chapter five
“DR. COREY,” I HEARD Larry boom from in front of the chapel. “You’re late for convocation!”
“It’s only five past two!” I protested, jogging up to him. “The ceremony’s not starting for another half hour!” I was wearing my black polyester doctoral robe, rented from the bookstore, with my dark blue hood slung sloppily around my neck and my mortarboard tucked under my arm. It was eighty degrees out, and I was sweating under my robe.
“How do I look?” Larry asked.
Larry was dressed in his full Harvard doctoral regalia. The robes were supposed to be crimson-colored, but in the sun they looked more like a hot pink. His sleeves were edged in black velvet stripes, and he was wearing a dapper black velvet tam with a large gold tassel. Around his neck was a collection of medals, some on chains and some on pieces of ribbon.
“What’s all that metal around your neck?” I asked.
“Oh, these?” Larry said. He picked up a gold medallion on a red ribbon. “This one is for a teaching prize I got at Fairfax.” He picked up a silver medallion on a blue ribbon. “This one I got for distinguished scholarship.” He fiddled around and found a third medal shaped like a book. “This one is from the English Honor Society.”
“What about the others?” I asked.
“Oh, these?” Larry pulled another three or four medals from the tangle around his neck. “This one I got for running a 5K in Santa Barbara last year. And this one’s my niece’s gymnastics all-around medal. Oh! And this one’s my favorite. I got this at Mardi Gras when I was in college. Isn’t it nice?” He admired the purple-and-green fleur-de-lis medal on its plastic beaded chain.
“You look like Mr. T,” I said.
“Thank you!” Larry said. He carefully arranged his medals in a neat fan across his chest.
A faculty marshal was yelling at all of us to get into some semblance of a line so we could process into the chapel. Everyone ignored him. No one was worse at listening to instructions than a bunch of professors—we were used to telling people what to do, not being told what to do.
“So how’s your father doing?” Larry asked, talking over the marshal’s pleas.
“Not good,” I sighed. “Lauren called me from Florida the other day and said it looked like an episode of Hoarders in my dad’s condo. She found six months’ worth of unpaid bills under a pile of garbage—it was a miracle the electricity was still on.”
“Uh-oh. What did the doctor say?”
“She was seriously concerned. Lauren tried to get my dad to take some cognitive tests, but he flat-out refused. I don’t know what we’re going to do—we can’t leave him the way he is. The doctor thinks we should consider moving him to an assisted-living facility.”
Larry whistled. “That’s a huge decision. When my grandma was first diagnosed with dementia, she wouldn’t even let us take away the keys to her car.”
“Yeah—my dad’s not going to be happy. There’s a place here in Fairfax we’re hoping he’ll like—it’s more like a retirement community than a nursing home. I’m crossing my fingers it works out.”
A bagpiper appeared and started droning away. After several more pleas, each more heated than the one before, the marshal started physically herding us into line. I got in line beside Larry, just behind a group of economics professors who were clearly whispering about all the medals around Larry’s neck. “Is he the provost?” I heard someone ask. Larry smiled smugly at me and tossed his gold tassel like a ponytail.
The line began to move, following the bagpiper as he entered the chapel and led us past rows of gaping students. Larry hummed “Here Comes the Bride” under his breath as we walked, tipping his head graciously to each side. There were faculty members in purple robes with gold details, gray robes with red details, orange robes with navy blue details, powder-blue robes with black details. And the hats! There were plain, boring mortarboards like mine, but then there were also black velvet tams like Larry’s, Tudor bonnets with feathers, eight-cornered hats that looked like muffins. One professor, who got his doctorate in Finland, wore a silken top hat and a sword.
The first few pews of the chapel had been cordoned off for us with velvet rope. I squeezed next to Larry, a few seats away from the center aisle, watching my colleagues file in and waving at the ones I knew. Beside me, Larry fished two pink cans of champagne from his sleeve.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“A toast to the new school year,” he said, cracking a can open, sticking in a pink straw, and handing it to me. “Cheers.”
The orchestra struck up a coronation anthem, led by trumpets and backed by a full chorus. By some unspoken cue, everyone abruptly stood up and craned their heads toward the back of the chapel, where the board of trustees was making its entrance, led by a wizened old professor, the longest-serving faculty member at the college, carrying an oversized ceremonial mace that looked like it weighed more than he did. Adam was the final member of the procession, and a great hush fell over the crowd as he walked in, alone, backed by the triumphant orchestral music. He was also dressed in black academic regalia with a scarlet stole embroidered in gold and an enormous university medallion draped around his neck. I heard Larry gasp beside me. “Now where do I get one of those?” he asked.
Adam was tall, and his gown didn’t pool around his feet like mine did but hung several inches above the ground. His robes made him look even more distinguished, emphasizing his broad shoulders and upright posture. The silence gave way to a great wave of applause. Around me, even my curmudgeonly colleagues began to clap. It was the beginning of a new era—the Martinez era. Fairfax was giddy with the possibility.
I joined the applause, feeling increasingly self-conscious as Adam walked closer to my pew. I tried to stare at his shoes, then let my gaze drift up, pausing at the big gold medal before I glanced at his face. He was smiling slightly and acknowledging the applause with a slight nod of his head. As he passed by, he caught my eye. I saw him register the slightest bit of surprise—his left eyebrow raised and his smile stiffened—and felt myself wanting to hide in my ceremonial hood.
Around us, people began flipping through their programs as the college chaplain recited a blessing and the president of the board of trustees began the investiture ceremony. I slumped a little farther in my seat. This was going to be a long, long year.
*
THE RECEPTION AFTERWARDS WAS held at the President’s House. Larry and I changed out of our regalia and headed over, crossing through the campus in the mellow afternoon sunlight. The lampposts lining the quad had been hung with festive red banners to celebrate the convocation, and even the streets of Fairfax looked more charming than usual. All the houses looked freshly painted, all the gardens replanted, all the hedges trimmed. The mansion was strung with lights and red bunting, with the sound of a string quartet drifting from the garden, where cocktails and hors d’oeuvres were being served by waiters in black vests. Larry grabbed two flutes of champagne as we walked in. “Round two! And check it out—they sprang for real glassware, not plastic!” he said approvingly.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Adam surrounded by a thick knot of college benefactors, all dressed in suits, some wearing bow ties in the Fairfax College colors. A lavish spread of cheese, fruit, and crudités had been arranged on two long banquet tables, along with a dessert display of miniature tarts, brownies, and cheesecake bites. In the center was a huge three-tiered cake with the college seal piped in red and gold on the top. “Congratulations, President Martinez,” it said in cursive script.
“This feels like a wedding,” I said.
“The union of President Martinez and the college,” Larry said. He grabbed a Thai-chicken skewer from a passing waiter and nibbled on it tentatively. “Not bad,” he said. “I can’t wait for the cake.”
We walked up the back porch stairs and into the house, where servers were walking back and forth from the kitchen with trays of hors d’oeuvres and empty glasses.
“Let’s take a look around!” Larry said, conspiratorially. “Just for a quick sec.”
The mansion’s public rooms were large and gracious and were often used for campus holiday parties or receptions. I’d been in them a few times before, drinking warm punch while staring at the large paintings of past presidents that hung on the wall. The rooms were empty now and bathed in a warm light. Larry and I stood for a moment on the thick Persian rugs, surveying the intricately carved wooden fireplace, the antique furniture that lined the walls, the stained glass windows, and the elegant flower arrangements scattered around like in a magazine spread. It was hard to believe that this was now Adam’s house. How different it was from his college dorm room, with its cinder block walls and threadbare carpet!
“He had the furniture reupholstered,” Larry said approvingly. “I like it.”
We drifted into an adjoining room where the previous president, a military buff, had once displayed his large collection of antique muskets and swords. The room had felt like a museum exhibit, with its glass cases of weaponry and mounted deer heads on the wall.
“Oh, wow,” Larry said, peeking in. “He totally redid it!”
I peered inside and gasped. Adam had turned the room into a library and reading alcove. The guns and taxidermy specimens were gone, replaced by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed with books, books, and more books. A rolling ladder leaned against the shelves. A comfortable leather couch and club chairs were arranged against one wall, and a window seat had been built under the stained glass windows, large enough and deep enough to read comfortably for hours or even stretch out and take a nap.
“I die,” Larry whimpered. “It’s his own home library.”
I watched as Larry inspected the books on the shelves. “Oh my God,” he cried, pulling one out and opening it. “They’re real!” He started pulling book after book off the shelves. “He’s got good taste, too!” he called out over his shoulder. “Lots of literature and history, the complete Shakespeare, the complete Austen. And they’ve been read. There are even notes inside! I think I might be in love.”
I leaned against the doorsill, feeling sick to my stomach.
Back in college, Adam and I had fantasized about living in a small college town, in a home filled with books and comfortable places to read and maybe a pet or two. We liked to wander around Princeton, into the gracious neighborhoods abutting the campus, gawking at the grand old houses with their stone and brick facades, painted shutters, and autumn wreaths hanging on the front door, imagining our lives in twenty years.
“That one’s my favorite,” I remember telling Adam, pointing to a gray stone house with white-trimmed gables and a bright red door, a child’s wagon resting on the front porch. “I like that one better,” he said, pointing to a red brick house that looked like Monticello, with its white columns and dark green shutters. “Or that one,” he said, pointing to a white clapboard house with a widow’s walk that stretched across the entire roof.
“Could you imagine living in one of them?” I remember asking dreamily. “I mean, look at that!” I pointed to a house with a large dormer window. We could see a whole wall of books through the glass. “That’s my dream library,” I sighed.
“I’ll buy it for you one day,” Adam laughed. “Once I make my fortune.”
“What fortune?” I joked.
“I might not be able to get you the house, but I promise you can have your dream library,” he said.
Seeing Adam’s library now made me feel ill with want. I felt like he’d stolen part of my dreams, like he was living the life I’d wanted. “This was supposed to be my library,” I wanted to scream. Was he taunting me? Showing me the life I could have had if we hadn’t broken up?
“Let’s go,” I snapped. “I need another drink.” I hurried out of the library in a cloud of self-pity and fury, not waiting to make sure Larry was following.
“Anne!” I heard. I spun around, my face a thundercloud.
“What?” I snapped.
Adam was standing in front of me, a glass of wine in one hand.
“Whoa,” he said. “Are you all right?” He instinctively reached his hand out to touch my shoulder but then pulled back self-consciously.
“Oh, yeah, sorry,” I said. “It’s nothing.” I forced myself to smile. I couldn’t think straight. His eyes were the same dark brown color I remembered, with the same thick lashes and heavy lids that gave him such a pensive look. I could see the clean line where the barber had shaved his sideburns. He’d gotten a haircut recently—maybe even that morning. I could swear I smelled the lingering scent of aftershave.
We stood there a moment, Adam fiddling with his wineglass.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” he said. “I saw you in the chapel earlier. How are you doing?”
“Me? I’m fine. You know, busy, um, with stuff.”
“It’s been a long time . . .” Adam trailed off.
I nodded. We stood there awkwardly for a second. “So, um, how about you?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant. “How does it feel to be President Martinez?”
“It’s a little surreal,” Adam said, looking around the room. “Just trying to process it all.” He looked at me, not unkindly. “How’s your family doing?”
“They’re OK. Lauren’s in LA now. She’s married and has three kids.”
“And your father?”
“Oh. Well, actually, he’s not doing so well. He, um, he’s been having some health issues recently, and we think it’s better if he moves out here, closer to us.”
“I’m so sorry,” Adam said, looking genuinely concerned. “I hope he’s OK.”
“He’ll be fine,” I said. “He’s a tough guy. Always has been.”
“That’s true,” Adam said. “He is tough.”
I reddened. Adam had met my father once, when I’d brought him to Florida for Thanksgiving break. My father had spent the whole time ignoring Adam, instead complaining about his tenants and yelling at the television. When I tried to broach the subject of our engagement, my father had cut me off. Switching the subject, he’d asked if I’d given more thought to law school, and when I said no, he’d started on Adam, informing him that his “Latin background” meant he’d get into any law school he wanted. Years later, I still cringed at the memory.
“What are you teaching in your classes?” Adam was now asking.
“Oh, the standard,” I babbled. “Austen, the Brontës, Gaskell, Eliot, plus some other, lesser-known writers.”
Adam was nodding at the names in recognition. He suddenly grinned, looking like the boy I remembered from college. “Remember when you took that class with Dr. Russell junior year—the one where she assigned a novel a week and you had to keep pulling all-nighters to keep up?” he asked.
“Don’t remind me,” I laughed, surprised at how natural and pleasant it all seemed. “I promise I’m not so cruel to my own students, though they still like to complain about the reading load.”
“I bet,” Adam said. “Well, it sounds like a great syllabus. I kind of wish I were taking the class myself.”
“You’re more than welcome to drop by anytime,” I said, surprising myself with my boldness.
“Maybe so. You’ll have to send me the reading list. Which Austen are you reading again?”
“Oh!” I said. “Well, um, actually, this semester I’m teaching Persuasion.” I felt my face grow warm. Adam, too, seemed suddenly embarrassed.
“Your favorite novel,” he murmured.
“Ha-ha, yes. I’m surprised you still remember.”
“Of course I still remember,” Adam said, his eyebrow cocked. “How could I forget? Is it still your favorite novel?”
“I guess so,” I said, feeling almost ashamed. He must be wondering how anyone could still be so foolishly loyal to a two-hundred-year-old book.
“That’s great,” he said softly. “It must be wonderful to be teaching books you love. I’m happy for you—you seem like you’re doing really well.” He paused, as if uncertain whether to go on.
“I’ve done a lot of thinking,” he began again, “about what happened—”
“Anne! Where’d you go? Look who I found!”
Larry was lurching toward us, dragging with him a faintly bemused-looking Rick Chasen.
“Rick!” I said, startled. “I didn’t realize you’d gotten into town!”
“Just arrived this evening,” he said, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “Wonderful to see you again, Anne.”
“I recognized him from his author photo!” Larry was saying. “President Martinez—this is Rick Chasen. He’s our new writer-in-residence. It’s quite the coup for us.”
“Nice to meet you,” Adam said, reaching out to shake Rick’s hand.
“We’ve met before,” Rick said pointedly. “At Houston.”
“That’s right,” Adam said.
“Rick just won the Booker Prize,” I said. “He gave a lecture at the Huntington the other day. It was absolutely packed.”
“Congratulations,” Adam said, but his voice was muted. He glanced across the courtyard, where Tiffany was waving her arms. “I’m sorry—it looks like I’m being summoned. Please excuse me.”
As he walked away, Larry leaned over to Rick. “So you knew President Martinez at Houston? When he was provost?”
“Yes, we knew each other,” Rick said, choosing his words carefully. “Or rather, we knew of each other. He’s a complicated fellow.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. He sounded like he knew something about Adam but didn’t want to say.
“You know how it is. He’s an administrator—rather humorless and rigid. The faculty didn’t get on with him. I was one of the leaders of the union, and I can tell you, we did not see eye to eye. He was a bureaucrat. Wanted to limit academic freedom, plus cut our benefits.”
“Reeeeaallllllly,” Larry said. “Very interesting. I have to admit I’m a little surprised. From what I’ve seen so far, he seems like a real intellectual. We just got a look at his library, and let me tell you, it’s to die for.”
“Don’t let that fool you,” Rick laughed. “Just because someone owns a lot of books doesn’t mean they actually care about reading and writing. Sometimes they just want people to think they care. He’s all about the bottom line. He doesn’t care about ‘humanistic values’ or whatever he says. Believe me—he wants to corporatize the university, make it more profitable and less accessible.”
“I don’t know,” I said hesitantly. “I knew him back in college, and he definitely cared a lot about books back then. In fact, he even wanted to be a teacher at one point.”
“No kidding!” Rick said, his eyes widening. “You knew him?”
“Sort of,” I said, feeling sheepish. “Actually, we dated for a little while.”
“You did?” Larry exclaimed. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“It was so long ago,” I said, shrugging. “We’d totally lost touch since. It really wasn’t a big deal. I mean, he didn’t even recognize me when he first saw me.”
“Did he always have that hard-to-read demeanor?” Rick asked, winking at me. “You know, where you can’t tell if he likes you or really hates your guts?”
I found myself laughing out loud. “I guess he’s always been a little hard to read,” I admitted.
There was a murmur behind us, and the three of us turned. The head of the board of trustees was standing at a podium, raising a glass to toast Adam, who was standing quietly beside him. A professional photographer stood to one side, snapping a barrage of pictures.
As the trustee gave his toast, I saw Adam’s eyes drift over the crowd. I saw his gaze stop short when he saw Rick still standing with Larry and me. Something passed between the two of them—a kind of cold détente. I knew Adam well enough to know the look. He didn’t like Rick.
“See?” Rick leaned over and whispered to me. “He thinks I’m an asshole. I’m not scared of him, though. Someone needs to stand up to the Man.”
I nodded. What did I really know about Adam now? He had an important job title, a big house, and a fancy library. He was kind enough, but it was clear there was no feeling left on his side. From where I stood, I felt like I was staring across a huge abyss. I stepped closer to Rick.