Not because of what he said.
Because of how badly he wanted to say it before I said anything else.
“He studied here,” I said. “Didn’t he?”
Hartwell stood up so suddenly his chair rolled back and hit the filing cabinet.
“This meeting is over.”
“You know who he was.”
“I know,” Hartwell said, “that you are one failed hearing away from expulsion.”
He came around the desk and opened the door.
“If I were you, I would withdraw before this becomes public.”
“It already is public.”
His jaw twitched.
“Then save what little dignity you have left.”
I stood up.
“I didn’t cheat.”
“Then you’re a fool,” he said. “Just like—”
He stopped.
I took one step toward him.
“Just like who?”
His eyes went dead flat.
“Get out.”
I walked out of that office carrying a paper that said fraud, but what pressed on me harder was the part he almost said.
Just like.
Just like who.
I knew the answer before I was brave enough to admit it.
Just like my father.
That night I called my mother.
She picked up on the third ring.
“Hey, baby.”
I almost hung up.
I almost lied and said I was just checking in.
Instead I said, “Mom, I need to ask you something about Dad.”
Silence.
Not normal silence.
Not thinking silence.
The kind of silence that has been waiting twenty years for a door to open and is terrified it finally has.
“What happened?” she said.
“A professor at school accused me of cheating. I told him I learned the method from Dad’s notebooks. When I said Dad’s name, he looked—”
My mouth went dry.
“He looked like he knew him.”
“Who is the professor?” she whispered.
“Richard Hartwell.”
I heard my mother break.
There is no other word for it.
A breath hitched.
Then another.
Then a small sound like somebody trying not to cry in front of a child.
“Mom?”
“Come home this weekend.”
“What?”
“Come home, Isaiah.”
Her voice shook so hard I had to pull the phone away from my ear for a second.
“There are things I should have told you a long time ago.”
Leave a Comment