Blue Angel (28 page)

Swenson dials. The way Bentham's secretary says, “
Oh,
” when he gives his name increases his unease. She says, “Tomorrow morning at nine? Can you come in then?”

Swenson doesn't like that, either.

“Would nine-thirty be better?” the secretary says.

“Nine would be perfect,” says Swenson.

T
he dean's office always makes Swenson think of some
exclusive London brothel where members of Parliament can request the fantasy rooms. The scenario to be enacted here is “the headmaster's private office,” and whatever's going to transpire between the naughty schoolboy and the punishing principal or, alternately, the punishing schoolgirl and the groveling headmaster, will do so amid props designed to heighten the pleasurable illusion: the leather chairs, the spooky lighting, the bookshelves, the enormous mahogany desk so perfect for bending over, all guarded by the faithful spaniel staring out from the painting burnished during its previous life in some gentlemen's club. Doesn't it bother anyone that the dean of a liberal arts college has no art on his walls except for a portrait of someone else's dog?

Rising to shake Swenson's hand, Bentham shuts the door and tells his secretary to hold all his incoming calls. “Ted. Please. Sit down.” He goes back behind his desk. “I appreciate your coming in on such short notice.”

Swenson says, “No problem. I don't have much on the calendar for this hour of the morning.”

“Yes, well. Good. Well, then…maybe we should dispense with the small talk and get to the point. Let me show you what we've got here, and we can proceed from there.” Bentham opens his top drawer and takes out a tape recorder, sets it on the desk, exactly halfway between them. For a moment Swenson thinks he means to record their conversation. Then Bentham pushes a button and slides it closer to Swenson. Static, a faint hum of voices. Eventually, a female voice emerges from the white noise:

“I hate when you look at me like that.”

“Look at you like what?” says a man's voice.

“Like dinner.”

“I'm sorry,” the man says. “Believe me. I didn't think I was looking at you like dinner.”

In the blare of static, Bentham stares at Swenson. His usual air of ironic bemusement has solidified into contempt. All right, if Swenson has to, he'll admit it. That's his voice. And Angela Argo's. How did they get on tape? He listens with voyeuristic fascination, as if he has no idea what's coming.

“I left your manuscript with Len Currie,” says Swenson's voice. “He said he's terribly busy, but he'll try to take a look at it. Of course he may be
too
busy, and he'll pretend he's read it and just send it back.”

“When can I call him?” Angela says.

A subdued roar of static. Something's been edited out. Probably the crucial words that will make it instantly clear that these exchanges aren't at all what they sound like.

“Fuck you,” says Angela.

“Wait,” Swenson says. “Fuck
you
is more like it. I went out of my fucking way for you, I went all the way into Manhattan to have lunch with my editor so he could treat me like shit, so he could tell me to write a memoir about my early life, all the stuff I already covered in
Phoenix Time
.”

Another gap. Then Angela says, “I can't believe you let this happen. I can't believe you didn't fight harder for me. The only reason I let you fuck me was so you would help me get this novel to someone who could do something—”

“I didn't know it was about that,” says Swenson. “I didn't think it was about you
letting
me fuck you.”

On the tape, more static, the crash of a slamming door. Then footsteps running downstairs. How strange that a tape would be sensitive enough to pick up footsteps in the hall. And only now does it dawn on Swenson that the recorder was attached to Angela.

The footsteps stop. Swenson remembers thinking she'd hesitated on the stairs to consider turning around and coming back. In fact she'd only paused to switch off the machine.

Bentham turns off the recorder.

“Holy Christ,” says Swenson. “That little bitch came to that conference wired.”

None of this makes sense. Why was Angela out to get him? How could she have been taking revenge for what hadn't happened yet? Before their conference, she didn't know he'd failed with Len, so her making the damaging tape was a little…premature. But now he remembers her saying that she
did
know, that his not having called her was a sign. Still, no one would be cold-blooded enough to have it all figured out—to calculate that she'd have this useful evidence, in case she needed it later. Useful for what? Evidence of what? What was Angela doing? Arranging a little blackmail to make Swenson hang in there and not give up—and try again with his editor? But then why didn't she blackmail
him
? Why did she give it to Bentham?

“That little bitch,” repeats Swenson—the only words he seems to know. Bentham flinches, delicately. Rolling his eyes upward, he tells the ceiling, “Ted, maybe it's premature to warn you that everything you say can be used against you. But…”

“I see,” says Swenson. “So am I under arrest? Are you reading me my Mirandas?”

“Miranda?” Does Bentham think it's a woman's name? Another student Swenson's dating?

“My legal rights. It's that little problem we Americans have about our constitutional protections.”

“Ha ha,” says Bentham. “Of course. Ted. Well, the evidence…”—he points at the recorder, his face at once regretful and accusing—“looks pretty damning.”

“Meaning what?”

“Well, that depends on you.” Bentham taps his fingertips together. “We have several options. Look, this is unpleasant, so let me come right out and say it. The student is charging you with sexual harassment. She's threatening to sue the school. And given what she's presented us with, I really think you might consider—for everyone's sake—resigning. I wouldn't ask you to do it just for the college, old chap. I'd say go ahead and fight if you want. But you have a family to consider, and a professional reputation.”

Old chap! Swenson never realized just how much he hates the academic British, with their phony Marmite-smeared
politesse
. What does Bentham expect him to say? Yes, sir, I'll be right on my way, just give me a second to clean out my office. What about justice? Swenson's innocent. It was Angela who dragged
him
to Computer City, Angela who lured
him
into her room, Angela who rolled up her skirt. Though of course he could have declined. Just say no. He knows about the power differential between teacher and student. But this wasn't about power. This was about desire. Mutual seduction, let's say that at least. He's too embarrassed to let himself think, This was about love. And he's not going to think that, not with Bentham watching!

“And my so-called options?” He folds his hands in unconscious mimicry of Bentham.

“Well,” Bentham says, “I suppose we'd have to form a committee to look into this. Gather testimony. Interview students. Faculty. Put together a report. Make recommendations. Then, if necessary, hold a hearing. I assume it will be necessary.” Another nod at the tape. “And so forth.” Bentham shudders.

“And if this committee decides I'm guilty. What then?”

“We'd have to let you go, Ted. It's grounds for dismissal.”

“What about due process? Should I be calling my lawyer?” What lawyer? He doesn't have a lawyer.

“This isn't a court of law,” says Bentham, wearily. “It's strictly intramural. It's spelled out in the faculty handbook under sexual harassment.”

“Wait one motherfucking minute!” Swenson says. “This is
not
sexual harassment. I didn't make this girl sleep with me in exchange for pimping her novel.”

“Actually, it sounds like the textbook
case
of sexual harassment.” Bentham nods familiarly at the tape recorder. “And by the way…Miss Argo has asked me to ask you not to contact her until this matter is settled.”

Miss Argo
? And that's the moment when Swenson decides to take the college down with him. He's not going to go meekly. He'll make sure the damage spreads until no one can contain it. Let's see what this does to Euston's endowment! He'll be damned if he rolls over. Meanwhile, the implications are sinking in. His life is ruined, his marriage is finished. Sherrie will leave him, he'll be all alone, jobless, out on the street. Sell the house, hire lawyers.

“What do you say, Ted?” asks Bentham.

“Let's do it. Let's have the hearing. How long will the goddamn thing take?”

The dean looks at his calendar, but only for punctuation. He knows what the date is. “Well…Christmas vacation's coming, then reading period. I think we ought to move fast and not let this drag on. Maybe by the second week of the new semester.”

“Excellent,” Swenson says.

Bentham says, “You know, this sort of thing can function like a…malignancy in the community, spreading all sort of rot. Early detection, early cure. In the meantime, your paycheck will keep coming, of course. But it might be better for everyone if you take a break from teaching. I'll ask Magda Moynahan if she'd mind taking over your class. I believe there are only three classes left until the semester ends. Think of it as a minisabbatical. Get some writing done.”

On this note of jolly faux levity, Bentham rises and puts out his hand. Swenson refuses to shake it. He stands there, glaring at Bentham. One corner of Bentham's thin mouth is twitching, because
this
really appalls him, this breach of good manners, of gentlemanly conduct. Screwing a student is nothing compared to refusing a colleague's handshake.

Swenson knows it's infantile, declining Bentham's handshake. But it's not nearly so regressive as the fact that, despite the trouble he's in, he's thrilled to have been excused from teaching three whole weeks of classes. School's over for the semester! Or…possibly forever. Swenson's childish elation gives way to foreboding and adult regret.

“We'll talk soon, Ted,” says Bentham.

“I'm afraid so,” Swenson says.

Swenson gets as far as the top step of the administration building, where disorientation and paralysis bring him to a full stop. It's the strangest sensation, really. He doesn't know where he should
be
. He won't be teaching for a while. So what is he doing on campus? He can't go to his office, where the telephone will only remind him that there is no one he can call to talk about what's just happened.

He could leave town. They'd like him to leave town. But this may be the first time since he got here that he
hasn't
wanted to leave. All he wants is to go home, but he can't go home, where every room, every object will confront him with the evidence of how recklessly, how pointlessly he's destroyed everything, with the fact that he has to tell Sherrie—and how is he supposed to do that?

As it turns out, he's able to get in the car and drive. He circles the campus several times. This must be what people mean when they talk about a fugue state. This is how you wake up and find yourself in Caracas. He goes home and gets into bed, fully clothed. He gets up twice to piss, takes his shoes off, falls asleep, wakes at noon, sleeps again, wakes at three, showers, and drives to the clinic.

Arlene Shurley's at the reception desk.

“Oh, hi there, Ted,” she says. The sea of tears in her voice has risen to a new level, and just for a moment Swenson thinks she knows about his problem. That's pure paranoia. Arlene's not exactly the college's most plugged-in person. And yet she's barely able to speak as she waves him back to the treatment room, where Sherrie's filing charts. When he sees her, he wants to throw himself at her feet and tell her the truth right here and now, to swear his undying eternal love and beg her forgiveness.

He says, “Want to go out to dinner?”

A flicker of wariness glints in her eyes. So this is what it's come to. He can't even ask his wife out to dinner without her suspecting him of having some secret agenda.

“Are we celebrating something?” Sherrie asks.

“A day without disaster.”

“That's worth celebrating.”

“Maybelline's?” says Swenson.

“Yikes,” says Sherrie. “Burlington? We might want to save that for a
month
without disaster.”

“There won't be any months like that,” Swenson says. “We might as well go tonight. Want to go now?”

“Ted, it's four in the afternoon.”

“Oops,” says Swenson. “Alzheimer's. Sorry.”

Sherrie's almost finished her shift. Arlene can take over. It's arranged they'll meet at the house so Sherrie can shower and change. Swenson rushes home, determined to get there first, as if there's some evidence of wrongdoing there that he needs to clean up fast. He feels like a kid who's had a party with his parents gone, except that he's a middle-aged man who's spent the day in bed. Alone. Sherrie doesn't need to know that yet. Who can tell where
that
revelation might lead?

He makes and unmakes and remakes the bed, but still it doesn't seem convincing. He feels like the victim of an obsessive-compulsive disorder. He gets back into bed, still clothed, though this time he takes off his shoes. He can admit to
this
nap, but not to the last one, though this nap is the phony one—clenched eyes, watchful awareness, listening for Sherrie's car, a state in which he finds himself frozen even as he hears Sherrie call his name. She tracks him to the bedroom. He keeps his eyes closed tight.

Sherrie goes into the bathroom. He hears the shower running. He waits a few minutes, then follows her. He knocks, makes a point of his presence. Sherrie hates being surprised.

Through the veil of the shower curtain and the cloud of steam, Sherrie's body works on him: that old Pavlovian magic. They regard each other through the haze. Sherrie steps out of the tub. In the moments before he stops having second thoughts, or any thoughts at all, Swenson thinks how this might look to someone watching from outside: a man who can sleep with his wife on the evening he's going to tell her that he'll probably lose his job for sleeping with a student. But what would be harder for those stranger's eyes to see are the depths of desperate love that Swenson feels for Sherrie.