Oh, Lord. He has no idea how right he is. But I agree.
The three of us survey the options around us. There’s such a blur of students out today, and it takes me a moment to start looking at them individually. Not far ahead, I see a white-haired older man in a long wool coat, with a plaid scarf tucked in neatly under the collar. He walks with an elaborately carved cane, although he doesn’t appear to rely on it much. I suddenly very much want to know who this older gentleman’s best friend is.
“Him.” I point subtly.
“Professor Gaylon? Bold choice.” Esben exhales. “Wish me luck.” He throws back his shoulders and marches ahead.
“Who’s Professor Gaylon?” I whisper to Kerry.
She’s trying not to laugh as she holds up the camera. “He’s an econ teacher not known for his affable nature. I’m soooooo glad you picked him!” Kerry scurries to catch up to her brother.
When I reach them, Esben is trying to cajole the professor into talking. “C’mon, you don’t have a best friend? You’d really help me out here. Just a few words?”
“Wouldn’t your time be better spent studying instead of engaging in this video nonsense?”
“How about we make a deal?” Esben is throwing out every bit of charm he has. “You do this really quick interview, and I’ll put in two extra hours of studying tonight.”
Professor Gaylon narrows his eyes and pokes his cane in Esben’s direction. “Deal. Make it snappy.”
Esben gestures to Kerry, and she moves in to film.
“So, tell us about your best friend.”
“I don’t have one. There. That’s your interview!” snaps the professor.
He starts to leave, but Esben stops him.
“Hey, hey, wait! You don’t have any friends? Who would you call in a crisis?”
“911.”
“Are you married? Any family?”
“No. Never wanted to deal with a wife. Family’s all dead.”
Esben rubs his lips together. “Okay. Who do you call just to talk? When you need someone to lean on? When you want to go out to dinner?”
The professor is suddenly silent. For too long. Esben looks unusually uncomfortable.
I may not be as cranky as this man, but I do know bitter and hard. Without thinking, I step forward. “What about a former friend? Who did you used to call?”
The man jabs toward me with his cane. “That girl’s smarter than you.” He repositions his cane, then stands tall.
I step in closer. “What was his name?”
“Jerry DuBois. That son of a bitch.”
Esben drops his head to hide his smile. “Oh my.”
“You had a falling out?” I ask.
The professor’s voice is sharp. “Falling out? I cut that man out of my life.”
“Why?”
“I made a mistake. I got into business with DuBois. Went in on some real-estate deal he said would make us a fortune. I had my doubts, but Jerry was my good friend. I trusted him. And he screwed me over. Lost it all.” He shakes his cane. “Never do business with a friend, kid.”
“What happened? He took your money and never gave you your profit?”
“What? No, nothing like that.” The professor searches for words. “It was a bad deal. The market didn’t behave the way we thought it would. I was broke after. My fiancée left me.”
“But it was just a bad deal. It wasn’t intentional . . . ,” I offer.
“I still lost everything,” he snaps.
“What about when things were good?” I want to know. “Why was he your best friend?”
“We played cards, went drinking. Jerry liked a strong whiskey sour, and I always had a martini. Straight up with a twist.” He makes a spinning motion with a finger. “Jerry was an English professor at the University of Maine, and he was always trying to get me to read Shakespeare and whatnot. I tried, for him . . .” The professor smiles a bit. “He made me go to see As You Like It once. Guess what? I actually liked it! Jerry told really bad jokes and had terrible taste in women, but he . . . he was my friend. When my brother died, Jerry was in Chicago, and he drove across the country to be with me. Stood next to me when we buried him.”
“So, Jerry wasn’t all bad,” I say.
Professor Gaylon looks at me. “No, he wasn’t all bad.”
“How long has it been since you’ve spoken?” I ask.
“Oh gosh . . . probably thirty-some years.” He thinks for a long minute. “Thirty-six this June.”
“Do you miss him?”
“Maybe I do. Maybe I do.” He speaks more softly now, thoughtfully.
“Can you forgive him?”
“We were young. Not smart with money. And he was right when he said my fiancée was a money-grubber. He said she should have stayed no matter what. That was true. So, maybe I could forgive that bastard.”
“Would you like to call him?” Esben asks.
“Kid, you are somethin’ else.” The professor clearly finds this idea amusing. “I wouldn’t know how to find him. He could be anywhere now.”
Esben can type on his phone faster than anyone I’ve seen, and it takes him all of ten seconds to hold up the screen to Professor Gaylon. “Jerry DuBois. Professor of English at Boston University. Phone number is 617—”
“He’s in Boston? Well, damn, he always wanted to teach in Boston.” The professor’s face lights up, and he touches his hand to the screen. “Look at that. He’s got more wrinkles than I do.”
“Should we try his office?”
Professor Gaylon nods.
Esben calls the number and hands the phone over, while we all wait anxiously.
“Jerry DuBois?” the professor barks. “This is Carter Gaylon. So, you’re in Boston now, you old bird. I called to say that if you buy me an expensive surf-and-turf dinner I will forgive you.” He frowns and listens. “Fine . . . we can negotiate. Yes, fine. Saturday, it is . . . No, I don’t need directions. I know how to Google Map.” He thrusts the phone back at Esben. “Maybe you’re not so dumb after all.”
Kerry points at the whiteboard, and Esben hurriedly scribbles #jerry #bestfriend on it and snaps a picture.
Without another word, Professor Gaylon turns and leaves. There is, however, a slight jauntiness to his step.
CHAPTER 17
SPECTRUM
I’m stretched on my stomach on Esben’s bed, with a textbook open to one of the most boring chapters in the history of textbook chapters, but I am forcing myself to pay attention. The November weekend weather is dreary and miserable, the sound of the rain pattering against the window, so it’s a good day to snuggle up inside and work. Esben is sitting in his chair, with his feet kicked up on the desk. He has been engrossed in a book for one of his lit classes, and he’s barely looked up in the past two hours since we came back from lunch. So, I’m startled when he suddenly drops the book and slides the chair the few feet it takes to reach the end of the bed.
“Allison?”
I can’t tell if he’s mad or what, but there’s a somewhat confused look on his face that I’m not able to read. “Yeah?” I ask nervously.