LATER, THERE WOULD BE MUCH TO REMEMBER: THOSE EARLY, AWKWARD MOments; the somber mood of the committee; the poorly lit conference room and the squeaky pale green plastic chair where I sat sweating; the meandering opening statement wherein Dr. Jamison Lamson, who had misplaced his notes, had to wing it; my surprise at Dr. Lamson’s pronouncement that he’d never had a more frustrating student; my confusion, then clarity, regarding his strategy, for my mentor had deftly anticipated the criticisms of the other advisers, and he battered me in such an aggressive way that it must have engendered sympathy in the others, because within minutes it wasn’t a defense, it was a love fest, a party of my now-peers, and what a pity I wasn’t entirely present for the experience, how unfortunate that I only half heard my harshest critic, Dr. Rejandra Kanwar, cop to having had years of skepticism and say, “I never thought a dissertation could straddle Rosa Parks and Pliny the Younger, but somehow, Mr. Welch, you’ve found a way!” and Dr. Rita Lovejoy, who was in awe of my use of minor players to illuminate the “great stage of world history” and how my dissertation “went down like a milk shake but boasted the sharpness and finesse of a complex wine,” and while the three doctors struggled to outdazzle one another, this thought occurred to me: I wish Kate were here to witness this. She would’ve liked it. But that thought gave over to other, more pressing concerns, how I was dizzy from lack of sleep and weak from lack of food, and most especially, how I had gas. All of which kept me from confronting what I most feared. I’d been told that very often during a dissertation defense, the exchange between advisers and advisee evolves to a more personal expression of thought. Out slips the unknown, never-spoken, real motive for the years of research, leaving the doctoral candidate exposed, as if having been subjected to a full-body X-ray—as if to say, Here, these are my bones.

I wanted to avoid that moment. Could I get through my defense without it? If only I’d kept quiet after Dr. Lamson asked, “Is there anything else you’d like to say?” See, part of me didn’t believe their uniform praise. Look at them, I thought. Surely they have a criticism or two—it can’t all be completely wonderful—have they even read what I wrote? Maybe they didn’t understand it. Maybe they didn’t know anything. Maybe I needed to teach them!

So instead of thanking them and exiting fast, I stood motionless, stared incredulously, and said, “Is that it? Is that all?”

They looked back at me. Smiling. Satisfied. “It’s been a delight.” Dr. Kanwar grinned. “Like Christmas in May,” Dr. Lovejoy cooed.