Yale was security conscious, and I would normally have had to get through a locked gate and locked entryway door before reaching my destination. That night, though, people were still moving back in, and everything was wide open. I passed through everyday obstacles as though on an errand in my dreams, barely registering my good luck. On top of everything, Polly’s room door was cracked open too. I could hear her inside, laughing with her roommate.
“I can’t believe he did that.”
“Well, he did.”
“Oh, Ingrid, that is so gross.” Polly’s giggly voice was almost unrecognizable to me. “That is so unbelievably disgusting.”
It was there that I hesitated and almost lost heart, partly because I was reluctant to intrude on a private conversation, but mainly just because of how happy she sounded. I couldn’t remember Polly ever laughing like that with me, like she was a goofy high school girl and not some earnest would-be intellectual clutching her head about Peter Preston or Wallace Stevens. She seemed so far away just then, like I barely even knew her, like there was a lot more separating us than one partially open door. What right did I have to think that I knew the first thing about her or had the first clue about how to make her happy? I took a step backward, uncertain whether to knock or retreat. Before I had time to choose, the door flew open and I was face-to-face with Ingrid.
“I gotta pee so bad I can taste it,” she said, talking to Polly but looking straight at me. She stopped short, her face turning an instant crimson. “Oh, hi.”
“I was just about to knock,” I told her.
“Ingrid?” Polly called. “Is someone there?”
Ingrid poked her head back into the room.
“You know what?” she said. “I’m just gonna run upstairs and see if Chitra’s back.”
My plan worked
in the sense that I clearly caught Polly off-guard. She was sitting on her couch in a pair of baggy sweatpants and a pink thermal undershirt, one arm buried to the elbow in an econo-sized bag of nacho-flavored Doritos, and staring at me in naked confusion, as if she’d misplaced the word for hello.
My plan failed in the sense that I was just as tongue-tied as she was. I’d never visited her in her room before—had never seen her in sweatpants or a thermal shirt, for that matter—and was overwhelmed by the unexpected intimacy of the situation, the simple, enormous fact of Polly in person again, after a separation that felt like months instead of weeks.
“It’s me,” I told her, just in case she was wondering.
She withdrew her hand from the bag and licked her fingers clean like a cat, watching me the whole time.
“I wasn’t expecting visitors.”
“I should have called.”
“That’s okay.”
I understood that it was my turn to talk, but the effort of conversation seemed utterly beyond me. I just wanted to sit down next to her and hold her hand.
“I like your shirt,” I said finally.
She looked down at herself, checking to make sure we were talking about the same piece of clothing.
“Really?”
“Not every girl looks good in thermals.”
She smiled, but it was a headachey sort of smile, the kind you get from someone who’s trying to be nice.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I think so.”
She lowered her voice, as if there were a third party in the room. “Is she getting the abortion?”
I shook my head, wishing I could just skip over the whole mess, pretend that none of it had ever happened.
“She’s marrying an old boyfriend. This guy named Kevin. He’s an assistant manager at Medi-Mart.”
“Huh.” She made a face. “That’s weird.”
“Tell me about it.” Seeing it through Polly’s eyes made it seem even weirder than it had before. “He really loves her, though.”
“Does she love him?”
“Not really. But at least she won’t be alone. The baby will have a father.”
Polly took a few seconds to absorb this. She looked like she was about to protest, but then thought better of it. When she looked up again, her expression had brightened. There was a finality in her voice that made me nervous.
“So it worked out for you.”
“Kind of. It was a strange vacation. These bodybuilders torched my father’s truck.”
“Bodybuilders?”
“From Staten Island. They call themselves the Lunch Monsters.”
“They burned his truck?”
“Right in our driveway,” I said. “It’s a long story.”
She didn’t invite me to elaborate. “That’s quite a town you live in.”
All I could do was shrug.
“What about you?” I asked. “How’s it going with that Stevens paper?”
She looked at me a long time before answering, long enough for me to identify the emotion she was beaming at me as compassion. It was coming off her like a radio signal.
“Peter came up for a visit,” she said. “He really helped me out.”
“Peter?”
It wasn’t until I said his name that I noticed the bouquet of tulips on her coffee table, and the sight of them struck me with shame. Some guys show up with flowers, I thought; other guys just show up.
“We had a really good talk,” she explained. “I was imagining all sorts of bad stuff that just wasn’t true.”
“So you’re back together.”
I’d meant it as a question, but it came out as a statement. Polly couldn’t have looked at me with more kindness if I’d just lost a leg.
“I’m sorry, Danny.”
I would have preferred to make a clean getaway, but she insisted on hugging me good-bye at the door, a gesture that I guess was meant to make me feel better, but only made me that much more aware of what I was losing. I’d done the exact same thing to Cindy only a week before, a painful memory I tried to erase by grabbing two handfuls of Polly’s shirt and pressing my face into the springy tangle of her hair, murmuring her name over and over again with such mournful intensity that she finally had no choice but to pry herself loose and send me on my way.
Mostly what I
was that spring was lonely. Just when I needed my friends the most, they suddenly went AWOL on me. Much to his own amazement, Sang had fallen madly in love with Katie Kim, and when he wasn’t visiting her in Middletown, he was hiding out in Machine City, making feverish declarations into a pay phone. Max, who wasn’t feeling particularly well-disposed toward me in any case, had decided to ditch the Hinckley project and make up for a semester’s worth of slacking off with a few weeks of heroic cramming. Ted and Nancy had gotten hold of the library’s dog-eared copy of
The
Joy
of Sex,
and were holing up in the double every night, practicing exotic positions and bursting into frequent, irritating fits of laughter. When the phone rang for me it was either Matt, trying to apologize, or Eric Storm, hoping to continue our recent and highly rewarding discussion of Socialist Realism.
Even my father seemed to be having a better time than me. Only a week after the Roach Coach had gone up in flames, he’d taken a job as manager of the Deli Department at Stop & Shop. My mother said he was in his glory, supervising a staff of hardworking middle-aged women, garrulous semi-retired men, and a couple of cranky part-timers. He loved the hours—banker’s hours, he called them—and didn’t mind spending a good part of the day on his feet behind the meat case. He also enjoyed walking back and forth to work and listening to the morning weather report on WPAT with the bland curiosity of someone whose day could no longer be ruined by it. The insurance company had paid off on the truck, and he had sold a good portion of his route to Chuckie at what he said was a more-than-fair price, so my parents actually had some money
in the bank for the first time in recent memory. He said he had half a mind to send a thank-you note to Vito Meatballs.
The trouble with
Matt started on a Friday afternoon about two weeks after we’d returned to New Haven. Friday was laundry day for me, and I was alone in my room, sorting through my vast collection of white tube socks, when Peter Preston called. He said he needed to see me immediately.
“Right now? I’m kind of busy.”
“I strongly suggest you get yourself over to my office as soon as possible.”
I was more put off than alarmed by his brusque tone. He wasn’t my teacher anymore and had no right to order me around, especially now that he and Polly were a couple again. I’d passed them the day before on High Street, in the midst of a sudden downpour. They were sharing an umbrella, leaning into one another and laughing. They either didn’t recognize me or pretended not to as I rushed past them, soaked to the skin, vainly trying to shield my head with a waterlogged paperback of
Daniel
Deronda.
“Is this about Polly?”
It was an obvious question, but for some reason it threw him off-balance. He didn’t hesitate for long, but when he spoke again he sounded a lot more courteous.
“Listen, Danny. You know I wouldn’t be bothering you if it wasn’t important.”
I frowned at the jumble inside my cracked laundry basket. Some of my socks had two stripes, some had three, some had stripes of two different colors. Once you started a job like that, it was a drag to leave it unfinished.
“Okay,” I said. “Give me fifteen minutes.”
Preston’s office hadn’t
changed much in the year since I’d taken his class. It still seemed more like the work space of an undergraduate
than a member of the faculty, the desk strewn with papers and anchored at all four corners with slapdash towers of books and academic quarterlies, the walls plastered with unframed, crookedly hung posters of rock stars and movie idols, many of them curling at the edges.
What had changed was Preston himself. He looked tired and beleaguered and his hair seemed thinner on top than it had the day before. You got the feeling that the clock had just run out a few seconds ago on the Boy Wonder phase of his life, an impression thrown into sharper relief by the presence of the fresh-faced graduate student in his office, a hipster TA with engineer boots and rockabilly sideburns.
“Do you know Lyman Cooper?” Preston demanded, before I’d even had a chance to sit down.
“Lyman? I don’t know anyone named Lyman.”
“Matt,” the TA broke in. “He goes by Matt.”
“Matt’s name is Lyman?”
“Lyman Cooper III,” the TA explained with the slightest hint of a smirk. He was leaning back in his chair, his head resting just below the ecstatic poster of Hendrix at Woodstock. “I’d go by Matt too.”
“So,” Preston inquired, “is Mr. Cooper a friend of yours?”
“I guess you could say that. We work together in the dining hall. He stayed at my house a few days over break. Why?”
Preston watched me carefully.
“I figured you’d have to be pretty close friends,” he said.
Despite the presence of the TA, I still couldn’t quite separate myself from the idea that this was all somehow connected to Polly. I tried to remember if I’d told Matt anything about Preston that I wouldn’t want repeated.
“Did he say something?”
Preston and the TA traded glances. Sheepishly, the TA let the front legs of his chair drop back to the floor.
“You mean, did he implicate you?” Preston asked.
“Implicate me? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You tell me,” Preston suggested, pulling open one of his desk drawers and peering inside.
“I’m stumped. You’re going to have to help me out.”
With a Perry Mason flourish, Preston removed a graded student essay from the drawer and waved it half-heartedly in the air.
“How do you explain this?” he inquired, sliding the paper to me across the desktop.
One look at the cover explained everything. “Legitimacy and Subterfuge. Bastard Authority in William Shakespeare’s
Measure
for Measure,
by Lyman Cooper III.” Across the bottom, in red block letters, someone had scrawled, “MATT—WE NEED TO TALK—MARCO.” A hot blush spread across my face, as though I were a criminal instead of a victim. Just to be sure, I flipped the page and began reading:
Shakespeare’s comedies frequently end with the celebration of one or more marriages, and
Measure for Measure
is no exception. So why, then, does the final scene of this so-called “problem play” ring so hollowly in comparison to a more “conventional” comedy, such as A
Midsummer Night’s Dream?
Has the “Bard of Avon” simply failed to write a satisfying ending, or has he succeeded in doing something far more subversive and interesting—namely, calling into question the very genre of comedy itself?
My first reaction to this familiar opening wasn’t anger, but embarrassment. It seemed so lumbering and obvious, not nearly as good as I remembered.
“Son of a bitch,” I said, louder than I meant to.
“It was an incredibly stupid move,” Preston informed me. “We used your paper as part of a grading exercise in one of our staff meetings. All the section leaders read it.”
The TA laughed. “He barely bothered to change the title.”
“Were you in on it?” Preston asked.
“Are you serious?”
“Did you give him your permission?”
The question seemed so absurd I couldn’t help laughing.
“How dumb do I look?”
There was a knock on the door before anyone could answer. Matt poked his head into the room—he was smiling jauntily, wearing the yellow hard hat that had become his new trademark on campus—and took in the scene with a look of slowly dawning comprehension.
“Oh shit,” he said.
“Just give us a minute,” Preston instructed him. “We’re almost finished.”
Matt nodded, looking shaken as he withdrew to the hallway. Preston turned to the TA.
“Why don’t you keep him company, Marco. I’d like a word with Danny in private.”
Marco left, but
Preston gave no sign of actually wanting a word with me. He seemed much more interested in the paper clip he’d found on his desk and had begun twisting into some sort of abstract sculpture. I cleared my throat to make sure he hadn’t forgotten me.
“I guess you need this back,” I said, tossing the essay onto the small clearing in the middle of his desk.
He glanced down at it with an expression of distaste.
“Some friend, huh?”
He sounded sympathetic, so I figured I’d just get it over with.
“Am I in trouble?”
He looked at me in an almost pleading way, as if I’d hurt his feelings just by having to ask. Until that moment, I’d been operating under the assumption that he still thought of me mainly as a guy who’d tried to steal his girlfriend—someone he might enjoy having in his power—but now I saw that it wasn’t that way at all.
“I hate this disciplinary crap.” He shook his head and let out an exasperated sigh. “This isn’t why I got into academia.”
I sat silently while he fiddled with the clip, feeling oddly flattered
by the lack of attention. In the past he’d been all business when I met him in his office. Now it was as if I’d stopped being his student and had become his peer, someone he could just hang out with while he wrapped a piece of wire around his index finger. I wondered if Polly had had a similar revelation, if one day she looked up and realized that he’d forgotten he was her teacher.
“I’m sorry this is so awkward,” he told me.
“That’s okay,” I said, not quite sure what he was apologizing for.
Preston’s expression turned somber as he unwrapped the wire from his swollen-looking finger.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen. I’m sorry you got caught up in it.”
“Don’t worry about it. Things never would’ve worked out between Polly and me. We’re just really different people.”
Preston’s face tightened with thought. He was listening carefully, chin cradled in his hand, as though I were telling him about a problem I was having with a paper.
“These past few weeks haven’t been easy for her. She feels pretty bad about the way she treated you.”
“Coulda fooled me.”
He nodded like a friend offering sympathy, like my bitterness was more than justified.
“You have every right to hate me,” he said.
“I don’t hate you.”
“I’m serious,” he insisted. “You have every right.”
I didn’t say anything, and he seemed to interpret my silence as assent. All I was thinking, though, was that it was no fun to hate people who invited you to hate them.
“I was a late bloomer,” he explained, with an odd mixture of pride and embarrassment in his voice. “When I was in college, girls like Polly wouldn’t even look at me.”
Preston was watching me closely, as if my reaction to this meant a great deal to him. We stared at each other until the silence grew uncomfortable.
“Okay, then.” He smiled sadly, as if we’d reached some sort of understanding. “I guess it’s Mr. Cooper’s turn.”
I could feel
Matt trying to make eye contact with me in the hallway, but I brushed past him like a stranger, my eyes locked straight ahead. I ignored his numerous phone calls over the weekend and didn’t see him again until the dinner shift on Tuesday night. He was manning the dessert station, wearing his hard hat and whistling “Midnight at the Oasis” as he carved a tray of brownies into his signature amorphous chunks. My anger had cooled a little by that point and, aside from simple social discomfort, the main thing I felt upon seeing him was confusion, since he seemed so oddly cheerful for someone who should have been facing the academic equivalent of the death penalty. He stopped whistling when he saw me and tried to look serious.
“I think something’s wrong with your phone,” he told me.
“Yeah?”
“I keep getting disconnected.”
“That’s not the phone,” I explained. “That’s me telling you to fuck off, Lyman.”
“Ouch.” He nodded to acknowledge the blow. “I guess I deserve that.”
“You deserve way more than that.”
He tugged on his earlobe for an extended period, as though it were a secret signal.
“Have you considered the possibility that you’re over-reacting?”
“Over-reacting? You mean to the fact that a person I thought was my friend came to my house and took advantage of my family’s s hospitality to steal something I’d put my heart and soul into, and then tried to pass it off as his own? Over-reacting to the fact that you could have gotten me kicked out of school? Is that what I’m over-reacting to?”
“Huh.” He looked troubled. “When you put it that way …”
“Is there another way to put it?”
“Preston said it was a cry for help.” Matt shrugged, apparently reluctant to endorse this view. “He thinks I need counseling. He made me call Psych Services right there in his office. My first appointment’s tomorrow.”