. “That makes two of us.”
Charlie was the last patient on Dr. Gresham’s schedule for the day, and they found him sitting all alone in the waiting room, holding a tattered copy of National Geographic in his lap. It had been only a few days since Jack had last seen Charlie, and he was shocked by how much older he looked today, as if the sand in his hourglass was spilling away ever more rapidly. Charlie smiled as they walked in and tossed the Nat Geo onto the coffee table, where it landed on the pile of other ancient magazines.
“You made it,” he said.
“Of course we made it, Dad.” Maggie bent down to give her father a hug. “You didn’t need to drive here on your own. We could have picked you up.”
“Trying to take away my car keys already? You’ll have to pry them from my cold dead hands.” He gave Jack a nod. “Thanks for joining me on this happy occasion.”
“Sure thing, Charlie.”
“Getting older is all fun and games.” He winced and shifted in his chair. “The fact Dr. Gresham needs to discuss the MRI results in person tells me it’s about to get a whole lot more fun.”
“It doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” Maggie said, but Jack doubted Charlie was fooled by her reassurance. The false optimism in her voice was obvious.
“Mr. Lucas?” It wasn’t the nurse calling Charlie’s name, but Dr. Gresham himself. He stood holding a medical chart, his expression determinedly neutral. A bad omen, right there in his face.
With a groan, Charlie rose from the chair, and they followed Dr. Gresham down a short hallway to his office. No one said a word; they were all girding themselves for what was coming. Maggie and Jack eased Charlie into a chair; then they sat down flanking him, the three of the
m facing Dr. Gresham across the desk. Gresham placed his hands on the chart and took a deep breath.
Another omen.
“I’m glad you could be here with your father, Maggie,” Gresham said. “You can help explain things to him later, if what I say isn’t completely clear.”
“I’m not an idiot,” cut in Charlie. “I spent forty years as a cop. Just tell me the truth.”
The doctor gave an apologetic nod. “Of course. I wanted to tell you this in person because I’m afraid the news isn’t good. The MRI shows a number of osteolytic lesions in your thoracic spine. It explains the pain you’ve been having, and—”
“Osteo what?”
“Areas of bone destruction. There’s some danger of collapse and compression of T5 if it’s not treated with radiation, and fairly soon. As for the primary—”
“So it’s cancer.”
Dr. Gresham nodded. “Yes, sir. That’s what it appears to be.”
Charlie looked at Maggie, who’d been shocked into silence. Maggie, who understood every word and yet couldn’t produce any of her own.
“There are also multiple nodules in both the left upper lobe and right middle lobe of the lungs. Several of them are peripheral enough for a transthoracic needle biopsy. My best guess is adenocarcinoma. At this stage, with bone metastases—”
“How long?” Charlie cut in.
Maggie reached for his hand, tried to hold it, but Charlie pushed her away, asserting he was still in control. He was not about to play the meek patient just because he couldn’t understand what these doctors were saying about him.
“It’s, um, hard to say,” Dr. Gresham answered.
“Months? Years?”
“It’s not possible to predict these things. But some stage-four patients can live for a year or more.”
“Treatment?” Charlie asked. His voice was brusque and unemotional, while Maggie looked like she was about to crumble.
“At this stage,” Gresham said, “the treatment is palliative. Radiation for the bone lesions. Narcotics as needed for the pain. We’ll do everything we can to keep you comfortable and maximize your quality of life.”
“Dad,” Maggie whispered. Again she reached for his hand, and this time he let her take it. “Jack and I will be right beside you every step of the way.”
“Fine,” Charlie snorted, “but I’ll deal with it in my own way. If I have to go down, I’ll go down swinging. Screw cancer!”
He shoved himself out of the chair. Anger made him push past the pain, and suddenly he was the tough old Charlie that Jack knew, the Charlie who wasn’t afraid to face down thugs in a dark alley. As he strode out of the office, Maggie hustled after him. Jack heard the outer door slam shut.
“Thanks, Doc,” he said, rising to his feet. “I’m sorry about how he took the news.”
“No one takes this kind of news very well.” Dr. Gresham shook his head. “I’m sorry it couldn’t have been better. The next few months are going to be tough on you all. Let Maggie know she can call me anytime. She’ll need all the support she can get.”
When Jack walked out of the building, he found Charlie and Maggie standing beside his car. He was flushed and clearly angry as he waved her away.
“I can drive home on my own.”
“Dad, please. It’s no problem. You need to let us help.”
He shook his head. “I don’t need a babysitter! I’m going home to pour myself a double scotch.” With a grunt, he climbed into his car and slammed the door shut.
“Dad.” Maggie rapped at the car window as Charlie pulled out of the parking space. “Dad!”
Jack reached for her arm. “Let him go.”
“He can’t just take off like this. He needs—”
“Right now he needs his dignity. Let’s allow him that much.”
Maggie pressed her hand to her mouth, trying not to cry. He took her in his arms, and they held each other as the sound of Charlie’s car faded away.
CHAPTER 13
JACK
It was a little before ten a.m. when Jack arrived at the Museum of Fine Arts. Over the main entrance hung a giant banner announcing the new exhibit: ETERNAL LOVERS: ABELARD AND HELOISE, with an image of the iconic pair in a passionate embrace. His Star-Crossed students were already waiting on the front steps, and as he approached, Jessica and Caitlin fixed him with sullen looks. He spotted Taryn standing off to the side, and he wanted to thank her for defending him against the Title IX accusation, but he’d have to do it later, in private. Certainly not while Cody Atwood hovered nearby, as he was today. Instead, he gave Taryn a smile and a nod, and it was enough to make her face light up.
“Professor Dorian?” said a young woman standing near the entrance.
“Yes. You must be Jenny Iverson,” he said.
She nodded. “Assistant to the curator. I’ll be taking your class on a tour of the new exhibit. So welcome, everyone!”
As he followed the group up the marble steps to the second floor, he reminded himself not to reveal any grudge he might have against Jessica, even though he was certain she’d been the source of that Title IX complaint. Keep your cool, Jack. Just smile at the little jerks. They passed through the Rabb Gallery, past Maggie’s favorite painting in the entire museum: Renoir’s Dance at Bougival. He paused to admire the image of the two dancers, the woman in a red bonnet, the man in a straw hat, both so joyously in love. Twelve years ago, he’d proposed to Maggie before this very painting. Let that always be us, he’d said to her then.
How different their lives looked today.
They arrived at the Farago Gallery, where the walls were covered with a dizzying display of oil paintings and triptychs and engravings, all featuring Heloise and Abelard. In the center of the room were glass display cases with fourteenth-century illuminated manuscripts of the lovers’ letters. On the far wall hung movie posters and recent translations of their story—evidence that their tragic tale had become timeless.
“This exhibit was timed to open around Valentine’s Day, for reasons which should be obvious,” said Ms. Iverson. “Instead of dinner and a movie, maybe a perfect date night will be a trip to this museum!”
“Most boring date ever,” Jack heard Jessica mutter behind him. He chose to ignore it.
“I understand you’ve already read the letters of Abelard and Heloise, so you know their love story. How an affair between a teacher and his brilliant, beautiful student pitted Christian devotion against sexual passion.”
He noticed Cody looking sideways at him.
“As much as we want to believe this was a true story, the authenticity of the letters has never actually been established, and some scholars argue they’re merely fiction.”
“What do you think?” Taryn asked her.
“There’s such passion in these letters; I prefer to believe they’re real.”
“Or they could just be erotic fantasies written by some horny monk,” Jessica said.
Iverson responded with a tight smile. “Perhaps.”
“Does it really matter who wrote them?” Taryn said. “They so beautifully immortalize a doomed love affair. I’m guessing they were the inspiration for other tales about star-crossed lovers. Maybe even Romeo and Juliet.”
“Excellent observation,” said Ms. Iverson.
As they moved on, Jack heard Jessica whisper to Caitlin, “Brownnosing little bitch.”
They passed by a Pre-Raphaelite painting of the doomed couple, golden-haired Heloise adorned in lustrous silk, Abelard with a head of dark ringlets. In the painting beside it was a completely different version of Abelard, depicted as a medieval scholar in a cowled hood. He looked more like a wizard than a teacher as he kissed an innocent Heloise.
“He looks like Voldemort putting the moves on Hermione,” Jason said to a few chuckles.
“Maybe she did it for the A-plus,” Jessica said.
Jack saw Cody flash Taryn a frown. What the hell was the scuttlebutt in class? Did they really think there was something going on between him a
nd Taryn?
He wanted the tour to be over, but unfortunately, they were moving on to sexier depictions of the pair. They stopped before a nineteenth-century oil painting showing Abelard holding Heloise’s hands against her bared breast. Behind them, her menacing uncle Fulbert lurked in a shadowy doorway. But it was the rosy glow of Heloise’s breast that held Jack’s gaze, a breast unmarred by age or the relentless pull of gravity. He was acutely aware of Taryn standing beside him, her gaze on the painting as well. She was close enough for him to catch the scent of her hair, to feel her sweater brush against his arm.
Abruptly he turned and moved on.
They came to the final group of illustrations, depicting Abelard’s punishment.
“As you already know, since you’ve read the letters,” said Ms. Iverson, “Heloise’s uncle Fulbert had Abelard castrated as punishment for the affair with Heloise. So some of these images are quite disturbing.”
They certainly were. One black-and-white eighteenth-century engraving showed Abelard laid out on a canopied nuptial bed with two men holding down his legs while Fulbert performed the castration. Heloise stood restrained as she watched the scene, screaming in horror. In another etching, Abelard was held down, his head covered by a hood, while a black-robed priest wielded a knife between Abelard’s legs.
The final painting, The Farewell of Abelard and Heloise, by Angelica Kauffman, showed nuns leading a weeping Heloise from Abelard, the lovers’ arms stretched out to each other as they were forever separated.
“She goes to a convent. He gets his balls cut off,” Cody said. “I think it’s pretty clear who got the worst of it.”
“Not Abelard,” Taryn said. “He got what he wanted, even if he did spend the rest of his life sexless and in a monastery.”
“Thanks for meeting with me,” Taryn said an hour later as she and Jack sat at a table in the MFA’s restaurant. “I probably should have scheduled an appointment during office hours.”
“We both have to eat lunch. We might as well have our meeting here.”
“Yeah, but . . .” She looked around the dining room as a waiter glided past with four glasses of wine on his tray. “The coffee shop would have been fine too.”
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