Chapter 8
The door to the bar swung open. No Safie.
A pack of suited men poured in. Ties loosened around unbuttoned collars below ruddy faces.
Sweat bubbling at temples. This was not their first stop of the night.
Hours later, they would crash into homes already pungent with the beginnings of tomorrow’s Thanksgiving meals, wives lying stiff and awake in darkened bedrooms. The din of the men swallowed the room—voices raised to shouts, a hand thudding a back.
They pressed past, toward the bartender.
Instinctively, I drew myself in, eyes lowered.
Safie and I had arranged to meet at the bar of the hotel restaurant, on her suggestion.
I was nervous about returning after my night here with the Mitchells.
If not the scene of the crime, it was where it had begun, the hours here now cast with a sense of inevitability by the events that followed.
What could have happened that night except exactly what did?
I watched the bartender pour the group of men their drinks, tall glasses of beer, a tray of shots.
She was middle-aged, probably close to fifty.
Bright smears of makeup around the creased lines of her eyes.
The group cleared to a back room. One stayed behind; he shouted as they left, “Someone get Mikey to drink that water. I don’t want to hear about it tomorrow.
” He passed a card to the bartender and turned to me.
“He’s married to my sister. She likes to blame me for his hangovers. ”
“Oh,” I said. “Okay.”
“Lighten up.” He scribbled on the receipt and crumpled his copy, leaving it on the bar. “You look like somebody died.”
He left and the bartender waved a hand behind his back, shooing him along.
“Another?”
I nodded and drained my glass.
Hadn’t somebody died, though? Somewhere, somebody had.
“Sorry,” Safie said, grabbing the stool beside me. “The committee meeting ran over. They had to wring out the last of our blood before releasing us for the break.” She surveyed the room. “This place is nice, right?”
“It is nice, yes.” I hadn’t mentioned I’d already been. “For Sawyer, definitely could be worse.”
“Things could always be worse.” She signaled to the bartender, eyeing my empties. “Looks like I have some catching up to do. You leave in the morning?”
I nodded. I had put off booking a flight until tickets were obscenely expensive, so I was taking the only cheap option left, early Thanksgiving morning. “My mother said the visit was so short she didn’t know why I was bothering.”
“That’s just her way of saying she misses you.” Our drinks arrived and we toasted. “It’s nice to see you. You’re looking good.”
“Sorry I’ve been M.I.A.—this book is killing me.”
“It must be. I haven’t seen you on campus in weeks.”
“I don’t know, I can’t focus when I’m there.
” I was being truthful—campus had become charged with too much possibility of crossing paths with Tyler outside of class.
I couldn’t handle the chance of it, not knowing how I would respond, not trusting my ability to hide my surprise and pleasure.
But I also had been avoiding Safie. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see her, but I was worried that she would sniff out my secret.
I had fantasized about telling her everything—I wanted her to help me hold this burden.
But it was too risky. I just needed to get through the semester, get Tyler out of my class, and then I could figure things out. “How are you?”
“Alright, I suppose. I met with Susan—” Safie cut herself off; something was ringing. “I think that’s you. Want to get it?”
She pointed at my jacket, slung over the back of my barstool. It was my old phone. The one I used with Tyler; I’d forgotten it in the pocket.
I pulled it out—“T” flashed on the little window and the memory of our last night shot through me: Tyler facedown on the mattress, my hands pinning his wrists. His gasps muffled by the underwear I’d shoved into his mouth. My face flushed with heat and I hit the button to cancel the call.
“You’re still using that thing?”
“Oh. I just … I haven’t updated everyone.”
“Okay, Mark Lausson, carrying around a burner phone. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were up to no good.” She took a slow slip from her drink and then asked, “Who’s T?”
“No one.” Shit. “Just some guy from grad school—” I searched my brain, I could think of no name but Tyler, and then, “—Tom.”
“Tom? I don’t think you’ve mentioned him.”
I hadn’t; he didn’t exist. “He’s not important, I have no idea why he’d be calling. Probably a butt dial.”
“Probably.” She tipped her head, a gesture I didn’t know how to decipher.
“Anyway,” I said, desperate to change the topic, “what were you saying?”
“Just about Susan.”
“What about her?”
A pause, a stutter in the air between us. Safie tilted her glass, considering something. “The tenure stuff.”
Fuck. “Of course.” What was wrong with me? I’d completely forgotten—since we’d talked about it at the lecture, I hadn’t thought of it once. “I’m sorry, I’ve been meaning to ask. What did she tell you?”
She shrugged. “More of the same.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Promotion and Tenure says I show strong promise. Which, frankly, is just insulting. I’m supposed to let them know by end of term if I want to withdraw my intent to file and take another year.”
“Jesus. But you’ve done everything right.”
“Believe me, I know. There’s no leeway for me in a place like this. I’ve been killing myself for years, and for what? And you know who else they asked to withdraw?”
“I don’t have a good feeling about this.”
“Just one other case. Federico Garza, from Psychology. That’s it. The only Mexican guy on faculty, and a Black woman.”
“Sawyer is fucking awful.”
“I don’t know,” Safie said. “It’s just part of the world.”
“What are you doing to do?”
“I’m not sure. But we are going to get drunk and talk about something else.”
Hours later, we stood on the empty street, everything shuttered for the night.
The air was frigid; there was no more denying winter’s arrival.
Safie hugged her coat against herself as we waited for the car she’d called.
I closed my eyes and the ground beneath me wavered, dipping down then up.
I tried counting my drinks but lost track.
The alcohol had unraveled our night—it was all dangling threads I couldn’t trace back; trying to only pulled them loose.
“Are you okay?”
I opened my eyes. The scene snapped into place: red brick, cracked asphalt, Safie’s hands warming in her breath.
“I may regret that last one. But I’ll survive.” I shook my head to clear it. “Did you tell me what you’re doing this weekend?”
“I’ll eat with Loren and Eugene tomorrow,” Safie said. “And I guess I have a date on Saturday.”
“A date? And this is the first I’m hearing of it?”
“We’re just hanging out.”
“We who?”
“Maria from History,” she said, and looked down and smiled. “I know, so obvious. But she’s very sexy.”
“Well done,” I said. I had met Maria at some event last year. “She really is.”
“Speaking of dates”—she paused—“Stephen says he hasn’t seen you since Fall Fest.”
I was aware all night that we were sidestepping the topic of him; she’d been letting me off easy. “Yeah, I guess we haven’t really talked.”
“What’s going on there?”
“I don’t know,” I said, which felt in the moment both sad and honest. “Nothing?” And that seemed sadder. Blood pulsed behind my eyeballs. Tomorrow was going to be rough.
“Hmm,” Safie hummed, and then—“You know I really like him.”
“Well, I like him, too. You think I don’t?”
“I’m not sure, actually.” The stoplights had been switched to caution, blinking red and yellow overhead. “As is often the case, you’ve never really said how you feel.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I could hear the hard edge of my voice, and I saw Safie blanch. “Sorry, ignore me. I’m drunk.”
Safie’s eyes narrowed. “You’re good.” The cab arrived and she opened the door. “Drink some water when you get home.”
I watched her leave and pulled out my phone to check the time. Behind me, the door to the bar crashed open.
“You again.” It was the guy from the group, the one who told me to lighten up.
I forced a smile and asked, “How’s it going?” but looked back at my phone.
“I have a question.” He swayed into the air between us then caught his balance. He wiped at his face, rough down the length of it, and cleared something from his throat. “You teach at the college?”
“I do.”
“I can tell. You and your friend. Did you move here for that job?”
“That’s right.”
“Where from?”
“New York,” I said, and immediately regretted it. I should have said somewhere less worthy of interest, anywhere really. The wet cold of the night pressed into my bones. I was underdressed. “Listen, I need to get going.”
“What’s your hurry?” He surged toward me. I stepped back and smacked my head into the wall behind me—my phone knocked from my hand, landing on the sidewalk with a snap. He leaned in. His breath stank, sour from hours of drinking. “Do you think you’re better than me?”
“What? No.” My head throbbed.
“I think you do.”
“I don’t even know you.”
He seemed to look through me, watery eyes unfocused.
“Would you want to?”
“Want to what?”
“Know me.” He reached and grabbed my forearm and I flinched but didn’t move away, there was nowhere to go. He gripped me tightly and held me there, against the wall.
“What?” I stammered, trying to figure out what he wanted me to say, what could make him leave. “I—”
And then he let go and laughed, his big mouth hanging slack. “I’m just fucking with you. Relax.” He patted my cheek, two quick, dry slaps. He turned and walked off, laughing to himself. “Fucking Sawyer professors.”