The Three-Day Affair (6 page)

“One could reasonably make such an argument.”

“But do you think Garcin maybe represents Sartre himself, who as a writer had no choice but to rely on others’ judgment? You know, his critics and audiences?” She shrugged. “It just seems like an irony we haven’t talked about, and I wondered what you thought.”

No laughter this time. Right from the start, I felt there was something a little cinematic about life at Princeton—the Gothic buildings, the manicured grounds, the students and professors
who knew their roles and played them well. Sitting in this lecture hall, carved gargoyles eyeing me from the ceiling at all four
corners
, I imagined this moment as the film’s turning point. Cue the soundtrack, the moment of emotional release where the class gains newfound respect for the student in the front row with brains and beauty both. And the professor—cue that smile of his, thus far concealed and so all the more surprising for its easy warmth, a smile that reveals the man’s firm exterior as but the shell of an egg that, once cracked, gladly spills its sunny yolk.

His smile, however, never made it beyond my imagination’s private screening.

“The last time I checked,” Rinehart said, with all the kindness of an electric eel, “this class runs exactly fifty minutes. Isn’t that right, Ms. Paige?”

She nodded, her own gorgeous smile suddenly nowhere in sight.

“Yes. That
is
right. And so our brief banter, yours and mine, has now deprived the class of a full minute. Multiply that by the three hundred or so of your fellow young scholars, and that’s
approximately
five collective hours of time that we’ll never see again. Now then”—he placed the glasses back on his nose—“shall I return to the lecture I’ve taken the time to prepare?”

Eventually, people stopped looking at her and began to set down in their notebooks our professor’s immeasurable wisdom. Jeffrey, too, opened his notebook to a fresh page and began to write. Seconds later, he slid the notebook over to me.

In large letters it read, “I’m in love.”

You’re not alone, I thought. My classmates might have laughed at first, but they weren’t heartless. Dallas would fare just fine in the stories told tonight at dinner tables across campus.

But after class, Jeffrey did what others didn’t. He introduced himself. I left through a side door, giving him space. Letting the
rejection—for how could it be otherwise?—happen where I wouldn’t see. An hour later, the pounding on my dorm room door woke me from a perfect nap.

“Me and Dallas,” he said, breathless, as if he’d been running. “We have a date later.”

“Really?” I was incredibly impressed. “Where?”

“We’re going to the library to study.”

I laughed. “I’m not sure that counts as a date.”

“No, Will—we’re meeting in the
reserve
room.”

The reserve room was the one place in Firestone Library where quiet talk was permitted. And they let you in with coffee.

“I stand corrected,” I said.

I was only kidding, but his face lit up. “She’s brilliant, you know. I can tell. And that accent … Oh my god. Okay, buddy, I’ll see you later.” He turned to leave.

“See you later,” I said, still half dazed from my nap. “Say hi to Dallas for me.”

He laughed and turned toward me again. “By the way, her name’s Sara.”

By that evening, he’d come down from his high.

“She actually wanted to study,” he told us in the cafeteria. We were eating that night with Nolan, my roommate. He’d broken it off with his sophomore. Now that he was spending more time in the room, we’d gotten to be friendly.

“Imagine,” I said. “Studying in the library.”

“I know—it sucks. Because she’s amazing. She wants to be a writer. And she isn’t just talking about it, she’s doing it. She writes stories all the time, and she’s going to apply to take a class with Ray Campanaro next semester.”

Tonight the cafeteria was serving pork loins, an unfortunate entrée too often thrust upon us. Up and down the cafeteria’s long
wooden tables, students were eating cold cereal, salads, heaping plates of instant mashed potatoes.

“You should offer to read her work,” Nolan said. “You know, before she applies to that class.”

“That’s a good idea,” Jeffrey said. “But I’d only be doing it as a friend. She has a boyfriend back home. By the way, we were right—she is from Texas.”

“I hate it when they bring up the boyfriends back home,” I said.

“The kiss of death,” Jeffrey said.

“Doesn’t have to be,” Nolan smirked.

“Yeah, well she brought him up about nine hundred times. He’s a baseball player.” Jeffrey stuffed a forkful of mashed
potatoes
into his mouth.

“Texas is a long way from here,” Nolan said.

“Maybe it won’t last with this ballplayer,” I said. “You never know.”

“Sure,” Jeffrey said. “Maybe she’ll wake up one day and tell him that he’s too good-looking and all-American for her, and that she prefers the nerdy, unathletic type.”

We all laughed and finished dinner, having no idea that several months later this was essentially what she would do. This sexy, intelligent woman would fall for him. They would date all four years, and then after graduation they would move to California together and get married in a Pacific Heights mansion
overlooking
the bay and the Golden Gate Bridge, a view that they would, in time, buy for themselves. Young and in love, they would settle in the right city at the right time. And along with a million other prospectors in that modern-day Wild West, they would soon
discover
untold riches and ride the wave of their American Dream right into a new, shimmering millennium.

“How could you lose all that money?” I asked Jeffrey, alone with him now in the control room. Through the window, we were watching Nolan speaking to Marie, preparing her for our
desperate
bribe.

“Everything was tied up in company stock when it crashed,” Jeffrey said. “I held on, figured it couldn’t get worse. But it did. It got a lot worse—as in, it’s all gone. And now I have mortgages on my house, and houses for my parents, too, and Sara’s parents.”

He had always been an unlikely millionaire. He might have been a Princeton legacy, but he was no go-getter. He’d thought about going to graduate school in English, maybe becoming a professor, but then he missed all the application deadlines. Story of his life. In that modern European authors class, he pulled a C for the term. He became so interested in Thomas Mann that he decided to read his collected works instead of what was on the syllabus. The papers he wrote always came back with gushing comments about his insightful readings and the quality of his prose, but marked way down for being days or even weeks late.

When it became April of our senior year and he still had no plans, he decided to look for a job and then apply to graduate school
in the fall. He applied for a few computer programming jobs in California, despite having no formal training. He figured that if he could get it, a job writing code in shorts and a T-shirt in a warm
climate
was a reasonable way to spend a year. In 1994 companies were desperate for programmers. When a start-up company in San
Francisco
made him an offer, the path of least resistance was to take it. Then the path of least resistance was to keep it. He was a quick learner and kept getting promoted. After a year he was making six figures. After two years, he stopped telling me his salary.

The nineties dot-com boom was on. Stocks were soaring and portfolios bursting. (Not mine, though. I had no portfolio. What little money I made playing the drums was tied up in things like groceries. And heat.) I remember Evan, who’d majored in
economics
before going to law school, explaining to us once why
Internet
stocks were wildly overvalued. How a market correction was only a matter of time.

“People will lose everything,” he’d warned.

Jeffrey didn’t want to hear it. The business he’d been working for since graduation was about to go public. He stood to make millions.

“You’re telling me that you don’t have any money invested in Yahoo or AOL?” he asked Evan.

“Well, of course I do,” Evan had said, and shrugged. “Because, you know, what if I’m wrong?”

He wasn’t wrong, though. And now the wave that Jeffrey was riding had evidently come crashing down, as all waves must.

“And you know I don’t care about money,” Jeffrey was saying now. “You know that, Will. But
you
try kicking your folks and your wife’s folks out of the houses you bought for their retirement.”

“They don’t know what happened?”

“I’m not sure what Sara might have said. We’re not on the best terms right now.”

I told him I was sorry to hear that. “You two always stuck
together
no matter what.”

“Yeah, well. It’s pretty grim this time.”

“Did she tell you who the other guy was?”

“No. I assume it’s probably somebody from her work.” Sara worked as an editor at a small literary press that published very good writers that nobody ever heard of.

“I guess the other guy isn’t really the point,” I said.

“Will, let me tell you something—when your wife sleeps with another guy, the other guy is
always
the point.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so we watched Room A for a while in silence. Nolan was sitting on the floor across from Marie. They were engaged in conversation. Marie nodded slightly at something Nolan said. An encouraging sign, I hoped.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” Jeffrey said after a while, “dragging you into this.”

“I know you are,” I said. “But if
this
”—I nodded toward Room A—“doesn’t work, we’ll need to let her go.”

It wouldn’t be so hard. Just say a silent prayer of apology and hope and then reunite her with the world beyond this recording studio. Tell her to walk two blocks to the gas station at the corner. She could call a cab or the police or whomever she wanted. And I would call Cynthia and begin to prepare her.

Right now my wife was probably helping to give our niece, Anne, a bath, or reading her a bedtime story. Anne was three years old and loved giraffes.

“My niece really likes giraffes,” I told Jeffrey.

“Hmm?”

I shook my head. “Cynthia has no idea about any of this. It feels strange, knowing before she does that her life is about to change.”

“I wish we could hear what’s going on in there,” Jeffrey said, nodding toward Room A.

“I’m sure he’s doing the best he can.”

“I’m sure he is, too,” he said. “But best for whom?”

I looked at Jeffrey. “What do you mean by that?”

He raised his eyebrows, as if I were being intentionally obtuse. “Come on, Will. The man’s a snake.”

“Nolan? No, he isn’t,” I said. “Why would you say something like that?”

“Of course he is. Everyone knows that. I know he’s your friend, but you don’t actually think you can
trust
him, do you?”

I was stunned. I wanted to remind him of exactly who had done the kidnapping and who was busy right now trying to set things right. But before I could say anything, Nolan stood up in Room A and let himself out. He shut the door behind him and locked it.

Overhead, the rain on the roof sounded like the rotors of a dozen helicopters. I imagined the inevitable convergence on our windowless hideout: the SWAT teams, the police cars, the fire
engines
, the ambulances. The television news. But there were others out there, too, looking on, speechless in their horror and
disappointment
: my mother and father. My dead grandparents.
Teachers
who’d put their best hopes in me. The small, squinty kid in my third-grade class I’d given my windbreaker to one day because he told me he was cold. A peppermint-scented girl named Veronica, who, the summer I turned thirteen, called me a
gentleman
and kissed me on the boardwalk in Point Pleasant. I had led her through the funhouse and promised not to scare her. And I hadn’t.

The ambush was inevitable. The only surprise was that it hadn’t happened yet.

I looked at my watch: 8:10 already.

I tried to read Nolan’s expression as he walked slowly back to the control room.

Walk faster
, I thought.
Walk faster.

“We’ve got one ethical girl in there,” Nolan said, back in the control room. “Good kid. Wish I had her campaigning for me door-to-door.” He sat down. “I offer her a thousand dollars, and she says, ‘Taking a bribe would be wrong.’ I finally convinced her at least to think it over.” He shook his head. “I even told her to let me know if a thousand isn’t enough. But do you know what the real problem is here, Will? Failure of imagination.”

“Whose?” I asked. “Hers or ours?”

“Hers! She can’t imagine living her life with a secret like this. It’s too big. All she can imagine doing is running straight to her
grandmother
and then both of them running straight to the police.”

“You can’t blame her,” I said. “She’s terrified right now.”

“Maybe I could try talking to her,” Jeffrey said.

“No,” I said. “We could go around in circles forever. I’m sorry, but … no. Every minute she’s here makes things worse for
everyone
. We have to let her go.” Even as I said this, I was looking to Nolan for an objection. Some last-ditch plan that would save us. He said nothing, just returned my gaze, and I realized that he was looking to me for the same thing. “All right, then,” I said. “It’s settled.”

I hoped there would be time, after letting Marie go, to phone Cynthia. I needed to let her know that our lives were going to change. That they already had.

As I was thinking about using the telephone, it rang. My
ringtone
played the Popeye-the-Sailor theme song. A happy little
melody
. This connection to the outside world startled me completely. I removed the phone from my pants pocket and looked at the display.

“Huh.”

“Who is it?” Nolan asked.

“It’s Evan.”

“Answer it.”

I hesitated.

“Answer it.”

So I did.

“Save me some beer, you dickwads.” The connection was full of static. “I’ll be at the Newfield station in, oh, about thirty-five minutes.”

“You’re on the train now?”

“Yup.”

“What about all your work?”

“Right, so picture this. I’m working on this memo that I’m told has to be e-mailed out tomorrow morning? Hard deadline and all that? Then I find out from the dipshit partner that the client’s going to be at his daughter’s wedding tomorrow. He won’t even be
checking
e-mail until Monday. So I said to myself, the hell with it. I’m going to see my friends.”

“Evan,” I said, “you can’t come tonight.”

Nolan was glaring at me, whispering, “
Call him back
.”

“Look, I need to call you right back.”

“What do you mean, ‘I can’t come.’ I’m coming.”

“Two minutes, I’ll call you back.”

“The pleasure will be all mine,” Evan said.

I hung up the phone. “I know what you’re thinking,” I said to Nolan, “but forget it.”

“You were being rash. I thought we should discuss it for a minute.”

“He’s our friend,” I said.

“Our friend the lawyer,” Nolan said.

“But this isn’t his problem.”

“He’ll know how to help us.”

“What’s to know? We fucked up. The three of us. That’s all there is to it. We shouldn’t be drawing Evan into it.”

“It’s not drawing him into anything,” Nolan said. “This is what he
does
. He works to get people out of bad situations.”

“Jeffrey,” I said, “help me out here.”

Jeffrey shrugged. “Evan’s an adult. The man can make his own decision.”

“Not if we’re making it for him.”

“When he gets here,” Nolan said, “he can turn right around and leave. Hell, he can call the police himself, if that’s what he wants. But why not let him size up the situation?”

If I picked Evan up at the station, it would be another hour before we were back here, and that was assuming the traffic had lightened up by now. We shouldn’t wait that long. Waiting had gotten us into trouble. “Or we could let her go right now,” I said.

Nolan frowned. “Go ahead, Will. Do it. Let her go.” When a couple of seconds passed and I hadn’t moved, he said, “We need to be honest with each other. If you aren’t going to set her free, then don’t threaten us. If you are, then go ahead and do it
already
. No one’s going to stop you.” He crossed his arms and watched me.

I knew he was calling my bluff, but he was also giving me the chance to call his. If I went to set her free, would he let me do it,
or would he try to stop me? Would he stop Marie?
How
would he stop her—to what lengths might he go? It was beginning to dawn on me that I was a little afraid of Nolan.

I handed him my phone. “You call him.”

Nolan took the phone from me and dialed Evan. Waited. “No, it’s Nolan,” he said. “What time does your train get in to
Newfield
? Okay. Will’s going to meet you at the station. What’s that? All right. Consider it done. See you soon.”

He tossed me back the phone. “Evan hasn’t had any dinner. He’d like a pizza.”

I’d first met Evan through Nolan. The two of them had become fast friends and fierce opponents in Princeton’s debating society. Debating held no appeal for me, but the society had lots of money and threw lavish receptions. I’d gone with them to one—a state supreme court justice spoke about constitutional law, though what I remember most were the crab cakes and the innumerable bottles of wine—and afterward we went to a couple of dorm
parties
across campus. When we left the last party, it was one of those cool autumn nights that smelled of grass and distant burning leaves. A perfect night for walking hand in hand with one’s
girlfriend
or for cementing newly formed friendships.

We found ourselves across the street from McCarter Theatre, one of the tallest buildings on campus, and decided it would be an awfully good idea to hurl rolls of toilet paper off the roof.

We went into the nearby Wawa and bought enough toilet paper to serve a large family well into the future, and then we crossed the street to the theater. I remember looking up at the fire escape—a ladder leading straight up into the sky—and having
second
thoughts. I overcame them. We adventurers must push fear aside.

With one arm around a pack of toilet paper and the other locked around the ladder rungs, I started to climb. It was at least ten or twelve stories to the top and slow going. I didn’t look down. Nolan and Evan stood lookout at the base of the ladder and failed miserably, because suddenly a deep voice was shouting at me to come the hell down off that ladder.

I looked down. My friends and a uniformed campus policeman and a few other passersby were all looking up at me from below. Way below. For a moment I froze. Then I dropped the package of toilet paper and began a slow descent.

The moment I was back on firm ground, the police officer shined his flashlight in my face and asked if I was a student.

I told him I was.

“Let me see your student ID,” he said.

He shined his flashlight on it, then on my face again.

I grinned widely.

“This isn’t funny,” he said, “so shut your fucking mouth.”

His manner startled me. University police, called proctors, were extremely well-trained men, gentlemen really, who knocked on dormitory room doors when parties became too loud and reminded us to please keep it down. They carried
flashlights
, not guns, and weren’t prone to gruffness. What we didn’t know then was that the prior spring a student had fallen nearly to his death while climbing this exact fire escape, while in this same inebriated state. He was still in the hospital, and the family had filed a multimillion-dollar lawsuit against the university. Our small prank therefore loomed large in the eyes of campus police.

We were freshmen, though, and ignorant of any number of things that later would seem like common campus knowledge.

“Sorry,” I said.

“I don’t care about sorry. I care that you coulda been killed, or killed somebody else.”

“With toilet paper?” I asked.

“You throw something off the roof, hit a car that’s going by, car swerves off the road and hits a telephone pole or a student, you’re damn right with toilet paper. Or you fall, hit your head, who do you think takes the blame for that? You? Some spoiled, snot-nosed freshman? No, not hardly.” His voice was raised, and a few other students had started to look on. “Anyway, I’ve
seen
your ID, and I
know
you’re underage. And I also know you were all told about academic probation during your orientation.”

Princeton was swallowing up a good deal of my parents’ life savings, and the possibility of jeopardizing my education sobered me right up. Suddenly I
felt
like a spoiled, snot-nosed freshman. “I wasn’t …” But I didn’t know what to say. How do you explain that you’re so happy to have actually found a few friends in a place so foreign from the place you used to call home, and that to
celebrate
your good fortune you wanted to rocket rolls of toilet paper from the town’s highest building into the starry autumn sky? “The thing is …”

“Please.” Evan had stepped forward and put a hand on my shoulder. “Will wasn’t ever planning to climb all the way up or throw toilet paper off the roof.”

The officer had shut off the flashlight and put it back in its
holster
. Now he crossed his arms. “He wasn’t, huh?”

“No. He was just seeing if it was
possible
to climb the fire
escape
. He wasn’t going to go any higher. And that toilet paper … well, we’d bought some at the Wawa because they’d run out at the dorm. Which is where we’re heading. Home. To bed.” He lowered his head deferentially. “I promise.”

The officer stared at him for a while. Without uncrossing his arms, he said, “What’s your name?”

“Evan Wolff.”

“You a freshman, too?”

He said that he was.

The officer watched him some more, deciding.

“I want the three of you out of my sight. And
you
”—he pointed a thick finger at Evan—“are in charge of seeing that
he
”—he pointed at me—“goes straight back to his room and goes to bed. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“Now give me that,” he said.

I handed over the bag of toilet paper, and we all said thank you, and then we got the hell out of there. We’d laugh about the incident the next day, but truthfully our run-in with the campus policeman left me feeling uneasy, and I vowed not to behave like some privileged jerk again.

On the walk home, I made a point to thank my lawyer.

“You really want to thank me?” Evan said. “Then treat me to a round of golf next week. I’m broke.”

I knew he was into golf. I’d never even picked up a club and couldn’t understand why anyone would want to.

“I’ve never played before,” I said.

“Perfect,” Evan said. “Then we’ll be betting a dollar a hole.”

A few days later, Evan, Nolan, Jeffrey, and I were working our way through eighteen agonizing holes at Springdale Golf Club. The experience was unspeakably frustrating, and I resolved—after handing over eighteen dollars to Evan—to give up the game forever. It was too hard, and too expensive. A complete waste of time.