The Faculty Club: A Novel (4 page)

"That's messed up."

"You're damn right it's messed up!" he said, laughing and slapping his hands on the table. "And look at me now!"

"That's great, Mike."

"How much debt are you gonna have, after law school?"

I swallowed hard. It was a subject I preferred to handle through total denial.

"A hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

"I could pay that off for you like that." He snapped his fingers. "But I won't. It wouldn't help you a bit."

"I don't want your money, Mike. But you can pay for the drinks."

He laughed and ordered us another round. A little later, Sean Penn and a woman walked into the bar.

"That's Sean Penn," Mike whispered to me.

"I
know
."

"But it's Sean Penn."

"I heard you. It's Sean Penn, not Jesus Christ."

"Should we meet him?"

"What would I say--'Do you like movies?'"

Mike grinned at me.

"Well?"

"No, I don't want to meet him."

He shrugged. "I would've done it. I would've walked right up to him."

I watched my brother. He kept looking around the room, from table to table. I leaned in.

"Hey, Mike."

"Yeah?"

"You've done great for yourself. I'm really proud of you."

For a second, he seemed really surprised. Then the cocky expression came back.

"Thanks," he said finally, after a moment had passed. He looked me over, then turned his gaze back to the crowd. "Ten blocks," he said to himself, proudly.

Back on campus the next day, I decided to take Nigel up on his dinner invitation. Unlike most students, who lived in the dorms, Nigel had an off-campus apartment in the posh section of town. I knocked on his door and wondered who else was invited.

The door swung open and Nigel appeared, looking like he'd just stepped off the cover of
GQ
. He wore a tan shirt that appeared bronze against his brown skin; on me, the shirt would have looked like mustard on an undercooked hot dog. It hung perfectly on his thin frame, as if he were an alien that could grow a second skin specifically for dinner parties. His slacks were crisp and casual, with brown shoes and a matching belt. But more than anything he just seemed comfortable, totally at ease. I glanced behind him at the other guests, and I thought of the old line: this was the role he was born to play.

He gave me that million-dollar smile and ushered me in.

There were four people in the living room, sitting on the plush couches and chairs. I recognized John Anderson, the Rhodes scholar and Harvard debate champion, immediately. Until now, I had only seen him from across the lecture hall of Bernini's Justice class. Up close, he looked like a high school football star, with broad shoulders and aw-shucks good looks. But high school
football stars were supposed to become fat, bald shoe salesmen, while us nerds grew up and became fabulously wealthy. Jocks certainly weren't supposed to stay fit and intimidating and go on to elite law schools. John must have been six foot six, and his hands, resting casually on his legs, were massive. Even sitting, he somehow felt taller than me. I suddenly had the very uncomfortable sensation of being a freshman in high school all over again.

Next to him, holding a glass of wine, was a stern-looking man who fixed me immediately with saggy vulture eyes. As if reading my mind, Nigel whispered, "Dennis Vo. He never sleeps. He's working on some book and he won't tell anyone what it's about." Nigel grinned.

"Do you think it's any good?" I whispered, smiling for the first time that evening.

"Well, he's twenty-seven, and his last book won the Cushman Prize. So, yeah, I guess it probably is." Suddenly, my one publication in a lonely, obscure journal didn't seem so special anymore, despite what Bernini had told me.

I felt someone watching me, and I looked over to the last person in the room. I'd never seen Daphne Goodwin up close before. Her eyes sparkled even brighter, reminding me of that clear blue ocean water you saw in brochures. Her skin was light, the color of soft tan sand, and her lips were painted a rich plum color. She looked away.

"Let's get you a drink," Nigel said, placing his arm around me.

The conversation at dinner was amazing. I'd never heard people move so quickly from one topic to another.

"Of course we should legalize prostitution," Daphne was saying, her cheeks flushing as she made a
what are you thinking?
gesture with her hands.

"That's ridiculous," John replied. "A good society can't allow people to be exploited."

"Okay, fine. Say you have a women who's fifty years old, single, and a millionaire. She likes having sex. And she's really good at it. So she decides to make a business out of it. Is she being exploited?"

"No, of course not. You said she's a millionaire."

"Fine. So you're not against prostitution. You're against poverty. You might as well be arguing against coal mines or sweatshops. You have no problem with prostitution per se."

"Wrong. I don't think we should let your rich lady be a prostitute either."

"Why not?"

"Some things are priceless. Noble. You can't pay for sex without demeaning it."

"Well, doctors heal for a living. That's noble. Does that mean they can't charge for it? Or teachers? Priests? You think people should only make a living doing
slimy
things?"

"No, but . . ." John looked around for help, but everyone was watching Daphne. She leaned in for the kill, her hair a little wild and her blue eyes fierce.

"Let me tell you what I think is
really
going on. You don't like prostitution because deep down, you think women are fragile and need protecting."

"What?" John said. "That's ridiculous. I never said that."

"Is it? First you attacked prostitution because it demeaned poor people. We took care of that argument! Then you said we're demeaning sex. Well, we dealt with that too. So, answer me this. Who do you feel more sorry for: a male prostitute or a female prostitute?"

John looked at her for a moment, then shrugged. Suddenly, Daphne turned and looked directly at me.

"What about it, Jeremy?" she said, fixing me with those startling eyes. "Who do you feel more sorry for: a male prostitute or a female prostitute?"

I didn't know what to say. She had me paralyzed.

"I feel sorry for them both, the same," I lied.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Then I wonder why you're blushing," she replied, abruptly flipping her gaze back to the rest of the table.

I was gradually aware that I had stopped breathing. I allowed myself to suck in some air before I passed out with my head in my soup.

Nigel came through the swinging doors with a tray of steaks, which were sizzling in red wine and garlic. The room filled with hazy smoke from the kitchen. "On that awkward note . . ." he laughed, setting the tray down. "Let's eat."

Moments later, Dennis the vulture had taken the debate in a new direction.

"The definition of marriage goes back thousands of years. It's the bedrock of western civilization. You don't go messing around with that," he said, jabbing his fork in the direction of the rest of us.

"Why not?" Nigel asked. "Definitions change all the time. 'Citizen' used to mean 'white man with property.' We changed that, didn't we?"

"Marriage means one man, one woman," Dennis shot back, "so spare me the politically correct guilt trip."

"Marriage
used
to mean one man, one woman
of the same race,
" Daphne replied. "So even
that
definition has changed."

"It's about equality," Nigel said. "Gay couples should have the same rights as straight couples. Period."

"What's next?" Dennis replied. "Polygamy? Incest? Bestiality? It's a slippery slope. You have to draw the line."

"But," I said quietly, before I even realized I was talking, "by your logic, we would have to ban straight marriage, because it might lead to gay marriage."

Dennis froze. He looked at me for a second, blinking. He looked at Daphne, then back at me. He threw his fork down. "You just don't go messing around with the basics," he mumbled.

"Bravo!" Nigel cried, clapping his hands and grinning my way.

Just for a moment, Daphne smiled at me.

An hour later, the table was covered with empty plates and wine bottles. Dennis and Nigel were arguing passionately about some movie I had never seen. John and Daphne were talking softly to each other at the other end of the table. Earlier, they'd reminisced about their Rhodes scholar days at Oxford: favorite bars, which professors they kept in touch with; but now they spoke quietly, and I couldn't make out the words.

I spent the time pleasantly buzzed, staring at the flickering candles on the table and reflecting on the most interesting observation of the evening: John Anderson didn't seem that smart. Don't get me wrong: at any other law school he would probably dominate the classroom. But here, during the hours of debate over dinner and wine, he was mostly quiet, and when he did speak, he just didn't seem to move as quickly as the others. I wondered how much of his success--his debating championships and Oxford adventures--had more to do with his overwhelming
physical presence, his infectious good nature and extraordinary charm, than what he actually said or did. Was John Anderson the ultimate vessel, already being groomed to become a handsome, vacant politician, surrounded by teams of speechwriters, analysts, stylists, pollsters? Now more than ever, I was reminded of high school, of the empty-headed popular kids who ruled the school. It was the same then--it didn't matter what they said or did; it was cool because
they
were the ones who said or did it. As the alcohol worked its way deeper into my brain and the conversations around me swirled into a mild hum, my thoughts drifted back to high school, and for the first time in many years, I thought about Amy Carrington.

Amy was a cheerleader freshman year, but unlike some of our other cheerleaders, she was also exceptionally smart and thoughtful. Her grades were almost as good as mine, and she always treated me with kindness. We were on student council together, and I remember how stunned I felt the first time she walked up to me and asked for a ride home. Soon, it was an afternoon ritual, driving to her house and talking in her room after school, with the door slightly ajar to appease her parents. She had a boyfriend named Russ, the quarterback at another high school, but every afternoon it was me who sat on her bed, talking about our futures and what we wanted to be, or sometimes--though it took all my energy to pretend not to mind--hearing about her sexual experimentations with Russ. There is no single memory more alive to me today than the side of her face, turned away from me, daydreaming out the window of my car, a soft smile on her lips. When I heard the gossip that she and Russ had broken up, I immediately asked her to the spring dance. But, she told me, she had already agreed to go with Bryan Collins, a senior at our school nearly identical to Russ
in every way. Bryan went on to take her virginity and then break up with her a week later. I learned about it at lunch, from a bunch of freshmen who snickered as she walked by. I felt no satisfaction then. And I realized now, sitting in this warm room surrounded by bright, fascinating people, that I hated John Anderson. I hated everything about him.

I was awakened from this by a slight pressure on my foot below the table. It was gone as soon as it came. Nigel and Dennis were still arguing.

"
Eyes Wide Shut
was a piece of crap," Dennis said, a look of amazement on his face. "You know, just because Kubrick directed something doesn't make it good."

"Yes, yes, you keep saying that," Nigel replied. "But
why
?"

Again, I felt the pressure on my foot, almost teasing in the way it came and went. It traced itself back and forth along my leg. I looked over at John and Daphne, who were still whispering intensely. Maybe it was the alcohol, but it seemed like either Daphne Goodwin was playing footsy with me, or Nigel had a cat.

"The
acting,
Nigel. Think about how terrible the
acting
was!"

Nigel threw up his hands.

"The acting was
supposed
to be terrible," he cried.

"What! What! Are you all hearing this?
Supposed
to be terrible?"

I was beginning to think I had imagined the sensation, when something soft slid down the side of my leg, then back up, slowly moving past my knee, still creeping up toward my inner thigh.

"Think about it," Nigel explained patiently. "People came to see Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman play a married couple because they wanted to see what the
real
Tom and Nicole's marriage was like. But instead of something fake--the movie--revealing
something real--the marriage--they got
fake
leading them to
faker
--a movie that was less real than most movies! It was a joke, a parody of the audience's desires. Kubrick was mocking us."

Daphne suddenly smiled at me, and the pressure on my thigh disappeared. She turned back to John and resumed her whispering.

"Mocking the audience?" Dennis said, shaking his head. "Yes, Nigel, you've convinced me, that
does
sound like a great movie."

The table was quiet. Nigel sat back in his chair, his eyes half-shut, a sleepy, satisfied look on his face. Dennis poured himself another glass of wine, then thought better of it and pushed it away. Daphne had gone to the bathroom to take out her contacts, and when she came back, she wore thin black frames that matched her dark hair. John sat at the window, staring out at the lights across the valley.

"I'd like to thank you all for coming," Nigel said softly, leaning forward in his chair. "I think we have a special group here, and I'm enjoying getting to know each of you." He paused and met eyes with us, one at a time. "I think we are going to have a wonderful three years together.

"I'd like to propose that we do this again, and soon. Perhaps a meal out next time, no?" He smiled, and seemed to savor what he said next. "In fact, I have a surprise. A friend of my father's has invested in a new restaurant in town. When the review comes out this week, you won't be able to get a table for six months. And, through no small amount of name-dropping and arm-twisting, I've arranged to close down the back room just for us, a private dinner next Friday."