Harley arrived in Professor Crane's class just as it started. He noticed her but said nothing, launching into his lecture. After class was over, Harley waited in her seat until the other students filed out. "I must say, I'm surprised to see you back here," said Crane, approaching her. "It was my understanding that you had nothing more to learn from me, having disagreed with my assessment of your situation."
"You can learn from people you disagree with," replied Harley.
"I suppose," said Crane, in a tone that implied the opposite.
"You don't have to worry about me, Professor," said Harley. "I'm not going to tell anyone about your fear drug. As long as you don't tell anyone about my involvement with a certain Mr. Napier, of course."
"I've told you, I have no desire to do that," he replied. "I have shown you where your involvement with him will lead. If you do not wish to heed that warning, there is nothing more I can or will do about it."
Harley nodded. "Then I can count on getting a good recommendation letter from you?" she asked.
"Recommendation letter?" he repeated, confused. "For a job?"
"Eventually, but for now I need it in order to transfer to another university," said Harley. "I'm not going to be in Gotham for much longer. It's not safe for Jack here, so we're leaving."
He stared at her. "You're going to sacrifice your degree for that…that scum?"
"I'm not sacrificing my degree – I'm transferring to another university," she retorted. "People do it all the time. I doubt I'll be able to find one with as good a psychology program, but that's what I'd like your letter for – even if my degree comes from a lesser university, at least I'll have the personal recommendation from the best in his field when I start job hunting."
"No, Harley, you can't transfer!" he exclaimed. "You can't leave…"
"I can do what I want," she interrupted. "And I want what's best for Jack. You said you weren't going to interfere between us anymore – if you go back on that, I might have to reconsider not telling the dean about your fear drug. And keeping me in Gotham isn't really worth you getting fired, is it?"
He shook his head slowly. "Good," she said, standing up. "I'd like that letter as soon as possible, please – Jack says we're going to be leaving soon. I don't know when soon is, but as you can imagine, I have a lot to do before then. Can you have it ready this afternoon?"
"I…can," he stammered.
"Good," she repeated. "I'll be back to pick it up before I head to work. See you later, Professor," she said, leaving the classroom without another word.
Harley attended the rest of her classes, and then stopped by Crane's office that afternoon. He said nothing as she entered, but handed her a piece of paper. Harley scanned it, and nodded. "Thank you," she said, turning to go. "Goodbye, Professor."
"Harley, I do wish you'd reconsider…" he began.
"You wish I'd reconsider speaking to the dean?" she interrupted, turning back to him.
"Harley, you're an intelligent young woman," he said. "You must understand it's not worth sacrificing all your potential for this worthless man. He's wasted his own life – don't let him waste yours as well."
"I know it doesn't make sense to you," replied Harley. "And I know everything has to make sense in your world. You see life as a calculation, and you see Jack and me as trying to add a positive and a negative together, and ending up with zero. But life isn't a calculation, Professor. I am not an equation, or a machine that can be programmed to do whatever makes the most logical sense. Maybe you have rid yourself of feelings – I can see a man as intelligent as you willing to sacrifice the heart for the brain. But I cannot and will not do that. My love is my life. And life doesn't have to make sense. Neither does love."
"Our job is to make sense of it," replied Crane. "The job you are training for is to fix what is wrong in the mind and in the heart. Feelings lead so many people astray, and as a good psychiatrist, you'll need to put those aside. You cannot diagnose people based on feelings – you need facts and logic and evidence. The reason people need the help of a psychiatrist is because they are not intelligent enough to see themselves or the world objectively. They become lost in the delusions brought on by their feelings. If you were a patient now, how would you analyze yourself?"
"I'm not a patient," retorted Harley. "There's nothing wrong with me. And you're not my psychiatrist who can sit here diagnosing me. Just because I see things differently from you doesn't make me wrong."
"But you are wrong," said Crane. "Psychiatry is, above all, a science, and science is the search for truth. There are no different truths – there is only objective truth. Diagnosis is not a matter of opinion – it is a matter of fact. And the facts in your case cannot add up the way you've tried to make them. You have no future with this man – you cannot have a future with this man. Assuming he isn't killed by some other criminal or the police, what kind of life could you have attached to someone like that? How could you be a respectable psychiatrist when you're romantically involved with a criminal? How could anyone take your diagnoses seriously? Once your involvement with him becomes known, and it will become known eventually, you will be professionally rejected and disgraced. You might be arrested as an accomplice, and forced to undergo psychiatric evaluation yourself. And think how humiliating that would be, for someone as bright as you, someone who could be the top of her field, forced to be analyzed by someone far below your intellectual capability. Forced to spend your days languishing in a cell, with your mind going to waste. It would be a fate worse than death for me."
"The only fate worse than death for me is being without Jack," murmured Harley.
"And you would be, frequently," he retorted. "Again, assuming he isn't killed, he will almost certainly be caught and locked away, probably for a very long time. You could visit him occasionally in prison, of course, but you'd be on your own most of the time. And without work to distract you, because of course nobody would want to see a psychiatrist who disgraced her reputation with a criminal, what would you do with all that time on your own? You'd have nothing but your morbid thoughts and fears for him to occupy you as you languish all alone, slowly driving you mad. These are the only possible scenarios for your future, Harley. They are the only possible outcomes if you keep going down the path you're going down now. There is no happily ever after there, can't you understand that?"
"I understand that it won't be easy," agreed Harley. "But love is worth suffering for. I'm sorry you can't understand that, Professor Crane. Goodbye."
She left his office for the last time, believing she would never see him again.
…
Harley entered the car where Jack was waiting for her. "Got Professor Crane to write me a recommendation letter," she said, tucking it into her bag. "So even after we leave Gotham, I can use his connections to get me into a good psychology program, and a good job. So that's one less thing for you to worry about."
"Good," said Jack, backing out into the streets of Gotham and heading toward the diner, willing himself to remain calm and collected despite the agony of what he was about to do. He cleared his throat. "I have another meeting with the gang tonight. It could be a long one, so will you promise to call a cab to take you home after your shift?"
"Sure," said Harley, shrugging. "As long as you promise to call me when you get home."
"I promise," he said, quietly.
She studied his face. "You seem anxious. Worried about the meeting tonight? You don't think they'll try killing you before you get a chance to take down Batman, do you?"
"No, I don't," said Jack. "And don't you worry about that. I'll be fine. I've got a plan all ready to tell them about how I'm gonna kill the Bat – I'm gonna lure him to this chemical factory outside of town to spring the trap. It'll be a real joke on the gang when I don't show up for it, but I gotta be convincing enough tonight."
"You're a pretty convincing guy," she replied. "I believe in you."
"Well, then I ain't got nothing to worry about," he added, smiling at her. "Smart gal like you would only believe in things that are true."
"That's right," agreed Harley. "Like our love. It's true love."
He took her hand in his. "It sure is, toots," he murmured, keeping his eyes fixed on the road and keeping the smile plastered on his face. No matter what else happened, the smile had to stay on.
He pulled up in front of the diner, and Harley put out a hand to open the door, but he caught her arm suddenly. "What is it?" she asked, turning back to him.
"Just…stay for a moment longer," he said. "Just so I can look at you."
"Look at me?" repeated Harley. "You feeling all right, Mr. J?"
"Yeah, I just…got a lot on my mind, as you know," he murmured, gazing at her. "Looking at you calms me down. Makes me believe what you believe, that everything is gonna be all right."
"Of course it will," she said, smiling at him. "We're together. As long as we're together, everything is going to be fine."
He nodded slowly. "Everything is going to be fine," he repeated, taking in every detail of her face.
"Now kiss me goodbye, and let me go," said Harley, glancing at her watch. "I'm gonna be late for work."
He obeyed, kissing her tenderly. If this was the last time, he was going to savor it – he was going to remember the taste of her lips, and the gentle, soft way they clung to his, so sweet and so trusting…
She drew away at last and opened the door. "Goodbye, Mr. J," she said, smiling at him.
"Goodbye, Harley," he whispered. She shut the door, and Jack watched her enter the diner. He watched her put on her apron and start her work cleaning up the place, trying to memorize the way she moved, and everything else about her. Then he reluctantly started the car again, and with great difficulty, tore his eyes away from her. He drove the car away from the diner, out of the city, and toward Ace Chemicals.