to call them literature. He appeared to be wearing the same brown tie and dead corduroy suit he had three decades before. What was weird and perversely wonderful was that on entering his room again after all those years, I felt my asshole tighten with the same fear I had felt back when his grades meant life or death.
The first thing he said to me was, "So, Bayer, you're a bestseller now, eh?"
I wanted to say, "That's right, you old stump. No thanks to you and Hope Muntz!" But I gave an "aw shucks" shrug instead and tried to look modest.
I asked if he remembered Pauline Ostrova. To my surprise, he silently pointed to a picture on the wall. I continued looking at him, waiting to hear if he was going to say anything about it.
When he didn't -- Tresvant was famous for his menacing, pregnant pauses -- I got up and went over. It was a fine drawing of Shakespeare's Globe Theatre. Whoever had done it had spent a long time because every possible detail was there.
"Did Pauline draw this?"
"No, of course not. That was, that _is_, the English award, Mr. Bayer.
Page 40
Obviously you've forgotten the goings-on here. Every year I give away a copy of that drawing to the best English student in my classes. Pauline Ostrova should have won it because more often than not, she was an excellent student.
But you know something? She turned out to be too excellent for her own good.
She was a cheat."
I reacted as if he had said something obscene about one of my best friends, which was ridiculous because she was dead almost thirty years and I
really hadn't known her. Finally I managed to weakly repeat, "She was a _cheat_?"
"A very adept one. And not always. She read everything. Wayne Booth, Norman O. Brown, Leavis . . . Send her to the library and she took everything she could lay her hands on. But once too often what she read appeared in what she wrote, whole cloth, and she was dangerously _stingy_ about giving credit where it was due."
"That's hard to believe!"
He smiled but it was an ugly thing, glowing with scorn and superiority.
"Did you love her too, Bayer? Much more than the cheating, that was her sin.
She made it easy to love her, but she never loved back."
"Did _you_ love her, Mr. Tresvant?"
"The only thing that went through my mind when I heard she was dead was a mild 'Oh.' So I would guess not. Anyway, the less old men remember about love, the better."
Skin cuts the easiest. Even the thinnest paper resists -- a moment's no before the knife slices through its surface. But a knife into skin is like a finger into water. I was cutting open a package of legal pads when the knife slipped and slid through the top of my thumb. Blood shot out and splattered across the yellow paper.
It was ten at night. Frannie was downstairs eating Mongolian barbecue takeout and watching a Jean-Claude Van Damme video he had rented earlier. I
wrapped my thumb in toilet paper and called down, asking if he had medicine and bandages.
When I explained what had happened, he raced up the stairs with a gigantic orange first-aid kit.
He looked at my finger and wrapped it up like a pro. When I asked where he'd learned to do that, he said he had been a medic
in Vietnam. Surprised he had spent his time as a soldier doing that and not flame-throwing people, I accused him of not telling me much about himself. He laughed and said I should ask any questions I wanted.
"How come you keep calling David Cadmus?"
"Because the fucker's father killed Pauline Ostrova."
"The fucker's father is _dead_, Frannie."
"But the crime isn't. Turn your hand over so I can get the other side."
"I don't understand what that means."
"It means I want someone besides Durant to admit killing Pauline."
"Why? Why's it so important?"
He held my bandaged hand in both of his while he spoke. I tried to pull it away after what he said next, but he wouldn't let go.
"What do you believe in, Sam?"
"What do you mean?"
"Exactly that. What in your life do you believe in? Where do you
The first thing he said to me was, "So, Bayer, you're a bestseller now, eh?"
I wanted to say, "That's right, you old stump. No thanks to you and Hope Muntz!" But I gave an "aw shucks" shrug instead and tried to look modest.
I asked if he remembered Pauline Ostrova. To my surprise, he silently pointed to a picture on the wall. I continued looking at him, waiting to hear if he was going to say anything about it.
When he didn't -- Tresvant was famous for his menacing, pregnant pauses -- I got up and went over. It was a fine drawing of Shakespeare's Globe Theatre. Whoever had done it had spent a long time because every possible detail was there.
"Did Pauline draw this?"
"No, of course not. That was, that _is_, the English award, Mr. Bayer.
Page 40
Obviously you've forgotten the goings-on here. Every year I give away a copy of that drawing to the best English student in my classes. Pauline Ostrova should have won it because more often than not, she was an excellent student.
But you know something? She turned out to be too excellent for her own good.
She was a cheat."
I reacted as if he had said something obscene about one of my best friends, which was ridiculous because she was dead almost thirty years and I
really hadn't known her. Finally I managed to weakly repeat, "She was a _cheat_?"
"A very adept one. And not always. She read everything. Wayne Booth, Norman O. Brown, Leavis . . . Send her to the library and she took everything she could lay her hands on. But once too often what she read appeared in what she wrote, whole cloth, and she was dangerously _stingy_ about giving credit where it was due."
"That's hard to believe!"
He smiled but it was an ugly thing, glowing with scorn and superiority.
"Did you love her too, Bayer? Much more than the cheating, that was her sin.
She made it easy to love her, but she never loved back."
"Did _you_ love her, Mr. Tresvant?"
"The only thing that went through my mind when I heard she was dead was a mild 'Oh.' So I would guess not. Anyway, the less old men remember about love, the better."
Skin cuts the easiest. Even the thinnest paper resists -- a moment's no before the knife slices through its surface. But a knife into skin is like a finger into water. I was cutting open a package of legal pads when the knife slipped and slid through the top of my thumb. Blood shot out and splattered across the yellow paper.
It was ten at night. Frannie was downstairs eating Mongolian barbecue takeout and watching a Jean-Claude Van Damme video he had rented earlier. I
wrapped my thumb in toilet paper and called down, asking if he had medicine and bandages.
When I explained what had happened, he raced up the stairs with a gigantic orange first-aid kit.
He looked at my finger and wrapped it up like a pro. When I asked where he'd learned to do that, he said he had been a medic
in Vietnam. Surprised he had spent his time as a soldier doing that and not flame-throwing people, I accused him of not telling me much about himself. He laughed and said I should ask any questions I wanted.
"How come you keep calling David Cadmus?"
"Because the fucker's father killed Pauline Ostrova."
"The fucker's father is _dead_, Frannie."
"But the crime isn't. Turn your hand over so I can get the other side."
"I don't understand what that means."
"It means I want someone besides Durant to admit killing Pauline."
"Why? Why's it so important?"
He held my bandaged hand in both of his while he spoke. I tried to pull it away after what he said next, but he wouldn't let go.
"What do you believe in, Sam?"
"What do you mean?"
"Exactly that. What in your life do you believe in? Where do you
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