The Faculty Club Part 14

"Jeremy, you're freaking me out."

"I gave you everything," I snapped. She took a step back. "I won that f.u.c.king 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 f.u.c.king 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 cla.s.ses. I haven't opened a book all semester. Even if I pa.s.s, 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 cla.s.sroom, 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 cla.s.s. 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 gla.s.ses today. Don't they look s.e.xy?" 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."

"f.u.c.k you," I said.

"No, f.u.c.k 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 pa.s.sed the red-bricked dormitories with cannon marks from the Revolutionary War. I pa.s.sed 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.

The shy little librarian pa.s.sed by, pushing his cart. He must have been on night owl reshelving duty. He took books from empty carrels and placed them on his cart. He grabbed two books off my desk.

"Um, excuse me," I called after him. "I still need those."

He stopped, made a big production of turning around and rolling over to me. He set the books back on my desk and rolled the cart away.

There was a piece of paper sticking out from one of the books. It hadn't been there before.

I pulled it out and looked at it.

It was an article. The word DRAFT was typed across the top. Someone had written in pencil below: Come on, can't you make me sound a little more impressive? --HJM.

I was surprised to see a picture of the man I met at the first V&D event, the retired lawyer with the bad red toupee. The one who wanted to talk about my grandfather, then blindsided me by knowing all about me.

The picture showed the same face: friendly, a thick rug of hair slightly off-kilter.

I read the text below the picture and froze. I felt my blood run cold. I looked for the librarian, but he was gone.

I was alone on the floor.

Below the picture, the article began: Henry James Morton, retired law professor and

chief White House counsel under presidents

Kennedy and Johnson, pa.s.sed away peacefully

in his sleep on November 20, 2006.

November 20, 2006.

That was in two days.

17.

Shock was my first reaction. A draft obituary, predicting an exact date of death. And the soon-to-be-dead-man, completely on board. What did it mean? What was the V&D up to?

Very quickly, a new thought shot through my mind like a lightning bolt: I can hurt them.

I didn't know how. I didn't know when. But in some way, this information was valuable. Someone wanted me to see the obituary. I knew better than to ask the librarian. There was an etiquette to these things, a code. I'd picked up that much. Someone shared my anger. Or maybe they just wanted to use me toward some common goal. Either way, fine by me. The big shots push the little guys around. If you let them.

There was only one person to talk to, of course.

I banged on Miles's door. His apartment was a disaster, covered with laundry and papers, dishes piled up in the small kitchen. His beard, normally woolly, was now edging--in its length and curliness--away from philosopher toward holy man. Miles caught me staring.

"I need money for razors."

He must have been disappointed by my reaction; he shrugged and said, "I have a chapter due Monday." Then he pointed a giant finger at me. "I called you, you know. A couple weeks ago."

"I know."

"Didn't hear back."

"I know. I'm sorry, Miles."

"No need. I've got lots of friends." He inclined his head toward the empty apartment in proof. "So, what's new?"

The simplicity, the sheer ba.n.a.lity of the question stumped me.

But Miles was studying my face. His eyebrows knitted together, then they relaxed and raised. He spoke to me in a calm voice, like he had all the time in the world.

"Okay. Tell me what's wrong."

I told him everything, except the obituary.

"I'm very sorry, Jeremy. I know how badly you wanted it."

He clapped his large hands.

"Now, on to your more pressing problems. It's time to rebuild. You can't pa.s.s these courses now. It's too much material. You'll take a leave of absence and start fresh in the spring."

"And have Incompletes on my transcript? Go through three years of law school, then wonder why no one wants to hire me? No way."

"It's your best option."

"Not necessarily."

He looked at me, confused and maybe a little wary.

"What are you saying?"

"What if I'm not ready to give up?"

"Give up on what? On them?"

I nodded.

He shook his head.

"Let it go, Jer. You came a h.e.l.l of a lot closer than most people ever will. Closer than I ever did."

"Miles, I think that's worse."