Emperor of Ocean Park

CHAPTER 25

“I’d like to ask you a favor,” murmurs the Reverend Doctor Morris Young.

“Of course,” I say softly, because Dr. Young exudes a peace that calms those around him, as well as a power that seems to make everybody say yes.

“I hope I will not embarrass you.”

“That depends on what the favor is.”

Morris Young smiles. When happy, his pocked, orange-brown face seems gently rounded, casting warm beams of sunlight on anybody nearby. When angry, the same face is all hard planes and square corners and final judgments. His hair is sparse and gray; his reddish eyes are no longer sharp, even aided by his thick glasses; his lips are insolently protrusive, although he is as humble as they come. Though large of girth, he wears nothing in public but vested suits of dark wool, white shirts, and dark ties, a throwback to an earlier generation of preachers. He is in his early seventies, but possessed of all the evangelizing energy of the era of “muscular” Christianity. He is the pastor of Temple Baptist Church, probably the most powerful institution of the darker nation’s battered outpost in the divided city of Elm Harbor, which makes him, by many accounts, the most influential black man in town.

He is also, with the possible exception of my colleague Rob Saltpeter, the finest man it is my privilege to know. Which is why, last summer, mired in depression over the state of my marriage, I chose him for my counselor. And why I have decided I need to see him again.

Last weekend, I returned from Washington to face a buzz saw: It’s not enough for you to lust after my sister, you have to spend the night with your fat slut of a cousin! Evidently, somebody saw me going upstairs with Sally and told somebody else who told somebody else, the word reaching Elm Harbor in less than half a day. And, like every married man in America who has found himself in this situation, I raised my palms for peace and insisted, Nothing happened, darling, I promise -which in my case happens to be true. Kimmer was quite unappeased: So what? Everybody thinks something did, Misha, and that’s almost as bad! I was stung by the realization that Kimmer is less concerned about what I might have done than by what people believe I might have done; that my wife, who long ago liberated me from the stultifying prison of my parents’ expectations, has locked me away in the tight dungeon of her own.

I spared Kimmer the details of the dreary denouement of my night with Sally. So I omitted, cravenly, any mention of how I sat awake half the night in the uncomfortable wooden chair, fighting the impulse to stretch out on the other bed, lest Sally wake and misinterpret the situation. I did not tell my wife that I woke abruptly in the morning, still in the same position, feeling as though I had spent the night with my body twisted in some medieval torture device, my mouth clogged and muzzy, my head pounding, the vague lust of the night before a distant, barely plausible memory. My cousin was still asleep, breathing regularly now, and in the hard glare of daylight she was just dull, overweight Sally Stillman again. I had no trouble shaking her shoulder to wake her. She was no longer witty or cute or bold: her eyes red and puffy, she was panicky and disheveled and worried about being late for work, as well as being caught by Bud, who apparently remains more present in her life than she admitted. She could not get out of the room fast enough. Her coat, unfortunately, was in the cloakroom downstairs. To cover her wrinkled gown, I loaned her my tattered Burberry, which she promised to send back by Federal Express. She spent a few minutes in the bathroom, fixing her face, as she put it, and then was gone. It remains to be seen whether she took my reputation with her.

Yet my life continues. Onward and upward, one might say, given my father’s emphasis on the word excelsior. At Oldie earlier this morning I sat through a brief and respectful session with two quiet investigators from the FBI, this time in connection with my wife’s background check. Kimmer, interviewed twice, is excited. She thinks the portents may yet be favorable if, as she puts it, we stay on the same page. Over breakfast, she rehearsed me carefully in what to say and what to omit. She wants nothing more about the arrangements on the official record. I was too worn out to argue, and, besides, I really do want her to get what she wants. So I followed the script.

“We’ve known each other a long time, Talcott,” says Dr. Young now, leaning forward to fold his hands on his immaculate desk. His office in the basement of the church is cramped and airless, the heating vent noisy. I am sweating. Dr. Young is not. His tie is perfectly knotted, his shirt crisp and fresh, although it is late afternoon. “How many years is it?”

“Since the time the boys made a fool of me.”

He chuckles. “They didn’t make a fool of you, Talcott. A man can only make a fool of himself. All they did was treat you like they treat every other outsider. And”-he holds up a pudgy hand to forestall my interruption-“and, you can be sure, I gave them a difficult time for it. You know what we teach in the program. Understanding that every human being we meet, white or black or brown or yellow, rich or poor or in between, police officer or pusher, whether he helps us or hurts us, every person we meet is made in the image of God, and it is our task, therefore, to seek that image in each encounter.”

“I think I’ve heard this one before, Dr. Young.” My turn to smile.

“I know, I’m a bit of a broken record. But you see how it is with the boys.”

“I do,” I tell him, and, at this moment, I would rather talk about the boys in his Faith Life Skills program than almost anything else, although, at some point, we need to talk about… well, about my marriage. I am trying to be patient and calm, as Kimmer, desperate worry in her eyes, keeps urging me. And Dr. Young, in his jovial, evangelical way, is helping. His reminder about the boys in his Faith Life Skills program helps, too.

“We’ve made some progress,” the pastor murmurs, and I am not sure, at first, if he is talking about me or the boys. He leans toward me once more, his brown eyes blazing. “But, you understand, Talcott, all that these young men have learned from the world is mistrust. You know how many of them ever see their fathers? About one out of ten. You know how many of them have brothers or best friends who deal drugs? About nine out of ten. Half have been arrested. Some have been to prison. Not one has held a real job for more than a few months. They have no idea what a job is. They think the boss is dissing them when he tells them what to do. They think customers are a pain in the rear. They have no education to speak of. The schools have failed them. Welfare has trapped their mothers, but what else are their mothers to do? So the boys fight back. They hate white people, and they’re scared of them too. Successful black people”-he points a pudgy finger at my chest-“they also hate, but they do not fear. They hate the whole world, Talcott, for leaving them behind and leaving their mothers behind and leaving their mothers’ mothers behind. How are they to see God in others? They do not even see God in themselves.”

“I believe you’ve mentioned this before.”

Morris Young nods, satisfied. His face relaxes once more into its usual expression of quiet serenity. I have known him for about six years, since he invited me to talk to some of the young black men in his program for at-risk kids. I prepared a half-hour lecture about some of the heroes of the civil rights movement. It was a disaster. The younger boys dozed off; the pre-adolescents whispered behind their hands; the older teens, burdened with gold and attitude, were ostentatiously bored. Not a single one of them seemed remotely interested in anything beyond his own immediate experience. When the time mercifully ran out, Dr. Young shook his head and said, Welcome to the real world. A few months later, I persuaded my colleague Lemaster Carlyle, the former prosecutor, to speak to the same boys about the criminal justice system. I stood in the back and watched him engage them on everything from the way the jury looks at them (They’ll vote you guilty in two minutes if you walk into the courtroom the same way you walked in here) to how to avoid getting shot by police (Just saying “Yes, sir,” and “No, sir,” and keeping your hands where he can see them will do a lot more to keep you alive than “Get out of my face,” even if he’s in your face). I would not say Lem’s performance was spellbinding, but the young men warmed to him as they never did to me. Since that time, I have spoken to the boys at least twice each year; Lem Carlyle, star of the nightly network news, only once more. But he is the one they remember.

Yes, okay, I am envious.

Now, sitting in the church basement, I exchange more pleasantries with Dr. Young and wait for him to get around to the point. He has been appropriately consoling about the loss of my father and about the death of Freeman Bishop, whom he knew for my family pastor, as he seems to know every fact about every African American in the city. He has asked after my wife and my son, and I have asked after his wife and three daughters, the eldest of whom is a first-year law student at the state university. I have always admired Dr. Young for not asking my help to get his daughter into our law school, and for the way he politely but firmly rebuffed the offer I made without his asking. The Lord has given Patricia certain talents, and she will go as far as her talent and achievements take her, praise the Lord, was all he said.

We turned her down.

“So,” murmurs the good reverend, “I suppose we should get back to your fight with your wife.”

“Please.”

“You would agree, would you not, Talcott, that what you did was unwise?”

“Yes.”

“A woman in your hotel room,” he murmurs.

“I realize it was a mistake. I wasn’t thinking too clearly.”

He nods. “You know, Talcott, I know a man, a good Christian man, a pastor, a lifelong friend, who is never alone with a woman other than his wife. Not for a moment. If he is on a trip, he insists that a man pick him up from the airport. If he has to counsel a female parishioner, he always has his wife or a female deacon present. Always. That way, there is never even the hint of scandal.”

I try not to smile. “I don’t think that would work in my part of the world. People would call it sex discrimination.”

“A strange part of the world.” He seems about to say more, then decides not to pursue the point. “But, as I say, it is easy to understand your wife’s anger, isn’t it? You have hurt her, Talcott, you have hurt her reputation…”

Suddenly I cannot contain myself. “Her reputation! She’s the one who has affairs, not me! She has no right to get angry just because. .. just because people think I had one!”

“Talcott, Talcott. Anger is not a right. It is an emotion. It flows from our fear or our pain, of which we broken creatures possess a surfeit. Your wife’s sins, her weaknesses, give you no right to impose further pain upon her. You are her husband, Talcott.” He folds his hands and hunches over his desk, and I reciprocate, drawing closer. “You know, Talcott, I have asked you for quite a few favors on behalf of the boys, and you have always been more than generous.”

I grimace. One of the favors was to accompany the boys, along with three or four other adults, on a trip to the beach, an event that confirmed my utter lack of influence over them. Another was to persuade my famous student Lionel Eldridge, the onetime basketball star known as Sweet Nellie, to talk to the boys last spring. I have been paying for that one ever since, for Lionel seems to think, having done me a good turn, he no longer needs to finish his seminar paper. .. from last spring.

“Thank you, Dr. Young, but it was the least I could do.”

“You’re storing up treasures in Heaven, praise God. You’re a good man, and the Lord has important work for you.”

I nod, saying nothing. Although every believing Christian understands that God guides our steps, fewer and fewer emphasize the point. A God working actively in the world makes us uneasy. We tend to like our God distant and a bit malleable, ready to bend to every new human idea. A God with a will of his own is too scary, and, besides, he might get in the way of our satisfaction of immediate desire. Or so my father wrote someplace or other.

“But this next favor… well, this is a favor I want you to do for yourself.” Dr. Young leans back in his creaky chair once more. “You see, Talcott, when you first came to me for counseling, you said you thought your wife was having an affair. You wanted her to come for counseling with you, she refused, you finally came alone. Remember that? And yet, praise the Lord, the two of you are still together, and you, Talcott, you personally are committed to staying with your wife until you are parted by death, just as the Scriptures instruct.”

“Yes.”

“Or unless she leaves you.”

I swallow. “Yes.”

“You are one flesh, Talcott, you and your wife. That is Christian marriage.”

“I know.”

“So perhaps it is time you found it in your heart to forgive her.”

“Forgive her for…”

“For her transgressions against you, Talcott. Real or imagined.”

An unexpected shot. And he is grinning as he fires it. “What do you… when you say imagined, are you implying that I… uh.. .”

He folds his plump hands in his lap and swivels his chair, this way, that way. “Talcott, you came to me in the summer and said your wife was having an affair with a coworker. But, as far as I can tell, you have no actual evidence.”

“Not evidence that would stand up in a court of law, but… well… a husband just knows these things…”

“Talcott, Talcott. Listen. You have told me she often works late. You have told me she often is not at her desk when you call, sometimes for hours. She goes out of town a lot with her boss, and she seems to have lots of meetings with him when they travel. Why is it impossible, Talcott, that she is simply a hardworking lawyer, devoted to her job and trusted by her boss? If a man worked the same hours at the same firm and did the same things, would you, Talcott, assume that he was having an affair with the boss?”

I hate being hemmed in this way, but Dr. Young is an expert. “You’re forgetting those furtive telephone calls…”

“No, Talcott, I have not forgotten. You say you will be eating dinner or lying in bed and the phone will ring and your wife will answer it and she will say, ‘Sorry, Jerry, I can’t talk now.’ And when you ask her what that was all about, she will say something like, ‘Oh, I just didn’t want to interrupt our time together.’”

“Exactly.”

“One interpretation is that she and Jerry-or whoever was really on the other end of the line-are, indeed, engaging in an adulterous relationship. Another, however, is that she is simply telling you the truth. She does not want to ruin what precious time she has with you and your boy by getting into an extended telephone conversation.”

I shake my head, certain it cannot be this simple, yet suddenly assailed by doubts. “I… you would have to know Kimmer. The kind of person she is. She’s totally devoted to her work. She wouldn’t hesitate to interrupt our time at home for a business call.”

“Talcott, Talcott.” Smiling in that avuncular way of his. “Perhaps your wife senses in your marriage the same strains as you do. Perhaps she thinks she is partly to blame, the way she works. Perhaps she is trying, in her own way, to fix it.”

“I don’t know…”

“And there is the point, Talcott.” Pouncing like an experienced litigator. “There is my very point. You don’t know!” Excited now, he leans across the desk, no easy feat for a man of his bulk. “You don’t know for sure she is running around with her boss. You don’t know for sure if she has had any extramarital affair. Except the one, of course.”

“Which one?”

“A little over a decade ago, Talcott, in Washington, D.C. When she was married to Andre. I mean the affair she had with you.”

I blink. This shot hit me, as it was supposed to do. They say that Dr. Young boxed when he was in the Army, back in the fifties, and I can believe it, for he has the boxer’s mind, the ability to weave and jab and jab and weave until, finally, he lands a straight right.

“I… I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Maybe you are just assuming that your wife will do to you with someone else what the two of you did to her first husband.”

Another blow lands! I reel into the ropes, memories tumbling through my mind at a dizzying pace. Kimmer and I dated during our first year in law school, and then she broke up with me over the summer because she found one of our classmates more interesting. We dated during our third year in law school, but she broke up with me three months before graduation, again for another student, although not the same one. In Washington, she spent two years dating me along with two other men, and then she pared the number to two, of which I was not one. A year later, she married one of the finalists, Andre Conway, formerly Artis, a production assistant at a television station, with dreams of becoming a big documentary filmmaker. By then, I, too, had moved on. My new girlfriend, Melody Merriman, a journalist and member of the darker nation, expected to marry me. I suppose I expected to marry her. Then, a little more than a year into her marriage, Kimmer began a torrid extramarital affair… with me. Kimmer left Artis-Andre, I left Melody, scandal ensued, and when Stuart Land called a few months later to ask if I was interested in teaching yet, I decided to leave a law practice I loved in a city I hated. My father was delighted, but I was never sure I wanted to be a professor: I probably fled to Elm Harbor as much to escape the Gold Coast gossip mills as because of my desire for the academic life. But I also had the hope that Kimmer would follow me, demonstrating through this affirmative act on her part a commitment to our future.

To my astonishment, she came. To my astonishment, we married. Kimmer put off starting a family until she feared her biological clock might just stop ticking altogether. Then God gifted us with Bentley.

And, in what is about to be nine years of marriage, I have hardly given a thought to what Kimmer and I… did, that was the word Dr. Young used… what we did to Andre Conway. Or, for that matter, what I did to Melody Merriman, which I am sure Dr. Young will bring up momentarily.

I continue with difficulty. “So-you’re suggesting that I… I’m just projecting…”

Dr. Young holds up a hand. “Talcott, listen to me. Listen carefully. Have you asked the Lord to forgive you and your wife for the wrong you did your wife’s first husband?”

I nod slowly, admitting the truth. “Yes. Many times.” I close my eyes briefly. The heating vent gives off a brief, angry whine. “But, to be honest with you, I don’t know if I… if I’ve forgiven myself.”

Morris Young is too old a hand to be sidetracked by a therapeutic confession. “We can certainly work on that, Talcott. But at the moment, I am more interested in whether you can forgive your wife.”

“For these… imagined transgressions?”

He shakes his heavy head. The telephone on his desk begins to bray, but he ignores it. “For what she did to her first husband.”

I open my mouth, close it again, then try once more. “You think I’m mad at Kimmer for… for cheating on Andre with me?”

“Mad? I wouldn’t know. I do wonder, though, if you have somehow. .. frozen her in that moment of time. The only Kimberly you are able to perceive is, not to put too fine a point on it, the adulteress.” The phone has stopped ringing. “In your eyes, she is stuck in a particular pattern of behavior. But the Christian life is a life of constant growth. Perhaps you need to give her the chance to show she has grown.”

“You think she’s changed that much?”

“Have you ever cheated on your wife?”

“No! You know I haven’t.”

“So you have changed, Talcott. Don’t you see? And perhaps your wife is as capable of change as you are. Maybe not at the same rate. But the same capacity.”

I am getting the message. Slowly, but I am getting it. “You think I… look down my nose at her?”

“I think, Talcott, that sometimes your marital fidelity is a wall between you. Perhaps you are right and she has been unfaithful. Very well, how have you responded? Perhaps you have used your own virtue to keep your wife at bay. Remember, Talcott, that her sins are only different from yours-not necessarily worse. And that you promised to love her for better or worse.” He pauses to allow this to sink in. “Now, understand me. I am not exonerating your wife. She may indeed be engaging in an extramarital relationship with Mr. Nathanson. Or with someone else. But, Talcott, right now, what matters is your own conduct. If your wife is straying, the time will come when it is appropriate to deal with her behavior. For the moment, however, I wish to ask of you a simple favor: that you will, until the next time we meet, try to treat Kimberly as you would want to be treated. You do remember the Golden Rule? Good. You think your wife should give you the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps you should do her the same courtesy. Kimberly is your wife, Talcott, not a suspect in some crime. Your job is not to catch her in lies. Your job is not to prove you are better than she is. Your job is to love her as best you can. Scripture tells us that the husband is head of the wife, but we are also warned that the headship is of a special kind: ‘as Christ is head of the church.’ And how does Christ love his church, Talcott? Unquestioningly. Forgivingly. And sacrificially. That is the responsibility of the husband, Talcott, especially when you do not actually know that your wife has done you wrong. The two of you wronged her first husband, and it may be that you are wronging her now, by your suspicions. So the favor I wish to ask is that you try as hard as you can, until our next meeting, to love your wife that way. Unquestioningly. Forgivingly. Sacrificially. Can you say those words for me, Talcott?”

“Unquestioningly,” I say, unwillingly. “Forgivingly,” I say, unhappily. “Sacrificially,” I say, resignedly.

Dr. Young’s smile is wider than ever. “Never fear, Talcott. The Lord will strengthen you to do what you must do. Let’s pray together.”

Which we do.

Dean Lynda intercepts me as I rush up the steps into Oldie. I have avoided her since my return from the Vineyard, although this has meant skipping faculty meetings, workshops, and lectures. I am not sure whether I am driven by embarrassment, anger, fear, or some emotion I have yet to detect. Whichever it is, its protection has just run out.

“Talcott. Good. I’ve been hoping to run into you.”

I look up at her, she looks down at me. She is in the company of Ben Montoya, her tall, restless factotum, who has a joint appointment in the law school and the anthropology department. Ben was whispered to be the logistical genius behind the coup that toppled Stuart Land, and he remains Lynda’s instrument, it is said, in the most ruthless tasks of her deanship. The three of us stand on the steps as the season’s first snow flurries softly around us. Ben’s suspicious eyes peer at me from the upturned collar of his mountainous parka.

“Hi, Lynda.” I slow but do not stop. “Hi, Ben.”

“Talcott, wait,” my dean instructs.

“I have office hours.”

“I just need a minute. Ben, you go ahead, I’ll catch up with you.” With a final glower, he rushes off as instructed, hands deep in his pockets.

Then it is just the two of us.

Dean Lynda, a vigorous woman who wears her graying hair unfashionably long, folds her arms, clucks her tongue, and shakes her head. She is wearing a light topcoat over one of her outdated granny dresses. A black beret perches at a jaunty angle. She enjoys her reputation as an eccentric.

“We’re on our way to see the provost to talk about the budget,” Lynda explains.

“I see. Well, good luck.” I climb another step toward the building, but my dean freezes me with a gesture. I am suddenly sure she is going to ask me whether I have been slanting my scholarship for the benefit of a client.

“Talcott, Talcott, Talcott,” she murmurs, intense blue eyes measuring me from behind steel-rimmed glasses. “What am I going to do with you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I understand you canceled another class last week.”

“I was in Washington, Lynda. A torts conference. The students knew about it weeks in advance.”

Unmollified, Dean Lynda purses her thin lips in disapproval, possibly of the weather but more likely of me. “How many classes does that make that you’ve missed this term? Ben tells me that it’s something like seven or eight.”

“Good old Ben.”

“He’s my deputy dean, Talcott. He’s just doing his job.” She brushes snow from her lapel. “If a member of my faculty is underperforming, I need to know.” My deputy. My faculty. I have not previously realized how much she reminds me of Mallory Corcoran.

“Lynda, you… you’re the one who told me to take time off.”

“And you certainly did, didn’t you?” She does that tongueclucking thing again. “I have to tell you, Talcott, I am starting to get a little worried about you.”

“Worried… about me?”

She nods silently, waiting for a group of laughing students to pass us. They are all white, the stars of the law review, the faculty favorites, who will get the most desirable judicial clerkships and the offers to come back and teach. “You must admit, Talcott, your behavior has become a little bit erratic.”

To my dismay, I realize that she is continuing our conversation from the Vineyard, still building a case for Marc Hadley. I manage to hold my temper, but only because I have just left Dr. Young. “I’m not going to let you do this to me, Lynda.”

The blue eyes, pale as morning, protest her innocence, as does the hand over her heart. “I’m not doing anything to you, Talcott. I’m worried about what you’re doing to yourself.” She pats my arm. “You’re family, Talcott, you know that. I only want what’s best for you.”

“I see.”

“You sound sarcastic. Now, why is that?”

“Because you’re determined to find fault with whatever I say?”

Her eyes, suddenly diamond-hard, flash blue fire. Lynda Wyatt is not a woman to cross, and now I have done it twice. “That’s uncalled for, Talcott. I’m trying to help.”

I want to hold back, but the temptation is more than I can withstand: “Are you, Lynda? And who exactly are you trying to help?”

For the first time in all the years I have known her, Lynda is speechless. Her mouth forms a small red O of offense, and a furious flush rises in her cheeks. Her hands go to her hips. Not waiting for her riposte, I smile and dodge past her into the building.

Striding hurriedly through the lobby, dismayed at my own rudeness and half worried that Lynda Wyatt will come storming after me to inform me that my tenure is being revoked, I notice, off in a corner near the stairwell, my student Lionel Eldridge, the former basketballer, leaning against the wall, towering over a member of the paler nation who gazes up at him with adoring eyes. His admirer, I see in surprise, is Heather Hadley, Marc’s daughter from his first marriage, usually found in the company of her droopy boyfriend, Paul. I blink to make sure I am seeing straight. I have never understood the magnetism of the man once known to millions of basketball fans as Sweet Nellie, although even Kimmer, whose firm I all but begged to hire him last summer, concedes that he is gorgeous. Rumor has it-that is, Dear Dana says-that young Mr. Eldridge has cut quite a sexual swath through the student body. Now, seeing Heather evidently in Lionel’s thrall, I allow myself a moment of mean-spirited speculation, wondering how Marc, in his self-assured liberalism, would cope with an affair between his beloved, brilliant Heather and the married, academically marginal, and very black Sweet Nellie.

I curl around them, heading for the stairs. Lionel spies me and flashes the smile that, despite the knee injury that forced him to retire early after seven appearances on the NBA All-Star Team, is still worth millions of dollars in endorsements. I do not smile back. I do not wave. Sweet Nellie might have averaged nineteen points a game during his career-his application for admission said so, and his resume does too-but around Oldie he is just a student who owes me a paper.

On the stairs, I encounter Rob Saltpeter and Lemaster Carlyle, books under their arms, on their way down to teach. Rob, who uses Powerpoint in the classroom, is also carrying his laptop. He offers his usual effusive greeting, but Lem only smiles briefly and ducks past me as swiftly as I ducked past Lionel. He is usually so friendly, even flowery. I stand looking after him for a second or two, uneasy thoughts crowding my brain, before forcing my mind back to the present problem of Lionel and Heather. Unlocking my office, I ponder whether this could be the rattling skeleton of which Jack Ziegler spoke, and which is obviously worrying Marc Hadley and, by extension, Dahlia. Are there whispers of a liaison between Heather and Lionel? Anything is possible, but this seems an unlikely candidate for scandal. Even in Washington, where nearly everything is fair game at confirmation time, nobody has yet hit upon the strategy of dredging up the love lives of the nominee’s children. Still…

Oh, stop it.

I am too busy for this nonsense, I remind myself as I flop into my desk chair. I have important writing to finish. If I think really hard, I might even remember what it is. I am still busily dumping on myself when Cassie Meadows calls, wanting to bring me up to date.

“Mr. Corcoran estimates your wife’s chances at about fifty-fifty,” she says, which is not terribly helpful. The next part seems to give her trouble. “He thinks they could be improved if… well, if… if this search of yours comes to an end.” She pauses, then blurts out the rest: “I’m actually kind of in the doghouse. He was mad that I’ve been… well, don’t take this the wrong way… the way he put it

… he said I’ve been treating your ideas too seriously. He said.. . I probably shouldn’t tell you this… he said it makes the firm look bad.”

I keep my voice very cool. “And why didn’t Mr. Corcoran call me himself?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he was busy.” But I know. By delegating to Meadows the duty of telling me off, Uncle Mal can later deny, if he must, that he was ever the least bit perturbed. At the same time, he punishes Cassie by making her the bearer of bad news. “Anyway, he said the word on you is getting around, and… and, well, it isn’t helping your wife any.”

“I see.”

“I think he wants you to say you’ll stop.” “I’m sure.”

She lets out a sigh, perhaps relief: she has delivered a tough message to the client, and lived to tell the tale. “So, what are you going to do?” “I’m going to play chess,” I tell her.

A couple of students come to my office hours. Between meetings, I sit at my desk, willing the anger out of my soul. When I am finally ready to leave for the day, the telephone rings again, and I see from the caller ID that it is a Washington number. I almost do not answer, certain it is Uncle Mal; then I decide it makes no difference.

It is Special Agent Nunzio.

“I just wanted you to know, we traced that gun,” he says after a few gruff pleasantries. Informing the Bureau about Mariah’s discovery was my idea; persuading her to go along took a lot of cajoling. After my conversation with Kimmer’s father, I wanted to call Nunzio off, but there was no good way to do so, so I have simply been hoping that the Colonel was wise enough to leave no traces when he gave the Judge the gun. “The gun is a Glock, a police special, part of a shipment that fell off a truck in New Jersey about four years ago.”

“Fell off a truck?”

Nunzio laughs. “Just a cop’s way of saying it was stolen, Professor. Three or four of the missing Glocks have turned up in the possession of various lowlifes. I don’t suppose you would have any idea how one of them turned up in your father’s bedroom. Didn’t think so,” he continues without a pause. I hear a keyboard clicking. “Prints. From what we can tell, the gun was new and clean when your father got it. Three sets of prints. Your father’s. Your sister’s, who found it. Third is an instructor at a gun club in Alexandria. Turns out your father joined the club about a year before he died, took shooting lessons. He was very serious about it for a while, then he kind of fell away, then started up again in September. The last time he was there was a couple of days before he died. That seems to be when the gun was fired last.”

“I appreciate this,” I tell him, although I am vaguely disappointed. I am not sure what I hoped for, but this is too prosaic.

“Incidentally, your father had no D.C. permit, which made his possession within the city limits illegal. But I guess that doesn’t matter now.” I say nothing. Nunzio fills the void with another question. “So, what are you and your sister up to, anyway? Are you taking this stuff seriously?”

“What stuff?”

“Tracking down the stuff about your father, all that.”

I am suddenly wary, though also intrigued that he has lumped Mariah and me together. “I just want to know the truth,” I say boldly, if a bit stupidly. “About my father, I mean.”

“Yeah, well, I guess we all want to know our fathers better, don’t we?” Agent Nunzio laughs, not unkindly. “I wish I’d known mine better, anyway. So, good luck.”

Everyone else in the world is telling me to back off. But the Federal Bureau of Investigation seems to want me to go ahead. A good thing, too, because I am not about to stop.