71

Entrez you,” called Affenlight, an old malapropic joke, if you could call it a joke, from Pella’s elementary school French class.

In came Evan Melkin, the dean of Student Affairs. Melkin was still half a student himself—Class-of-’92-and-Never-Left, cherubic and chinless, a true Westish lifer as opposed to a recidivist like Affenlight. He wore what the kids wore, the prep school kids who couldn’t get into more prestigious seaboard institutions: rumpled khakis and a blue oxford shirt and moccasins. The only thing missing was the baseball cap, though a baseball cap would have served Melkin well; the sole feature that revealed his forty years was the ragged retreat of his wispy blond hair. Affenlight stood to shake his hand. This seemed to throw Melkin off somehow. He lingered in the doorway. Bruce Gibbs pushed past him and hobbled into the room.

Bruce, at least, knew how to shake a man’s hand. “Guert.”

“Bruce.”

“Handsome animal you have there.”

Contango scrambled to his feet, ears perked; he seemed wary of their visitors. He pressed his snout into Melkin’s crotch and growled. Melkin edged backward. “He belongs to Tom and Sandy Bremen,” Affenlight explained.

“Who’ll be leaving us soon,” said Gibbs.

Affenlight nodded. “But the dog may be staying with me. This is something of a trial period.”

Contango growled at Melkin again. Gibbs reached down and stroked the dog between the ears, shushed him expertly. “Handsome animal,” he said again. “What’s his name?”

“Contango.”

“A Brazilian husky?”

“Actually it’s an economic term,” Affenlight explained. “A recent coinage. But the word tango, interestingly enough, isn’t derived from the romance languages, as I also used to think—it’s a Nigerian word, which…”

By the time he reached the end of this little lecture, Affenlight knew that something was afoot. Melkin was too twitchy, Gibbs too calm and somber, Contango too suspicious.

Bruce cleared his throat. “I’m afraid we’ve got a problem, Guert. Or what appears to be a problem, from my vantage, unless you have some way of clarifying it that would render it unproblematic.”

Affenlight’s mind went blank. Bruce’s voice seemed to emanate from everywhere: “It’s no concern of mine what a person does with his personal time. I have no particular prejudices in that regard. But as you know the college does observe a strict and carefully delineated code with regard to student-teacher interactions, and administrators fall under that rubric. Especially when that administrator plays a very public role in terms of the college’s relation to the surrounding community.”

“How’d you find out?”

Bruce looked at him. “That sounds like an admission, Guert. We’re not necessarily asking you to admit anything at this time.”

“Just tell me how.”

Melkin opened the folder he was holding. Affenlight hadn’t noticed the folder before. There’s a folder, he thought. Melkin cleared his throat nervously and began to read: “The subject was first raised by Parent X. Parent X was en route to Westish to attend the baseball doubleheader on May first, and stopped for the night at the Troupe’s Inn on Route 50. On the morning of May first, Parent X saw you, President Affenlight, leaving a room at the aforementioned motel with a student. Parent X subsequently phoned me at Student Affairs to report this incident. The report clearly required follow-up through the proper channels. However, I didn’t want to disseminate any allegations that could damage your reputation and then turn out to be false. So I decided to conduct an informal pre-investigation on my own.”

Melkin produced from the folder a photocopied page from the Troupe’s Inn license-plate log. “Is that your handwriting, President A?” He pointed to the name O. Bulkington beside the Audi’s plate number. Affenlight nodded.

“I thought so.” Beneath Melkin’s somberness you could see he was proud of his literary detective work. “Having confirmed that you were indeed at the motel in question, I spoke to the student proctor of the dorm of the student in question, using as much discretion as possible. She reported having seen you enter the dorm on the afternoon of April thirtieth in what she described as an agitated state.

“A few days later, I personally witnessed the student in question leaving Scull Hall via the private entrance early in the morning. At that point I called Chairperson Gibbs.”

Melkin, in other words, had staked out the quarters. Affenlight looked down at his tie. His chair was still angled forty-five degrees from his desk, so that he had to turn his head to see Bruce and Melkin. He felt like a child banished to the corner, but he lacked the strength to shimmy around to face them. “Have you talked to Owen?”

“The student in question is traveling for an athletic competition. As of yet there has been no—”

Bruce lifted a hand to silence Melkin. “I wanted to talk to you first.” He rested his walking stick against the arm of the love seat and sat down heavily. “Guert, even if Owen denies any kind of impropriety, we’ll still be obliged to investigate. My hands are tied in that regard. This isn’t a criminal situation where we’re going to use the language of victim and predator and dig into people’s private lives. It doesn’t matter what went on in that motel room. The mere fact that you were there with a student, in full view of other students’ families, is already a serious breach of the school’s honor code and its definition of professional conduct.

“If we do investigate,” Bruce went on, “that investigation will be handled by the Administrative Committee, and the committee will be required to interview a variety of people.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning the situation will become public. The students will know about your relationship with Mr. Dunne, and so will the parents and the alumni. This is a liberal arts college, but you and I both know that it’s not that liberal.”

“Don’t make phrases at me, Bruce.” Affenlight’s whole body had been limp; now anger surged through him and he brought a sudden, useless fist down on the arm of the chair.

Gibbs lifted a hand in apology. “I know this is difficult for you, Guert. My point is that I’m finding it hard to envision a scenario in which it would be feasible for you to remain in your current position.”

“You want me to resign.”

“I’m asking whether you might prefer to seek other opportunities. As opposed to subjecting both yourself and Westish College to an unprecedented amount of scrutiny and derision. This kind of publicity could seriously affect our fund-raising capabilities. If you think it’s difficult to find money for your ‘green’ initiatives now, just wait till this gets out.”

“Is that what this is? You don’t like my budget?”

“Guert, don’t be absurd. This isn’t a conspiracy.”

“No, no. Of course not. It’s a convenience.”

Bruce, looking for the first time a bit beleaguered, leaned back into the love seat and sighed. If you knew what went on there, Affenlight thought meanly, you wouldn’t get too comfortable.

“In terms of conveniences,” said Bruce, “I feel obliged to mention the following. Convenience one. The student in question has, in three years, paid no tuition or fees as the winner of the Maria Westish Award, an award whose selection committee is chaired by you. Records of the committee’s deliberations suggest that you forcefully championed the student in question, despite his undistinguished grades in math and science.”

“His essays were brilliant,” Affenlight said. “He’s brilliant.”

“Convenience two. The student in question is a member of several environmental groups as well as the student-faculty committee that drafted the carbon-neutral legislation of which you, rather abruptly to my way of thinking, have become a forceful champion.”

“Everyone should champion those measures,” Affenlight said. “They’re an ethical duty.”

“ ‘Ethics’ is not your angle right now, Guert.”

Affenlight fell quiet. He could quibble about the details—Owen was the best student Westish had seen in a decade; the budget proposals were fair and sound—but it didn’t matter. He’d done so many rash things—he’d forgotten himself and his position. Visiting Owen’s dorm, going with Owen to a motel—they were the crimes of a careless, foolish man. And he’d done them with all his heart.

He knew it wasn’t really the budget; he knew Bruce didn’t want him out. As presidents went he was a good one. Bruce felt he had no recourse. And yet, and yet! What kind of conversation would they be having if Owen were a girl? Bruce would be using the same legalese, the expression on his face would still be stern, but he’d be pouring himself a scotch. The gleam in his eye would say, Good for you, Guert. Still got it, eh? Because it happened all the time, a hundred times a day. Sleeping with an alluring female student was the second great topic of American literature, after plain-old infidelity. It happened to everybody, and you couldn’t fire everybody.

Of course, it happened plenty this way too, the same-sex way—had always happened plenty. Affenlight hadn’t made a major innovation in human relations by falling for a bright young boy. But then again people got fired all the time, people resigned, and rarely did you find out why.

We can run away, Affenlight thought. We can just go. Owen and I. Me and O. I can pull my bid on the house. We can move to New York, get an apartment in Chelsea, walk up and down Eighth Avenue holding hands. We can be free.

“Does Genevieve know?” he asked, though he wasn’t sure why it mattered. If Mama Ain’t Happy…

“Parent X has not communicated directly with Ms. Wister. That communication has been entrusted to us.”

“But if this parent has a son who plays baseball, then this parent must be in South Carolina, with Genevieve. All the parents are there.”

Melkin looked up from his notes. “Parent X does not currently have a student traveling with the team.”

“What?” said Affenlight. “But how is that even possi…” He trailed off as he realized what Melkin was telling him. What he wished Melkin hadn’t told him. “Oh. I see.”

This was how the world worked: Implacably. Irrevocably. But always through particular people. Affenlight felt faint and peculiar. He looked at Contango, who’d settled back into his own version of implacability, head on paws on rug on floor. The dog’s black nose and one blue eye seemed to be receding from him, racing away at the Audi’s top speed. Affenlight gripped the arms of his chair. “What about Pella?”

Bruce cocked his head. “Excuse me?”

“His daughter,” said Melkin.

“My daughter. She’s been accepted for the fall term. But only informally. Her situation is a bit unorthodox. She’s a few credits short of requirements.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.”

“What about her tuition?”

Bruce hesitated. Affenlight couldn’t tell whether he was being bold or not nearly, nearly bold enough. Shouldn’t he throw punches? Shouldn’t he rage against this smugness, this goddamned smugness, this hypocritical fucking smugness? Contango’s blue eye raced out to some terminal point and then stopped and switched and raced back in. Bruce was speaking.

“I can’t imagine the daughter of a former president paying tuition to Westish College. Or his grandchildren, or his grandchildren’s grandchildren. That’s not how the system works.”

The system. Affenlight nodded, looked down at his tie, lifted a shaky hand to smooth it uselessly. He tried to think of Chelsea, an apartment in Chelsea, he and Owen on Eighth Avenue holding hands, or else Tokyo, what about Tokyo, but the image wouldn’t come. His hand dropped into his lap. He was pressed deep into his chair, unable to move, unable to muster his strength. In an instant he’d become an old man, a wilted and pliant old man.

“If you tender your resignation, effective at the end of the academic year,” said Gibbs, “no further investigation will be made by the trustees, in whose stead I am acting as a unilateral representative. You’ll be free and clear to seek a professorship or a presidency elsewhere. Dean Melkin will put that folder of his through a shredder.”

Affenlight felt a strong, dull pain where his neck met his shoulder. He found his cigarettes in his jacket pocket, fumblingly lit one while Bruce was still speaking. That much, at least, they couldn’t deny him.

“Mr. Dunne has been retained by the Drama Department as an instructor for the summer term, which begins June twelfth. If you intend to remain in your current position past that date, we will have no choice but to inform Ms. Wister and conduct a thorough investigation.” Bruce looked up at Affenlight. His bureaucratic composure faltered, and for a split second his confusion, his desolation, seemed almost to rival Affenlight’s own. “Are we understood?”