My father nods in a way that conveys he’s heard all this before.

“But not just looking at someone’s paper during a test or downloading essays from online—which is bad enough. But I had a student send in one of his friends to take a test for him.” She puffs up her chest, and the German accent underscoring her vowels becomes more prominent. “And then lie about it. As if I wouldn’t notice.”

“They do it all the time in big lectures,” my mother tells her. “It’s especially rampant in Greek life. They’ll send a younger brother in to sign an attendance sheet—”

I put down my fork, thinking of Jay’s professors, the way they deferred to their teaching assistants and grade books. “Wouldn’t you recognize your own students?”

My mother clears her throat. Verena helps herself to another serving of spaetzle.

“I would,” my mother says patiently, “but my classes are capped at thirty. We’re talking about lecture halls with hundreds of students.” She gives me a knowing smile that says, Indulge Verena, she’s new. “On large campuses—cheating’s practically an industry.”

She turns back to Verena. “We’re professors—there to teach, not to police.” A weird nod at me.

I frown.

“Ultimately, it’s on the students if they decide to cheat. We can’t chase down every infraction. Just have to know that that kind of behavior will catch up with them eventually.”

“But what if it doesn’t?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…” I fidget in my chair. The room feels hot all of a sudden, and I wonder if my father remembered to turn off the oven and have the sudden paranoid urge to go into the kitchen and check.

“What if that behavior doesn’t catch up with them? What if they cheat, get away with it, and keep doing it? What kind of lesson is that?”

A line forms between my mother’s eyebrows.

“Pie?” my father, ever the peacekeeper, interjects. “Verena,” he says, drawing her attention away from my mother and me, “have you ever had pumpkin pie?”

She shakes her head, looking equally grateful for the distraction.

“You’re going to love it.”

After two pieces of pie and a cup of coffee, my mother sends Verena off with her cleaned casserole dishes and three plastic containers of leftovers.

In the living room, I hear the subtle strings of Schubert, louder now that Verena is gone.

My father and I sit at the table surveying the scattered plates and glasses, all the proof of a good meal.

“What’s your plan for tomorrow?” he asks me. “I know you’ll probably want to sleep in, but I thought, if you’re interested you could help me go through a few papers…”

He doesn’t need my help but wants to give me something to do. It’s a Kaplan family trait—the need to be occupied.

“I’d love to,” I say, “really, but I need to get back to the station.”

He’s silent a moment, picks up his wine and puts it down again without drinking.