I named the song.
He said, “S.R.V. He was the man. Sad, huh? Struggles his whole life with dope and booze, plays bars for chump change, finally gets sober, makes it big, and the damn plane goes down. Talk about an object lesson.”
“Live life to the fullest,” I said.
“Live life and don’t worry. Be happy—like that other song. Been telling that to patients for years, now I’m following my own advice. Not that it took courage or some big-time follow-your-bliss thing to motivate me. I got lucky—bought in at ground level with a start-up software company, turned a penny stock into dollars. Ten years of bad stock tips from my brother-in-law, finally one pays off. We’re not talking private jet here, but now if I don’t like the taste of something I don’t have to eat it. The kids are in college and Jan’s law practice is doing fine. Life is shockingly good, thanks to dot-corn madness. The company’s going to shit, but I’ve already sold.”
“Congratulations.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Even traded the Honda for a Jag— Don’t hate me ’cause I’m beautiful.” He shifted in his chair, cracked his knuckles. “So what brings you here? Doing some teaching yourself?”
“No, I’m trying to locate a student named Lauren Teague.”
“Locate as in . . . ?”
I told him about the seven-day absence, implied without spelling it out that Lauren had once been a patient, emphasized Jane Abbot’s anxiety.”Poor lady,” he said. “So you were here and just dropped in?”
“No, I thought you might be able to help me. Lauren told her roommate she had a research job here, but that doesn’t seem to be true. She was in four classes last quarter, one of them your Intro Social section. I’m checking with all the profs, see if anyone remembers her.”
“Lauren Teague,” he said. “I sure don’t. Had five hundred plus kids in that class. What others did she take?”
I named the courses.
“Let’s see,” he said. “Herb Ronninger is out in the Indian Ocean somewhere studying violent preschoolers—his class pulls over six hundred, so even if he were here I doubt he could help you. De Maartens and Hall are young-buck new-hires, and Learning and Perception tend to be a bit smaller. Let me call them for you.”
“I already tried their offices. Do you have home numbers?”
“Sure.” He found and copied the listings, handed them to me.
“Thanks.”
“Lauren Teague,” he said, putting his glasses back on. He opened a bottom desk drawer, rifled papers for a while, pulled out a list of names and grades. “Yeah, she was enrolled all right. . . . Did well, too. Very well—eighteenth out of 516. . . . Good, solid A’s on all her exams. . . . B plus on her paper.” More scrounging produced another list: “‘Iconography in the Fashion Industry.’ Oh, her.”
“You remember her.”
“The model,” he said. “I thought of her that way because she looked like one—all the basics: tall, blond, gorgeous. And when I read the paper, I figured she’d been writing from experience. She also stood out because she was quite a bit older than the average junior—pushing thirty, right?”
“She’s twenty-five.”
“Oh,” he said. “Well, she seemed older. Maybe because she dressed maturely—pantsuits, dresses, expensive-looking stuff. I remember thinking, this girl has money. Kind of aloof, too. She used to sit in the back by herself, take notes constantly. Never saw her with any other students. . . . So why’d I give her a B plus on the paper? . . . If the students want them, I hand them back, don’t know if she picked hers up … but I do keep a comment card. . . .” Bending low, he began tossing papers out of drawers, created a high pile on the desk. “Okay, here goes.” He flourished a stack of rubber-banded blue index cards. “My notes say, ‘High on anger, low on data.’ If I remember, it was a bit of a screed, Alex.”
“Anger at the fashion industry?” I said.
“From what I recall. Probably the usual feminist stuff—woman as meat, subservient roles coerced by unrealistic conceptions of femininity. I get at least two dozen every quarter. All valid points, but sometimes they substitute passion for facts. I really can’t remember this particular paper, but if I had to guess, that would be it. So she left without telling Mom. Is that an aberration?”