The Marriage Plot - Jeffrey Eugenides [76]
One night, Coleman Young, the mayor, came in with a group of mobsters. One of them, vicious with drink, directed his ragged gaze at Mitchell.
“Hey, you. Motherfucker. Come over here.”
Mitchell came over.
“Fill my water glass, motherfucker.”
Mitchell filled his glass.
The man dropped his napkin on the floor. “I dropped my napkin, motherfucker. Pick it up.”
The mayor didn’t look happy, sitting with this crew. But dinners like these were part of the job.
At home, Mitchell counted his tips, telling his parents how cheap India was going to be. “You can live on like five dollars a day. Maybe less.”
“What’s the matter with Europe?” Dean said.
“We’re going to Europe.”
“London’s a nice spot. Or France. You could go to France.”
“We’re going to France.”
“I don’t know about this India,” Lillian said, shaking her head. “You’re liable to catch something over there.”
“I’m sure you are aware,” Dean said, “that India is one of the so-called ‘nonaligned’ nations. You know what that means? It means they don’t want to choose between the U.S. of A. and Russia. They think Russia and America are moral equivalents.”
“How will we get in touch with you over there?” Lillian asked.
“You can send letters to American Express. They hold them.”
“England’s a nice spot,” Dean said. “Remember when we went to England that time? How old were you?”
“I was eight,” Mitchell said. “So I’ve been to England. Larry and I want to go someplace different. Somewhere non-Western.”
“Non-Western, eh? I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you go to Siberia? Why don’t you visit one of those gulags they’ve got over there in the Evil Empire?”
“Siberia would actually be pretty interesting.”
“What happens if you get sick?” Lillian said.
“I won’t get sick.”
“How do you know you won’t get sick?”
“Let me ask you this,” Dean said. “How long do you expect the trip to be? Two, three months?”
“More like eight,” Mitchell said. “Depends on how long our money holds out.”
“Then what are you going to do? With your degree in religious studies.”
“I’m thinking of applying to divinity school.”
“Divinity school?”
“They have two tracks. People go either to become ministers or theologians. I’d go the scholarly route.”
“And then what? Be a professor somewhere?”
“Maybe.”
“What does a religious studies professor make?”
“I have no idea.”
Dean turned to Lillian. “He thinks this is a minor detail. Salary range. Minor.”
“I think you’d make a wonderful professor,” Lillian said.
“Yeah?” Dean said, contemplating this. “My son the professor. I suppose you could get tenure with a deal like that.”
“If I’m lucky.”
“That tenure’s a good deal. It’s un-American. But it’s nice work if you can get it.”
“I have to go,” said Mitchell. “I’m late for work.”
What he was late for, actually, was his catechism class. Unbeknown to anyone, as secretly as if he were buying drugs or visiting a massage parlor, Mitchell had been attending weekly meetings with Father Marucci, at St. Mary’s, the Catholic church at the end of Monroe Street. When Mitchell had first rung the bell of the rectory, and explained his reasons, the stocky priest had looked at him dubiously. Mitchell explained that he was thinking of converting to Catholicism. He spoke of his interest in Merton, especially Merton’s own tale of conversion, The Seven-Storey Mountain. He told Father Marucci pretty much what he’d told Professor Richter. But either because Father Marucci wasn’t terribly concerned about making converts or because he’d seen Mitchell’s type before, he hadn’t pressed hard. Giving Mitchell some materials to read, he’d sent him on his way, telling him to come back and talk if he wanted.
Father Marucci was straight out of the old Boys Town movie, as gruff as Spencer Tracy. Mitchell sat in his office, overawed by the large crucifix on the wall and the