“Oh,” he said.

Then I tried to describe her. The skin, the eyes, the gleaming Botticelli-like hair. The kind, unexpected gift of her light blue scarf. I did my best to objectively render the irrefutable astonishingness of Anna Brody, because to render her otherwise would be to deceive. This was my reasoning for why I had brought her into our bed. To my surprise, Tim said nothing, didn’t even ask her name. Turning his way, I saw why. He’d fallen fast asleep and was, I think, already dreaming.

TIM

THAT TUESDAY, AT THE APPOINTED HOUR, BEA’S SIGNATURE KNOCK ECHOED THROUGH my office. Opening the door, I discovered she was not alone. Standing behind her was Jeremy Nathan. Tall and skinny, like taffy stretched too far, his bony shoulders rounded, his thick glasses magnifying his already large eyes, Jeremy was a curious mix of a beardless Abe Lincoln and a bullfrog.

“I hope we’re not early,” Bea said with a smile.

Liar, I thought, but said nothing.

Bea studied the scene. I had my winter coat on, my backpack zipped up, my desk unusually tidy—she saw I had other plans, plans that did not include her.

“Mr. Welch, you understand we have a deadline.”

“Yes, Bea. Ten minutes, as promised.”

“I worried you’d forgotten.”

“Nonsense. I’ve been looking forward to it.”

For weeks Bea Myerly had been leaving notes, making surprise visits in an attempt to pin me down. I’d postponed the interview twice. But she wasn’t to be dissuaded, finally engaging the services of Mitchell Struck, the prissy assistant to the headmistress, who had explained in blunt terms that I was to make myself available for a face-to-face and that I should feel honored to have been chosen as the first faculty member to be profiled in the exciting new column entitled “Teacher Feature.”

Bea explained the reason for Jeremy’s presence that afternoon. As photographer for both the yearbook and the Montague Missive, Jeremy had come along to take a photo. But because he’d recently broken his Pentax, he held in his bony fingers a yellow disposable camera.

Bea said, “Jeremy will be fast.”

Confused, I looked in no particular direction as the camera suddenly flashed. Bea practically shoved Jeremy out the door while I vainly suggested a second picture be taken.

“Oh, no.” Bea snorted. “Your time is precious.”

In quick succession, Bea produced a tape recorder, a handheld microphone, a pad of paper with several pages of questions written out, a bottle of water, and a plastic cup (“For when your mouth dries up from all the talking”). Then she pressed record and fired the first question.

I did my best to answer, saying yes, I was from Ohio, yes, I did my undergraduate studies at UC Berkeley, and yes, my dissertation was progressing nicely. I refused to answer her question about favorite historical figures, claiming there were too many to list and it would be a pity if we found ourselves out of time. “After all, Bea, the clock is ticking.”