بخش 4 فصل 16

New York City

December 9, 2013

XVI

Bea always says returning to campus is like coming home.

But it doesn’t feel that way to Henry. Then again, he never felt at home at home, only a vague sense of dread, the eggshell-laden walk of someone constantly in danger of disappointing. And that’s pretty much what he feels now, so maybe she’s right, after all.

“Mr. Strauss,” says the dean, reaching across the desk. “I’m so glad you could make it.” They shake hands, and Henry lowers himself into the office chair. The same chair he sat in three years ago when Dean Melrose threatened to fail him if he didn’t have the sense to leave. And now— You want to be enough.

“Sorry it took me so long,” he says, but the dean waves away the apology.

“You’re a busy man, I’m sure.”

“Right,” says Henry, shifting in his seat. His suit chafes; too many months spent among mothballs in the back of the closet. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“So,” he says awkwardly, “you said there was a position open, in the theology school, but you didn’t say if it was adjunct or an aide.” “It’s tenure.”

Henry stares at the salt-and-pepper man across the table, and has to resist the urge to laugh in his face. A tenure track isn’t just coveted, it’s cutthroat. People spend years vying for those positions.

“And you thought of me.”

“The moment I saw you in that café,” says the dean with a fundraising smile.

You want to be whatever they want.

The dean sits forward in his chair. “The question, Mr. Strauss, is simple. What do you want for yourself?” The words echo through his head, a terrible, reverberating symmetry.

It’s the same question Melrose asked that autumn day when he called Henry into his office, three years into his PhD, and told him it was over. On some level, Henry knew it was coming. He’d already transferred from the theological seminary into the broader religious studies program, focus sliding over and between themes that a hundred people had already explored, unable to find new ground, unable to believe.

“What do you want for yourself?” he’d asked, and Henry considered saying my parents’ pride, but that didn’t seem like a good answer, so he’d said the next truest thing—that he honestly wasn’t sure. That he’d blinked and somehow years had gone by, and everyone else had carved their trenches, paved their paths, and he was still standing in a field, uncertain where to dig.

The dean had listened, and leaned his elbows on the table and told him that he was good.

But good wasn’t enough.

Which meant, of course, he wasn’t enough.

“What do you want for yourself?” the dean asks now. And Henry still doesn’t have any other answer.

“I don’t know.”

And this is the part where the dean shakes his head, where he realizes that Henry Strauss is still as lost as ever. Only he doesn’t, of course. He smiles and says, “That’s okay. It’s good to be open. But you do want to come back, don’t you?” Henry is silent. He sits with the question.

He always liked learning. Loved it, really. If he could have spent his whole life sitting in a lecture hall, taking notes, could have drifted from department to department, haunting different studies, soaking up language and history and art, maybe he would have felt full, happy.

That’s how he spent the first two years.

And those first two years, he was happy. He had Bea, and Robbie, and all he had to do was learn. Build a foundation. It was the house, the one that he was supposed to build on top of that smooth surface, that was the problem.

It was just so … permanent.

Choosing a class became choosing a discipline, and choosing a discipline became choosing a career, and choosing a career became choosing a life, and how was anyone supposed to do that, when you only had one?

But teaching, teaching might be a way to have what he wanted.

Teaching is an extension of learning, a way to be a perpetual student.

And yet. “I’m not qualified, sir.”

“You’re an unconventional choice,” the dean admits, “but that doesn’t mean you’re the wrong one.” Except in this case, that’s exactly what it means.

“I don’t have my doctorate.”

The frost spreads into a sheen of ice across the dean’s vision. “You have a fresh perspective.” “Aren’t there requirements?”

“There are, but there’s a measure of latitude, to account for different backgrounds.” “I don’t believe in God.”

The words tumble out like stones, landing heavy on the desk between them.

And Henry realizes, now that they’re out, that they aren’t entirely true. He doesn’t know what he believes, hasn’t for a long time, but it’s hard to entirely discount the presence of a higher power when he recently sold his soul to a lower one.

Henry realizes the room is still quiet.

The dean looks at him for a long moment, and he thinks he’s done it, he’s broken through.

But then Melrose leans forward, and says, in a measured tone, “I don’t either.” He sits back. “Mr. Strauss, we are an academic institution, not a church. Dissent is at the heart of dissemination.” But that’s the problem. No one will dissent. Henry looks at Dean Melrose, and imagines seeing that same blind acceptance on the face of every faculty member, every teacher, every student, and feels ill. They’ll look at him, and see exactly what they want. Who they want. And even if he comes across someone who wants to argue, who relishes conflict or debate, it won’t be real.

None of it will ever be real again.

Across the table, the dean’s eyes are a milky gray. “You can have anything you want, Mr. Strauss. Be anyone you want. And we’d like to have you here.” He stands, holds out his hand. “Think about it.” Henry says, “I will.”

And he does.

He thinks about it on the way across campus, and on the subway, every station carrying him farther away from that life. The one that was, and the one that wasn’t. Thinks about it as he unlocks the store, shrugs out of the ill-fitting coat and flings it onto the nearest shelf, undoes the tie at his throat. Thinks about it as he feeds the cat, and unpacks the latest box of books, gripping them until his fingers ache, but at least they’re solid, they’re real, and he can feel the storm clouds forming in his head, so he goes into the back room, finds the bottle of Meredith’s whisky, a few fingers’ worth leftover from the day after his deal, and carries it back to the front of the store.

It’s not even noon, but Henry doesn’t care.

He pulls out the cork and fills a coffee cup as the customers filter in, waiting for someone to shoot him a dirty look, to shake their head in disapproval, or mutter something, or even leave. But they all just keep shopping, keep smiling, keep looking at Henry as if he can’t do anything wrong.

Finally, an off-duty cop comes in, and Henry doesn’t even try to hide the bottle by the till. Instead, he looks straight at the man and takes a long drink from his cup, certain that he’s breaking some law, either because of the open container, or the public intoxication.

But the cop only smiles, and raises an imaginary glass.

“Cheers,” he says, eyes frosting over as he speaks.

Take a drink every time you hear a lie.

You’re a great cook.

(They say as you burn toast.)

You’re so funny.

(You’ve never told a joke.)

You’re so …

… handsome.

… ambitious.

… successful.

… strong.

(Are you drinking yet?)

You’re so …

… charming.

… clever.

… sexy.

(Drink.)

So confident.

So shy.

So mysterious.

So open.

You are impossible, a paradox, a collection at odds.

You are everything to everyone.

The son they never had.

The friend they always wanted.

A generous stranger.

A successful son.

A perfect gentleman.

A perfect partner.

A perfect …

Perfect …

(Drink.)

They love your body.

Your abs.

Your laugh.

The way you smell.

The sound of your voice.

They want you.

(Not you.)

They need you.

(Not you.)

They love you.

(Not you.)

You are whoever they want you to be.

You are more than enough, because you are not real.

You are perfect, because you don’t exist.

(Not you.)

(Never you.)

They look at you and see whatever they want …

Because they don’t see you at all.