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Authors: Douglas Kennedy
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hoped) that David would make contact with me when he needed me.
But there was no contact, no sign from him of his whereabouts or his state of mind. A day went by, then two, then three. I called his home number three times a day. No answer. I checked in again with Mrs Cathcart. ‘No one knows his whereabouts,’ was all that she would say. I called Christy and met her for more than several drinks, a night out with Christy always being an excuse to get hammered. She had lots of inside departmental gossip, and told me that at least three of David’s colleagues (she had their names) had approached the Dean of the Faculty, demanding that David be dismissed for professional misconduct, and had been assured that, if the plagiarism charges were authenticated, the Dean would be backing them.
‘There is a group of very bitter shits in the department,’ Christy said, ‘who have always wanted to bring the guy down. This resentment goes back to the seventies when they were all starting out together and Professor Henry was perceived to be too flashy and celebrated by these already-gray assholes. And they’ve also always hated his popularity with just about every student he’s worked with. So now they’re having their schadenfreude moment and are just delighted to see him fighting for his professional life.’
‘I’m pretty certain he’s gone to his place in Maine.’
‘If that’s the case, he’s on his own up there.’
‘How do you know that?’ I said, sounding just a little surprised.
‘Because Mrs Cathcart told me that, when the shit hit the fan, Henry’d had a big blow-up with his wife – accused her of talking him into writing such a drecky novel, told her she’d always been doing her best to sabotage his career.’
Oh, Jesus.
‘How did Cathcart hear all this?’
‘ Madame Henry told her. It seems that Crazy Polly frequently calls that crusty old bitch to vent about her wayward husband. And Cathcart encourages her – because, hey, information is power, right?’
‘Well, why did that “bitch” then tell me that I should call David’s wife to find his whereabouts?’
‘Because she likes to play head games, that’s why. And because – like everyone else in the department – she suspects that you and the Professor have been romantically involved for quite a long time.’
The news made me flinch. They knew. Everyone knew .
‘That’s total nonsense,’ I said.
‘I figured that would be your response,’ replied Christy. ‘That’s why, as much as I like you, I can’t really call you a friend. And that’s not just the booze talking. But you know this—’
‘I know there’s a lot of stupid innuendo that simply isn’t true.’
‘And I know that I’m outta here,’ she said, throwing some money down on the table, ‘because I’m not going to sit here and be lied to.’
‘I am not lying,’ I slurred, all that vodka and beer elongating my words and emboldening me to trumpet my innocence.
‘This conversation is over,’ Christy said. ‘But do your man a favor. As soon as you wake up tomorrow, get a car and get up to him in Maine. He needs you.’
I don’t remember giving the cab driver my address, or paying him or negotiating the stairs up to my apartment, or getting out of my clothes and collapsing onto the bed. What I do remember is waking with a start around eight and cursing myself for having gotten so smashed. I didn’t even want to get into the ramifications of what Christy said last night – not just about my untruthfulness with her (guilty as charged), but about the appalling realization that there had been much departmental speculation regarding my non-professional relationship with David.
I got out of the arctic shower. I put on some clothes. I made a pot of coffee and called Avis and arranged to pick up a car at their Cambridge location in half an hour. I downed two Alka-Seltzer followed by two scalding mugs of coffee. I was about to start throwing some things in an
But there was no contact, no sign from him of his whereabouts or his state of mind. A day went by, then two, then three. I called his home number three times a day. No answer. I checked in again with Mrs Cathcart. ‘No one knows his whereabouts,’ was all that she would say. I called Christy and met her for more than several drinks, a night out with Christy always being an excuse to get hammered. She had lots of inside departmental gossip, and told me that at least three of David’s colleagues (she had their names) had approached the Dean of the Faculty, demanding that David be dismissed for professional misconduct, and had been assured that, if the plagiarism charges were authenticated, the Dean would be backing them.
‘There is a group of very bitter shits in the department,’ Christy said, ‘who have always wanted to bring the guy down. This resentment goes back to the seventies when they were all starting out together and Professor Henry was perceived to be too flashy and celebrated by these already-gray assholes. And they’ve also always hated his popularity with just about every student he’s worked with. So now they’re having their schadenfreude moment and are just delighted to see him fighting for his professional life.’
‘I’m pretty certain he’s gone to his place in Maine.’
‘If that’s the case, he’s on his own up there.’
‘How do you know that?’ I said, sounding just a little surprised.
‘Because Mrs Cathcart told me that, when the shit hit the fan, Henry’d had a big blow-up with his wife – accused her of talking him into writing such a drecky novel, told her she’d always been doing her best to sabotage his career.’
Oh, Jesus.
‘How did Cathcart hear all this?’
‘ Madame Henry told her. It seems that Crazy Polly frequently calls that crusty old bitch to vent about her wayward husband. And Cathcart encourages her – because, hey, information is power, right?’
‘Well, why did that “bitch” then tell me that I should call David’s wife to find his whereabouts?’
‘Because she likes to play head games, that’s why. And because – like everyone else in the department – she suspects that you and the Professor have been romantically involved for quite a long time.’
The news made me flinch. They knew. Everyone knew .
‘That’s total nonsense,’ I said.
‘I figured that would be your response,’ replied Christy. ‘That’s why, as much as I like you, I can’t really call you a friend. And that’s not just the booze talking. But you know this—’
‘I know there’s a lot of stupid innuendo that simply isn’t true.’
‘And I know that I’m outta here,’ she said, throwing some money down on the table, ‘because I’m not going to sit here and be lied to.’
‘I am not lying,’ I slurred, all that vodka and beer elongating my words and emboldening me to trumpet my innocence.
‘This conversation is over,’ Christy said. ‘But do your man a favor. As soon as you wake up tomorrow, get a car and get up to him in Maine. He needs you.’
I don’t remember giving the cab driver my address, or paying him or negotiating the stairs up to my apartment, or getting out of my clothes and collapsing onto the bed. What I do remember is waking with a start around eight and cursing myself for having gotten so smashed. I didn’t even want to get into the ramifications of what Christy said last night – not just about my untruthfulness with her (guilty as charged), but about the appalling realization that there had been much departmental speculation regarding my non-professional relationship with David.
I got out of the arctic shower. I put on some clothes. I made a pot of coffee and called Avis and arranged to pick up a car at their Cambridge location in half an hour. I downed two Alka-Seltzer followed by two scalding mugs of coffee. I was about to start throwing some things in an
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