“I’m going.” She looked right into his eyes, spoke without bitterness, with hardly any inflection at all. “I’m just not exactly clear on which one is the one,” she said, “Grace or Izzie? You don’t have to answer.”
“Izzie.”
Patti nodded. “Good choice.”
“Closing the flight, honey,” said the gate attendant.
Patti turned and walked down the ramp.
Peter Abrahams
Crying Wolf
18
A married philosopher belongs to comedy.
Nat worked.
He worked on his bio experiment, the effects of trichloroethane and trichloroethylene on Palemontes vulgaris; he worked on his “Faith and Hypocrisy in The Scarlet Letter ” essay for English 104; he worked on the Apollonian/Dionysian paper for Philosophy 322; he worked overtime in the Alumni Office; he worked out at the gym. He didn’t socialize, didn’t see anyone, let all his calls, not many, go through voice mail, answered all except the one from Izzie and the one from Grace. There was none from Patti.
Nat worked, without enjoyment, involvement, or even interest. But only for a while: after two days, he began to feel more like himself, at first guilty about it, then less so, finally working the way he always worked, time forgotten. He couldn’t help it.
One of the phone calls he returned was from Professor Uzig, inviting Nat to the traditional Philosophy 322 dinner at his house, Saturday at seven.
“Thanks, but-” said Nat.
“It’s a requirement, actually,” said Professor Uzig. “And you might even win the prize.”
“The prize?”
“In the cake. There’s always a prize in the cake.”
“Is this alcoholic?” said the quiet girl who’d tried to connect Nietzsche and domestic violence.
“Kir?” said the hired waiter, passing out drinks in the great room of Professor Uzig’s house. “Yes, ma’am.”
She put her glass back on his tray.
Professor Uzig had a big brick house on College Hill, surprisingly big, surprisingly luxurious, inside and out. A fire blazed on a stone hearth brought from Provence, a portrait of the professor by a famous painter Nat thought he’d heard of hung on the wall, and there were other similar details, pointed out by the host. Professor Uzig was wearing one of those silk things-ascot? foulard? — around his neck, the first time Nat had seen one off the movie screen. Now, having witnessed the scene between the waiter and the girl, the professor, his back to the fire and his students around him, was telling a story about a recent faculty party where some new TA had thought that in loco parentis meant “like a crazy parent.”
Everyone laughed, some more confidently than others. The whole class was there, all dressed up except the Kurt Cobain fan, probably making a statement, and Nat, who hadn’t known. The two of them, in their jeans, stood together next to the shrimp. “What’s this kir shit?” said the Kurt Cobain fan.
“Wine and something else.”
“Think it would be all right to ask for a beer?”
“What’s the worst that could happen?”
“I get an F and lose my scholarship.”
Nat laughed.
“You on scholarship too?” asked the Kurt Cobain fan.
“Yeah.”
“Went to a public high school?”
“Yeah.”
“Been to Europe?”
“No.”
“I’m Ferg.”
“Nat.”
“I know,” said Ferg. “Want to see something?”
“Sure.”
He led Nat out of the great room, into the library. Books from floor to ceiling, a table covered with papers, periodicals, correspondence, and on a pedestal a bust of Nietzsche, his walrus mustache resembling, in bronze, the armament of an unusual animal. Ferg took a book off a shelf, leafed through, handed it to Nat.
An Inverness course catalog, twenty-five years old, opened to the philosophy section. Philosophy 322, Professor Uzig. Nothing had changed but the name of the course: Superman and Man: Friedrich Nietzsche and Bob Dylan.
“Can you believe it?” said Ferg.
“Pretty funny,” said Nat.
“Funny? You call bait-and-switch funny? He’s been perpetrating a consumer fraud for twenty-five years. I’m seriously thinking of filing a formal complaint to the academic dean.”
“Ask for the beer instead,” Nat said.
Ferg glared at him. “I won’t stop there,” he said, and left the room.
Nat saw more catalogs on a higher shelf, wondered whether there were any from a really long time ago, say, 1919. He was reaching up when he felt someone in the room behind him, knew it was Izzie even before he turned.
“I brought you this,” she said; a glass of beer. Izzie wore black pants, black turtleneck, black headband. Walks in beauty like the night: that was the phrase that popped into his mind. It now made perfect sense.
“I don’t want anything, thanks.” He hadn’t touched alcohol since Patti left, didn’t want to.
She nodded, as though he’d confirmed some impression. “You’re mad.”
“No.”
Nat saw that the beer was trembling in its glass. Izzie put it down. “You blame me for… Patti.”
“Why would I do that?”
“I didn’t even know she existed.”
“Grace didn’t tell you?”
“You told Grace about Patti?”
More than that, and worse, if his memory of that drunken and stoned night in New York was accurate: he’d used Patti as a shield. “I did,” Nat said. “The thing is-”
Izzie held up her hand. “You don’t have to explain anything,” she said.
“There’s nothing to explain. It was over. I just didn’t do it right.” Couldn’t have done it worse.
“And us?” Izzie said. “Are we over too?”
A door, not to the great room, but another one, opened and Grace came in, carrying a framed photograph. “Hey, Izzie,” she said, then saw Nat. “Oh. Nat.”
“Hi.”
“Still speaking to us?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You’re not returning calls.”
