The Corrections

the absence of dregs in the wine bottles on it. He’d used the last $220 of credit on his Visa card to buy eight bottles of a rather tasty Fronsac, and on Saturday night he’d thrown one last dinner party to rally his supporters on the faculty. A few years ago, after D——’s drama department had fired a popular young professor, Cali Lopez, for having claimed to have a degreeshe didn’t have, outraged students and junior faculty had organized boycotts and candlelight vigils that had forced the college not only to rehire Lopez but to promote her to full professor. Granted, Chip was neither a lesbian nor a Filipina, as Lopez was, but he’d taught Theory of Feminism, and he had a hundred-percent voting record with the Queer Bloc, and he routinely packed his syllabi with non-Western writers, and all he’d really done in Room 23 of the Comfort Valley Lodge was put into practice certain theories (the myth of authorship; the resistant consumerism of transgressive sexual (trans)act(ion)s) that the college had hired him to teach. Unfortunately, the theories sounded somewhat lame when he wasn’t lecturing to impressionable adolescents. Of the eight colleagues who’d accepted his invitation for dinner on Saturday, only four had shown up. And despite his efforts to steer the conversation around to his predicament, the only collective action his friends had taken on his behalf had been to serenade him, as they killed the eighth bottle of wine, with an a capella rendition of “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien.”
    He hadn’t had the strength to clear the table in the intervening days. He considered the blackened red leaf lettuce, the skin of congealed grease on an uneaten lamb chop, the mess of corks and ashes. The shame and disorder in his house were like the shame and disorder in his head. Cali Lopez was now the college’s acting provost, Jim Leviton’s replacement.
    Tell me about your relationship with your student Melissa Paquette .
    My former student?
    Your former student .
    I’m friendly with her. We’ve had dinner. I spent some time with her at the beginning of Thanksgiving break. She’s a brilliant student .
    Did you give Melissa any help with a paper she wrote last week for Vendla O’Fallon?
    We talked about the paper in a general way. She had some areas of confusion that I was able to help her clear up .
    Is your relationship with her sexual?
    No .
    Chip, what I think we’ll do is suspend you with pay until we can have a full hearing. That’s what we’ll do. We’ll have a hearing early next week, and in the meantime you should probably get a lawyer and talk to your union rep. I also have to insist that you not speak to Melissa Paquette .
    What does she say? That I wrote that paper?
    Melissa violated the honor code by handing in work that was not her own. She’s facing a one-semester suspension, but we under stand that there are mitigating factors. For example, your grossly inappropriate sexual relationship with her .
    That’s what she says?
    My personal advice, Chip, is resign now .
    That’s what she says?
    You have no chance .
    The snowmelt was raining down harder on his patio. He lit a cigarette on the front burner of his stove, took two painful drags, and pressed the coal into the palm of his hand. He groaned through clenched teeth and opened his freezer and put his palm to its floor and stood for a minute smelling flesh smoke. Then, holding an ice cube, he went to the phone and dialed the ancient area code, the ancient number.
    While the phone rang in St. Jude, he planted a foot on the section of Times in his trash and mashed it down deeper, got it out of sight.
    “Oh, Chip,” Enid cried, “he’s already gone to bed!”
    “Don’t wake him,” Chip said. “Just tell him—”
    But Enid set the phone down and shouted Al! Al! at volumes that diminished as she moved farther from the phone and up the stairs toward the bedrooms. Chip heard her shout, It’s Chip! He heard their upstairs extension click into action. He heard Enid instructing Alfred, “Don’t just say hello and hang up. Visit with him a little.”
    There was a rustling transfer of the receiver.
    “Yes,” Alfred said.
    “Hey, Dad, happy birthday,” Chip said.
    “Yes,” Alfred said again in exactly the same flat voice.
    “I’m sorry to call so late.”
    “I was not asleep,” Alfred said.
    “I was afraid I woke you up.”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, so happy seventy-fifth.”
    “Yes.”
    Chip hoped that Enid was motoring back