“How do you mean—and sorry, remind us your name?”
“Oh, sorry,” he laughed, “I’m Tyler.”
It didn’t ring a bell from the roster. “Okay, Tyler, go ahead.”
“But I mean, this idea of deception. Like, is Tom hiding who he really is? Or is it that Mr. Greenleaf can’t see it. Or won’t?”
“But Tom leads him on,” Constantine said. “He lets Mr. Greenleaf think he and Dickie are really friends. And he lies about his job.”
“I guess,” Tyler said, and shrugged again.
“You’re not convinced?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I mean, alright, Tom doesn’t correct Mr. Greenleaf. But I feel like the book is setting that up for us to think about. Like, is that Tom’s fault—other people’s assumptions?”
“That’s a great question,” I said. He was taking us somewhere interesting. “But, of course, these are characters, not real people. Guessing at motives in fiction only gets us so far. Let’s think aboutHighsmith’s motives.” I explained that I liked to approach a text as if everything were there on purpose. That every detail had been included by the author with intention. “This is only one way to read, and if you take Professor Safie Hartwell’s class on psychoanalytical theory next term, you’ll get some tools to think about everything the authordoesn’tknow they’re doing. But let’s stick with my thought experiment for a moment. If we assume this is an intentional choice—these misconceptions based on assumptions—what might Highsmith be asking us to think about?”
“Maybe something about the truth?” Marissa said.
“Yes, I think that’s right,” I said. “What else?” Marissa frowned and opened her book. I could see Tyler in the back, waiting. “Go ahead, Tyler.”
“I agree. I do think she’s talking about the idea of truth. And lies. But not really what that means about who you are. More like who peoplethinkyou are. In the story right away, how Mr. Greenleaf sees Tom is totally based on all these things about race and class and gender. Mr. Greenleaf sees what he wants to see, and that makes the deception or whatever. It’s like, it’s not Tom lying—it’s the world.”
The class sat quietly and I let the moment hang there. It was a beautiful reading, exactly right.
But then Constantine wanted back in. “So it’s all just a metaphor? For being in the closet?”
“Hmm—” I shook my head “—Well, sure. But it must be more than that as well. I think Highsmith is flipping something for us. Rather than all secrets being a stand-in for homosexuality—” I made air quotes around the word “—I think we can ask how homosexuality is made to carry a burden of secrecy for everything else. In other words, what might be hidden inside a story that is supposedly aboutbeing gay?” I noticed the clock on the back wall—we had run over. “Okay, let’s wrap there. We’ll pick this up again next class.”
I chatted with a few students as they filed out, and then Tyler made his way down to the front of the room, his friend remaining behind.
“Professor Lausson, I’m sorry we were late.”
“It’s okay, but—what’s your last name?” I scanned the class list. “I’m not seeing you on here.”
“Cunningham. Tyler Cunningham—oh,” he laughed. “Actually, I just registered.”
“Ah—I see.”
“I hope that’s okay. It’s just—” He trailed off, looking around the classroom and chewing at his lip. “I was having a problem at the registrar’s office. With my financial aid? So they just let me sign up for classes. I’m really sorry I missed the first two weeks.” He looked anxious. A spattering of small pimples lined his cheekbones, giving his face a kind of flushed quality.
“Oh—it’s okay,” I said, surprising myself—two weeks was a lot to miss. But it wasn’t his fault his parents couldn’t just write out a check like most of his peers—why should he be punished? “You seem like you caught up quickly. That was good work in the discussion.”
“I got all the books. And notes from Kennedy.” He motioned to the back of the room at his friend—ah yes, I remembered the name now.
“Okay, great.” I rummaged around in a folder and found a copy of the syllabus and passed it over. “Take a look through this and let me know if anything is unclear.”
“Actually, I was wondering—could I stop by your office later? Just to make sure I’m caught up?”
Just then, Kennedy called out, voice low—“Hey, Tyler.” She motioned at the door.
“Gimme a sec,” Tyler said. “Sorry.”
The door opened and a student stepped in. It was the tall one, from the argument outside.
“What’s the holdup?” he said to Kennedy, and then noticing me—“Excuse me, professor. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” I had a clearer look at him now. He was quite handsome, in a kind of unnerving way—easy but assertive good looks.
“I’ll be right there,” Tyler said, “Go ahead.”
