by Danny Tobey
I was feeling woozy. Judging by the sun, I’d started walking around eight a.m., and now it was past noon. I hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday.
I saw a highway in the distance and stumbled toward it.
An hour later, I approached a lonely, run-down building on the side of the road.
I pushed the door open and stepped into a filthy room, me and my underwear. A few haggard men were sitting at tables alone, drinking. A couple of bikers talked in the back. They all looked up at me.
The bartender wore an undershirt with grease stains on it.
“Son,” he said, “you’re in the wrong bar.”
That’s when I passed out on his floor.
15
In the sunlight, the grand hallway of the law school, its main artery, thrummed with life. Giant shafts of colored light—red, green, and gold—poured in from the vast stained glass walls spanning both sides of the hallway. Frescoes of Creation and Wisdom adorned the ceilings, powdery yellows and blues paying tribute to the great ceilings of Rome and Florence. Students bustled in every direction, talking and laughing with the energy of a Monday morning in the middle of the warmest November in recent memory. On most days I passed through the hallway somewhat anonymously, saying hi to the occasional acquaintance on my way to class; but today, the first class day after the mock trial, I was the source of my own energy. A buzz seemed to follow me and precede me, to propel me down the hall; people I’d never met stared at me, grinning, nodding, patting me on the back, offering congratulations and the occasional It was great, but why didn’t you argue X? I felt like a king coming home from battle.
The journey back from the woods had felt cleansing, like a purification ritual. I had been in the wilderness, but now I was home. The bikers turned out to be great guys. They thought the idea of leaving someone half-naked in the woods was hilarious. They considered adding it to their next initiation. They even decided not to kill me.
I found Daphne sitting at the front of the classroom, rereading today’s cases. Buoyed by the good spirits, I marched right up to her. I felt confident, empowered. She must have felt it too, it must have projected off me, because she looked up and gave me the most dazzling smile I’d ever received, her skin tan and flushed, bright amaranth lips, black eyelashes above the flawless whites of her eyes, the perfect Caribbean irises.
“Hey there,” she said, stretching her arms back over her head. “You look like you had a good weekend.”
“I did. And you?”
“I slept all day yesterday. I slept like I hadn’t slept in months.”
“Me too.”
“Which reminds me,” she said, giving me a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry about the other night. After the trial. I was so tired. I still owe you a celebration.”
“It was a big victory,” I said.
“It was.” She grinned. “Huge.” She leaned in. “You were awesome.”
“You were pretty amazing yourself. The way you handled Mrs. Reid . . . unbelievable. Two hundred people couldn’t take their eyes off you.”
“So”—she leaned forward, rubbing her hands together—“what should we do?”
“To celebrate? For starters, we should go out to dinner. Somewhere special. Somewhere expensive. How about tonight?”
“Sure,” she said, her face glowing. “Wait. Tonight?”
“Yeah.”
She was looking at me funny, like how could I possibly be available tonight? A very bad thought occurred to me. I tried to push it away. No way, I thought. It wasn’t possible. But, could it be she was looking at me like she’d gotten another invitation from them and was wondering—why hadn’t I?
No way.
“Maybe later in the week, then,” I said.
“Yeah, that could work. Let me check. I’ll let you know.” She gave me a hopeful smile, but it was thin.
“Daphne, is there something you’re not telling me?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Daphne, come on. It’s me.”
The voice of Professor Gruber rang out behind me.
“Mr. Davis, I hate to interrupt the power couple of the year, but I was thinking about starting class. What are your thoughts on that?” A few people laughed. I looked around and saw that the room was full and Professor Gruber was at the lectern, his stubby arms crossed. The clock read two minutes past the hour. I mumbled an apology and slipped away to my seat across the room.
Couldn’t be, I thought. First event—the cocktail party: I came home and there was an invitation for the next event on my bed. Second event—the tea party: I came home, no invitation. So what? Who said the invitation had to come immediately after the last event? One example doesn’t make a pattern! And who said Daphne and I had to get the same invitation for the same event? No one! But that look in her eyes—surprise, disbelief. What else could it mean?
But I won the trial. Relax, I told myself. (Though Daphne’s words came back to me: winning the trial’s an edge, not a guarantee . . .)
I barely heard a word of class. Why start now? I kept turning things over in my mind. Don’t overreact. Don’t jump to conclusions.
When class was over, Daphne was out the door before I could reach her. A plump, good-natured woman with bright red lipstick and a green sweater was waiting at the doorway. Margaret Gleeter, Professor Bernini’s secretary for twenty-six years. As I passed, she held my arm and stopped me.
“Professor Bernini wants to see you in his office.”
“Okay.” I hesitated. “Margaret, you don’t know what about, do you?”
“I’m not sure,” she said.
She gave my arm a reassuring squeeze.
When I reached his office, Professor Bernini was on the phone, one hand in his thinning hair. He waved me in.
“Yes, I heard,” he said into the phone. “I think it’s best you speak now, before the article comes out. Mm-hm. Yes.” Professor Bernini scratched his scalp. “You’ll need to make five points. First, you are saddened by the situation. Second, your office is committed to honesty and fairness. Third, you are going to place him on paid leave. Don’t forget to say paid—you’re splitting the baby. Fourth, you are going to sponsor an independent and fair investigation into the matter. Say those words: independent and fair. Fifth, you’ll take appropriate action once the results of that investigation are in.” Bernini winked at me. “That gets you a month. After that, a human sacrifice may be required. Okay, very good. No, I’ve seen worse. Call if you need me.” He hung up the phone and pointed a remote over my head. He clicked a TV on and muted it. He nodded at the phone. “A former student of mine. Now,” he said, smiling, “to the matter at hand. It’s finished.”
“What’s finished?” My voice was weak.
“The draft. My History of Law. Nine hundred pages, give or take.”
He rested his fingers on top of a pile of paper.
“We did it, Jeremy,” he said. “I owe you my gratitude.”
He reached behind his desk and produced two glasses. The sprightly man popped open a bottle of champagne and filled the flutes.
“Congratulations and thank you,” he said, raising his glass.
“Thank you, sir,” I said.
We clinked glasses.
“Do you know what this is, Jeremy?” He tapped his fingertips on the immense stack. I was still reeling from my conversation with Daphne; I resisted the insane urge to say: a book?
“It’s a very important work . . .”
He waved my answer away.
“It’s glue. Social glue. There’s nothing original in this book. I’m not saying anything John Stuart Mill didn’t say. Or Jefferson or Lincoln. I’m just repeating it. We have to repeat it, Jeremy. Did you know Germany was the cultural center of Europe before the Nazis came to power? It happens so fast.” He leaned toward me. His eyes were wide. “Believe me. I was a child when the fascists took over.” I’d heard the stories. His father was a democrat who opposed Mussolini. He died in a political prison—no lawyer, no trial, no press.
Bernini was eleven; after his father’s death, he fled the country with his mother, first to England, then to America. “It’s the same story,” Bernini said. “Point anywhere on a map, I’ll show it to you. There is always a man who would become a dictator. There is always a crowd that would become a mob. The law is a muzzle on an angry dog. We need it. But it’s a cold instrument, fragile and intellectual. Remember that, Jeremy: intelligence isn’t virtue. The law needs our goodness to give it life. Ah.” He unmuted the television. A prominent congressman was holding a press conference. We listened as he repeated Bernini’s words almost verbatim. He looked grave, honest. The wind whipped through his gray hair.
When it was over, Bernini clicked the TV off.
“You should be proud of this book, Jeremy. You are very much a part of it. It was a pleasure to work with you.”
I felt a cold sensation.
“Professor Bernini, you said it’s just a draft, right?”
“Yes.”
His eyes danced around, reading my expression, my body language, betraying nothing.
“Won’t you be revising it?”
“Yes,” he said after a pause. “Almost certainly.”
“Well, if you need more research, I’m happy to do it.”
“I appreciate that, Jeremy,” he said kindly. “But you’ve done so much. And a book could always benefit from a fresh perspective in the next round.”
He folded his hands and waited.
“I understand.” I stood. I felt like layers of myself were melting away. I just wanted to get out of his office before there was nothing left. “Thank you for the opportunity.” I started to walk out quickly.
“Jeremy?”
“Yes?” I said, stopping, turning around.
Tell me something good.
“My key?” he said patiently, holding out his hand. His kind eyes smiled at me, but the twinkle was muted, out of respect for the freshly dead.
I fished the keys out of my pocket. I had to suffer the indignity of winding his key off my ring, something I fumbled with in the best of circumstances. Finally, I dropped it in his palm, and he closed his hand.
He walked me to the door. He patted me on the back and said, “Best of luck to you, Jeremy. You’ll be a fine lawyer.”
Coffin shut, nailed, dropped.
I started down the hallway.
Coming in the opposite direction was none other than Humpty Dumpty himself, Arthur Peabody: short, waddling, charging head forward, bow tie askew, long jowls jostling with each step. He looked me over, snorted, glanced past me down the hall.
“Another one of your victories, Ernesto?” he called down the hall to Bernini.
“Good morning, Arthur,” Bernini said flatly from behind me.
As Arthur Peabody passed, I smelled the cloud of liquor.
“Was this one too good or not good enough?”
“That’s enough, Arthur.”
There was a warning in his voice. I had no idea what Humpty meant. I didn’t care anymore. I just wanted out of that hallway.
“Why don’t you tell him the joke?” Humpty Dumpty said. “Maybe he’ll thank you.”
“Enough,” Bernini snapped. I’d never heard him so angry. “Remember your deal,” he said to Peabody.
Two doors slammed behind me, moments apart.
The fucking elevator couldn’t come fast enough.
• • •
I called my parents for the first time in a month. My dad answered the phone.
“We thought you were dead,” he said dryly.
“No, Dad. Just crazy. Too much work.” I tried to sound light-hearted. “I won the mock trial.”
“Hey, that’s great. Way to go. You’re not letting the big shots push you around, are you?” This was a common theme for my dad, ever since he decided that he was a speck in the universe, meaningless, powerless.
“No way, Dad. I’m pushing them around.”
“That’s my boy.”
“Hey, let me talk to Mom, okay?”
“Sure.”
My mom picked up the phone.
“Hi sweetie.”
“Hi Mom.”
“Honey, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Ma. How’s Dad doing?”
“He’s fine. How are you?”
“Is he taking his medicine?”
“Yes, honey. We’re taking care of everything. You don’t need to worry.”
“He hates the beta blocker. Make sure he’s really taking it.”
“Honey, what’s wrong? Is everything okay at school?”
“Yeah. Everything’s great. I’ve got lots of friends. I’m learning a lot.” I closed my eyes. “I need to run to class. I just wanted to say hi.”
“Honey?”
“I really need to run, Mom.”
“You call me if you need to talk. Okay, sweetie? Anytime.”
“Okay, Mom. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
I hung up.
Daphne left her house at seven o’clock. I’d been waiting in the park across the street. She was reading something small, then put it back in her purse. I stopped her in the middle of the road.
“Jeremy, what are you doing here?”
“Where are you going?”
“What do you mean, where am I going?”
“Answer my question.”
“Jeremy, you’re freaking me out.”
“I gave you everything,” I snapped. She took a step back. “I won that fucking trial for you. I destroyed that girl. I took her apart. I did that for you.”
“Jeremy, this isn’t going to help anything.”
“Help? Help? Bernini just took his fucking key back.” I felt my head pounding. “I did everything you said. Tell me what’s going on. Please.”
She paused.
“You know I can’t.”
She actually looked sorry.
“What’s in your purse?”
“Excuse me?”
“Give me your purse.”
“Jeremy, don’t do this.”
I grabbed for her purse. Jesus Christ, what was I doing? She put her hands up, let me take it. She stood back and folded her arms. I went through it roughly: makeup, pens, aspirin, coins. There was a square of off-white card stock, familiar. We are delighted to request your attendance . . . Today’s date. Seven thirty. Delighted. I handed her purse back.
“Did Nigel get one?”
For a while she just stood there. I felt my fists balling up, clenching. Then she nodded.
“John?”
Another nod.
I pressed my hand over my face.
“Bernini took his key back,” I said again. I looked at her. “I’m going to fail my classes. I haven’t opened a book all semester. Even if I pass, I won’t get a job. Everything I did means nothing now, doesn’t it?”
She tried to put her hand on my shoulder.
I had never seen her in direct sunlight before. Always indoors, in the library, the classroom, the ballroom. She was still beautiful, but more real. Her hand was on my shoulder. She looked brittle; how badly she wanted all this!
“What do you think I could do?” she asked me.
I had no answer.
“I’m sorry, Jeremy, I really am.”
She slung her purse.
“Please don’t follow me.”
16
When the weekend arrived, I realized I had no friends. Nigel and John had avoided me all week. I couldn’t even think of Daphne without remembering the other night outside her house and cringing. In the first months of school, I hadn’t bothered to spend time with anyone else.
I went to the library. I decided to start from the beginning. I opened my Torts book, and it was suddenly clear that it was an impossible task. We were hundreds of pages deep into every class. Exams were in two weeks. Most people were reviewing now. And I was on page one. Humpty Dumpty ruled over the library; tonight, I didn’t see him in the flesh, but his ghost was here. The specter of failure.
I felt someone watching me. It was one of the librarians, a painfully shy little man who always looked down and never said a word to anyone. He was more ruffled and ignored than half the books. He saw me looking and went back to stamping returns.
After a while I couldn’t take it and went to the Idle for a drink and cheap dinner. A pretty girl sat next to me at the bar. I was lonely. She made me think of the neurosurgeon who spilled her oranges in the yard. “How’s it going?” I asked. She mumbled an uninterested “Fine” and looked back to her friends.
“Let me show you,” said a voice behind me, as two large hands fell on my shoulders. John Anderson walked around to another of the girls. He was a foot taller than her. He gave a magical smile. “How’s it going?” he said amiably. “Good,” she said, “how are you?” “Good.” He grinned. One of the other girls smiled back. “Hey,” she said, “my friend just got her glasses today. Don’t they look sexy?” He laughed and agreed. I threw some money down and started to leave.
“See,” John said. “It’s not what you say. It’s who says it.”
“Fuck you,” I said.
“No, fuck you. I never liked you.”
He clapped me on the shoulder. I shrugged him off and walked away.
I saw him go back into the main bar, where he joined Nigel and Daphne. He put his arm around Daphne. He kissed the top of her head.
Something bad was turning in my brain. I walked the campus. All those images: greatness, Daphne, money—all gone. I hated John. I hated Daphne. I hated the V&D. I passed the red-bricked dormitories with cannon marks from the Revolutionary War. I passed the gothic Centennial Church, the renaissance porticoes of Creighton Hall, the statue of our founder, handsome and proud. I hated this place, but it was beautiful. I hated it because it was beautiful.
I wasn’t tired, and I was sick of feeling sorry for myself, so I went back to the library. I found an empty floor. I opened the Torts book to page one and started reading again. The case was Scott v. Shepherd. The defendant had thrown a lit firecracker into a crowded indoor market. A surprised vendor picked it up and lobbed it away from himself to another part of the market. Another vendor picked it up and lobbed it again. Finally, it struck the plaintiff (you have to love old English) “in the face therewith” and exploded. The question was, who caused the injury: The initial thrower? One of the intervening lobbers? It occurred to me that since I’d come to this place, I hadn’t caused a thing. I’d just been swept along.
