chapter nine
“DIDN’T I TELL YOU Oxford would come through?” Rick said, playfully nuzzling my neck.
“Don’t jinx it!” I said. “I still have to wait for the reader’s reports. If they’re negative, I might have to kill myself.”
“Oh, Anne, don’t fret so much,” Rick said, massaging my shoulders. “What if I told you that the editor at Oxford is a good friend of mine?”
“Ursula Burton? You know her?”
“We dated briefly at university. In fact, to be honest, I think she may still fancy me. I told her that she must absolutely request your manuscript, that it was a terrific piece of scholarship. She was very intrigued.”
I blushed. “But you haven’t even read my book!”
“Doesn’t matter. I already know you’re brilliant. And beautiful, too.” He nibbled my ear.
Rick and I were sprawled on a blanket at the local botanical gardens, playing hooky from a department meeting. The weather had turned slightly cool—not cold, by any means, but brisk enough for a sweater or light jacket. We’d ridden on Rick’s motorcycle, an experience that left me simultaneously enthralled and exhausted. I couldn’t believe I’d done something so reckless—I was the kind of person who got anxious just getting on a bicycle. Yet Rick made it seem a great adventure, the two of us hurtling through life while everyone else was just dully shuffling along.
I reached into my bag and pulled out a stack of papers.
“Put those away,” Rick said, reaching for my hand. “Let’s play instead.”
“I’ve got to finish grading these,” I apologized. “I promised to hand them back two weeks ago!”
Leaning over, Rick picked one of the papers from the pile and began to read aloud:
Since the beginning of time, many people have dealt with the immortal question of love. According to Webster’s English Dictionary, “to persuade” means “to cause someone to do something by asking, arguing, or giving reasons.” The famous authoress Jane Austen wrote her magnificent book Persuasion in 1817. In it, she talks about the everlasting mystery that is love.
“My goodness,” Rick mused. “It’s got the trifecta: an opening that begins with ‘Since the beginning of time,’ a Webster’s Dictionary definition, and an assortment of empty clichés and editorializing. Not a very persuasive essay, if I do say so myself.”
“That’s one of the better ones,” I said. “Only ten more to go.”
“Just do a bullshit sandwich. One sentence about how it’s clear Johnny worked very hard on this paper, two sentences about everything that’s wrong, then one sentence saying ‘Good effort!’ ”
I laughed, swatting Rick’s hand away as he tried to grab the paper from my hand. He sighed and pretended to pout.
“You know, I have something terrible to confess,” he said.
“What is it?”
“I’ve never really cared for Jane Austen.”
“What?” I said. “How could you say that?”
“It’s true. I mean, how many guys do you know who actually like reading her?”
“Larry adores her.”
Rick gave me a look. “She’s pretty much writing oldfashioned chick lit,” Rick said.
“And what’s so wrong with that?” I asked.
“Come on, Anne—it’s a bunch of women yakking about frivolous stuff like eligible men and parties. Honestly, I’ve never been able to finish one of her books. There’s something about her that rubs me the wrong way, something I don’t trust—”
“Shut up!” I said, punching him in the arm. “I’m personally offended! This might actually be a deal breaker, you know.”
“OK, I take it back,” Rick said, grinning. He pushed the papers away, moving in for a kiss. “Now forget about Austen. This is much more interesting.”
*
PAM WAS SITTING AT her desk when I returned to the office, putting together a department mailing while talking loudly on the phone.
“I just knew she had her eye on him,” she was saying. “Tiffany’s practically moved into the President’s House, from what I hear. I bet they’re engaged by Christmas. A handsome guy like him and a pretty gal like her? It’s too perfect! Do you think she’ll take his name? Tiffany Martinez has a nice ring to it.”
Spying me trying to edge past her desk, she cupped her hand over the phone receiver and hollered, “Anne! Anne, come over here!”
“Yes, Pam?” I said. “Is it important? I’m kind of in a hurry . . .”
“I didn’t see you at the department meeting this morning—” she said.
“Oh, yeah—um, I had a doctor’s appointment I couldn’t reschedule. Sorry about that.”
“I wanted to ask you—my friend in HR says she saw you chatting with Richard Chasen at the student union last week. Is something up? He’s c-u-t-e! He’s got that David Beckham kinda look, don’t you think? The undergrads won’t stop talking about him. They’re in here all the time, asking when his office hours are, looking all googly-eyed . . .”
“Nothing’s going on,” I said. “We’re friends. That’s it.”
“Are you sure? You promise to tell me if something changes?”
“Sure,” I said, while thinking, HELL NO.
“By the way,” Pam said before uncupping her phone. “You look great! Did you lose weight or something?”
I hurried past Steve’s office and darted into Larry’s office, closing the door behind me.
“So where were you this morning?” Larry asked, arms folded reproachfully. “You missed a scintillating department meeting. Steve started reciting The Canterbury Tales in Middle English.”
“Sorry I missed it,” I said guiltily. “Rick and I ditched and went to the park.”
“You two crazy kids. Better keep it on the DL—Pam’s starting to get suspicious.”
“I know. She practically jumped me on my way in.” I sidled up to Larry and whisper-screamed, “Oxford requested my full manuscript this morning!”
“Wait, what?! Oxford University Press?”
“I got the e-mail this morning—Rick knows the editor there, and he put in a good word for me. You gotta cross your fingers that the reader’s reports are positive.”
“OMG, Anne!” Larry said, doing a happy dance with me. “This is amazing news! I’ll cross my fingers and toes.”
After a celebratory whirl, Larry bumped my hip and winked at me mischievously. “Soooooooo, I have some big news, too,” he said. “But it’s a secret.”
“A secret?” I yelled.
“Shhhhhh!!!! I will literally have to kill you and stuff you under the floorboards if you breathe a word to anyone.”
“What is it? Tell me!”
“It’s about Jack Lindsey.” Larry began to beam. “We’ve been e-mailing each other.”
“Oh God,” I groaned. “Did he ask you to be a historical consultant, too?”
“No! Even better—we’re kind of dating!”
“Wait, what? What do you mean ‘kind of’? He’s married! And straight!”
“Is he?”
“Isn’t he?”
“He told me he and Bex have an open relationship,” Larry said. “They apparently haven’t slept together since their kid was born.” He couldn’t stop smiling. “You should see your face. Now don’t go running off to TMZ or anything. It’s a secret.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “How long have you been seeing him?”
“Oh, just a few weeks. I’ve been sneaking down to LA and meeting him at random dive bars and hotels.”
“So is that where you’ve been going on weekends?”
Larry nodded impishly. “It’s all very exciting,” he said. “In fact, I think we might meet up later this week.” He pulled a cheap plastic flip phone from his pocket and started scrolling through his text messages.
“Wait, what’s that?” I asked. “Is that a burner phone? What is this, The Wire?”
“Jack gave it to me, just in case, you know, someone tries to tap his phone.” He paused to read a message. “Hey—what are you doing Friday?” he asked me.
“I’ll be at the Huntington,” I said. “One more set of Brontë letters to read, then I’m sending the full manuscript off to Oxford.”
“Can I hitch a ride with you?”
“Sure,” I said. “Why? Are you meeting Jack at the Huntington?”
“No, not exactly—I was wondering if I could drop you off at the library and then borrow your car for the day. I’ll pick you up whenever you’re ready.”
“Wait—why don’t we just take your car then?”
“Jack’s paranoid,” Larry sighed. “He doesn’t want the paps to be able to trace my plates. He specifically asked that I borrow someone else’s car, or even get a rental.”
“Oh, great—so now the paps are gonna think I’m the one having an affair with Jack Lindsey?”
“You wish.”
“The things I do for you,” I said, laughing and heading to the door.
“Hey—where are you going?” Larry asked. “I still have more to tell you about Jack!”
“Sorry, Lar. I’ve got to run—I’ve got a fund-raising meeting with Tiffany, then I have to somehow get ninety-eight books back to the library and sweet-talk them into waiving my late fees. Wish me luck.”
“Aw, poor baby,” Larry said. “Good luck!”
*
TIFFANY HAD RESERVED A large conference room for the training session, placing shiny red Fairfax binders and Fairfax-branded bottles of water at each seat. She gave me a thumbs-up as I came in and slid into a seat toward the back. I tuned out as she launched into a slick slide-show presentation, then walked us through our binders full of numbers and factoids, renderings of prospective buildings, and a thick booklet of phone numbers. I was in charge of supervising a phone bank, heading a team of volunteers who would cold-call alums and parents to wheedle for donations. Tiffany had included a sample script to follow.
1. Hello! May I please speak to?
2. This is from the Thrive! Fairfax Capital Campaign! I am an alum/professor/friend of Fairfax College. Is this a convenient time to talk? I promise it will only take a few minutes.
3. [If alum has given before:] Thank you for your past support of Fairfax College. We appreciate your generosity.
4. We’re calling alumni tonight to speak to them about our exciting new capital campaign to help support financial aid and fund library and dormitory renovations. I know Fairfax College means a lot to you, just as it means a lot to me. [Include personal story about what Fairfax means to you.]
5. Would you consider a gift of $ to support the Thrive! Capital Campaign and future generations of Fairfax students?
I blanched. I was terrible at asking for money.
“I can’t do this,” I texted Larry. “Can I quit?”
A few seconds later, Larry texted back: “Lean in, bitch!”
“Remember, it’s not the amount that counts,” Tiffany was yelling. “We just want sky-high participation numbers! Are you all with me???”
There were a few feeble yeahs.
“I can’t HEAARRRR you!!!” Tiffany theatrically cupped one of her ears. “I said, ARE YOU ALL WITH ME???”
“Yeah!” a few more people joined in.
“Go Wolverines!” Tiffany screamed, doing a fist pump with her right hand.
Adam had come in during Tiffany’s mini pep rally and was standing to one side, watching her jump up and down. He now whispered something in her ear and then took the microphone from her.
“I just wanted to thank all of you personally for volunteering in our campaign,” he said. “Asking people for money is one of the hardest parts of my job, but I also know how important it is. I was a scholarship kid, and I wouldn’t have been able to attend college if it weren’t for people like you—alums, staff, faculty—pitching in their time and money. With the money we raise, we can help attract and retain those who wouldn’t necessarily consider Fairfax a possibility. So thank you on behalf of the college but also on behalf of our future students.”
His speech reminded me why Adam had initially dropped out of Princeton. The story didn’t appear in any of his official PR materials, but he’d confided in me that summer we’d exchanged letters. Adam had been working in the dining room one evening, scraping food off plates coming down the conveyor belt, a job that was both messy and relentless and left him, at the end of his shift, “smelling like steamed garbage.” His friends had long since quit their dining hall jobs for easier gigs working in the library or doing office work for departments, but the dish room paid the best and Adam needed the money. He was in the middle of his shift, stacking dirty plates into plastic racks, when some jerks from his hall spied him through the kitchen door. Smirking, they took syrup jugs and ketchup bottles from the commissary and poured the contents into cereal bowls and dishes, watching as the plates made their way down the belt to Adam. As he tried to dump the contents into a garbage can, spattering himself in the process, the guys burst out laughing. “I requested a leave of absence soon after,” he’d written to me.
There was a ripple of applause, and I watched Adam start circulating around the room, shaking people’s hands. Watching him now, I wondered what he was thinking. Did he even remember telling me the story?
“Hi, Anne,” Adam said when he got to my seat. “Listen, thanks for helping out. I really appreciate it.”
“It’s a great cause,” I said. “Your personal anecdote was really moving.”
“It’s all true. I often think of how different things would have been if I hadn’t gone to college.”
“You don’t regret it at all? I know how hard it was, at times . . .”
Adam shook his head emphatically. “No, going back and finishing was the best decision I ever made. For lots of reasons.”
His words hung in the air. I wanted to reach over and touch his hand, let him know I understood because I’d been there. Adam, too, seemed to recognize the strange intimacy of the moment. His hand went to his mouth for a second, as if he were wondering whether to say more. I caught his eye, and he smiled slightly.
“What about you?” he asked. “Do you have regrets?”
“Me?” I asked, a little taken aback. “I— Well, every month, when I see I have another thirty-odd years of student loan payments remaining . . . yeah, I have some regrets.”
Adam looked surprised. “I thought your dad paid for college.”
“He cut me off, just like he threatened to,” I murmured.
“Because you went to graduate school?”
I nodded. “I took out loans, maxed out my credit cards, deferred payments for as long as I could. Grad school wasn’t exactly cheap, either,” I said with a bitter laugh. “My stipend barely covered my rent, so I had to take out more loans to cover living expenses. I figured I could pay it all off once I landed a job—but then the economy crashed and, well, you know . . . I guess I have no one to blame but myself—it’s what I wanted to do.”
“So would you do it over again?” Adam asked. “Knowing everything that you know now?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, was it worth it? Are you happy?”
Now it was my turn to be tongue-tied. I thought of the piles of grading, the manuscript to submit, the fund-raising calls. I thought of the years bouncing around from temporary position to temporary position, living out of suitcases and half-unpacked boxes. I thought of how lonely I’d been, how many nights I’d spent in the library, surrounded by nothing but books. I blinked at Adam, then forced myself to smile.
“Of course,” I said brightly. “Like you said. It was all worth it.”
I turned away before Adam could see the doubt clouding my face.
*
AFTER THE TRAINING SESSION, I headed to my office to collect my overdue books and return them to the library, piling as many as I could into two large file boxes and then struggling to get them downstairs to the book return bin. As I took a break to catch my breath, I heard the whine of a motorcycle and Rick pulled up to the curb next to me.
“Hey!” he said, taking off his helmet. “I was just taking off for the day. Do you need help with those?”
“That would be great,” I panted. “They’re heavier than I thought.”
Rick easily hefted up a box and carried it to the bin, tipping the box over and letting the books cascade into its maw.
“How was your fund-raising meeting?” Rick asked as we returned for the second box.
“Oh, you know. It was pretty much what I expected. Lots of rah-rah Fairfax speak.”
“Speaking of which—” Rick muttered under his breath.
I turned around and saw Adam and Tiffany walking toward us.
“Hello,” Adam said, glancing at Rick and then at me. His voice was aloof.
“I don’t think we’ve met yet!” Tiffany said, smiling broadly at Rick and introducing herself. “Whatcha guys doing there?” she asked, glancing at the remaining file box resting at my feet.
“Rick’s helping me return some overdue library books,” I said.
“It looks like you’ve got half the library in there!” she joked. She turned to Rick and winked. “That’s our Anne. Always got her head stuck in a book.”
“You should’ve seen the other box she had,” Rick said. “That was the other half of the library.”
Listening to their friendly banter made Adam’s stiff posture all the more striking. He just stood there, making no move to contribute to the conversation and looking eager to go. I tried to catch his eye, but he only gave me a polite half smile and then avoided my gaze altogether, glancing at the footpath or off into the middle distance, where some students were noisily heading to the dining hall. After a minute more of small talk, they wished us a good evening and left.
“What a jackass. He couldn’t even look me in the eye,” Rick muttered, hoisting up the second box and dumping it into the bin.
“That was awkward,” I said. “What happened? You must’ve done something to really piss him off.”
“Oh, you know—I stood up for the rights of the faculty. Resisted the corporatization of the university. Helped unionize university employees. Terrible, terrible things.” Rick laughed ironically.
“Well, looks like he’s carrying a grudge.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it. He pretty much single-handedly ousted me from Houston. I was really happy there, getting some decent writing done, enjoying my teaching, plus making some real political headway with the union. He put an end to all that.”
“How?” I asked. “Could he really fire you over something like that?”
“He wanted to, and he did. He was clever about it, though. He knew I’d have legal standing to sue, so he used the excuse of ‘budget cuts’ and ‘reorganization.’ But I knew—everyone knew. He’s a bad guy. Very vindictive. You’ve got to be careful around him.”
“That’s awful,” I said. “And scary. I can’t believe he’d do that.”
“Oh, believe it,” Rick said, pulling me in for a kiss. “But don’t be scared of him. He’s a bully, that’s all. He gets off on making people feel small and pathetic. You can’t let him get to you. Always remember this: You must never back down from a bully. Never.”
Rick took my hand and brought it to his lips, and I couldn’t help but smile at the gesture. He wanted to protect me, and I was touched by his concern. While I still couldn’t quite believe Adam was capable of such terrible things—was Rick getting him mixed up with someone else? had there been some terrible misunderstanding?—I also wondered why I was even defending him. I barely knew Adam anymore.