“What about the conference?” Anne asks.
“I agreed to stay on as chairperson. Nothing about it will change.”
There’s silence for a minute before Jessica makes a noise of irritation.
“This sucks,” she mutters, shooting me a glare. “You’re the best professor in this department. The best professor at King’s. I started my dissertation the year you were hired. And now I’m supposed to finish it without you? What the hell?”
Guilt claws at me. I hate the look of betrayal in her eyes. Jessica was my first student at King’s. She and I have worked on her research from the beginning.
“I’m not going to abandon any of you,” I tell her. “Jessica, I’ll do whatever I can to see your dissertation through. And the rest of you too. Whatever the administration lets me do, I will. Read your work, help with research, facilitate the transition to the new professor. You all have my email and phone number. You can contact me any time.”
A couple of the students nod, but Jessica won’t meet my gaze. She stares out the window, her arms folded and mouth tight.
“I’m sorry.” Because there’s nothing else I can say, I push my chair back. “It’s been an honor and a pleasure working with all of you. Please know that my door is always open to you.”
I return the folders of their work to them, grab my briefcase, and take the stairs out of the building to the quad. I inhale a few deep breaths before getting out my cell. Liv responds before the first ring ends.
“Hi,” she says. “Are you okay? How did it go?”
“As Jessica would say, it sucked,” I mutter.
“Oh, Dean. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well, it’s over. I just hope it doesn’t affect their work in any way. They know I’ll help however I can.”
“Of course they know that. Are you still at the university? Can you come over to the café?”
“I’m going to stop at home and change. Thought I’d go do some work on the Butterfly House.”
“Okay. You call me if you need me.”
“I always need you.”
“Likewise.” The smile in her voice eases some of my regret.
I end the call and take another breath. Spring is at its peak now, the trees full of green leaves, the sky etched with white clouds. Students trudge across the quad with backpacks and paper cups of coffee, their heads bent, earbud wires trailing over their shoulders.
No question I’m going to miss it. I’ve always been at home in academia, at universities, in lecture halls and classrooms. Teaching has always been the one thing I know how to do well.
My phone buzzes with a voicemail. I access it and listen.
“Professor West, my name is Louise Butler,” says a woman. “I’m a curator at the Clearview Art Institute. I used to be married to Jeffrey Butler. I heard through the grapevine that you’re planning to resign from King’s. If possible, I’d like to speak with you. It’s important.”
During the week following my resignation announcement, I field phone calls and emails from faculty members, staff, former colleagues, advisors, as well as several universities and museums asking if I’m looking for another position yet.
Though the professional interest is gratifying, I’m not leaving the area any time soon, no matter how prestigious the job. Liv has spent the past few years moving with me for visiting professorships and postdoc positions, and there’s no way I’m uprooting her again. Especially not since she now owns a business.
I don’t return Louise Butler’s call. The whole farce is over with, and I suspect she’s not contacting me about a job inquiry.
When the initial furor wanes a little, I call my father in California. I haven’t told him anything about this, knowing he’ll be disappointed, but resigning from my job isn’t something I can hide.
“Why did you do it?” he asks. “Did they deny you tenure?”
“No. I’m not up for tenure yet.”
I stare at the wall of our living room. I’ve always been the good son. No, the perfect son. I’ve tried hard to be. I’d thought it was like building a castle or a fortress—an indestructible image of perfection reinforced by the successful West family, my renowned career, accolades, the IHR grant, countless publications.
Now I realize that I’d built a house of cards that could collapse with one breath.
“I had some legal trouble,” I finally say, and then I just tell my father everything. He’s spent the past twenty-five years thinking I’m the ideal son. Time to tell him there’s no such thing.
He’s quiet as I relay the whole mess—Maggie Hamilton’s charge, the investigation, my unofficial suspension, the reason I went to Italy, Edward Hamilton’s possible donation to the university law building, his threats against Liv.
All the reasons the battle was lost before I even had a chance to fight.
“Do you have a lawyer?” my father asks.