David Bell - Never Come Back

“You can always withdraw for the semester, or take an emergency leave. Everybody would understand, and they’d hold your funding for you.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think that’s necessary,” I said.

Dan must have heard a hint of irritation in my voice because he said, “You don’t like that I said that, do you?”

“This is why I don’t like spending time with you,” I said.

“Ouch.”

“I’m sorry. I just mean… you know me too well.”

“Well,” Dan said, “we can’t have any of that, can we?”

“One day at a time,” I said. “Okay?”

“Sure. And your brother and the stuff we talked about last night?”

“I’ll see him later. And I’ll check in with Paul. You know, if my mom wants me to help take care of my brother, I need to stay in school and get a job. I can’t help him out if I’m working at McDonald’s.”

“Then I’ll get off your case.” He kissed the top of my head and stood up. “I have to go. But we can talk later, if you want.”

“Sure,” I said. “And, Dan? Thanks. It was good talking to you.”

“I’m glad you came by,” he said. “And don’t worry.”

He didn’t explain, so I asked, “Worry about what? My family?”

“About me,” he said, smiling. “I won’t assume that this means anything. You know, you staying here and sleeping with me.”

My face flushed. “Dan.”

“Hey,” he said. “I’m glad you came by because I really needed to get laid.”

I had just enough time to go back to my apartment—which seemed smaller and darker than the last time I was there—shower, dress, and grab my things before going to campus. I felt like I’d already missed too many classes. Anyone who has ever been in graduate school would understand what I was experiencing: sheer panic. I assumed the academic world had passed me by, that all the best resources had been given out to my peers, that all the great ideas and themes had been written about, that I was hopelessly behind and would never catch up. Indeed, as I drove the ten minutes from my apartment to campus, I convinced myself that my future did indeed lie in a McDonald’s restaurant somewhere, that I would spend the rest of my life wearing a hairnet and dishing up salty fries.

But the reality wasn’t that bad.

Everyone had heard the news by then, and everyone understood. My fellow grad students offered their condolences, and I even found a bouquet of flowers sitting on my desk and a card signed by almost everyone I knew, including Dan. My professors were sympathetic and encouraged me to take my time getting my personal life in order and catching up. Even the biggest hard-asses among them expressed sympathy, and I realized a fundamental truth about humanity: we all have mothers, and no one wishes ill on anyone’s mother.

Even the students in the introductory section of American History One I taught had heard the news and sheepishly nodded their sympathy to me when I walked into the classroom. I had prepared nothing to teach. Nothing at all. If someone had put me on the spot and asked me to name the first president of the United States I would have been stuck for an answer. But I soldiered through. I reached into the professor bag of tricks, put them in small groups, and let them discuss the day’s reading assignment, which was something I hadn’t even read yet. It worked, and I made it through my first day back.

When I walked out of that classroom, I felt spent. It was late in the afternoon, nearing four o’clock, and I hadn’t checked in with Paul all day for an update on Ronnie’s condition. I looked at my phone as I walked through the hordes of students, and the only thing that brought me a measure of relief from guilt was the fact that Paul hadn’t called. I would have felt worse if he had contacted me, if he had needed me, and I had missed it.

“Hey, Dr. Hampton.”

I stopped. The voice sounded familiar but I couldn’t locate its source in the crowd. I had almost started walking away, thinking that maybe I had been hearing things, when the voice called again.

“Over here, Dr. H.”

And then I knew the source.

I turned, and as the crowd thinned and parted, I saw my summoner. Neal Nelson. He stood over six feet tall and soaking wet couldn’t have weighed more than 130 pounds. He wore a scraggly beard, one that would have looked more at home on the face of a fifteen-year-old than on a college student. And he wore a thick green army jacket even though the temperature remained warm and comfortable. I walked over to him.

“Hello, Neal.”

“Dr. H. Good to see you.”

“I’ve told you before you shouldn’t call me ‘doctor,’” I said. “I’m a graduate student, not a professor. I don’t have my PhD yet. I don’t even have a master’s degree.”

“Bah,” he said, waving his hand in front of his face. “What’s that word people use? Semitics?”

“Semantics.”

“That’s it,” he said. “You’re my favorite professor.”

“You’ve only been in my class for a month, and you’ve only showed up half the time.”

“And you’re not a dick about it,” he said. “That’s what I like about you, Teach. I’m sorry I wasn’t there today. Something came up, but at least I’m here in the hallway now that class is letting out.”

He smiled down at me, one side of his mouth curling up. His eyes were blue, and he knew how to squint them in just the right way that I couldn’t be mad at him. He wasn’t that much younger than me, probably just five years or so, and I made certain to leave enough space—both physical and emotional—between us.

“Well,” I said. “Maybe you’ll make it to class again this semester.”

As I was turning away, he said, “I’m real sorry about your mom. It’s a shitty thing.”

I turned back. “How did you hear about that?” I asked. “Did you actually come to class when they announced it?”

“I read the paper,” he said. “People need to know what goes on in the world, so I follow the news.” He took a step closer and lowered his voice. “I also saw that it was foul play.” He shook his head, his face sincere. “I don’t know what I can say about that. It’s brutal. I’m sorry, you know? Your mother and everything. Shit.”

“Thanks, Neal.”

“I had an uncle once who met with that kind of trouble.” He shook his head again. “It rips your guts out, Teach. Totally out.”

On that point, he was onto something—I hadn’t heard it put better.

“You’re right,” I said. “It does.”

“If there’s anything I can help you with, just let me know. My old man, he knows things.”

“Things?”

“He likes to help people,” he said. “And so do I.”

“Thanks, Neal. But if you want to help someone, help yourself. Come to class more often.”

I ran into Dan as I was packing my things and getting ready to leave for the day. I hadn’t seen him since he left his apartment that morning, and I suspected he’d been trying to give me a certain amount of space while we both did our work. But he found me just before I left and asked if everything had gone okay on my first day back.

I heaved a theatrical sigh. “Well, I didn’t break down crying. And I convinced a roomful of students that I possessed some degree of competence. I’d call all that a success.”

“Great.”

I knew he wanted to ask me where I was going and what I was doing. But he didn’t. He gave me all the space he thought I wanted.

“Have a good night, then,” he said and walked away.

He did exactly what I wanted, and I hated it.

I arrived at Dover Community after five o’clock and signed in at the nurses’ station.