back in the bathroom of the Toronto Country Club. Suzy thanks her for the name of that summer camp for her daughter — it worked out very well, she says, and gave them all a much-needed break from each other. Judith tells Suzy how much she enjoyed her class. Suzy says it was great for her to have someone there she already knew. Then, walking together to Suzy’s office to get the book, they commiserate about the major restructuring at the law firm where Bobby and Dennis both work. It’s called “Bonham Bailey Bomberg” (which makes Judith think of the Barnum & Bailey circus). She says BBB should no longer be called a firm, but a shaky, and Suzy laughs. Judith follows her up two flights of stairs and along a gloomy, serpentine corridor with two bends in it right before the end. Inside Suzy’s office, there are red flowering plants hanging from the windows, bright and cheerful French Impressionist posters on the walls (all Mediterranean sun and sea, with ships in the harbour), two bookcases filled with books and knick-knacks, and a deep cream-coloured carpet on the floor. The carpet looks so inviting she wants to kick off her sandals and wiggle her toes in it. But instead she stands politely in the doorway while Suzy searches for the book. Judith is star-struck by the many thick, professional, knowledge-filled books, and the two framed diplomas on the far wall. Suzy, she guesses, is only a few years older than her — maybe five, eight at the most. More the age difference of a big sister than another generation. But look, she thinks, how far ahead of me she is. I’m a student and she’s a professor.
“Here it is,” says Suzy. “Hot off the press. The publisher just sent me this. But keep it as long as you want — I’m not in any rush for it. Just let me know what you think of it when you’re done.”
“Sure,” says Judith, taking the book. “Thank you.”
Suzy stands there silently, apparently waiting for her to go.
“Bye,” says Judith.
“Bye. See you next week.”
She starts down the long, dark hallway. She feels strangely emotional, almost ecstatic, yet also wanting to cry. Something about the way Suzy stood with her back to her as she searched among the books reminds her of her mother. She had that same lightness, slightness of build. Trim, tidy, and self-contained. She and her mother were never close, but now for some reason she misses her. And this missing her is laced with guilt. She was in Israel when her mother first got sick, and no one at the time realized how serious it was. So she didn’t rush back to see her, and the next thing she knew, her mother was dead.
”How could you have known?” her father said. “None of us knew. Don’t blame yourself.”
But of course she did. She could have known. She should have known. Now she forces herself to keep walking, and to distract herself, she opens Suzy’s book and starts reading. She skims the Table of Contents, then starts on Chapter One: “Cognitive Belief Systems and Their Impact on Emotion.” It’s engagingly written and very interesting, and she gets immersed in it as she walks down the deserted hallway. She’s going at quite a good clip, frowning down at the page as she reads, when, turning a corner, she crashes right into someone coming toward her.
“I’m sorry!” she cries, leaping back.
“Well, well,” says Weick. “A student already engrossed in her schoolwork. How admirable. What are you reading?”
“A book,” says Judith, immediately feeling foolish. But she doesn’t want to share Suzy’s book with him (even its title), as if it were something secret or private, like an intimate gift.
“Yes, but which one?” asks Weick, and before Judith knows what’s happening, he reaches out and snatches away the book. She stands there empty-handed, feeling naked somehow, while he peers at the cover and then leafs through the pages. He’s reading the words she was just reading, and she feels almost like he is leafing through her. “It’s on cognitive therapy,” she says lamely.
“So I see,” he says, still reading. Then he thrusts the book back at her, and contemplates her with open curiosity. She feels herself blush and looks down. He says, “You’re here rather late for the first day of class. I thought everyone buggered off as soon as they possibly could. You must be a keener.”
“I was talking to someone,” she says uncomfortably.
“Were you now?” Weick cranes his head theatrically in all directions, looking around the empty hallway. Judith notices for the first time that it’s very ill-lit. Ill-lit, she thinks, and illicit. Just one letter different (c). “I don’t see anyone here,” Weick says, bringing his face quite close to hers, his breath smelling of liquor. She wants to pull away, but can’t. She’s frozen. But she manages to choke out a sentence: “I was talking to Suzy.”
“I see,” he says, drawing back. As if Suzy’s name were a magic charm that brought instant safety, like a cross held up to the devil. “Is she still in her office?”
“Probably. I just left her a minute ago,” says Judith, comforted by the thought of Suzy still relatively nearby. Maybe just a shout away.
“Oh, good, I have something to ask her.” Now Weick squints at Judith. “You’re in one of my classes, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I’m in ‘Knowledge and Values.’”
“That’s right, I thought you looked familiar. What’s your name again?”
“Judith Gallanter.”
“Oh, yes. Teenagers in Conflict, wasn’t that you?”
Judith smiles in spite of herself. She’s surprised he was even listening during the student go-around and flattered he remembered her. But also it’s comical the way he said “Teenagers in Conflict.” Like a headline from one of those sensationalist tabloids: Man Beats Wife To Death With Boiled Cauliflower.
“Yes,” she says, “that’s me.”
Weick’s eyes narrow. “Very interesting. I must hear more about that sometime. Well, nice ‘running into’ you, Judith. See you in class.”
“Sure.” She turns and watches his back as he strides toward Suzy’s office.
In the parking lot, Judith sees Cindy carrying a wobbling armful of books toward a green van. She hurries over and helps her unload them onto the back seat, already cluttered with a carseat, baby toys, and a huge bag of diapers. Cindy’s been in the library since Suzy’s class ended, and she shows Judith all the books she’s signed out, offering to pass them on to her when she’s finished with them. Judith thanks her and shows her Suzy’s book, making the same offer. Then Judith tells Cindy about her little run-in with Weick. Cindy snickers, rolling her eyes.
“Typical,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, let’s just say …” Cindy says hesitantly, “he has a reputation for getting a little too friendly with some of his female students.”
“Really?! How do you know this?”
Cindy shrugs. “You’re from Toronto, but I live here. In a place the size of Dunhill, word gets around. Everyone knows everyone else’s business. He had this very nice wife, apparently. A social worker at the school board, but she left him for someone else — five, maybe six years ago. It all started then. But don’t tell anyone I told you.”
“Of course not. I would never.”
Cindy
