The Faculty Club: A Novel (5 page)

My first thought was
holy shit, this is gonna be awesome.
And then
I felt a jolt. Next Friday. The night of the V&D cocktail party. I felt Nigel's eyes on me.

"Sure," Dennis said. "I guess I can put up with you communists for another night."

"Excellent," Nigel said. "Daphne?"

"Oh, Nigel, I'd love to. It sounds wonderful. But . . . I can't that night."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," Nigel said. "What about you, John?"

"I'd like to, Nigel. I really would. But, I don't guess they could still change it to another night, could they?"

"I'm afraid not," Nigel said, looking at me again, curiously.

"Jeremy? Surely
you'll
join me?"

To my surprise, my voice came out hoarse and barely audible. "I can't," was all I managed to say. Nigel wasn't smiling anymore. There was a strange look in his eyes, and suddenly it dawned on me: Nigel had no intention of hosting a dinner that night. He had a secret invitation to the V&D, same as I did. He just wanted to find out who else would be there.

John was staring down at his hands. Daphne was watching me, her lips barely suggesting a smile.

Four people. Three spots.

The game had begun, and I hadn't even realized it. At least now we knew who the players were.

How was I supposed to keep my mind on school? Friday night was coming up! What would it bring? What would they want?

And Bernini! He was heaping more and more assignments on me. I was spending entire nights in the library, running home to shower as the sun came up, then stumbling into class and fighting to keep my eyes open. I came to know every nook and cranny of Edwards Library: the grand facade with columns so high you had to crane your neck to see the capitals; the upper floors with shelves lit by naked bulbs; the shaved-pencil smell of books that hadn't been touched in years.

Soon, Bernini would write his magnum opus: a colossal work, modestly titled
The History of Law
. My job was to summarize thousands of pages of text, obscure works that existed only in the dustiest corners of Edwards: first editions; treatises with margin notes by famous readers; memoirs so frail they were housed in argon and handled by permission of the dean only.

I'd be halfway through one assignment when my phone would buzz and that familiar Italian accent would sing, "Jeremy, do you have a minute?"

The answer was always yes.

Wednesday night I was delivering papers to Bernini's office when he glanced up from his desk.

"Jeremy."

"Yes, professor?"

"Take this."

He placed something in my hand. It was a small key.

"I'm going to begin writing soon. I won't want to be disturbed. Let yourself in when the lights are off to deliver your research. You understand?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

I backed out of the office.

My law school training was already kicking in: I immediately starting thinking of worst-case scenarios. He trusted me with a key to his office. What if I lost the key? What if I had to bother him to replace the thing he'd given me so I wouldn't bother him? I decided to go directly to a locksmith in the morning to copy the key and put it somewhere safe.

A day later, the duplicate key was hidden on my bookshelf in the middle pages of
Crime and Punishment.
How could I possibly have known, at that point in time, that this would one day save someone's life?

Arthur Peabody was one of the top stars at the most prestigious law firm in Boston when he cracked. They put him on sabbatical for six months and tried to rehabilitate their golden boy, but it was no use. Whatever had broken in his brain during those 300-billable-hour months couldn't be fixed. It was for that reason, and also maybe because of his storybook face, that students over the years had come to call him Humpty Dumpty.

In the end, he was cradled back into the fold of the law school and given emeritus status as the head tutor of Legal Method. Now
Humpty Dumpty was an old man, with droopy eyelids and hangdog cheeks. He wore the same soup-stained bow tie every day, and you could usually catch him stomping through the library, muttering to himself. Each year, he taught first-year law students how to do what he did best (and perhaps the only thing left he could do): take a legal question and dive into the endless sea of case law to craft an answer.

You see, in law, it isn't enough to find the perfect case that makes your argument. You then have to find every case that came afterward and that refers
back
to your case. Maybe your case was overturned. Maybe it was expanded or transformed. And it doesn't stop there. Each of
those
cases had cases that came after
them
. What if someone overruled the case that overruled
your
case? It was this endless branching chain of cases that could drive a man insane--or in the case of Humpty Dumpty, hold him together.

In 1873, a man named Frank Shepard was smart enough to create a book that cataloged this chain of citations for every case, making the process infinitely easier. Lawyers have been updating it ever since. Now you could go to his book and see every case that cited your case and whether it helped or hurt. It was such a good idea that his name become immortal: all over the country, thousands of lawyers are Shepardizing their cases every day.

And that's what we were practicing in the gothic main hall of the library, while my mind was on Friday and what might happen. In fact, I was getting pretty grumpy flipping through volume after volume of
Shepard's,
tracking my cases.

"This is ridiculous," I whispered to Nigel, who sat next to me.

"Shh," he said, not looking up.

"I mean, I get it. This isn't rocket science. Do we actually have to go through every single stupid case?"

"Quiet," Nigel said, barely moving his lips.

"Why can't we do this on the computer? It takes seconds on the computer. Why is he making us go through twenty old books wasting our entire day?"

No response from Nigel, but now I knew why.

The stained glass wall behind us made a rainbow across our table, and a pudgy shadow had appeared in the middle of it.

"Suppose, Mr. Davis," said a voice from behind me, "that the electricity fails the night before your motion is due in court . . ." Humpty Dumpty placed his gnarled hand on my shoulder. I looked down and saw wiry white hairs on the knuckles. "Suppose you work not at a large firm, but at a small office with limited computers . . ." His mouth was just behind my ear. "Or suppose, God forbid, that you represent not corporations but actual humans, who cannot afford the thousands of dollars computer research requires . . ."

He was close enough now that he either had to kiss me or bite my nose off. Abruptly he walked away and left us alone with the books.

I walked home in the dark through the freshman quad. The streetlamps were on, lighting each side of the path. I watched the leaves shake and fall in the wind and felt the chill in the air. I pulled my coat tighter. It was late; most of the windows of the dormitories were black.

I saw a woman walking toward me along the same path, carrying overstuffed grocery bags in each hand.

As we passed, I let myself sneak a look at her face. I'll admit right here, I'm a hopeless romantic. Going to college in the small town where you grew up (and staying in your parents' house) isn't
exactly a recipe for an active dating life. Maybe I hadn't admitted it to myself yet, but I think the idea of meeting someone incredible was a big part of the appeal of coming here.

I was surprised at how pretty she was. She wasn't striking, like Daphne with her red lips and black hair. She felt, I don't know,
real,
unlike so many of the students I saw who seemed to order their universes by resumes and transcripts.

She had soft brown eyes and brownish blond hair, and full lips that were more warm than sensual. She wore no makeup, and her hair was tied in a simple ponytail. Her coat was too bulky for the fall, and she had on green surgical scrubs underneath. She gave me the briefest glance as we passed.

I know this sounds crazy, but I felt a connection when our eyes met. Like I said, hopeless romantic. I wanted to say something, but as the distance between us grew, everything I thought of sounded more and more absurd. What do you yell from twenty feet away:
Hi? Stop? I love you?

I shook my head and kept walking.

Then fate intervened. I heard a crash, and the woman cried out. One of her grocery bags had split and oranges were rolling in every direction--down the hill, into bushes, past the statue of our noble founder.

"Shit," she cried, "shit, shit, shit." She started trying to scoop them up, but her other bags were dropping and spilling as she scrambled in too many directions at once. I noticed her eyes were full of tears.

"Hey," I said. "Hey, it's okay. It's just groceries."

She shook her head and put her face in her hands.

"I can get your oranges back," I said, possibly the lamest courtship promise of all time. She began to cry in earnest.

"Are you okay?"

She wouldn't answer me. I didn't know what else to do, so I started picking up oranges.

After a while, she said, "I don't care about the stupid oranges."

"Oh."

Now I felt truly ridiculous.

"That came out wrong. Just, please, you don't have to do that."

"Good. Because some of your oranges are in the creek."

She laughed suddenly.

"Oh, God," she said, wiping her eyes. "You must think I'm crazy."

"No . . . no . . . you just seem like you're having a really bad day."

"More like a really bad year."

"Oh. I'm sorry." I sat down against a retaining wall a few feet away. "Are you a medical student?"

She shook her head and gave a small, unhappy laugh. "No. I'm a doctor, sort of. I graduated from medical school last year. I'm doing my internship now."

"What kind of a doctor are you?"

"No kind, really. I'm training in neurosurgery."

"That's amazing. I mean, isn't that the hardest program to get into? Especially
here
."

She looked at me like I'd slapped her across the face. Her eyes were fundamentally gentle, but there was something else there--a sort of self-reproach, as if the only anger she was capable of feeling was aimed at herself; and it was a righteous, intense anger.

"I shouldn't even
be
here."

Her eyes welled up again. I'm embarrassed to admit it, but she'd become even prettier since she started crying. Her eyes were damp and bright, with gold flecks in the brown irises.

"I know how you feel. I think everybody feels that way. It's like, what am I doing here? How did I even get in? But we can't all be mistakes, right?"

Somehow, that was the wrong thing to say. Something in her expression broke when I said that.

"Look, I'm sorry," I said. "I'm saying all the wrong things."

She shook her head.

"No. It's not your fault. It's nice to talk to someone--especially someone new. I don't get out of the hospital much."

"It's really hard, huh?"

"Honestly? It's worse than I ever imagined. I barely sleep. I eat McDonald's three times a day, usually standing up. When I'm not in the hospital, I'm supposed to be reading. I have no friends, no life. I have too many patients, and they're always yelling at me for keeping them waiting . . ." She shook her head. "Sorry. I shouldn't just unload on a total stranger like that."

"It's okay," I said. "I don't get out of the library much. It's nice to talk to an actual person."

She nodded.

"My dad's a businessman," she said. "He works all the time. I barely saw him growing up. Now he's rich and powerful, but he's not happy. He's angry all the time. What's the point of that?"

"I don't know. My dad's a teacher, and he spends all his time wishing he was big and important like your dad."

"Wow, you're really good at cheering people up."

She smiled for the first time. I laughed.

"Yeah, I guess that wasn't what you wanted to hear."

We were quiet for a while. I noticed we were totally alone. The path was deserted, and it was getting colder by the minute.
The silence was almost absolute, except for the occasional rush of the wind through the leaves.

"Listen, I know it's none of my business, but if you want to talk about anything . . ." I was aiming for heroic rather than nosy, and I probably came down somewhere in between. "Like you said, I'm a total stranger. Anything you say is pretty much anonymous."

She looked at me for a minute. It was a curious expression, like she was sizing me up and weighing her options. Was I trustworthy? Could I ease her mind? I guess she decided it was worth a shot, since after a little pause she shrugged, more to herself than to me. She closed her eyes and seemed to focus her thoughts.

"When I said I shouldn't be here . . . I really shouldn't be here. I don't deserve to be here."

She took a deep breath and looked me straight in the eye.

"I'm only here because of my dad."

She sighed and leaned back against the wall. "I've never said that out loud before." She laughed. "I think about it a lot, though."

She smiled at me with those full lips, and her cheeks looked rosy and warm, even out here in the cold.

"I always wanted to be a neurosurgeon. I'm not even sure why. I've been saying it since I was a little kid. I think when I was in elementary school, I said it once and saw how people reacted. I guess they thought it was amazing that I even knew the word. School was easy for me. I got straight A's. College was easy too. Chemistry, biology, I could learn them in no time. Neurosurgery was the best, the hardest, so I knew that's what I was going to do. I never imagined anything else.

"But medical school . . . all of a sudden, everything was different. Nothing came easy anymore. It was like trying to memorize
the phone book. I was drowning. I kept my grades up, kept telling everyone I was going to be a neurosurgeon. On the outside, I was fine, but . . ." She paused. "I felt like I was in a fog. One night I called my dad from a pay phone so no one would hear me. I was crying. I said, 'Do you want me to make straight A's?' He was just sarcastic. He said, 'No, I want you to make C's.' I failed every class that semester." She looked down. "A breakdown like that . . . Do you know how many spots there are for neurosurgeons? There's two of us in my intern class. Thirty total in the country. I was finished."