Haven with a girlfriend, a little blond thing who’d followed him from Penn State and was enrolled in Yale’s School of Nursing. Sylvie would see the two of them around campus, Richard bouncing on the balls of his feet as he walked, gesturing as he spoke, and the little blonde gazing up at him from his side. Then, at some point, the little blonde disappeared.
She and Richard had been in classes together, in the library together, probably even at parties together, but they didn’t speak for the first time until a funeral in December of their second year in law school. One of their classmates, a thin, intense dark-eyed boy named Leonard King, had fallen off a fourth-story roof late one night. (“Fallen off” was the official version, the one printed in the Yale Daily News and the New Haven Register , which referred to his death as a “tragic accident.” Among his classmates, Leonard’s death was widely assumed to have been suicide.)
All of the 2-L’s attended a memorial service in the campus chapel. Leonard’s parents had wept distressingly in the front row, his mother tottering on her heels before her husband and a son who was a younger, bespectacled version of Len wrapped their arms around her and followed Leonard’s coffin out the door. Sylvie, in a black lace-trimmed skirt and a thin blouse several shades lighter, the most appropriate clothes she’d been able to find, had been shivering, picking her way across the slush and ice when suddenly Richard was beside her. “Let me give you a hand,” he said. He reached for her backpack.
“No, I’m fine,” she said. Richard’s thin-soled dress shoes slid on a patch of ice and the next thing she knew, he was flat on his ass beside her.
“Ow,” he said, startled. “Ow, shit!” His legs were splayed out in front of him, his socks drooping, his pants legs riding up, exposing his hairy calves. She grabbed his hand to pull him upright but couldn’t get enough purchase with her silly high-heeled shoes, so she wound up on top of him, her chest pressed against his, both of them on the wintry, wet ground, laughing until tears ran from her eyes. She knew it was ridiculous, and that poor Richard’s pants were soaked and probably ruined, but the day had been so terrible, and it felt good to laugh.
Richard finally got to his feet, then pulled Sylvie upright. “You okay?” he asked, and she nodded, her cheeks flushed from the cold and, maybe, from the feeling of his solid chest against hers.
He picked up her backpack, and they started walking together back toward the campus. “I have to say,” he told her, “this wasn’t how I thought our first conversation would go.”
She looked at him sideways. He’d imagined a conversation they might have? That was pleasant to consider.
“You’re Selma Serfer’s daughter, right?”
She nodded, feeling less pleased. None of her other fellow students would ever bring up Selma, and all of them took pains to act surprised when Sylvie mentioned her mother, as if they were learning new information, when, of course, they all knew exactly who Sylvie was and to whom she was related.
“Watch your step,” he said, pointing out an iced-over puddle. “Learn from my mistakes.” Once they were past it, he said, “I’ll bet it was something, growing up with a mother like that.”
“Honestly, I just wish she was a better cook.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them—it was a horrible thing to say, an antifeminist thing to say—but Richard had just nodded.
“It’s a choice, right? Preeminent legal mind of her generation or makes a good potpie. And speaking of pot … pie …” He waited for her to laugh, then said, “My housemates and I are having a party Friday night.”
Sylvie lifted an eyebrow—as an undergraduate, she’d practiced this maneuver in the mirror until she could raise her left eyebrow independently, which served her well in class. “Oh, yeah?”
He rattled off his address.
She and Richard had been in classes together, in the library together, probably even at parties together, but they didn’t speak for the first time until a funeral in December of their second year in law school. One of their classmates, a thin, intense dark-eyed boy named Leonard King, had fallen off a fourth-story roof late one night. (“Fallen off” was the official version, the one printed in the Yale Daily News and the New Haven Register , which referred to his death as a “tragic accident.” Among his classmates, Leonard’s death was widely assumed to have been suicide.)
All of the 2-L’s attended a memorial service in the campus chapel. Leonard’s parents had wept distressingly in the front row, his mother tottering on her heels before her husband and a son who was a younger, bespectacled version of Len wrapped their arms around her and followed Leonard’s coffin out the door. Sylvie, in a black lace-trimmed skirt and a thin blouse several shades lighter, the most appropriate clothes she’d been able to find, had been shivering, picking her way across the slush and ice when suddenly Richard was beside her. “Let me give you a hand,” he said. He reached for her backpack.
“No, I’m fine,” she said. Richard’s thin-soled dress shoes slid on a patch of ice and the next thing she knew, he was flat on his ass beside her.
“Ow,” he said, startled. “Ow, shit!” His legs were splayed out in front of him, his socks drooping, his pants legs riding up, exposing his hairy calves. She grabbed his hand to pull him upright but couldn’t get enough purchase with her silly high-heeled shoes, so she wound up on top of him, her chest pressed against his, both of them on the wintry, wet ground, laughing until tears ran from her eyes. She knew it was ridiculous, and that poor Richard’s pants were soaked and probably ruined, but the day had been so terrible, and it felt good to laugh.
Richard finally got to his feet, then pulled Sylvie upright. “You okay?” he asked, and she nodded, her cheeks flushed from the cold and, maybe, from the feeling of his solid chest against hers.
He picked up her backpack, and they started walking together back toward the campus. “I have to say,” he told her, “this wasn’t how I thought our first conversation would go.”
She looked at him sideways. He’d imagined a conversation they might have? That was pleasant to consider.
“You’re Selma Serfer’s daughter, right?”
She nodded, feeling less pleased. None of her other fellow students would ever bring up Selma, and all of them took pains to act surprised when Sylvie mentioned her mother, as if they were learning new information, when, of course, they all knew exactly who Sylvie was and to whom she was related.
“Watch your step,” he said, pointing out an iced-over puddle. “Learn from my mistakes.” Once they were past it, he said, “I’ll bet it was something, growing up with a mother like that.”
“Honestly, I just wish she was a better cook.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them—it was a horrible thing to say, an antifeminist thing to say—but Richard had just nodded.
“It’s a choice, right? Preeminent legal mind of her generation or makes a good potpie. And speaking of pot … pie …” He waited for her to laugh, then said, “My housemates and I are having a party Friday night.”
Sylvie lifted an eyebrow—as an undergraduate, she’d practiced this maneuver in the mirror until she could raise her left eyebrow independently, which served her well in class. “Oh, yeah?”
He rattled off his address.
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