Summer Sons(76)

“Andrew,” called his mentor from across the bar.

He slipped his phone into his pocket. Tinted bar windows completed the time dilation that haunted his afternoon, plunging the table into an almost-twilight as he sat across from West. The other man looked severe and troubled, divots pinching at the sides of his mouth and a crease wrinkling his brow. One of his wrists crossed the other loosely on the tabletop, but his fingers were tense. Foam rings crept down the interior of the almost-empty pint glass in front of him.

“What was your long-ass meeting about?” Andrew asked.

“Everything, nothing. You’ll get it when you’re six years in. What do you want to drink? On me,” West offered.

“PBR is fine,” he said.

West got up and approached the dead bar, one other patron at the far side of the space their only company. Andrew heard West add his beer to the tab as clearly as the speaker quietly piping in The Ataris overhead. Not the most private space to have a harsh conversation, but not the least either. How much, exactly, did Eddie fuck up your life. He took the tallboy he was handed as West scooted his chair close to the table once again. Dim tinted bar-glow brought out the russet undertones of his skin, in handsome contrast to his silver rings and thin, short necklace. Once again, Andrew caught himself seeing.

“I’ve got to apologize one more time,” West said. He lifted his own glass in salute. “I’m usually punctual, but when she calls, I come running. I’m buried in diss work, and her schedule is tight, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“I don’t know, she’s made a lot of time for me. She’s real interested in Eddie’s work,” Andrew said.

“She has been since day one,” West said with an unsmiling quirk to the side of his mouth.

Andrew took the risk and said, “To use for herself, so far as I can tell. Which I guess you’re familiar with.”

West took one long gulp of his beer, maintaining eye contact, before responding, “Was that a question, or a statement?”

“I think it could be a question, if you have an answer. Or a story,” he said.

“Sounds like you’ve heard some gossip about her and me, the whole ugly situation.”

“Clear it up for me,” Andrew said without confirming or explaining.

The song overhead switched to a Top 40 pop jangle. West reclined in his chair. Fine wrinkles edged his narrowed eyes. “I handed her the material for her Novel article as part of my first dissertation proposal. To be direct, she stole that research. When I brought it up, she threatened to accuse me of plagiarism in turn; the department swept it under the rug, with a strong hint that it’d be best if I stopped rocking the boat, lest I find myself dumped overboard. All implicit, of course. That answer your question?”

“But you’re still working with her,” he said. “Doesn’t that piss you off?”

“Who else would I work with?” The pint glass clunked against the table as West scoffed at him. “After selecting my committee and working with the same advisor for years, it’s a bad look to suddenly request a change. And, furthermore, if an accusation I had evidence for was dismissed, how do you expect they’d receive my request to change advisors? You’ve got the same stroke of luck with her Eddie did. She’s interested right now, but I’d advise you finish quick before she gets distracted.”

“Like she got distracted from you when Eddie showed up?” Andrew asked, frowning.

“Exactly. Use her interest while it lasts, or you’ll be fighting for every inch of cooperation,” he said, brittle and warning as he cast Andrew a pointed look. “Or maybe you won’t. Both of you have something else in common with her that I don’t benefit from, if you get my drift.”

“Guess the meeting didn’t go well,” Andrew ventured, pushing another inch.

“No, funnily enough it was mostly about you,” West snapped—the crack he’d been hoping for. “You and Eddie. She had pointed questions about his missing notes, as if I’m the one with a history of stealing research. Frankly, I’d have thought she had them.”

“So you didn’t take it on yourself to keep his notes, instead of her,” Andrew said. The tips of West’s ears flushed a deep mauve-red as he stared Andrew down over the table, then pushed his almost finished pint to the side.

“No, I didn’t. Thanks for asking as if I weren’t aware of the implications of the question. I’m getting out of here. Sorry again for missing our meeting—I’m sure Doctor Troth can catch you up better than me.”

He stood with a shriek of his chair on the tile.

“Wait,” Andrew said.

West strode with purpose toward the door and straight out of it, bell jingling merrily overhead. In profile, obscured by the tinted window, he snarled something inaudible and took off, away from the campus.

The bartender said, “He didn’t close the tab.”

“I’ll sign for it,” Andrew said.

He left his unfinished beer on the table and a seventy-five percent tip on West’s dime. Trekking from the bar through campus to the garage took him past the entrance to the humanities building. He considered the lit windows on the top floor, unable to pinpoint which might be Troth’s. Instead of going upstairs, he dropped his backpack on the lawn and sprawled next to it, breathing in the living smell of crushed grass. He typed a quick email to the professor on his phone to summarize his conversation with Masterson and his plans to continue pursuing the list over the course of the week. To close, he added, Would it be productive for me to share my findings with Thom as I retrace these steps? I understand that his research area is similar to Ed’s and mine but am unfamiliar with his work. Baiting a trap or sticking his fingers in one, he wasn’t sure which he was doing.