Straight Man

way below. Chairs are scraped back, and a dozen private conversations begin. The dramatic moment I’ve been waiting for approaches, so I shunt Teddy’s problems aside. A clever contortionist like William Henry Devereaux, Jr.,
can
have it both ways, I’ve decided, as I prepare, after a fashion, to join my colleagues. I remove the folded sheet of paper from my jacket pocket and fit it into the crease between the ceiling tiles. There is just enough room. Released into the atmosphere, it catches a draft and skitters into one of Billy Quigley’s hairy knuckles, startling him. He stares at it, confused. He looks around at the people nearest him for a sign as to where it came from.
    Gracie and Jacob come into view below, and I hear Gracie whisper, “What’s that smell?” I can’t help smiling. This is the first time I’ve ever used scent to overpower her.
    Jacob ignores this, having noticed the sheet of folded paper in front of Billy Quigley. “You might as well count them all,” he suggests to Finny, having apparently concluded that it’s another ballot.
    Billy, I can tell, has come to the same conclusion and is about to pass it on, but then he opens it and begins to read. When he’s finished, he wads it up and makes as if to fire it across the room at the wastebasket in the corner. To prevent this, I send him a telepathic thought. I see him receive it, clutch in midstroke, then unwad the sheet, as Finny announces the results of the vote: eighteen yes votes, favoring my recall, nine nos.
    “The chair is recalled by the necessary two-thirds majority,” Finny declares.
    My colleagues have begun to file out of the room when I hear Billy Quigley clear his throat.

CHAPTER
29
    Many things will occur to a man like me when trapped in a filthy crawl space, separated from light and camaraderie by asbestos-contaminated ceiling tiles and insulation. During the half hour since the vote, thirty long, hot minutes spent on my hands and knees, scuttling about in the dark, looking for a place to alight, I’ve reluctantly been forced to confront a dark reality. I appear to be a man in trouble. I have hated to admit to this, but facts are facts, and I know what William of Occam would conclude on the basis of these facts. As recently as late last week I was able to view Teddy Barnes’s concern for my well-being as alarmist. The consensus view of my friends and enemies alike, that I am out of control, a genuine loose cannon, is a view that, stubborn as I am, I would still like to contest. But here are the facts. I am nearly fifty years old. When I woke up today, I put on chinos, a blue button-down oxford shirt, a cloth tie, scuffed but serviceable loafers, the threadbare, tasteful tweed coat of my profession. I was then and I still remain, however temporarily, the chairperson of a large academic department in an institution of higher learning.I have written and published a book that was favorably reviewed in
The New York Times
. And I should not be trapped in urine-soaked trousers in the ceiling of Modern Languages, afraid to alight.
    Descending into my own office is no longer an option, even if I were willing to risk it in the dark. The corridor is full of my excited colleagues, flying into and out of their offices, and every few minutes one of them checks my office to see if I’ve returned. The dramatic developments of the department meeting have my colleagues all abuzz. They remind me of the wasps on Russell and Julie’s deck after Russell doused their hive with Raid. With the whole wide world to travel in, they persist in circling the hive. Agitated, they seek each other’s company and reassurance. They try every conceivable configuration.
    So. The men’s room being occupied, I descend into the women’s and quickly lock the door in order to prevent having to share with those persons who have a more legitimate claim. There I discover my condition is even worse than I have imagined. My pants have mostly dried in the forty-five minutes since I wet them, but they have also served as a magnet for all the dust, dirt, grime, asbestos fibers, and mouse droppings of the crawl space I’ve been confined in. In the long, fiercely lit wall mirror of the women’s room, I am a genuine sight. I have no idea how many women have studied themselves in this same mirror in the years since the building was constructed, but I’m certain it has never reflected a reality like this one. Even Lily, who predicted I was going to have a rough