Wonder Boys - Michael Chabon [108]
“I like what you’ve done with it,” said Crabtree, sidestepping one of the iron trees, looking around the room. Some of the bulbs in the candelabras’ branches were the kind that pretend to be flickering flames. “When’s Captain Nemo moving in?”
James blushed, though whether at the question or at the sudden proximity of Crabtree I couldn’t say. He seemed to be a little frightened of Crabtree, which was not necessarily unwise of him.
“It’s just a bunch of my gran’s old stuff,” he said, taking a step away from Crabtree. “She was going to throw it out.”
“Your gran?” I said. “That’s who I met tonight?”
James didn’t say anything.
“Hey, I heard all about all of it, the parents, the grandparents, and I believe you, okay?” said Crabtree with patent but, as ever, somehow credible insincerity. “That’s why we’re here.” He glanced over toward James’s desk, beside the television, an elaborate rolltop number with gilt handles and a matching oak swivel chair. On the desktop there was an old manual Underwood with a piece of paper rolled into the carriage, a paragraph arrested in midphrase, and beside the typewriter a neat pile of paper, the uppermost sheet half covered in single-spaced text. “What were you writing?”
James looked taken aback by the question. He hurried over to the desk, gathered up the typescript, and stuffed it into one of the drawers.
“Just another story,” he said. He slammed the drawer closed. “It sucks.”
“Bring it,” said Crabtree, beckoning to James with one hand. “I want to read it.”
“What? You mean now?” He looked over at an electric office clock that hung from the wall beside his bed. He’d replaced the standard face with a black-and-white photograph of a plump, wild-eyed movie actor with a pair of mad mustaches whose face was familiar to me—he was a character actor from the thirties. “But it’s so late.”
“It’s not late, man, it’s early,” said Crabtree, making an argument and fixing James with a look I myself had succumbed to many times at three-thirty in the morning when Crabtree felt persuaded that there were hours more of fun to be had. “I thought Grady said you didn’t want to be here anyway.”
“I didn’t,” said James, succumbing. “I don’t.”
“So all right, then.”
James grinned. “All right,” he said. “Let me get dressed.”
“Wait,” I said. They both turned to look at me. “I don’t know about this.”
“What’s the matter?” said Crabtree.
“I have to tell you, James,” I said. “I’m feeling like you’ve been fucking with me again.”
“Why?” He looked alarmed. “What did I do now?”
“You made it sound like they were going to bring you home and throw you into a weasel pit,” I said. “You live in a fucking castle, here, buddy.”
James looked down at his hands.
“James,” said Crabtree, “did you tell Grady that your parents—”
“They’re my grandparents.” He looked up at me defiantly. “They are.”
“Sure they are.” Crabtree smiled thinly. “Did you tell him that your grandparents were going to bring you home, James, and throw you into a weasel pit?”
“No, I don’t think so.” ‘
“Well, then.” Crabtree punched me on the arm, as if to say, There now, you see? “Go get dressed.”
“All right.” He went over to the bed and scooped up the pile of clothes I’d lent him that morning. “Can I—could I wear these again, Professor Tripp?” he said.
I looked at him and then shrugged.
“Ah, what the fuck,” I said.
He flinched, and I saw that somehow I’d hurt his feelings. He nodded, slowly, and stood there for a minute, fiddling with the collar of my flannel shirt. Then he turned and walked away, dragging his feet a little. He disappeared through one of a pair of doors at the back of the room. After a second we could hear the whirring of a bathroom fan.
“So modest,” said Crabtree with admiration or mock admiration.
“Huh.”
“Oh, come on, Tripp. Why’re you so mad