and gray. Yale couldn’t feel his fingers, but he waited till he couldn’t feel his head either.
He walked back and into Bill’s office. He felt like he needed the bathroom, but it was just nerves. He said, “Call Chuck Donovan and tell him you’re going to fire me. Ask if that would make things better, if he can call off Frank then. Make it like you’re striking a business deal. He’ll like that.”
“I’m not firing you!” Bill said.
“I’ll quit before you can fire me.”
It was like vomiting everything bad out of his body, like somehow this would set not just the gallery right but the universe.
He said, “Even if this lawsuit is ridiculous, you won’t get funding while it’s dragging on. You can’t ask the board—”
Bill said, “Yale.” But already he looked brighter.
“Just call him and see if it’ll work.”
Bill’s shoulders dropped. He looked at the ceiling, covered his mouth with his hand. He said, “You know that if it comes down to it, I’ll write you a hell of a letter of recommendation.”
Even though Yale had asked for this, Bill’s acceptance of the idea was a bullet to the gut. “Call right now,” he said. “I’ll wait in my office.”
* * *
—
Yale opened his top drawer. There were at least fifty ballpoint pens, most inherited with the desk. He took one and squiggled a line on his legal pad. It didn’t work at first, but then it did. He put it in the empty mug by his left hand, and then he forgot what he was doing and sat there blinking. Then he remembered and grabbed the next pen and tried it, and it was dead, and he dropped it into the trash can, where it landed too loudly. The next two were dry, the next clotted, the next fine. He went through all the pens. Twelve good ones. Two with Northwestern logos, a few plain Bics, a couple of fancy erasable ones, a few cheap ones advertising insurance companies. At least Yale guessed that was the writing on the sides; he couldn’t focus his eyes.
When Bill walked in ten minutes later, Yale already knew from his face—the pained, hesitant look that didn’t quite cover his relief—that it had worked.
“I think it’s going to pan out,” he said. “I mean your—your idea. What I said to him. It’s all about ego for him.”
“I know.”
“You’re a genius, Yale. You realize that? And now the problem is I’ve lost my genius. That’s a fine kettle of fish, isn’t it. He said he felt listened to, and then he started going on about something with the music school. We’ll see how things play out. Maybe we can—maybe he’ll move on to other things, and we can reverse this all.”
“No.” Yale could hear his own flat voice with remarkable clarity, as if on tape, some message he’d recorded years ago. “If it works, let’s not mess with it.”
“I want you to finish your projects first. We can’t have the office empty. Yale, I want to say that—”
Yale said, “If you can spare me next week, I’ll go to Wisconsin.”
“Yes! Fantastic! And take Roman!” Bill said it as if Roman were a consolation prize. When he left, he made a great show of closing the door quietly.
Yale considered both his stapler and his Rolodex, and decided on the latter. He picked it up and hurled it, with all his strength, at the wall.
* * *
—
That next Tuesday, Yale rented the most expensive car he could, a red Saab 900, and he charged the snacks he bought to his university credit card as well. He picked up Roman outside his apartment on Hinman—he’d made sure to give Roman an out, but Roman had wanted to go—and they drove down Lake Shore Drive to scoop up Fiona.
Fiona was along to appease Debra. They weren’t close, but Fiona was the one who’d called up there, told Debra how Yale had been fired, made her feel as guilty about it as she could. She’d told Debra that Yale wanted to say goodbye to Nora and that she wanted to see Nora, too, and Debra could call her father or even the police for all she cared, but they’d be there. “The last part probably wasn’t necessary,” Fiona said, “but I’d practiced it, so I said it.”
Yale figured Fiona’s presence would reassure Roman too; it would be a nice buffer. And Fiona hadn’t seen Nora since the wedding where she’d first told her about Yale and the gallery. Yale