make up reasons for it.”
So it really is an Orwell novel. The place I go to school.
“Is that what happened with Jim?” I ask after a moment.
Dekker waits a moment too. “What happened with Jim,” he says at last, “is complicated.”
“Yeah, but you said they wanted to get rid of him from the very beginning.”
Dekker holds up his hands. “I didn’t say that exactly.”
“Yes you did, Professor Dekker.”
Dekker pauses to creak backward in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head. For a moment I’m afraid he might flip over.
“Oh boy,” he says when he finishes stretching. “If I did, if I did say that, I would ask that you forget it.”
“You said it to the whole class.”
“Oh boy,” Dekker says again. Now he looks like he wishes he would flip over. Me left talking to his mute, exclamation-point legs.
And in walks Jim.
Like a ghost invoked.
“Hi!” I scream before anyone can say anything else. The adrenalin—the Jim-adrenalin—that wild, gleeful, fork-in-an-outletpanic—hits me like freezing water.
“Jim,” says Dekker, creaking out of his chair to his feet.
He crosses the room in an eye-blink and they shake hands like crazy. I watch them, vision pulsing. I’m standing too, I realize. After a moment Jim stops shaking but doesn’t let go of Dekker’s hand. He reaches with his other hand for Dekker’s shoulder. He folds Dekker to him—Dekker just kind of letting himself drift in, looking dreamy. They pat backs like crazy. Pufts of dust explode from Jim’s hunting jacket, twinkling around in the stream of sunlight coming through Dekker’s window.
“How are you?” says Dekker, drawing back, coughing slightly.
“Illegitimi non carborundum,”
answers Jim. His voice is heavy, full of phlegm and gravel.
Dekker grins but doesn’t seem to know how to respond. “It’s good to have you back,” Dekker says. “It’s good to have you back,” he repeats when Jim doesn’t answer.
Jim allows the dusty silence to hang a moment longer. “I want to thank you,” he says finally, deflating as he sighs the words out.
“Oh, Jim,” balks Dekker, “for what?”
“I heard about your letter.”
“It was nothing.”
“No,” says Jim. “You stuck your neck out, Bryant.”
Dekker looks around, shaking his head, trying to form words.
“You stuck your neck out. For me.”
Dekker raises his hands, still speechless.
“I want you to know that I know that. And that I appreciate it.”
Dekker, it would seem, is as tongue-tied around Jim as everyone else is. He flails around a bit more before his eyes light on me.
“Lawrence,” he says, and Jim turns, nods funereally.
“Hi, Larry.”
“Hi, Jim!”
“It’s Lawrence you should be thanking,” says Dekker.
My jaw drops in preparation to deny it. Jim’s forested eyebrows plunge—his most intimidating gesture, because you know it could mean anything. He looks that way when he talks of poems he loves. He looks that way when he talks of poems he hates.
“Is that right?” interrogates Jim.
Dekker beams his relief from the weight of Jim’s gratitude, explaining, “He and some other students have initiated a—a sort of campaign.”
Jim’s eyebrows descend practically to the tip of his nose.
“We’re just writing a letter,” I say. “Like Professor Dekker.”
“He’s going to get all the students to sign it.”
“All the students?” says Jim. His brows ease up. His mouth opens.
“All the students in the department, at least,” Dekker amends.
“No!” I say, and Dekker’s lips twitch in surprise.
“All
the students. We’ll get the whole student body involved.”
Jim takes a step toward me, eyebrows and overbite looming.
“We’ll take it to the president’s office,” I babble. “We’ll take it to Waldine Grayson if we have to. We’re behind you, Jim. All of us—”
And then I can’t talk, I’ve got a mouthful of wood-smoked jacket.
There’s music in my head instead of poetry now.
So it really is an Orwell novel. The place I go to school.
“Is that what happened with Jim?” I ask after a moment.
Dekker waits a moment too. “What happened with Jim,” he says at last, “is complicated.”
“Yeah, but you said they wanted to get rid of him from the very beginning.”
Dekker holds up his hands. “I didn’t say that exactly.”
“Yes you did, Professor Dekker.”
Dekker pauses to creak backward in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head. For a moment I’m afraid he might flip over.
“Oh boy,” he says when he finishes stretching. “If I did, if I did say that, I would ask that you forget it.”
“You said it to the whole class.”
“Oh boy,” Dekker says again. Now he looks like he wishes he would flip over. Me left talking to his mute, exclamation-point legs.
And in walks Jim.
Like a ghost invoked.
“Hi!” I scream before anyone can say anything else. The adrenalin—the Jim-adrenalin—that wild, gleeful, fork-in-an-outletpanic—hits me like freezing water.
“Jim,” says Dekker, creaking out of his chair to his feet.
He crosses the room in an eye-blink and they shake hands like crazy. I watch them, vision pulsing. I’m standing too, I realize. After a moment Jim stops shaking but doesn’t let go of Dekker’s hand. He reaches with his other hand for Dekker’s shoulder. He folds Dekker to him—Dekker just kind of letting himself drift in, looking dreamy. They pat backs like crazy. Pufts of dust explode from Jim’s hunting jacket, twinkling around in the stream of sunlight coming through Dekker’s window.
“How are you?” says Dekker, drawing back, coughing slightly.
“Illegitimi non carborundum,”
answers Jim. His voice is heavy, full of phlegm and gravel.
Dekker grins but doesn’t seem to know how to respond. “It’s good to have you back,” Dekker says. “It’s good to have you back,” he repeats when Jim doesn’t answer.
Jim allows the dusty silence to hang a moment longer. “I want to thank you,” he says finally, deflating as he sighs the words out.
“Oh, Jim,” balks Dekker, “for what?”
“I heard about your letter.”
“It was nothing.”
“No,” says Jim. “You stuck your neck out, Bryant.”
Dekker looks around, shaking his head, trying to form words.
“You stuck your neck out. For me.”
Dekker raises his hands, still speechless.
“I want you to know that I know that. And that I appreciate it.”
Dekker, it would seem, is as tongue-tied around Jim as everyone else is. He flails around a bit more before his eyes light on me.
“Lawrence,” he says, and Jim turns, nods funereally.
“Hi, Larry.”
“Hi, Jim!”
“It’s Lawrence you should be thanking,” says Dekker.
My jaw drops in preparation to deny it. Jim’s forested eyebrows plunge—his most intimidating gesture, because you know it could mean anything. He looks that way when he talks of poems he loves. He looks that way when he talks of poems he hates.
“Is that right?” interrogates Jim.
Dekker beams his relief from the weight of Jim’s gratitude, explaining, “He and some other students have initiated a—a sort of campaign.”
Jim’s eyebrows descend practically to the tip of his nose.
“We’re just writing a letter,” I say. “Like Professor Dekker.”
“He’s going to get all the students to sign it.”
“All the students?” says Jim. His brows ease up. His mouth opens.
“All the students in the department, at least,” Dekker amends.
“No!” I say, and Dekker’s lips twitch in surprise.
“All
the students. We’ll get the whole student body involved.”
Jim takes a step toward me, eyebrows and overbite looming.
“We’ll take it to the president’s office,” I babble. “We’ll take it to Waldine Grayson if we have to. We’re behind you, Jim. All of us—”
And then I can’t talk, I’ve got a mouthful of wood-smoked jacket.
There’s music in my head instead of poetry now.
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