He Who Shall Remain Nameless

This guy was one of my college professors. American Religious History. Sects & Cults. A couple of other things. He supervised my junior year independent study thesis on Edgar Cayce. He was about 15 years younger, I guess, than he is in this photo. About 60 then.

He wore a certain red woven tie on occasion, and I'd comment that I liked it, and when I graduated I found the tie, still carrying his scent, in a checkbook box in my mail drop with the note "Bless be the tie that binds" and a smiley face. Corny, but I was touched. I liked the guy enough.

I went on to grad school, and a few times he called me at night, checking in. We got to talking--he got to talking--about his wife, and her chronic depression, and how it wore on him. Every now and then he'd send a note, wishing me good things, etc. I found it touching.

When I moved to New York for work, he called and said that he and his wife were coming to the city for a conference, and they wanted to take me to lunch. Why not? We met someplace, and they sat across the table from me, and he kept complimenting me--on my dress, on my hair, blah blah blah. His wife was nice enough; quiet, with a tired smile. I'd only met her once before, briefly. But the complimenting was uncomfortable for me, and for her too, I imagined. When we said goodbye, she gave me a quick hug and a smile, and then he gave me this lingering hug and ran his hand up under my shirt onto my back, and then held my hand as he moved away, so that there was a moment when this little old man had his hand outstretched to me as he was backing away toward his wife. Who was not smiling.

A week later I got a letter from him. He loved me. He had things he wanted to share with me, show me. He was overcome. I was 23.

I was not kind. I was pissed. Here I'd been--so attached to the guy in the loveliest, most avuncular terms, and he fucked it up. I didn't respond at first, and when he began to call, I wrote and told him not to contact me again. Years later, he wrote to blast me: to tell me how cruel I'd been, how uncaring, how unprovoked my hostility had been. I wrote back, though this time less angrily. The facts of the matter are enough. Turns out I wasn't the only student he'd turned to for, er, understanding.

Every time the alumni magazine comes, I turn first to the obits to see if he's there yet. I know the card I'd send to his wife, and exactly the words I would say. Turns out, in this issue, that she's died first. In my heart, I know he's glad she's gone. I know he's drinking up the sympathy; sympathy is his wine and his method. Fucker.