Blue Angel (23 page)

Len Currie might like Angela's book—it's young, sexy, transgressive, there's no telling what the folks in New York are going for these days. If that happened, it
would
be great—for her, for Swenson, for Euston. A marvelous boost for everyone except the other students.

“Let me think about it,” he says.

“Think about it,” Angela says.

“What about the novel?” he says. “Do you have more pages for me?”

“I do,” she says. “But it's weird. I forgot to bring them.”

“That
is
weird,” says Swenson.

“Who knows? Maybe my forgetting was Freudian or something. Maybe it's because I was so fried over your not calling me. I thought maybe you didn't read the pages I gave you.”

“I read them.”

“I got that. Well, I can hardly bring
those
pages into class next week.”

She's right. She'd have to be mad to bring a sex scene into that bloody arena of gender combat. Not to mention the challenge of submitting a chapter about teacher-student sex when the student writer is having sex with the teacher. Is having? Has had. Will have? Swenson has never felt so alone. If he can't discuss this with Angela—whom can he ask? Let it go. He is not going to quiz Angela about their…relationship. The word gives him the creeps.

Angela says, “I guess the smartest plan would be to do that first chapter. It's fairly neutral compared to the rest of the book. Things haven't really started hopping.”

Swenson chuckles. “Would that be useful? That first chapter's pretty polished.”

“None of it's useful. It's just some initiation thing. I get to be part of the gang. The Latina Diablas.”

“Wear earplugs to class,” he says. “Ignore anything they say.”

“I already do. Anyhow, I promise to bring you some new pages next time. I don't know how I forgot. It's been a strange week, I guess.”

“That it has,” says Swenson.

“Look, I'm really sorry I asked you about your editor. Why don't we just forget it?”

“No,” says Swenson. “It's fine. I promise I'll think about it.”

“Okay. See you next week,” she says. And she's gone.

Swenson gazes after her. His grief is visceral—shocking. Well, he can't sit here forever, alone in an empty classroom, mooning over an undergrad with lip rings and a tattoo. He practically runs down the stairs, across the quad, and into Magda.

“Ted! How was your class?”

“Crazy,” Swenson says.

“Normally crazy or especially crazy?”

“Normally,” lies Swenson. “I guess.”

If only he could tell her! How sweet it would be to grab Magda's wrist and hustle her off to his car and drive around long enough to tell her the story of the conferences, the classes, Angela's novel, sex, the broken tooth, and now her asking him to show her novel to Len.

He would end with the questions forming in his mind: Does Angela—did she ever—have a crush on him, or is she just using him for his professional connections? Is Angela blackmailing him, or simply asking a favor? What does a favor mean when you have the power to wreck someone's life? How devastated Magda would be to learn that he'd slept with a student. This is how criminals get caught. Sooner or later they talk. It's not the cops who bring them down, but their own urge to confess or boast.

“So when do we have lunch?” The jolliness of Magda's invitation fails to mask the intensity of her desire to see him.

“Maybe not for a while. Time's been sort of tight. I don't want to jinx things but…I'm working on my novel.”

What demon made him say that? Now he will never write again.

“Oh, that's wonderful!” Magda says.

“I guess.” Swenson's almost convinced himself. “In fact I may soon have a section to show Len Currie.” And now he knows why he's lied. For practice, in case he recycles the lie when he calls Len and pretends to have work to give him—when the truth will be that he's calling about Angela's novel. And why not call Len, pitch Angela's book, find out if it's something he might want to look at? It's fine to phone your editor and recommend a promising student. It's generous, noble. Passing on the torch to the next generation. And it's hardly a privilege Swenson has abused. He's never suggested anything to Len before, and Angela's novel is good enough so that his recommendation could hardly be seen as a consequence of his…involvement with its author.

Magda says, “Listen, Ted, I mean…you can say no. But the next time you talk to Len, do you think you could just maybe…ask him about my new book of poems? I know they publish poetry.”

This is really too much. Two women in twenty minutes cozying up to Swenson as a way of getting next to his editor.

“I'd be happy to,” Swenson says. In fact, it's unlikely that Len would do Magda's second book, but there's always a chance of catching him on a day when he's feeling guilty about how little real literature he's publishing. Still, Swenson can't muddy the waters by asking him to look at two books. “But…I'm pretty sure I heard that Len isn't taking on any new poets. I guess I could ask him, but it's a long shot.”

The wintry afternoon light has bleached the color from Magda's face. She thinks Swenson hates her book. Why couldn't he have lied? Weeks from now he could have reported that he'd broached the subject with Len, who'd said his poetry list was full—

“If it were up to me I'd publish it,” Swenson says. “I love your work. You know that. But Len's a businessman. He's got other concerns besides literary merit….” None of this has anything to do with Magda's book. But if he told Magda the truth, would she feel better, or worse?

“I'll call you. I've got to go,” he says, and hurries across the quad.

He feels as if he's being chased all the way to his office. He locks the door behind him and picks up the phone. Before he knows what he's doing, he's dialed Ruby's number. He's been trying to reach her for days, since she called and left a message and he missed her—he's still convinced—because he called Angela first.

The phone rings. Ruby answers.

“Ruby,” says Swenson, “it's Dad.” He wants to weep with joy at the sound of her voice, and with the corny pleasure of being able to use the word
Dad
.

“Hey, Dad,” she says. “How are you?” As if they were normal people. Maybe they are—at last. Maybe Ruby's recovered from whatever has kept her so at odds with them for this long, terrible year.

“How's school?” he asks.

“Fine. Excellent. Really good.” Ruby's voice rings out as if she always talks in sprays of cheerful adjectives instead of curt monosyllables. “I've sort of decided that I might declare as a psychology major. I'm taking this course I really like on the abnormal personality.”

Has someone put his daughter on Prozac? Wouldn't they need his permission? Probably not. Ruby's over eighteen. And anyway, it's okay with him if some savvy college shrink has found a way to turn his child back into the bright spirit she once was.

“Hey,” says Swenson, “having a dad like me must have given you plenty of experience with the abnormal personality.”

There's a silence. Then Ruby says, “Well, I've kind of been thinking about that. You know I haven't been in the greatest shape….”

Something in her tone of voice—a programmed, robotic echo—makes Swenson's heart start to pound. Is she gearing up to report a recovered memory of his having molested her in early childhood? Nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, it's occurred to Swenson that Ruby's growing up—overnight, it seemed—mystified and hurt and embarrassed him. He'd felt himself holding back from her, stepping aside so they wouldn't pass too near one another in the narrow hallway. Almost overnight, their easy kisses and hugs became perfunctory and self-conscious. How can he explain to her—or to himself—what happened? No wonder she's furious at him for abandoning her when she needed him most.

“I've been reading about all this research into hereditary patterns of illness—and you know that Grandpa was not exactly a healthy guy.”

Swenson exhales sharply. But…whom is she calling Grandpa?
Grandpa
? She knows how his father died. When she was ten or eleven, she pressed for the information. Trying to be reassuring and calm, Swenson and Sherrie told her. More or less.

Does Ruby think she inherited anything from Swenson's crazy old man? Swenson's never seen the vaguest family resemblance. But now he finds himself deeply touched by Ruby's calling his father Grandpa. It's time to really talk to her about her grandfather—with more compassion and at greater depth even than in his novel. It would matter to Ruby more than it matters to anyone else.

“We can talk about that,” he says. “When are you coming home?”

“Thanksgiving,” says Ruby. How obvious.

“Do we have to wait till Thanksgiving? You're only forty miles away. I could drive over. We could have lunch.”

“Thanksgiving's only two weeks away,” Ruby says. Okay. He can accept that. She needs to feel like a successful, independent college student who has gone away to school and can only come home on vacations. He hopes he hasn't pushed too far—scared her off with his enthusiasm. That would make it three times in one day he's struck out talking to women.

He says, “I can hardly wait.” There's another silence. Ruby's message said she needed to ask him something. “What's up?”

“Promise you won't get mad?”

“Promise.”

“I got a call from Matt McIlwaine? You remember him, don't you?”

“Of course I remember him. What does he want?” Swenson's voice is steely with irony. He's got to stop this. Now. How many times has he regretted the arrogance with which he broke up Ruby's romance? How often has he said that letting her date Jack the Ripper would be better than turning her against them?

“I don't know,” says Ruby. “He left a message on my machine and told me to call him back. But his old number's changed, and student information said his new number was unlisted.”

Can students have unlisted numbers? Probably, if they're being tracked by disgruntled drug connections and the fathers of virgins they've impregnated. Enough! This is the chance Swenson's been praying for, the chance to do things over and finally get some of it right.

“I see him on campus,” Swenson says. “Not often. Once in a while.”

“Alone?” asks Ruby.

“Desperately alone,” Swenson lies. “I'll get his number for you. I'll ask him to call you back.”

“That would be great. Thanks. Love to Mom. Talk to you soon. See you at Thanksgiving.”

“Love you!” Swenson says with such intensity he's afraid she'll change her mind.

“All right, see you then.”

“See you then,” Swenson says.

When Swenson hangs up, he feels like a fairy-tale hero who's just gotten through the enchanted forest by heeding a complex series of magic warnings and taboos. Everything seems conditional, as if he's on trial, as if the promise of Ruby's visit might be revoked in a heartbeat.

And so, when he looks out the window and sees Matt McIlwaine walking across campus, his first thought is that he's summoned him with some supernatural power. The sight of the movie-star handsome Matt—sickeningly entitled—jolts Swenson with enough adrenaline to send him racing downstairs. He's convinced that if he doesn't go after him, Ruby will somehow know and decide not to come home for Thanksgiving. If he's lucky he'll get downstairs just as Matt's passing by.

But Matt's already gone. Swenson takes off after him toward the edge of campus. His daughter's happiness depends on his keeping the kid in sight. From across the street he sees Matt go into the MinuteMart and emerge with a pack of cigarettes. Pausing near—too near—the gas pumps, he lights up, then walks on. By now, Matt's opposite Swenson on the far side of North Street. Swenson ducks into the drugstore and watches from inside the door.

Matt gets as far as the ragged lawn officially known as North Street Common, reclaimed a few years ago from a bottle-strewn lot in a failed attempt at village gentrification. In the park are two benches and a sculpture, donated by Euston College as a gesture toward amicable town-gown relations, a two-ton steel tarantula made by Ari Linder, the very same Ari Linder who gave Angela a hard time for doing the Super Value Meal as her American icon. Well, it serves the humorless shit right if his work has found its true purpose as the newly traditional target for townie kids to egg on Halloween night.

From the Rite-Aid doorway Swenson spies on Matt. Is he expecting someone? Why would you meet anyone here, when there are all those benches on campus, each with its own flower bed and plaque naming the alumnus who funded this or that irresistible place to park your butt? No reason—unless you were meeting someone you didn't want to be seen with. Your drug connection. Your jail-bait sweetheart.

Swenson pulls his collar up and strolls with phony nonchalance straight in Matt's direction. When Matt sees him, he looks so alarmed that Swenson thinks: He did come here to buy drugs or pick up an underage girl. But of course he's apprehensive. You don't forget a conversation in which your girlfriend's father threatened to get you kicked out of school if you didn't stop seeing his daughter. Swenson can still see Matt's smile dripping off his face as he slowly—it took him forever—understood what was being said.

Swenson has a lot of acting to do, pretending to just now see Matt, miming surprise, confusion, and then the resolve to be friendly and forgiving.

“Matt!” he says. “How have you been?”

“Fine, thanks, sir,” says Matt. That
sir
enrages Swenson, as does Matt's smile: part goofiness, part calculated charm, part menace, and part ice.