The Faculty Club Part 11

"Yes," she repeated, now sobbing.

"Did you go from interview to interview, pa.s.sing yourself off as something you are not--to get a job you did not deserve?"

"Yes. Yes. Yes."

The objections were raining down now, was.h.i.+ng over me.

I didn't pay attention.

I didn't even listen for her last answer.

The damage was done. The witness was toast.

I sat back down at our table. Daphne gave me a look of such pride it was almost l.u.s.tful.

I heard Sarah's steps as she left the courtroom. But I couldn't find the courage--not even for a single second--to look up and watch her go.

13.

We won. That's what the head juror announced, holding a sheet of paper. The judges critiqued our performances, but I can't remember a word they said. I just kept repeating the phrase--part cheer, part question--over and over in my head: we won, we won, we won.

The sun was nearly down, the courtroom filled with purple light. The judges were gone. Most of the crowd had gone home.

"Let's go celebrate," Daphne said.

"Sure. Hang on a second."

I walked toward John and Nigel. "Where are you going?" she called after me.

They were still sitting at their table. John was staring at his notes. Nigel looked ahead blankly, like a kid who has just learned his dog died.

"Come on," I said to them. "We're going out."

They looked at me like I was crazy.

"I'm serious. We're going out. It's over. We've been killing ourselves for a month. Come on. I'm buying."

"I don't feel like it," Nigel said.

"I don't care. I'm buying us a round of drinks. After that, you can leave if you want. You owe me that much."

I wasn't taking no for an answer. Somehow I bullied them into joining us at The Idle Rich. Mostly, I think they were numb. The four of us sat around an oak table with the rapport of funeral directors, until the second round of drinks, when things loosened up a bit.

"Something about this place," I said. "It's corrosive, isn't it? When did we get so serious?"

"You didn't have fun destroying our case?" Nigel asked. His tone was only halfway bitter, a major improvement over the last hour.

"How did you know that about our witness?" John asked, shaking his head. We hadn't met each other's experts before the trial. We hadn't even known their names. He must have been baffled.

"I know her," I said. "We met on campus."

"Lucky her," Nigel said dryly.

I shook off a sinking feeling in my stomach, changed the subject.

"Seriously, though. Did you guys ever just hang out, act stupid? Or were you always future Supreme Court clerks?"

"John used to be crazy," Daphne said.

"Bulls.h.i.+t."

"What are you talking about?" John asked her, making eye contact with us for the first time since the verdict.

"You know, the table story?"

"You are not bringing that up."

"If you don't tell it, I will," Daphne said, grinning.

"Fine. Go ahead." John leaned back, closed his eyes, and held a bottle to his forehead.

"It's an Oxford story," Daphne said. "John and his friends decide they want to start a poker game. So after a few drinks, one of his brilliant friends--who was it, Tom?--suggests that one of the big round tables in the dining hall would make a perfect poker table. You have to imagine it: these are giant wooden tables, maybe seven or eight feet wide. It took five of them to lift it. So after dinner one night, when the dining hall was empty, John and his friends snuck back in and carried out the table. That was their whole plan. Just walk out with it. Rhodes scholars, right?"

"Oh no," Nigel said, shaking his head. "You stole a table from Oxford?"

"We did," John said. I saw the hint of a grin.

"They almost made it too. They were halfway across campus, carrying this table in the middle of the quad, when a security guard stopped them."

"No."

"What happened?"

"That's the best part," Daphne said. "As the story goes, everyone's panicking except John. He looks right at the security guard and says with a straight face, 'Do you think I want to be carrying this table across campus?' He says it just right. The guard blinks at him for a few seconds. Then he lets them go!"

Everybody was smiling now, even laughing a little. "Confidence," John said happily, "the key to life." He took a drink.

"So you kept the table?"

Daphne laughed.

"They couldn't get it through the door of their apartment."

John turned red and looked down. The rest of us cracked up.

"You put it back?"

"Not exactly . . ."

Daphne shook her head.

"They left it on the squash courts."

I don't know why, but that's when I lost it. I laughed so hard I nearly cried. It was like all the stress of the last two months came rus.h.i.+ng out.

I felt the thaw come over our small group. It was almost like we were back at Nigel's dinner party, before everything went to h.e.l.l with trials and mysterious clubs that can't be mentioned for some pretentious reason.

"This is what matters," I said finally. "Right here. Friends.h.i.+p. At the end of the day, none of the other stuff matters."

Everybody agreed, but n.o.body looked totally sure.

John and Nigel stumbled toward their homes. Daphne and I hung back. I didn't know what to say next. Somehow "Your place or mine?" seemed wrong.

"I guess I might see you tomorrow night," I said. Tomorrow was the eleventh, the night of the second event, according to the cryptic invitation on my bed.

Daphne smiled. "Maybe. Who knows what they have in store for us?" She rubbed my arm. "You were great today. I knew I was right to choose you."

"You were great too."

I felt a thrill in my stomach.

She made a big production of yawning and stretching. "Wow, I can't keep my eyes open." She leaned in and gave me a brief hug. Then she said good night and walked off, leaving me as confused and deflated as a star witness on the stand, freshly shredded and dismissed.

The next morning I checked my bank account. About a thousand dollars left to get me to the end of the semester and my next loan check. I withdrew eight hundred and bought a new suit.

14.

November 11 marked day two of the Indian summer that arrived with the trial. I could almost forget the bitterness of October; the days were now bright and cheerful, warm in the sun, crisp in the shade. I got a haircut and asked for it short. I usually let my hair dry wavy. Today I parted it on the left and combed it straight. I put on my new suit. I looked in the mirror and hardly recognized myself.

Tonight's invitation had even less information than the first. Just a date and time. No address. No instructions.

The only option, I decided, was to return to 2312 Morland Street. I would get there early, in case I was wrong and had to improvise.

On the way, I wondered who I would see tonight. Would I encounter the elegant Mr. Bones again? Would he show me new items in his crazy-man collection?

Would I see the old man with the red toupee, the retired lawyer who asked all about my grandfather? The one who wondered if I wanted it bad enough? He wouldn't have to ask that tonight.

The gingerbread house on Morland Street looked the same. I rang the doorbell. A young woman dressed like a soccer mom pulled aside the curtain and looked at me through the window. Two kids chased a ball behind her.

"Yes?"

"Hi. I'm Jeremy Davis. I'm looking for"--I didn't even know his name--"the gentleman who lives here."

"I'm sorry, who are you looking for?"

"The man who lives here? He's about my height? Gray hair?"

"There's no one like that here." She picked up one of the kids who was pulling at her pants. She looked at my suit, sized me up. She closed the curtain and opened the door.

"We moved in two weeks ago. Maybe you're looking for the people who lived here before?"

"You moved in two weeks ago?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

She raised her eyebrows.

"Pretty sure."

I tried to think.

"Did they leave a forwarding address?"

"No. I never met them. I'm sorry I can't be more help."

She started to close the door.

"Are you sure I'm not supposed to be here?"

She looked me over.

"Sorry, sweetie. I don't know what to tell you."

"Thanks anyway."

"All right. Drive safe."

It was an odd thing for her to say, considering I walked here. But when I turned around to leave, I saw a car idling across the street. It was a nice car--I'm no good with names, but I was pretty sure it was a Bentley. The windows were tinted. A driver stood by the rear pa.s.senger door. He was straight out of another era--long coat, black chauffeur's cap, leather gloves.

We made eye contact, and he looked away almost instantly, lowering his head and moving to open the door. He stood beside it, holding it open and keeping his eyes down.