Chapter 34
Paul finds himself back in class—unprepared and unmotivated to teach—exactly two weeks before the gallery show is set to open.
He stands where he’s always stood in the ugly, institutional lecture hall, staring at bright-faced (if not always bright) young men and women in the seats around him, but he feels like an actor in a play about someone else’s life.
He used to relish playing the part of expert photographer, sharing his wisdom and his love of photography with students, but now that role is dead to him, like a husk he’s long since discarded.
He has nothing he really wants to say and no energy for discussing “setting up your darkroom,” as it reads on the syllabus.
He used to enjoy giving this lecture, didn’t he?
He can hardly remember, and he can hardly bring himself to begin class. But he must, so he does.
Looking around as he speaks, his eyes land on Charlie.
He’s thought of her so often lately that it’s jarring to see her in person—and to see that she’s just an ordinary pretty girl, one of several in the class, not the powerful figure he’s imagined sometimes, the leader of an enraged, self-righteous women’s gang.
She is giving him a sour look, though—and he can sense animosity rolling off her in waves.
Probably because of the interview. Interviews.
He remembers the old Charlie, from back in September, who used to cross her beautiful bare legs and look up at him as if he were a demigod.
That girl has been extinguished by her passion for Judith’s photographs; it’s twisted and deformed her in some way.
He can’t even see her now as the object of those masturbatory fantasies he had—only days ago.
He looks away from her stony face and carries on.
“Many of you may already know this, but I’m co-curating an exhibition of Judith Stanley’s photographs that’s opening in two weeks at Doven Gallery, in the city.
If I’ve seemed a little distracted lately, that’s why,” he says, smiling.
“I’ve been doing some, uh, appearances lately that have taken up a great deal of time.
” Speaking frees him, and locking into his new identity gives him an added boost—as do the knowing looks on his students’ faces.
They’ve watched the interviews; of course they have!
Their lowly community college professor has suddenly been elevated to the highest of cultural heights.
He puffs up with their regard—until he looks Charlie’s way.
While his other students tune in admiringly, Charlie’s hard stare cuts him and sends his mind back to those hateful phrases in the letters he’s received.
Reminding him of the sound of cruel laughter on the other end of the phone line.
It doesn’t matter right now if she’s responsible or not; she’s simply guilty of the look she’s giving him. It’s enough.
“It’s going to be an extraordinary show.
You may have seen a taste of her work in Harper’s, but this will be really comprehensive.
I encourage you all to see it,” he says, more emphatically than necessary.
As if he were trying to convince Charlie of his unimpeachable status and worth.
A hand goes up in the back: not Charlie, he sees with relief.
“How did you get involved in all this, Professor?” The young man sounds mild, friendly even, but Paul still bristles. Is there a provocative undertone? He doesn’t think so, but he can’t help answering with a touch of defensiveness.
“Well, I was Judith’s mentor, and the only person she ever shared her work with.
” A possible exaggeration, but who would ever know?
He made the claim in his catalog introduction, the final draft of which he’s just handed in to Jahan, so it was on its way to becoming historical truth; it would lead the catalog and be stamped on the gallery walls for the exhibit’s myriad visitors.
“Just before she died, she told me she was ready to publish her pictures and asked for my help. I worked with her husband to choose them and contacted Harper’s.
The rest just…fell into place,” he says, skimming over the stress and numerous difficulties he’s endured. The student looks satisfied, impressed.
“You’re all invited to the opening, by the way—it’s Friday, April tenth, at seven p.m. You should dress up, or at least not look the way you usually do in class—get cleaned up for god’s sake!
” This earns him a big laugh, and more than a few students exchange excited glances, jotting down the date and time in their notebooks.
Through all of this, Charlie sits silent and brooding.
She really must be the one spewing venom from a safe, anonymous distance instead of confronting him head-on.
He decides to face her, question her, once the others have left.
He wants to force her into the open, make her admit that she’s been hounding him.
He plods through the rest of class somehow.
He knows Charlie enjoys seeing him struggle; after his smooth delivery of the Judith Stanley news, he has trouble recalling the smallest details of setting up a darkroom—like what chemicals to use in the developing bath—even though he’s given this lecture a hundred times and has a home darkroom himself.
Every time he stumbles, he senses Charlie’s pleasure and a tide of fury builds in him.
Once he’s dragged through the final minutes of class and reminded everyone about the opening, he calls Charlie down to see him.
She doesn’t react, not even when her friends lean their sleek, pretty heads close, presumably to question or strategize.
Once they’ve left—probably to linger in the hall outside—Charlie walks slowly down to him in the emptied room.
For a moment, Paul is overwhelmed by déjà vu.
If this were some months ago, it would be Judith approaching—though Judith’s gait was lighter and her demeanor, unlike Charlie’s, was deferential, reserved.
He yearns to look up and see Judith standing before him once more—then he pulls himself together to face Charlie’s piercing gaze.
“Hey, Charlie. You must be jazzed for Judith’s opening. I know you’re a big fan,” he says as lightly as possible. She cocks her head at him and nods; that’s all. Then, after a beat:
“Did she really say that, before she died?”
“Excuse me?”
“Did she really tell you she wanted to publish her photographs? She didn’t seem the type, honestly.
I’m the type, but I don’t have the talent.
” She lays this out before him with plainspoken confidence.
Doesn’t even look ashamed of herself, or daunted by saying this to her professor’s face.
It’s so galling Paul has to grip the edges of the table he’s leaning on to keep his hands from reaching out for her, grabbing her the way he imagined in class the other night.
“I don’t make things up, Charlie. I know I seem like an easygoing guy, a friendly, approachable professor and all that, but suggesting that I lied about something like that is—is—”
“Unconscionable?” Charlie offers.
“No, I was going to say…incredibly rude. You shouldn’t talk to your superiors that way.
” Charlie bursts out laughing while staring straight into his eyes.
Paul wants to smack her. So hard that her head would snap to the side with the force of it.
So hard it would leave a dark red handprint on her cheek.
And maybe give her a black eye, too, if that were possible.
He can see her, standing before him with her dark eyes spilling over with tears, blubbering her apologies in the aftermath.
Sorry, Professor. Sorry, sorry. Apologizing for speaking that way but for the rest of it, too: The letters, the threats.
All the hatred she and her friends and the others like them have been aiming his way.
When he returns to himself, to the real present, where he hasn’t slapped her, he finds her still staring at him with that amused, challenging look. She hasn’t excused her rude outburst and she never will, he knows.
“If I don’t see you before then, I’ll see you at the opening, Professor.”
Did he imagine the mocking emphasis on Professor?
And what did she mean, “before then”? Why and how would he see her before the show?
Next week is spring break, and he’s canceled the following week’s class for the opening.
He thinks of the line We’ll deliver it when you’re least expecting and shudders a little.
He could confront her right now, call her on it—but why bother?
She’d only laugh again. She wouldn’t tell him the truth.
She’s brazen as hell and he suddenly wants to kill her.
Not really, of course, but his hands curl into fists at his sides, and he stands there, enraged and impotent, as she turns to leave.