A pity, then, that Miles and Antonio missed most of the last quarter. I wonder how they were received at home, and whether, in the aftermath, Miles neglected to mention Nasira was at the game. Why should the ticket I’d reserved for Jackie go to waste when it could be used to entertain my new lover? No surprise that Nasira was initially reluctant to attend, but of course I convinced her. Miles, ever the gentleman, had the pleasure of explaining the game to her—in French, no less. She appeared to enjoy herself, at least until Antonio reappeared, having left most of his brain elsewhere. Miles was duly embarrassed by his son, and they were soon gone, leaving Nasira and me to the game. She cheered when the field goal was missed and kissed me. She’s not demonstrative as a rule, which matches my own reserve, but also makes me long for Jackie and her bright flame. Who needs glowing embers when you can have fire?
On our way out of the stadium, I bought Nasira a Redskins jacket, the same style as Jackie’s. Maybe she’ll wear it to the lab one day soon.
As I said, what a game.
People are often surprised to learn of my interest in football. I am, after all, an erudite psychology professor, a recipient of a MacArthur Genius Grant. Shame on them for their elitism! I’m joking, but only a little. How can someone who studies the brain find pleasure in watching men smash their heads together? As with most choices, this one is the legacy of a screwed-up parent.
My father, Thomas Crispin, was a physics professor at Princeton. He couldn’t distance himself far enough, socially speaking, from the church supper/linoleum flooring/ambrosia salad upbringing of his small Kansas hometown. He married Lucy Appleton, the spawn of Boston Brahmins, for her pedigree and unfathomable wealth. When I was a boy, my father was keen for me to take up golf, tennis, and, if I were to insist on a team sport, lacrosse. With his brains and ambition and her money and connections, the new Crispins (not the Chevy-driving Kansans) could choose from an array of highbrow delights. But my father never got it right. The Appletons boarded their private jet in Brooks Brothers button-downs with frayed collars, sleeves rolled up, the backs of their boat shoes crushed under bare heels. Thomas tried to ape their cool but couldn’t pull it off.
As a boy, I despised the Appletons. Indifferent to everything—except their indifference, which they prized—they stood for nothing. If some of them worked in serious professions, it was with great irony. I observed how my father lubricated himself from head to toe so he might insert himself into their uptight assholes, and that made me despise him, too.
Even after my father won the Nobel, he stood outside the Appleton clan. In fact, the prize only made things worse, evidence, as it was, of a seriousness the Appletons found distasteful. Ambition was unseemly unless it was applied to something whose outcome mattered not at all, like a game of croquet.
Winning the Nobel made my father insufferable, as if it conferred celebrity status. What rubbish. A Nobel is not an Oscar. The winners are mostly dull, graying men, indistinguishable from the VP of a bank or a first-rate accountant, and their expressions are not imbued with brilliance. I know; I’ve studied them. While their headshots were being taken, they were thinking about an experiment or an equation or about the mortgage on their lake cabin two hours’ drive from the university.
Except my father. After he received the call from Sweden, he shoehorned a mention of the prize into every conversation, reminding everyone that it was one thing to be smart and quite another to produce success, reward, and a brief mention in every major newspaper in the world. I was twelve at the time and wanted to kick him. Instead, I sneaked into his office, lifted the medal from the glass-fronted case, and spat on it. I did rub it off. A year or so later, after my father said something particularly insulting to me, I jerked off on Alfred’s face and left it there. Perhaps the maid dealt with it.
Back to football. My father’s view of the sophisticated life did not include it (did he not see the Kennedys tossing the pigskin in their loafers?), so, naturally, nothing else would do for me. We battled over football, over many things, but my mother sided with me. For all her money, she was ordinary. She believed in happiness and fresh air and family get-togethers with gin and sailing. If I wanted to play football, what harm? She saw only the good in me and sought to counterbalance my father, who, for all his intelligence and striving, liked to backhand his son like the good old Midwestern trash he was. I was taller than he was by the time I reached my teens and stronger and faster. He was outmatched and, being a coward and lacking financial control, could only sputter.
Tall, broad, and quick, I played tight end. I could’ve played in college, but by that time my father didn’t care and neither did I. If I could’ve tolerated the pomposity of English or a similarly pointless major, I would’ve pursued it just to rankle him. Psychology was the compromise that became the perfect choice: scientific, if one chose the right specialty, but no possibility of a Nobel. And I have always had an interest in what makes people tick.
Some are complex, with a network of motivations not easily untangled. Jackie, for example. Perhaps Nasira, too, although I don’t know her well enough yet. They are driven by more than one concern and, as a consequence, are pulled in different directions, making their behavior harder to predict. Others are more Cartesian: as in a game of billiards, the vectors are obvious, and one can predict how the balls will break. Ha!
Miles is simple like that. He is weak and will always avoid conflict. Although he’s happier when the harmonious choice is also the morally correct one, harmony will win out. Don’t get me wrong, I like Miles; he’s my friend. We share interests (football, Jackie), he’s reasonably intelligent, and, as I am arguing, easygoing. Not lazy—allergic to friction. His son is the same. Take him to a football game, offer him some beer, pretend you don’t know what he’s doing at halftime . . . eight ball in the corner pocket.
Poor Miles. Burdened by a defective son and, now, a wife obsessed with someone else’s sex life. I wonder what Miles will do about that? Probably very little. He needs someone to give him a push, apply some steering.
And me? From the outside—which is to say, according to others—I am complex. I do hold myself back somewhat, creating a certain mystique, as Nasira does. I am charming when the situation calls for it and I’m in the mood and more businesslike at other times. Typically, I am positive and engaged, but also exacting; I think you’ve seen that. But that’s on the outside.
On the inside? Well, let’s just say I like a bit of friction.
Nasira’s Story
Jordan, 2012
I didn’t sleep on the five-hour flight from London to Amman despite my exhaustion. I was too nervous. My father, on the other hand, shoved a pillow between his head and the window and dropped off before the landing gear was stored. He can sleep anywhere, anytime, a necessity, I suppose, for a doctor regularly working eighteen-hour shifts.
A driver met us in Amman, took our bags, and drove us out of the city into the deepening night. It was like driving off the face of the earth, the way the light bled from the sky until the horizon failed. The stars winked on, as did the smattering of lights from towns, making it even less clear where the surface met the sky. The windows had been open a crack for ventilation, but now the driver closed them, against either dust or cold or both. The sealed car did nothing to help my feelings of being in neither one place nor another, only hovering between.