She shook her head in pleasant disbelief as she opened the box, but when she finally saw the red cashmere scarf, she gasped.
“Eric! Where did you get it?”
“Dr. Eberman?”
Eric looked up to see Rhonda, the sweet-tempered, seventy-year-old departmental receptionist, standing in the half-open doorway to his office. “Someone’s here?” he asked.
“Mitchell.”
He nodded and moved to his desk chair. Only after his wife had died had Rhonda started showing up at his office to announce visitors. She must have thought that any unannounced visitor might provoke him into a nervous collapse.
Mitchell entered without looking at him or saying anything, casually closing the door behind him. No doubt the word of Eric’s request for a leave had already permeated the department.
“I wanted to tell you first,” Eric finally said.
“I found out from Maria. Dr. Moreau mentioned it to her this morning. She also managed to mention that you were next in line for department chair.”
“I wasn’t aware she was planning on stepping down.”
“If you had been,” Mitchell turned, “would that have affected your decision?”
Eric was surprised by the lack of anger on Mitchell’s face. “I’ve asked for a leave of absence. I haven't resigned,” he said.
“You can’t blame any of us for thinking this is just the first step.”
Eric shook his head in weak denial and lowered his eyes to his desk. Despite the violence that accompanied it, telling Randall about his departure was nothing compared to this. His commitment to Mitchell, while chaste, ran deeper. But in a way, it reduced him to the same feeling of helplessness. As with Randall, he had given in to too many of Mitchell’s demands and then lacked the courage to put a stop to the young man’s plans when he knew he should have. For a while, Eric had given Randall free rein over his body. But with Mitchell, Eric had given his intellectual blessing to a mission that was doomed from the very start. Eric realized the full scope of what his leave would allow him to escape, and sought for ways to soften the blow for the young man who had once been his star pupil before he became driven by the desire to convert others.
Back to business, Eric thought, and kill the guy with kindness while you’re at it. “I’m assuming Phil Wick is going to take over the second semester of Foundations.”
“Wick’s a pompous ass. He’ll hand over the course to us.”
“Which might not be a bad thing.”
Mitchell gave him a cool smile. “Maria’s furious.”
“That young woman was born furious. How the two of you managed to become compatriots is beyond me. You’re a scholar and her only goal is to attack and deconstruct all the mechanisms she thinks are trying to oppress her.” Eric met Mitchell’s eyes. “Which might explain why you aren’t furious.”
“I share some of her questions.”
“Ask them.”
“What will it feel like to leave behind all that you’ve done here?”
“Are you referring to shepherding you, her, and all the other master’s students toward predictable conclusions you can hammer out in your thesis? Or maybe you’re talking about how I teach a mass of nameless undergraduates I wouldn’t recognize if I ran into them on the street? The ones who only realized I was their professor after Lisa’s death was in the paper. Mitchell, if any of that sounds like a compelling reason not to spend some time away from a city where there’s a memory of my wife around every corner, you’ll have to point it out to me.”
A bravura performance, he thought. But it had been completely lost on Mitchell. Eric had omitted one major commitment and he could sense Mitchell preparing to drive the blade in quick, or wait to find the softest spot to stab.
Mitchell slowly crossed to the chair in front of Eric’s desk and took a seat. “Forgive me for what I’m about to say,” Mitchell said flatly. “Lisa’s death was tragic. But so was your marriage.”
Eric felt anger rush into him like hot water, flushing out his careful plans to make this farewell an easy one. “I know you well enough to know how badly her death must have wounded you. But they don’t, Eric. How can you expect them to believe that you’re leaving them behind because of a wife you didn’t even seem to care about?”
Eric sucked in a breath and leaned forward over his desk. “That house is yours. And the people who live in it are your priority. If any of them need a parent, they should look to you.”
“That house exists because of what you wrote.”
“My words put through the wringer of your vision.”
“In your house!”
“Not anymore. It’s yours now. We’ve been over that.”
Mitchell considered this, crossing his hands on his lap. Eric realized the finality of his tone wouldn’t be enough to close the topic, to forever break his tie to 231 Slope Street. And to Mitchell.
“It isn’t that they need you, Eric. They looked up to you. I taught them to venerate you.”
Mitchell’s last words chilled Eric. He had inadvertently sanctioned not a meeting of minds under one roof but a cult. Eric rose from his chair and crossed to the window.
“I should have seen this coming,” Mitchell said quietly. “Lauren Raines is our resident success story. You read her application and then you never even bothered to meet her.”
“It sounds like you’re doing fine work, then,” Eric said to the window. “Without my involvement.”
Several seconds passed before Eric turned to see Mitchell had pivoted in the chair to face him. “So this is a bona fide farewell, then?” Mitchell asked.
“As of now. Yes.”
Mitchell nodded, seemingly unfazed. “Where are you going to go?”
“I haven't decided yet.” He sat on the sill, feigning contemplation and trying to hide how much this exchange had rattled him. “I’m thinking about Livingston.”
“The Writers Workshop?”
“In Montana. Yes.”
“Sounds pretty isolated. I figured you might head to New York.” Mitchell commented. Eric was confused by the false levity in his voice. “Are you going alone?”
“Of course,” Eric answered.
Eric was so taken aback when Mitchell got up and extended his hand, it took him a few seconds to get up from the windowsill and shake it. “Now seems like the time to thank you for all you’ve done for us,” Mitchell said.
“It was nothing.”
Mitchell smiled and withdrew his hand. “There’s no need to be humble,” he said.
Mitchell turned and left the room, leaving Eric to ponder what response he could have used to shirk off his ownership of the House of Adam one last time.
Apple martini night at Madeline’s was the restaurant’s attempt to bring out a modest crowd on Monday evening. Randall rested his chin on his fist, gazing above the bar at the television that had first told him about Lisa Eberman’s death two weeks earlier. A sitcom father tried to run across a stage-set living room with his children clinging to different parts of his body. Invisible people exploded into laughter. It was like nothing Randall could pretend existed.
He swallowed his drink, shocked to see the glass empty when he returned it to the bar. Randall’s regular bartender since the start of the year was leaning toward him. Teddy had been hired for two reasons, his dimples and his ass; he was also one of those hopelessly straight guys who basked in the attention of gay men.
“Eight o’clock on a Monday night, Randall. This is a new record for you.”
“Have I ever told you that you remind me of my roommate?”
“Is that a good thing?”
“In theory, maybe,” Randall said, speech sluggish but not slurred. “Don't be that flattered. I’m seeing him everywhere right now.” Especially since he’s not anywhere around, Randall thought, which is exactly where I’d like to be. Before he could curse the decision he had made over Thanksgiving break, Randall summoned a grin and lifted his empty glass, and Teddy removed it from his hand a
nd set it on top of the ice drawer.
“Well, in a few seconds you’re not going to want to be complimenting me anyway.” Teddy leaned farther over the bar and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I need to see some ID.”
“Are you fucking kidding?” Randall whispered back.
Teddy grimaced and shook his head no. “Look, you know I don’t give a shit.”
“I know you love big tippers,” Randall said in his singsong voice as he tugged his wallet from his jeans. He slapped it onto the bar and started going through the billfold when he noticed a slip of paper between the cash. He thought it was a receipt.
“Randall, look,” Teddy continued. “My manager just asked who the twelve-year-old in the Versace was. She’s been breathing down my neck tonight.”
Randall was paying no attention. It wasn’t a receipt. It was the slip of paper on which Jesse had left his cell phone number. And the paper had been left on Randall’s desk as a bittersweet parting gift. He stuffed it back in with the bills.
“Randall,” Teddy hissed through clenched teeth. “She’s right over there.”
Randall’s eyes sluggishly followed Teddy’s thumb to where a pinched-faced woman in a black satin pants suit had locked her sights on them.
“Okay, then . . . maybe a quick blow job will clear this up.”
“Come on, Randall.”
“Not you, Teddy. Your manager.”
“You don’t even have a fake ID?” Teddy asked incredulously. Randall exploded with laughter. “I wouldn’t know which name to use!”
Teddy grimaced and Randall followed his eyes to see Satin Pants rounding the corner of the bar in their direction. Teddy recoiled. Randall felt a hand tap his shoulder. “Move on, honey,” Randall said. “The last time I was with a woman I was thirteen years old.”
She reached around and pulled his wallet off the bar, and he swiveled to yank it out of her grip. “I don’t think I gave you permission to go through my wallet,” Randall slurred.
“ID. Now!” she barked.
“Say please.”
Faster than he could process; she grabbed his wallet again, flipped it open and removed his Atherton ID. “Uhm, what did I just say?”
“Teddy, this guy doesn’t have a license and you’re serving him?” she shouted, pulling Randall off his stool by one shoulder. “You’re out of here.” She pressed his wallet to his chest.
Randall’s feet crumpled against the floor before he could regain his balance, but the manager still held a grip on his shoulder.
“Get your hands off of me,” he warned, but she refused, pulling him by one shoulder toward the door.
He slammed his arm up against hers. One of her ankles twisted and she toppled into a table of diners.
“Wha’d I jus’fucking saay, bitch?” ,
She managed to right herself, her eyes sharp with both anger and confusion. He stumbled out of the door and onto the sidewalk, bringing one hand to his mouth. He didn’t regret his choice of words, but he was frightened by their unmistakably Texan drawl.
Kathryn had been back at school for twenty-four hours, and a good twelve of them had been spent at the computer. Nausea commanded her stomach, but she didn’t know if the eight cups of coffee were to blame, or if the malady was caused by recognizing she was a bad writer.
You want to believe that truly evil people are born with some sort of telltale birthmark or defining characteristic which makes it clear from the get-go that they’re designed only to do harm.
When in her entire life had she used words like get-go and telltale? After all the shit she’d gone through with him, this was the best way she could describe Jono?
Her eyes were smarting from the flicker of the monitor. Microsoft Word informed her that she had six pages, but she informed herself that they were mostly crap. So far, her essay was rambling and barely comprehensible. Instead of putting down the raw events of her relationship with Jono on paper, she had written around therri at every turn.
“Still working on your novel?” April asked as she tossed her book bag onto her bed.
Kathryn grunted.
“Did Tran talk to you?”
“No. Why?” she asked absently as she paged down.
“The room was locked when you got back from the airport last night, right?”
“I think so.”
“Well, nothing’s missing.”
Confused out of her daze, Kathryn swiveled toward April. “Huh?”
“The power went out over the break,” April explained. “And there were still people here, so maintenance had to prop all the doors open for a few hours ’cause the ID readers went on the fritz. Now some girl on the second floor says stuff was stolen out of her room and . . .” April stopped when she saw Kathryn’s bloodshot eyes. “Have you eaten?”
“I’m vegan now.”
“Vegans eat. Come on. Let’s go.” April extended a hand.
“I’m not hungry,” Kathryn said.
When April approached, Kathryn felt a seizure of fear and rapidly closed the file before rising from her chair. “I’ll be right back,” she said, as she fished her coat out of the closet.
“Come back with any more coffee and I’ll kick your ass. That shit’s poison! It’s worse than heroin!”
Because coffee was exactly what she needed, she waved April off as she left the room.
She hurried downstairs and out of the dorm. Crossing onto Brookline, she almost got herself run over. She hurried onto the sidewalk. The approach of finals had extended campus hours and large knots of students were moving down the sidewalks through narrow passages of shoveled snow.
“Kathryn!"
Another second, and she would have fun right into him.
Randall’s eyes lit up with drunken-and sarcastic surprise as he held himself to a lamppost with one arm, extending the other like an airplane wing. One foot was sliding out from under him through the snow.
“Apple martini night?” she asked.
“Uh-huh.”
Passersby weaved to avoid them. Several of them burst out laughing once they were a safe distance away from the Versace-clad drunken cliché. So what if she hadn’t spoken to him for a week? If she didn’t do something, he would get arrested for public drunkenness.
“I got thrown out!”
Randall’s sliding foot passed the point of no return and he hit the thin covering of snow ass first. Kathryn winced at the impact. Randall’s head fell forward, a grimace tightening his face, which he covered with both hands. After glancing around in embarrassment, Kathryn hooked an arm around his waist. “Work with me here,” she muttered to him.
“I’m so . .. sorry, Kathryn.”
“Not here, Randall. Just get up.”
His drunken sobs sputtered against his palms. Another tug at his waist and she’d end up in the snow with him. She stood over him, unable to do little more than brace her hands against her hips and shoot withering looks at anyone gawking. She looked back at him and saw he had lowered his hands into weak fists in his lap. Tears swelled in his eyes, and his drunken lack of coordination made him look like a four-year-old.
“Just get up. Please.”
“You know I've been thinking ...”
“Think after you get up.”
He looked pained at the bite in her voice before putting out his hand to her. She clasped it and weakly gave him a slight pull, amazed that he managed to right himself. But then he slumped against her, one arm sloppily landing around her shoulders.
As they made the slow, shuffling walk back to Stockton, his head found her shoulder and by the time they made it to the entrance she assumed he was about to pass out. But instead, he cried silently into her shoulder as she led him, as briskly as she could, up the stairs and down the hallway. At the door to his room, she turned him and propped him against the wall.
“I need your key.”
Randall’s chin met his chest, upper back sliding against the cin-derblock.
She knocked on the shut door. “Jesse?
” she called.
“Gone,” Randall slurred.
“What?”
Across the hall, April cracked the door, read the scene instantly, and stepped across the threshold. “I’ve got it,” Kathryn said sharply.
“Cozumel,” Randall mumbled as he slid to a seated position on the floor. “The phone lines end ... He went there when he was little ... A hurricane destroyed one ... one half of the island. The phone lines ended.”
April shook her head and ducked back inside.
“I need your key, Randall.”
He slapped a limp hand against his pants pocket. After she dug it out, she hoisted him to his feet, leaned him against her, and opened the door onto a pitch-dark room. After several seconds of blind shuffling, Randall’s breath Came out of him in a grunt, he collapsed, and she landed on top of him on the bed. She groped until she found the halogen lamp. Harsh light hit the ceiling, and Randall rolled over onto one side, bringing his forearm over his eyes.
Kathryn lifted his legs off the floor and dropped them onto the mattress before taking a seat at the foot of the bed and unlacing his boots. When she looked up, Randall’s arm had gone to his side and he was staring at her through hooded, bloodshot eyes.
“It’s perfectly all right for you to hate me,” he slurred, his voice long and twangy, sounding almost Southern.
“I don’t hate you,” She slid one boot off his socked foot and dropped it to the floor.
“Liar.” A woozy grin curled his cheeks. “Sorry. That’s me.” Laughter seized him, lifting his chest slightly off the mattress. “Do you think it’s all just a bunch of... bullshit? Like college is supposed to be this great place where we find out who we really are ... How is that great? If who we are sucks.” His head fell back to the bed.
Drunken groveling might have inspired pity in her, but drunken self-pity just fueled her frustration. She yanked the second boot off his other foot and the sock caught, sliding down his ankle. She dropped the boot to the floor and tugged the sock all the way off.
The skin on his ankle was marred by a raised area of pinkish skin. She lifted his bare foot with both hands, examining it in bewilderment.
The Snow Garden Page 31
