My father was a psychology professor here. I walk across campus toward the building where he used to work.
Summer session is in progress, and the campus is mostly quiet, small groups of students walking among the brick and stone buildings along the river. When I was a boy, my father took me to work sometimes, leaving me to read on the leather sofa in his office while he delivered his lectures. Back then the students seemed so much older than me. Now our differences are less about age than purpose.
They lead normal lives. I live the life of a soldier.
The route to the psychology building is ingrained in my muscle memory. I cross the quad, turning left into a three-story redbrick building that houses the psych department and what used to be my father’s office.
When I walk in, I see a directory with listings for the philosophy, comp lit, and modern-languages departments. No psychology.
Confused, I head down the hall and tap on the first office door I encounter. A woman in a gray pantsuit looks up from an impressive stack of papers.
“Can I help you?”
“Is this the psych building?” I say.
“Not anymore. They moved about four years ago.”
She looks me up and down, trying to figure out why I don’t know this information.
“I’m doing a campus tour,” I say. “I might apply next year. My dad used to be a professor here.”
“So you’re a legacy.”
“Should be an easy admit, huh?”
“Depends. Does he donate?”
“Every year. With the crappy grades I bring home, he has no choice.”
She smiles. “I’m sure you won’t have any problems. By the way, where does your dad teach now?”
Time to change the subject.
“Could you tell me where the new psych building is?” I ask.
She spins her chair and gestures out the window behind her, indicating a new structure of steel and green glass in the distance. The building comes to a point like the prow of a ship.
“Thar she blows,” the woman says.
“Impressive.”
“A large, anonymous bequest. There’s an academic center on campus and a research facility downstate in Corning.”
Corning. That flags something in my memory. My father took me there years ago.
“That’s a lot of resources for a psychology program.”
“Lucky them, huh?”
I see the muscles in her jaw clench.
Interdepartment rivalry. I may not have gone to college, but I know the dynamic well enough from The Program. People in an organization tend to compete with one another.
I thank her and turn away before she can ask me any more questions.
“Good luck with your applications,” she calls from behind me.
“Thanks,” I say as I head out the door. “I’ll need it.”