Laura Dave - The Last Thing He Told Me

It seems like he doesn’t see us, continuing to pack up his papers. But then he starts speaking.

“Do you make it a habit to interrupt lectures?” he says. “Or should I count myself as special?”

“Professor Cookman,” I say. “I’m sorry about that. We didn’t mean for you to hear us.”

“Do you think that makes it better or worse?” he says. “Who are you exactly? And why are you in my classroom?”

“I’m Hannah Hall. And this is Bailey Michaels,” I say.

He looks back and forth between us, searching for more. “Okay.”

“We’re looking for some information about a former student of yours,” I say. “We’re hoping you might be able to help us.”

“And why would I do that?” he says. “Especially for young women who disrupt my class?”

“You might be the only one who can,” I say.

He holds my eyes, as if taking me in for the first time. I motion to Bailey, who hands Professor Cookman her phone, the screen opened to the photograph of her with her father.

He reaches in his shirt pocket and pulls out a pair of glasses, turns his gaze to the phone.

“The man standing next to you in the photograph?” he says. “Is he the former student?”

She nods but stays quiet.

He tilts his head, takes in the photo, like he is truly trying to remember. I try to help jog his memory.

“If we have his correct graduation year, he took your class twenty-six years ago,” I say. “We were hoping you might know his name?”

“You know he took my class twenty-six years ago?” he says. “And you don’t know his name?”

“We know the name he goes by now, but we don’t know his real name,” I say. “It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time for the short version,” he says.

“He’s my father,” Bailey says.

They’re the first words out of Bailey’s mouth and they stop him. He looks up, meets Bailey’s eyes.

“How did you tie him back to me?” he says.

I look to Bailey to see if she wants to answer, but she is quiet again. And she looks tired. Too tired for sixteen. She looks up at me and motions. She motions for me to jump in.

“It turns out that my husband made up a lot of details… about his life,” I say. “Except he did tell us a story about you, about the influence you had on him. He remembers you fondly.”

He looks back down at the photograph, and I think I see a flicker in his eyes when he stares down at Owen. When I look at Bailey, I know she thinks that she’s noticed the same thing. But, of course, this is what we want to see.

“He goes by Owen Michaels now,” I say. “But he used to go by a different name, when he was your student.”

“And why did he change his name?” he says.

“That’s what we’re trying figure out,” I say.

“Well, I’ve taught many students over the years and I can’t say I know him,” he says.

“If it helps, we’re fairly certain it was your second year of teaching.”

“Maybe memory works differently for you, but in my experience, it gets harder the further away you get.”

“In my recent experience, it’s all pretty much the same,” I say.

He smiles, taking me in. And maybe he sees it, what we are going through, because his tone softens.

“Sorry, I can’t be of more help…” he says. “Maybe try the registrar’s office. They could possibly steer you in the right direction.”

“And what are we going to ask them?” Bailey says.

She’s trying to stay controlled. But I see it. I see her anger brewing.

“Excuse me?” he says.

“I’m just saying, what are we going to ask them? If they have a student on file who now goes by Owen Michaels but used to go by something else?” she says. “This person who has apparently evaporated into thin air?”

“Yes, well, you’re not wrong. They probably wouldn’t be able to help with that…” he says. “This really isn’t my forte though.”

He hands Bailey her cell phone.

“I wish you both luck,” he says.

Then he puts his bag over his shoulder and starts walking toward the exit.

Bailey stares down at her phone, back in her hands. She looks scared—scared and desperate—Professor Cookman moving away from her, Owen moving nowhere closer. We thought we were getting closer. We found Owen’s professor. We got here. But now Owen just feels farther away. Which may explain why I call out to Professor Cookman, why I refuse to just let him leave.

“My husband was the worst student you ever had,” I say.

Professor Cookman stops walking. He stops walking and turns around, facing us again.

“What did you just say?” he says.

“He loves to tell this story about how he struggled in your class and, after killing himself studying for the midterm, you told him that you were going to keep his exam in a frame in your office as a lesson to future students. Not as a how-to on applying yourself, but more like, at least I’m not as bad as that guy is.”

He stays quiet. I keep talking, filling the silence.

“Maybe that is something you do with a student every year, especially since you had him so early on, and really by then who could have been a worst anything? But it worked with him. He believed you. And instead of it frustrating him, it made him want to work harder. To prove himself to you.”

He still doesn’t say anything.

Bailey reaches for my arm, like that is something she does, trying to pull me back, to let him go.

“He doesn’t know,” she says. “We should go.”

She is eerily calm, which is somehow worse than when I thought she was going to lose it.

But Professor Cookman isn’t moving, even though he is off the hook.

“I did frame it,” he says.

“What?” Bailey says.

“His exam. I did frame it.”

He starts walking toward us.

“It was my second year teaching and I wasn’t much older than the kids were. I was trying to prove my authority. My wife eventually made me take the exam down and throw it out. She said it was too mean for a crappy midterm to be any student’s legacy. I didn’t see it that way, at first. She is smarter than I am. I kept that thing framed for a long time. It scared the crap out of my other students, which was really the point.”

“No one wanted to be that bad?” I say.

“Even when I told them how good he became afterward,” he says.

He reaches his hand out for Bailey’s phone, Bailey handing it over, both of us watching as he tries to put something together.

“What did he do?” he says. “Your father?”

He directs his question to Bailey. I think she is going to offer an abbreviated version of what is happening at The Shop and with Avett Thompson—and say that we don’t know the rest of the story yet. We don’t know how he fits into the fraud there, or why it led to him leaving us here alone, trying to put the pieces together. These impossible pieces. But, instead, she shakes her head and tells him the worst part of what Owen has done.

“He lied to me,” she says.

He nods, like that is enough for him. Professor Cookman. First name Tobias. Nickname Cook. Award-winning mathematician. Our new friend.

“Come with me,” he says.

Some Students Are Better Than Others

Professor Cookman takes us back to his office, where he puts on a pot of coffee, and Cheryl, the graduate student manning his desk, is much more attentive than earlier. She powers on several computers on Cook’s workstation as a second graduate student, Scott, starts going through Cook’s filing cabinet—both of them moving as quickly as they can.

While Cheryl downloads a copy of Owen’s photograph onto the professor’s laptop, Scott pulls out an enormous file, slamming the cabinet closed, and then walks back over to the desk.