Laura Dave - The Last Thing He Told Me

I open my phone and I plug his name into the search engine. How many professors with the name Tobias Cookman could there be who teach college-level mathematics? And more specifically gauge theory and global analysis?

One that I find, one who is teaching theoretical mathematics. One who has dozens of accolades and awards for his teaching. One who, from the set of photographs that pop up, looks just as surly as Owen has described him. Wrinkled brow, a deep frown. And, for some reason, in many of the photographs he is also perpetually clad in red cowboy boots.

Professor Tobias “Cook” Cookman.

He has never worked at Princeton University.

But for the last twenty-nine years, he has been on the faculty at the University of Texas at Austin.

It’s Science, Isn’t It?

We take a cab this time.

Bailey stares down at her hands, not blinking, looking more than a little stunned. I’m spinning too, working to hold my center. It’s one thing when a private investigator intuits that your husband’s name is different, that the details of his life are different. But if this pans out—if Owen took this class with this Professor Cookman—it’s our first piece of proof, real proof, that Owen lied about the story of his life. It’s the first proof that my instinct was right, that his story, Owen’s real story, somehow may begin and end in Austin. It feels like a victory that we are moving closer to the truth. But when the truth is taking you somewhere you don’t want to go, you also aren’t sure. You aren’t sure you want that win.

The cab pulls up to the College of Natural Sciences—a collection of buildings that’s bigger and more expansive than my entire liberal arts college, campus and dorms included.

I turn and look at Bailey. She is taking in the buildings—the relaxed green running through and around them.

Even considering the circumstances, it’s hard not to be impressed, especially when we get out of the car and start walking through the green and over the small bridge that leads to the Department of Mathematics.

The building that is home to UT’s mathematics, physics, and astronomy departments. The ego wall proudly showcases that this building graduates hundreds of the most impressive science and math students in America each year. And it’s also home to Nobel Prize winners, Wolf Prize winners, Abel Prize winners, Turing Award winners, and Fields Medal winners.

Including our Fields Medal winner, Professor Cookman.

As we take the escalator up to his office, we see a large poster of Professor Cookman’s face. Same frown, same wrinkled brow.

The poster reads: TEXAS SCIENTISTS CHANGE THE WORLD. And it lists some of Professor Cookman’s research, some of his awards. Fields Medal winner. Finalist for the Wolf.

We arrive in front of his office and Bailey cues up her phone to a photograph of Owen, the oldest photograph either of us has with us in Texas—in the hope that Professor Cookman is someone who is willing to look at it.

The photograph is from a decade ago. Owen is hugging Bailey after her first school play. Bailey is still in costume and Owen has his arms wrapped proudly around her shoulders. Bailey’s face is mostly obscured by the mess of flowers he gave her—gerbera daisies and carnations and lilies, a bouquet larger than her whole body. Bailey is peeking out from behind the flowers, a big smile on her face. Owen is looking at the camera. Happy. Laughing.

It’s almost too much to look at the photograph, especially when I zoom in on Owen. His eyes bright and lively. Almost like he’s here. Almost like he could be here.

I try to give Bailey a supportive smile as we walk inside and find a graduate student sitting behind a desk in the outer office. She wears black wire-rim glasses and is focused on grading a thick stack of student papers.

She doesn’t look up, doesn’t put her red pen down. But she clears her throat.

“Can I help you?” she says, like it’s the last thing she wants to do.

“We are hoping to speak with Professor Cookman,” I say.

“That much is obvious,” she says. “Why?”

“My father’s an old student of his,” Bailey says.

“He’s teaching,” she says. “Besides, you need an appointment.”

“Of course, but what Bailey here is trying to explain to you is that she too is interested in becoming a student. At UT. Like her father. And Nielon Simonson, over in admissions, suggested that she sit in on Professor Cookman’s class today.”

She looks up. “Who in admissions?” she asks.

“Nielon?” I say, trying hard to sell the name I just made up. “He said if Cook can’t convince Bailey to come here, no one can. He thought she should sit in on his class today.”

She raises her eyebrows. My use of his nickname Cook stops her, makes her believe me.

“Well, class is half over, but if you want to sit in on the rest of it, I guess I can take you down there…”

“That would be great,” Bailey says. “Thanks.”

She rolls her eyes, uninterested. “So let’s do this,” she says.

We follow her out of the office and walk down several staircases until we arrive at a large lecture hall.

“When you walk in, you’ll be at the front of the class,” she says. “Don’t stop. Don’t look at Professor Cookman. Head up the stairs and go directly to the back of the lecture hall. Got it?”

I nod. “Sure.”

“If you disrupt his class in any way, he’ll ask you to leave,” she says. “Believe me.”

She opens the door and I start to thank her, but she puts her finger to her mouth, shushing me.

“What did I just say?”

Then she is gone, shutting the door behind her, leaving us inside.

We stare at the closed door. Then we do what she said. I keep my eyes straight ahead as we walk up the staircase, heading to the back of the lecture hall, passing the eighty-something students who fill the seats.

I motion to a spot against the back wall and we head there, trying to make ourselves invisible. Only then do we turn and face the room.

Professor Cookman stands at the front, behind a small podium. In person, he looks to be about sixty and no taller than five foot five, even in those red cowboy boots, which seem to add an extra few inches.

Everyone’s eyes are on him. Everyone is focused. No one is whispering to his or her neighbor. No one is checking email. No one is sending texts.

As Professor Cookman turns to write something on the large blackboard, Bailey leans toward me.

“Nielon Simonson?” she whispers. “Did you make that up?”

“Are we standing here or not?” I say.

“We are.”

“So what does it matter?”

I think we are being quiet, but we are loud enough that someone in the back row turns and looks at us.

What is worse, Professor Cookman stops writing on the blackboard and turns too. He glares at us, the whole class following suit.

I feel myself flush and look down. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t turn away from us either. Not for a good minute. A minute that feels like it’s lasting far longer than that.

Thankfully, eventually, he turns back to the blackboard and continues his lecture.

We observe the rest of class silently and it’s easy to see why everyone is so focused on Professor Cookman. Despite his stature, he’s an impressive man. He runs the class like a show, captivating his students. And maybe, also, scaring them. He only calls on students who aren’t raising their hands. When they know the answer, Cookman looks away, no acknowledgment. When a student doesn’t know the answer, he keeps his eyes on the offender. He stares until it is uncomfortable, a little like he looked at us. Only then does he call on someone else.

After he writes a final equation on the board, he announces that the class is over and he dismisses everybody for the day. The class streams out and we head down the stairs to where he stands by his desk, packing his messenger bag.