The dean had listened, and leaned his elbows on the table and told him that he was good.
But good wasn’t enough.
Which meant, of course, he wasn’t enough.
“What do you want for yourself?” the dean asks now. And Henry still doesn’t have any other answer.
“I don’t know.”
And this is the part where the dean shakes his head, where he realizes that Henry Strauss is still as lost as ever. Only he doesn’t, of course. He smiles and says, “That’s okay. It’s good to be open. But you do want to come back, don’t you?”
Henry is silent. He sits with the question.
He always liked learning. Loved it, really. If he could have spent his whole life sitting in a lecture hall, taking notes, could have drifted from department to department, haunting different studies, soaking up language and history and art, maybe he would have felt full, happy.
That’s how he spent the first two years.
And those first two years, he was happy. He had Bea, and Robbie, and all he had to do was learn. Build a foundation. It was the house, the one that he was supposed to build on top of that smooth surface, that was the problem.
It was just so … permanent.
Choosing a class became choosing a discipline, and choosing a discipline became choosing a career, and choosing a career became choosing a life, and how was anyone supposed to do that, when you only had one?
But teaching, teaching might be a way to have what he wanted.
Teaching is an extension of learning, a way to be a perpetual student.
And yet. “I’m not qualified, sir.”
“You’re an unconventional choice,” the dean admits, “but that doesn’t mean you’re the wrong one.”
Except in this case, that’s exactly what it means.
“I don’t have my doctorate.”
The frost spreads into a sheen of ice across the dean’s vision. “You have a fresh perspective.”
“Aren’t there requirements?”
“There are, but there’s a measure of latitude, to account for different backgrounds.”
“I don’t believe in God.”
The words tumble out like stones, landing heavy on the desk between them.
And Henry realizes, now that they’re out, that they aren’t entirely true. He doesn’t know what he believes, hasn’t for a long time, but it’s hard to entirely discount the presence of a higher power when he recently sold his soul to a lower one.
Henry realizes the room is still quiet.
The dean looks at him for a long moment, and he thinks he’s done it, he’s broken through.
But then Melrose leans forward, and says, in a measured tone, “I don’t either.” He sits back. “Mr. Strauss, we are an academic institution, not a church. Dissent is at the heart of dissemination.”
But that’s the problem. No one will dissent. Henry looks at Dean Melrose, and imagines seeing that same blind acceptance on the face of every faculty member, every teacher, every student, and feels ill. They’ll look at him, and see exactly what they want. Who they want. And even if he comes across someone who wants to argue, who relishes conflict or debate, it won’t be real.
None of it will ever be real again.
Across the table, the dean’s eyes are a milky gray. “You can have anything you want, Mr. Strauss. Be anyone you want. And we’d like to have you here.” He stands, holds out his hand. “Think about it.”
Henry says, “I will.”
And he does.
He thinks about it on the way across campus, and on the subway, every station carrying him farther away from that life. The one that was, and the one that wasn’t. Thinks about it as he unlocks the store, shrugs out of the ill-fitting coat and flings it onto the nearest shelf, undoes the tie at his throat. Thinks about it as he feeds the cat, and unpacks the latest box of books, gripping them until his fingers ache, but at least they’re solid, they’re real, and he can feel the storm clouds forming in his head, so he goes into the back room, finds the bottle of Meredith’s whisky, a few fingers’ worth leftover from the day after his deal, and carries it back to the front of the store.
It’s not even noon, but Henry doesn’t care.
He pulls out the cork and fills a coffee cup as the customers filter in, waiting for someone to shoot him a dirty look, to shake their head in disapproval, or mutter something, or even leave. But they all just keep shopping, keep smiling, keep looking at Henry as if he can’t do anything wrong.
Finally, an off-duty cop comes in, and Henry doesn’t even try to hide the bottle by the till. Instead, he looks straight at the man and takes a long drink from his cup, certain that he’s breaking some law, either because of the open container, or the public intoxication.
But the cop only smiles, and raises an imaginary glass.
“Cheers,” he says, eyes frosting over as he speaks.
Take a drink every time you hear a lie.
You’re a great cook.
(They say as you burn toast.)
You’re so funny.
(You’ve never told a joke.)
You’re so …
… handsome.
… ambitious.
… successful.
… strong.
(Are you drinking yet?)
You’re so …
… charming.
… clever.
… sexy.
(Drink.)
So confident.
So shy.
So mysterious.
So open.
You are impossible, a paradox, a collection at odds.
You are everything to everyone.
The son they never had.
The friend they always wanted.
A generous stranger.
A successful son.
A perfect gentleman.
A perfect partner.
A perfect …
Perfect …
(Drink.)
They love your body.
Your abs.
Your laugh.
The way you smell.
The sound of your voice.
They want you.
(Not you.)
They need you.
(Not you.)
They love you.
(Not you.)
You are whoever they want you to be.
You are more than enough, because you are not real.
You are perfect, because you don’t exist.
(Not you.)
(Never you.)
They look at you and see whatever they want …
Because they don’t see you at all.
XVII
New York City
December 31, 2013
The clock is ticking down, the last minutes of the year dropping away. Everyone says to live in the now, to savor the moment, but it’s hard when the moment involves a hundred people crammed into a rent-controlled apartment in Bed-Stuy that Robbie is sharing with two other actors. Henry is trapped in a hall corner, where the coatrack meets a closet. He has a beer hanging from one hand and the other tangled in the shirt of the guy kissing him, a guy who’s definitely out of Henry’s league, or who would be, if Henry still had one.
He thinks the guy’s name is Mark, but it was hard to hear over all the noise. It could be Max, or Malcolm. Henry doesn’t know. And he wants to say this is the first person he’s kissed tonight, even the first guy, but the truth is, he isn’t sure about that either. Isn’t sure how many drinks he’s had, or if the taste melting on his tongue right now is sugar, or something else.