The Emperor of Ocean Park (47 page)

To my astonishment, she came. To my astonishment, we married. Kimmer put off starting a family until she feared her biological clock might just stop ticking altogether. Then God gifted us with Bentley.

And, in what is about to be nine years of marriage, I have hardly given a thought to what Kimmer and I . . .
did,
that was the word Dr. Young used . . . what we
did
to André Conway. Or, for that matter, what I did to Melody Merriman, which I am sure Dr. Young will bring up momentarily.

I continue with difficulty. “So—you’re suggesting that I . . . I’m just projecting . . .”

Dr. Young holds up a hand. “Talcott, listen to me. Listen carefully. Have you asked the Lord to forgive you and your wife for the wrong you did your wife’s first husband?”

I nod slowly, admitting the truth. “Yes. Many times.” I close my eyes
briefly. The heating vent gives off a brief, angry whine. “But, to be honest with you, I don’t know if I . . . if I’ve forgiven myself.”

Morris Young is too old a hand to be sidetracked by a therapeutic confession. “We can certainly work on that, Talcott. But at the moment, I am more interested in whether you can forgive your wife.”

“For these . . . imagined transgressions?”

He shakes his heavy head. The telephone on his desk begins to bray, but he ignores it. “For what she did to her first husband.”

I open my mouth, close it again, then try once more. “You think I’m mad at Kimmer for . . . for cheating on André with me?”

“Mad? I wouldn’t know. I do wonder, though, if you have somehow . . . frozen her in that moment of time. The only Kimberly you are able to perceive is, not to put too fine a point on it, the adulteress.” The phone has stopped ringing. “In your eyes, she is stuck in a particular pattern of behavior. But the Christian life is a life of constant growth. Perhaps you need to give her the chance to show she has grown.”

“You think she’s changed that much?”

“Have you ever cheated on your wife?”

“No! You know I haven’t.”

“So you have changed, Talcott. Don’t you see? And perhaps your wife is as capable of change as you are. Maybe not at the same rate. But the same capacity.”

I am getting the message. Slowly, but I am getting it. “You think I . . . look down my nose at her?”

“I think, Talcott, that sometimes your marital fidelity is a wall between you. Perhaps you are right and she has been unfaithful. Very well, how have you responded? Perhaps you have used your own virtue to keep your wife at bay. Remember, Talcott, that her sins are only different from yours—not necessarily worse. And that you promised to love her for better or worse.” He pauses to allow this to sink in. “Now, understand me. I am not exonerating your wife. She may indeed be engaging in an extramarital relationship with Mr. Nathanson. Or with someone else. But, Talcott, right now, what matters is your own conduct. If your wife is straying, the time will come when it is appropriate to deal with her behavior. For the moment, however, I wish to ask of you a simple favor: that you will, until the next time we meet, try to treat Kimberly as you would want to be treated. You do remember the Golden Rule? Good. You think your wife should give you the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps you should do her the same courtesy. Kimberly is your
wife,
Talcott, not a suspect in some crime. Your job is not to catch
her in lies. Your job is not to prove you are better than she is. Your job is to love her as best you can. Scripture tells us that the husband is head of the wife, but we are also warned that the headship is of a special kind: ‘as Christ is head of the church.’ And how does Christ love his church, Talcott? Unquestioningly. Forgivingly. And sacrificially. That is the responsibility of the husband, Talcott, especially when you do not actually know that your wife has done you wrong. The two of you wronged her first husband, and it may be that you are wronging her now, by your suspicions. So the favor I wish to ask is that you try as hard as you can, until our next meeting, to love your wife that way. Unquestioningly. Forgivingly. Sacrificially. Can you say those words for me, Talcott?”

“Unquestioningly,” I say, unwillingly. “Forgivingly,” I say, unhappily. “Sacrificially,” I say, resignedly.

Dr. Young’s smile is wider than ever. “Never fear, Talcott. The Lord will strengthen you to do what you must do. Let’s pray together.”

Which we do.

(II)

D
EAN
L
YNDA INTERCEPTS ME
as I rush up the steps into Oldie. I have avoided her since my return from the Vineyard, although this has meant skipping faculty meetings, workshops, and lectures. I am not sure whether I am driven by embarrassment, anger, fear, or some emotion I have yet to detect. Whichever it is, its protection has just run out.

“Talcott. Good. I’ve been hoping to run into you.”

I look up at her, she looks down at me. She is in the company of Ben Montoya, her tall, restless factotum, who has a joint appointment in the law school and the anthropology department. Ben was whispered to be the logistical genius behind the coup that toppled Stuart Land, and he remains Lynda’s instrument, it is said, in the most ruthless tasks of her deanship. The three of us stand on the steps as the season’s first snow flurries softly around us. Ben’s suspicious eyes peer at me from the upturned collar of his mountainous parka.

“Hi, Lynda.” I slow but do not stop. “Hi, Ben.”

“Talcott, wait,” my dean instructs.

“I have office hours.”

“I just need a minute. Ben, you go ahead, I’ll catch up with you.” With a final glower, he rushes off as instructed, hands deep in his pockets.

Then it is just the two of us.

Dean Lynda, a vigorous woman who wears her graying hair unfashionably long, folds her arms, clucks her tongue, and shakes her head. She is wearing a light topcoat over one of her outdated granny dresses. A black beret perches at a jaunty angle. She enjoys her reputation as an eccentric.

“We’re on our way to see the provost to talk about the budget,” Lynda explains.

“I see. Well, good luck.” I climb another step toward the building, but my dean freezes me with a gesture. I am suddenly sure she is going to ask me whether I have been slanting my scholarship for the benefit of a client.

“Talcott, Talcott, Talcott,” she murmurs, intense blue eyes measuring me from behind steel-rimmed glasses. “What am I going to do with you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I understand you canceled another class last week.”

“I was in Washington, Lynda. A torts conference. The students knew about it weeks in advance.”

Unmollified, Dean Lynda purses her thin lips in disapproval, possibly of the weather but more likely of me. “How many classes does that make that you’ve missed this term? Ben tells me that it’s something like seven or eight.”

“Good old Ben.”

“He’s my deputy dean, Talcott. He’s just doing his job.” She brushes snow from her lapel. “If a member of my faculty is underperforming, I need to know.”
My
deputy.
My
faculty. I have not previously realized how much she reminds me of Mallory Corcoran.

“Lynda, you . . . you’re the one who told me to take time off.”

“And you certainly did, didn’t you?” She does that tongueclucking thing again. “I have to tell you, Talcott, I am starting to get a little worried about you.”

“Worried . . . about me?”

She nods silently, waiting for a group of laughing students to pass us. They are all white, the stars of the law review, the faculty favorites, who will get the most desirable judicial clerkships and the offers to come back and teach. “You must admit, Talcott, your behavior has become a little bit erratic.”

To my dismay, I realize that she is continuing our conversation from
the Vineyard, still building a case for Marc Hadley. I manage to hold my temper, but only because I have just left Dr. Young. “I’m not going to let you do this to me, Lynda.”

The blue eyes, pale as morning, protest her innocence, as does the hand over her heart. “I’m not doing anything to you, Talcott. I’m worried about what you’re doing to yourself.” She pats my arm. “You’re family, Talcott, you know that. I only want what’s best for you.”

“I see.”

“You sound sarcastic. Now, why is that?”

“Because you’re determined to find fault with whatever I say?”

Her eyes, suddenly diamond-hard, flash blue fire. Lynda Wyatt is not a woman to cross, and now I have done it twice. “That’s uncalled for, Talcott. I’m trying to help.”

I want to hold back, but the temptation is more than I can withstand: “Are you, Lynda? And who exactly are you trying to help?”

For the first time in all the years I have known her, Lynda is speechless. Her mouth forms a small red O of offense, and a furious flush rises in her cheeks. Her hands go to her hips. Not waiting for her riposte, I smile and dodge past her into the building.

Striding hurriedly through the lobby, dismayed at my own rudeness and half worried that Lynda Wyatt will come storming after me to inform me that my tenure is being revoked, I notice, off in a corner near the stairwell, my student Lionel Eldridge, the former basketballer, leaning against the wall, towering over a member of the paler nation who gazes up at him with adoring eyes. His admirer, I see in surprise, is Heather Hadley, Marc’s daughter from his first marriage, usually found in the company of her droopy boyfriend, Paul. I blink to make sure I am seeing straight. I have never understood the magnetism of the man once known to millions of basketball fans as Sweet Nellie, although even Kimmer, whose firm I all but begged to hire him last summer, concedes that he is gorgeous. Rumor has it—that is, Dear Dana says—that young Mr. Eldridge has cut quite a sexual swath through the student body. Now, seeing Heather evidently in Lionel’s thrall, I allow myself a moment of mean-spirited speculation, wondering how Marc, in his self-assured liberalism, would cope with an affair between his beloved, brilliant Heather and the married, academically marginal, and very black Sweet Nellie.

I curl around them, heading for the stairs. Lionel spies me and flashes the smile that, despite the knee injury that forced him to retire early after seven appearances on the NBA All-Star Team, is still worth
millions of dollars in endorsements. I do not smile back. I do not wave. Sweet Nellie might have averaged nineteen points a game during his career—his application for admission said so, and his résumé does too—but around Oldie he is just a student who owes me a paper.

On the stairs, I encounter Rob Saltpeter and Lemaster Carlyle, books under their arms, on their way down to teach. Rob, who uses Powerpoint in the classroom, is also carrying his laptop. He offers his usual effusive greeting, but Lem only smiles briefly and ducks past me as swiftly as I ducked past Lionel. He is usually so friendly, even flowery. I stand looking after him for a second or two, uneasy thoughts crowding my brain, before forcing my mind back to the present problem of Lionel and Heather. Unlocking my office, I ponder whether this could be the rattling skeleton of which Jack Ziegler spoke, and which is obviously worrying Marc Hadley and, by extension, Dahlia. Are there whispers of a liaison between Heather and Lionel? Anything is possible, but this seems an unlikely candidate for scandal. Even in Washington, where nearly everything is fair game at confirmation time, nobody has yet hit upon the strategy of dredging up the love lives of the nominee’s children. Still . . .

Oh, stop it.

I am too busy for this nonsense, I remind myself as I flop into my desk chair. I have important writing to finish. If I think really hard, I might even remember what it is. I am still busily dumping on myself when Cassie Meadows calls, wanting to bring me up to date.

“Mr. Corcoran estimates your wife’s chances at about fifty-fifty,” she says, which is not terribly helpful. The next part seems to give her trouble. “He thinks they could be improved if . . . well, if . . . if this
search
of yours comes to an end.” She pauses, then blurts out the rest: “I’m actually kind of in the doghouse. He was mad that I’ve been . . . well, don’t take this the wrong way . . . the way he put it . . . he said I’ve been treating your ideas too seriously. He said . . . I probably shouldn’t tell you this . . . he said it makes the firm look bad.”

I keep my voice very cool. “And why didn’t
Mr.
Corcoran call me himself?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he was busy.” But I know. By delegating to Meadows the duty of telling me off, Uncle Mal can later deny, if he must, that he was ever the least bit perturbed. At the same time, he punishes Cassie by making her the bearer of bad news. “Anyway, he said the word on you is getting around, and . . . and, well, it isn’t helping your wife any.”

“I see.”

“I think he wants you to say you’ll stop.” “I’m sure.”

She lets out a sigh, perhaps relief: she has delivered a tough message to the client, and lived to tell the tale. “So, what are you going to do?” “I’m going to play chess,” I tell her.

(III)

A
COUPLE OF STUDENTS
come to my office hours. Between meetings, I sit at my desk, willing the anger out of my soul. When I am finally ready to leave for the day, the telephone rings again, and I see from the caller ID that it is a Washington number. I almost do not answer, certain it is Uncle Mal; then I decide it makes no difference.

It is Special Agent Nunzio.

“I just wanted you to know, we traced that gun,” he says after a few gruff pleasantries. Informing the Bureau about Mariah’s discovery was my idea; persuading her to go along took a lot of cajoling. After my conversation with Kimmer’s father, I wanted to call Nunzio off, but there was no good way to do so, so I have simply been hoping that the Colonel was wise enough to leave no traces when he gave the Judge the gun. “The gun is a Glock, a police special, part of a shipment that fell off a truck in New Jersey about four years ago.”

“Fell off a truck?”

Nunzio laughs. “Just a cop’s way of saying it was stolen, Professor. Three or four of the missing Glocks have turned up in the possession of various lowlifes. I don’t suppose you would have any idea how one of them turned up in your father’s bedroom. Didn’t think so,” he continues without a pause. I hear a keyboard clicking. “Prints. From what we can tell, the gun was new and clean when your father got it. Three sets of prints. Your father’s. Your sister’s, who found it. Third is an instructor at a gun club in Alexandria. Turns out your father joined the club about a year before he died, took shooting lessons. He was very serious about it for a while, then he kind of fell away, then started up again in September. The last time he was there was a couple of days before he died. That seems to be when the gun was fired last.”