Chapter 6
Days pass with no word from TJ. Paul spends his evenings eating Chinese takeout in front of the television, glancing far too often at the telephone.
It sits, doggedly silent, by the armchair in the living room.
He grows tired of watching it but can’t seem to tear his eyes away.
One night, he drags himself from the apartment for a late-night drink.
He figures it’s after eleven o’clock, far too late for TJ to call.
He sits at the bar at King’s End Tavern alongside other regulars who are chatting while a football game replay runs on the bar’s TV—Colts versus Vikings.
It keeps any thoughts to do with the Stanley men at bay.
He’s just a guy out having an easy good time.
The next morning, Paul wakes late, hungover, and spends the afternoon grading quizzes by the kitchen window, staring at his neighbors’ brick wall.
He hands out As and Bs in place of rightful Cs and Ds, because he doesn’t really care; he just wants to get through the work and be done.
What does it matter if these kids learn “key elements of composition”?
What will they do with the knowledge? None of them are like Judith; none are even close.
Most are taking the class for an easy A, and they’ll go on to do other things—accounting, nursing, teaching—leaving photography behind, except when they need to snap shots of their children running in the park, starting kindergarten, posing in Halloween costumes one day.
Maybe what they learned in class will flicker back to them then—but most likely not.
So Paul goes on grading as lazily and quickly as he can.
On Tuesday night, whenever the door to the classroom opens, Paul snaps his head up, but it’s never TJ.
Of course not—he can’t imagine shy, polite TJ just walking into his class.
Still, Paul is jittery enough to look for him.
He looks for him later, too, as he’s leaving the building, but doesn’t find him in the hall or under the portico.
Paul casts his eyes around the parking lot in vain, and then he’s struck by the thought that his telephone could be ringing—right now.
He rushes home, then plops down in the armchair, determined to sit until the wee hours if he has to—though it makes little sense.
He chain-smokes and stares fixedly at a spot across the room, his anxious mind thrumming as he listens for the telephone.