insightful of us, saw and accepted that truth. I did not.
I understand that sentiment. I can only say that it is wrong.
Natalie’s sister’s name was Julie Pottham. Six years ago, Julie had been married with an infant son. I looked her up online. This time, it didn’t take long. Julie lived in Ramsey, New Jersey. I wrote down the phone number on a slip of paper—like Benedict, I can be old-school—and stared at it. Outside my window I could hear students laughing. It was midnight. Too late to call. It might be best to sleep on this decision anyway. In the meantime, there were papers I needed to correct. There was a class tomorrow I had to prepare for. There was a life I had to lead.
There was no point in trying to sleep. I focused on the student essays. Most were numbingly tedious and expected, written as though to fit a high school teacher’s rote specifications. These were top-level students who knew how to write “A+” high school papers, what with their opening paragraph, introductory sentences, supportive body, all that stuff that makes an essay solid and ridiculously boring. As I mentioned earlier, my job is to get them to think critically. That was always more important to me than having them remember the specific philosophies of, say, Hobbes or Locke. You could always look those up and be reminded of what they were. Rather, what I really hoped was my students would learn to both respect and piss all over Hobbes and Locke. I wanted them to not only think outside the box, but to get to that outside by smashing the box into little pieces.
Some were getting that. Most were not as of yet. But, hey, if they all got it right away, what would be the point of my job?
At around four in the morning I headed to bed to pretend that sleep would find me. It didn’t. By 7:00 A.M., I had made up my mind: I would call Natalie’s sister. I remembered the robotic smile in the white chapel, the pale face, the way Julie asked me if I was okay, as if she truly understood. She might be an ally.
Either way, what did I have to lose?
It had been too late to call last night. It was too early now. I showered and got ready for my 8:00 A.M. Rule of Law class over in Vitale Hall. I would call Natalie’s sister as soon as class ended.
I expected to sleepwalk through the class. I was obviously distracted and, let’s face it, 8:00 A.M. was too early for most college students. But not today. Today the class was beyond lively, with hands shooting up, points and counterpoints worded strongly but with no animosity. I took no sides, of course. I moderated and marveled. The class was in the zone. Usually with the early class, the clock’s minute hand moved as though bathed in syrup. Today I wanted to reach up and grab that stupid hand and stop it from flying forward. I loved every moment. The ninety minutes passed in a blur, and I realized yet again how lucky I was to have this job.
Lucky in occupation, unlucky in love. Or something like that.
I headed to my office at Clark House to make the phone call. I stopped at Mrs. Dinsmore’s desk and awarded her my best charm-yer-pants-off smile. She frowned and said, “That work with single women nowadays?”
“What, the charming smile?”
“Yeah.”
“Sometimes,” I said.
She shook her head. “And they say not to worry about the future.” Mrs. Dinsmore sighed and straightened out some papers. “Okay, pretend you got me all hot and bothered. What do you want?”
I tried to shake away the hot-and-bothered image. It wasn’t easy. “I need to get ahold of a student file.”
“Do you have the student’s permission?”
“No.”
“Ergo the charming smile.”
“Right.”
“Is this one of your current students?”
I reloaded the smile. “No. He was never a student of mine.”
She arched an eyebrow.
“In fact, he graduated twenty years ago.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?”
“Actually, with that smile, you look kind of constipated. What’s the student’s name?”
“Todd Sanderson.”
She sat back and crossed her arms. “Didn’t I just read his obituary on the alumni page?”
“You did.”
Mrs. Dinsmore studied my face. My smile was gone. A few seconds later, she slipped her reading glasses back on and said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you.”
I headed into my office and closed the door. No more excuses. It was nearly 10:00 A.M. now. I took out the piece of paper and looked at the number I’d jotted down last night. I picked up the phone, hit the button for an outside line, and dialed.
I had rehearsed what I would say, but nothing had sounded sane, so I figured that I would play it by ear. The phone rang two times, then three. Julie probably wouldn’t answer. No one answered home phones anymore, especially when they came from an unfamiliar number. The caller ID would show Lanford College. I didn’t know if that would encourage or discourage answering.
On the fourth ring, the phone was picked up. I gripped the receiver tighter and waited. A woman said a tentative “Hello?”
“Julie?”
“Who is this please?”
“It’s Jake Fisher.”
Nothing.
“I dated your sister.”
“What’s your name again?”
“Jake Fisher.”
“Have we met?”
“Sort of. I mean, we were both at Natalie’s wedding—”
“I don’t understand. Who are you exactly?”
“Before Natalie married Todd, she and I were, uh, seeing each other.”
Silence.
“Hello?” I said.
“Is this a joke?”
“What? No. In Vermont. Your sister and I—”
“I don’t know who you are.”
“You used to talk to your sister on the phone a lot. I even heard you two talking about me, in fact. After the wedding, you put your hand on my arm and asked me if I was okay.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I was gripping the receiver so tight I feared it might shatter. “Like I said, Natalie and I dated—”
“What do you want? Why are you calling me?”
Wow, that was a good question. “I wanted to talk to Natalie.”
“What?”
“I just wanted to make sure that she was okay. I saw an obituary for Todd, and I thought that maybe I should reach out and just, I don’t know, offer my condolences.”
More silence. I let it last as long as I could.
“Julie?”
“I don’t know who you are or what you’re talking about, but never call here again. Do you understand? Never.”
She hung up the phone.
