that evening, with what looked like affection.
“I’ve had a wonderful time,” she said.
“Have you? I’m so glad!”
Anne leaned in closer, so close that Nancy must have been able to smell the gin on her breath. “Listen, I know it’ late .
. . but what would you say to a little Mozart?”
Nancy’ eyes brightened. “Really?”
“Really.”
“May we listen?” asked Phil Perry.
“You will hear in any case,” Anne said. “Whether you choose to listen is up to you.”
Phil took the cue, and followed them into the living room, where he sat down on the sofa. I sat next to him. And so the reading
was followed by a recital the decided mediocrity and unmusicality of which, I was gratified to hear, was not to be explained
away by mere lack of practice. Magical harmonies indeed! Another small, if private, victory for me, on that night that was
to be marked by so many losses.
85
Seven
E VEN TODAY I don’t like to think about Phil Perry. But he plays a role in this story, and so I suppose I don’t have any choice.
What have I said so far? That he was one of Ernest’ Ph.D. students, that he was scrawny, that he ate a lot. To which I can
add: He was prone to intense, one-sided crushes on girls whom he would persist in bothering long after they had told him to
get lost. (In modern parlance, a stalker.) He liked to boast that his IQ was 180, and that he was a member of MENSA—mostly,
he claimed, because it was a good place to meet girls. Glenn often made fun of him. Although in theory they were friends,
and worked together under Ernest on a number of projects, I always suspected that in his heart Phil hated Glenn, and envied
him, since Glenn had so much more success with women. Also academically, Glenn was the more successful of the pair. Phil was
a kind of genius, possessed of a rare instinct and passion for his subject, but he lacked Glenn’ self-discipline and savoir-faire.
He didn’t know how to dress or smile. Nor had he mastered the art, as Glenn had, of giving little Christmas gifts to the wife
of the boss, or flirting with his secretary. His papers were inspired and chaotic and might have been great, had he been able
to finish them. But he never could, and so his transcript was full of incompletes. We all liked Phil, and felt sorry for him.
But we adored Glenn.
Glenn was handsome. He had curly auburn hair that bleached blond in the summer, and wide eyes that he set off by wearing tiny
wire-rimmed glasses. No one knows this, but I had an affair with him in the months just after Daphne left him, when he had
been turned down for tenure at Wellspring but had yet to find another job. As a lover he displayed the same qualities of flash
and eagerness to please, as well as the slight whiff of pandering, that marked his academic career. Such an appeal, however,
gets dull in a fairly short order. I think what galled Phil was the impression, personified in Glenn, that the slick and the
mediocre will always win out over the clumsy and the brilliant. Glenn’ failure to get tenure was an intellectual vindication
from which Phil might have taken comfort, had he only shown a little more patience.
Whenever Phil and Glenn were in the house together with Ernest, there was a palpable tension in the air. This was because
Ernest played them off each other—for their own good, he insisted. I suppose he imagined that by flaunting his preference
for Glenn, he might ignite in Phil some healthy competitive spirit, induce him to pull up his bootstraps and develop a manner
to match his talents. But it never happened. Phil continued to stumble along, no doubt vexed by the favoritism that Ernest
showed Glenn—for example, by confiding in him, that Thanksgiving, the fascinating episode of Jonah Boyd “misplacing” his notebooks.
Ernest and Glenn worked together in interrogating Boyd, they made a spectacle of their alliance as mentor and disciple, which
Phil was forced to
“I’ve had a wonderful time,” she said.
“Have you? I’m so glad!”
Anne leaned in closer, so close that Nancy must have been able to smell the gin on her breath. “Listen, I know it’ late .
. . but what would you say to a little Mozart?”
Nancy’ eyes brightened. “Really?”
“Really.”
“May we listen?” asked Phil Perry.
“You will hear in any case,” Anne said. “Whether you choose to listen is up to you.”
Phil took the cue, and followed them into the living room, where he sat down on the sofa. I sat next to him. And so the reading
was followed by a recital the decided mediocrity and unmusicality of which, I was gratified to hear, was not to be explained
away by mere lack of practice. Magical harmonies indeed! Another small, if private, victory for me, on that night that was
to be marked by so many losses.
85
Seven
E VEN TODAY I don’t like to think about Phil Perry. But he plays a role in this story, and so I suppose I don’t have any choice.
What have I said so far? That he was one of Ernest’ Ph.D. students, that he was scrawny, that he ate a lot. To which I can
add: He was prone to intense, one-sided crushes on girls whom he would persist in bothering long after they had told him to
get lost. (In modern parlance, a stalker.) He liked to boast that his IQ was 180, and that he was a member of MENSA—mostly,
he claimed, because it was a good place to meet girls. Glenn often made fun of him. Although in theory they were friends,
and worked together under Ernest on a number of projects, I always suspected that in his heart Phil hated Glenn, and envied
him, since Glenn had so much more success with women. Also academically, Glenn was the more successful of the pair. Phil was
a kind of genius, possessed of a rare instinct and passion for his subject, but he lacked Glenn’ self-discipline and savoir-faire.
He didn’t know how to dress or smile. Nor had he mastered the art, as Glenn had, of giving little Christmas gifts to the wife
of the boss, or flirting with his secretary. His papers were inspired and chaotic and might have been great, had he been able
to finish them. But he never could, and so his transcript was full of incompletes. We all liked Phil, and felt sorry for him.
But we adored Glenn.
Glenn was handsome. He had curly auburn hair that bleached blond in the summer, and wide eyes that he set off by wearing tiny
wire-rimmed glasses. No one knows this, but I had an affair with him in the months just after Daphne left him, when he had
been turned down for tenure at Wellspring but had yet to find another job. As a lover he displayed the same qualities of flash
and eagerness to please, as well as the slight whiff of pandering, that marked his academic career. Such an appeal, however,
gets dull in a fairly short order. I think what galled Phil was the impression, personified in Glenn, that the slick and the
mediocre will always win out over the clumsy and the brilliant. Glenn’ failure to get tenure was an intellectual vindication
from which Phil might have taken comfort, had he only shown a little more patience.
Whenever Phil and Glenn were in the house together with Ernest, there was a palpable tension in the air. This was because
Ernest played them off each other—for their own good, he insisted. I suppose he imagined that by flaunting his preference
for Glenn, he might ignite in Phil some healthy competitive spirit, induce him to pull up his bootstraps and develop a manner
to match his talents. But it never happened. Phil continued to stumble along, no doubt vexed by the favoritism that Ernest
showed Glenn—for example, by confiding in him, that Thanksgiving, the fascinating episode of Jonah Boyd “misplacing” his notebooks.
Ernest and Glenn worked together in interrogating Boyd, they made a spectacle of their alliance as mentor and disciple, which
Phil was forced to
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