by David Bell
“Forced?”
“Inauthentic.”
If Hoffman had thrown hot coffee in her face, it wouldn’t have burned more. What an awful word for an author to hear about their writing.
Inauthentic.
But she couldn’t deny it. When she wrote those parts, it felt forced, like she was struggling up a steep hill with a heavy pack on her back. She strained her imagination but just couldn’t get it to go where it needed to go. At times like those, she wanted to throw her pen across the room and burn the whole manuscript.
How did anybody do this for a living?
How did anybody do this at all?
“Maybe I should abandon this,” she said, hating to admit defeat. It ripped at the very fiber of who she was. But she didn’t know if she had enough time, energy, or knowledge to go on. “Maybe I should write poetry instead. I have those poems from your class.”
She expected Hoffman to burst with joy. And he did.
A mile-wide smile split his face. “You don’t know how much that does my heart good.”
Madeline was glad to see him happy. And she tried to cover her own disappointment over admitting she might not be able to write a novel for her thesis project by forcing a smile across her face. She probably looked ill.
Then Hoffman did something unexpected.
He reached under the table and placed his hand on her knee. And he left the hand there for a moment that drew out longer than Madeline imagined it could, his fingers against the denim.
Right when Madeline was about to look around, to see if anyone else was watching, he pulled his hand back.
“I want you to write that novel, Madeline. I think you have the ability to do it.” His smile lost none of its intensity. And even though his teeth looked a little gray and uncared-for, there was something charming about how much he wanted to help her. “And I have some ideas for how you’re going to get there.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Hoffman’s behavior in Troy’s shook Madeline.
She went home that night, back to the little apartment on the third floor, the one at the top of the rickety staircase, and replayed the conversation in the coffee shop. She realized everything about it had been pretty normal. Hoffman had acted like he always did—a little out of it, a little condescending, but ultimately supportive. When he told her he wanted her to go ahead and write the novel and not poems, her heart flipped like someone had shocked her with jumper cables.
She was so thrilled for that split second.
But she couldn’t ignore the hand on her knee. The lingering hand.
As she drove home from Troy’s, she tried to cast the interaction in a different light. Maybe Hoffman touched all his students that way, male and female. Maybe he was trying to be encouraging, like her female soccer coach, who used to smack all the players on the butt as they ran laps around the field.
Maybe Hoffman saw through to who she really was—a smart kid, dreaming of a life as a writer, but who was scared to death the dream would disappear like a puff of smoke. Like all the things her mother talked about doing but never did. And maybe Hoffman wanted to reassure her.
Madeline sat in her shitty chair in her apartment, the one with the sheet over the ugly stains, staring at the wall. She looked at the chipped plaster, the dirty paint. No, she thought. I know what he wants. It’s what Zach wanted at the party.
It’s what Mom says all men want. All the time.
Madeline weighed her options. Hoffman wasn’t even her thesis director—Nye was. So did she even have to keep meeting with him? But Nye was so hard to pin down, so hard to get to pay attention. When they met and discussed her plans, his eyes wandered off away from her face. He’d stare at the rows of books on the shelves in his office, or out the window at the people walking by. She knew he’d lost his family somehow, knew the guy was in some kind of excruciating emotional pain, but he needed to do his job just a little, right?
Should she ask Dr. White, the head of the department, for advice?
She’d heard from other students that he was approachable, that they could talk to him, and he’d be understanding, nodding along as the students shared their problems and then giving them a few reasonable options to make things better. He seemed a little full of himself. He liked to roll up his shirtsleeves and show off his muscular arms. He was in good shape, obviously went to the gym a lot.
White and Hoffman and Nye were all friends. They hung out together sometimes, and if she complained to White, wouldn’t it get back to Hoffman like a spreading virus? And hadn’t Hoffman asked her to be discreet about letting Nye know he was helping with the thesis?
Madeline dropped her head into her hands, an overly dramatic gesture no one would see. Her head still buzzed a little from the good coffee at Troy’s. And she was hungry. She stood up from the chair and trudged out to the tiny kitchen, where she pulled open the freezer door. Slim pickings. A package of hot dogs and two frozen burritos. She wished like hell she had some ice cream, wanted to see some materialize right there out of the mist in the freezer.
She slammed the door.
Madeline knew who she wanted to talk to. There was only one person in town, one person in her life, she trusted enough to share a real secret with.
Unfortunately, that person likely hated her. And would never speak to her again.
“How the fuck did everything get so fucked up?” She knew she was frustrated when she was using “fuck” as more than one part of speech.
She took out her phone. No texts, no nothing from Sophia since the night almost two weeks ago when she had come to her apartment and asked about her husband. And Madeline told the truth. And Sophia stormed out.
She thought about everything else Sophia had done for her—listened, gave advice, acted like the big sister Madeline had never had. Would Sophia ever get over it?
Did Madeline have anything to lose by asking?
She spent fifteen minutes composing the text. She spent as much time on that as she did on a page of one of her short stories. And despite all the time she spent, the message ended up being short and direct.
I’m so sorry about what happened. But I’d love to talk. Have a problem.
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
Madeline gave up pretty quickly. Sophia was done with her, and the response would never come. Madeline went to the freezer and took out one of the burritos, ripped off the wrapper, and tossed it in the microwave.
“If my life is going in the crapper, my health might as well go along with it.”
She pushed the start button as her phone dinged.
She checked Sophia’s message. It was also very short. But it said so much:
U okay?
Madeline hated to admit when things were wrong. She hated to admit she couldn’t handle things. She hated to need anyone for anything. That was why she was working her way through school. That was why she had signed the student loan papers herself.
It wasn’t her way to say she needed help.
But with Sophia . . . it felt different. It felt okay to say it.
So she did:
No. I’m not.
Are U home?
All night.
Five minutes later:
I’ll be there in fifteen.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
It was awkward.
When Sophia knocked, Madeline thought about not letting her in, pretending like she wasn’t there and just blowing the whole thing off. If she did that, her friendship with Sophia would most definitely be over. Not because of what had happened with Zach but because Sophia would have no choice but to think of Madeline as the biggest freak ever to live. Invite her over and then refuse to let her in . . .
Madeline stood on her side of the front door while Sophia knocked again on the other. Madeline’s hand went up to her eyebrow and pulled. Once and then twice before a tiny ha
ir came out. She needed to open the door before her eyebrows were gone, so she did.
Sophia stood there, looking as naturally beautiful as ever, even though she wore a pair of denim shorts, a hoodie, and green Chuck Taylors that almost matched her eyes. Madeline backed up, and Sophia came in. When the door was closed, Sophia held her arms out, and she folded Madeline in a big hug.
“I’m so sorry about the other night,” Madeline said. “You know, I mean, I’d never . . .”
“I know.”
Sophia dropped her purse next to the sheet-covered chair and sat down.
“I think I’m out of wine. And I had only cheap shit anyway.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I might have some tea bags my mom gave me,” Madeline said.
“I’m good, Madeline. Just sit.”
So Madeline did. And she sat on her hands, like she sometimes did, to keep them from going up to pluck at her eyebrows.
The two women sat across from each other. And Madeline was so nervous, so scared. She just wanted things to be normal with Sophia.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t want any of that to happen. And I didn’t want you to find out.”
Sophia shook her head. “It’s not your fault. I would never blame a woman for a man doing something like that. I know who Zach is, and I know the kinds of things he does when he drinks.” Sophia’s jaw was set firmly, like it’d been carved into the side of a mountain. “We talked about it. Very thoroughly.”
“I’m sorry. Really, I am.”
“You need to stop apologizing for things you didn’t do,” Sophia said.
It sounded to Madeline like ancient wisdom, like something someone wiser had said to Sophia, and now she was passing it on to Madeline. And someday Madeline might be smart enough or old enough to hand it on to another woman who needed help.
“Thanks for coming over,” she said.
“When a friend’s in trouble . . . Besides, I don’t get the feeling you share much with many people. Maybe I’m just special.”
“Maybe you are. Maybe that’s why I’m writing a book based on you. And me. Our friendship.”
Sophia smiled for the first time since she came in. And Madeline started to think things really were going to be all right between the two of them.
“What’s on your mind?” Sophia asked. “Writer’s block? Do you want to study me so you can write more of your thesis?”
“I wish. But it’s kind of related.” Madeline pressed down on her hands with greater force. “I think you know Lance Hoffman, right? He’s one of my professors at Commonwealth.”
Sophia rolled her eyes. “He’s not my friend. Zach knows him. They met playing golf at that course called Crosswinds. And we don’t live too far from his house. You really don’t have to apologize about that night. We can just move on.”
“It’s not really about that night. And I’m sorry to even refer to it. But it’s just . . . I gave Hoffman some of my thesis. My director is another professor, but he’s a little out of it right now. His wife and kid died in an accident, and he’s kind of slow to respond. But Hoffman is fast to get back to me, and he’s doing me the favor of helping out. He likes to talk to students and meet with them.”
“He does like spending time with students,” Sophia said, rolling her eyes again. “You can see that from his parties. I don’t want to go to any more of them.”
“Yeah . . .”
Madeline shifted her weight in the chair. She really wanted to pull her hand out and pluck her eyebrow. She really, really wanted to.
“What is it?” Sophia asked. And from the way she asked, Madeline thought Sophia knew what she was about to say. She knew why Madeline had called and what she needed help with.
“I just had a meeting with Dr. Hoffman, to talk about my thesis. And I’m not sure what to do about what happened.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
REBECCA
PRESENT
Rebecca reads late into the night, finishing the manuscript that landed at her door.
Madeline’s manuscript.
She still feels shaken by Dr. Hoffman’s unexpected visit.
She replays the conversation in the parking lot over and over, trying her best to make sense of what exactly he was saying. She draws on the lessons she learned at the beginning of the semester in Dr. Nye’s class, before he stopped teaching and started lurking in the alley outside Troy’s.
Subtext. He taught them that word. Subtext. When someone says one thing, but there’s a deeper meaning buried underneath.
And what’s buried underneath Hoffman’s request that Rebecca not tell the police anything else?
He seemed to be saying that Zach wasn’t as bad as Rebecca thought he was. And that Nye was the real bad guy.
And beneath it all was a threat, right? For sure. He pretty much came out and said her ability to pass her thesis defense hinged on keeping her mouth shut.
Did guys just stick together no matter what? Was it some kind of man code of conduct?
Despite being buried under several layers of blankets, including a quilt her grandmother had made her before she went off to college, Rebecca shivers. She feels better than ever, knowing Steven and Mikaila are in the bedroom right next door. Steven went around and made sure the door and all the windows were locked, and he even offered to sleep on the couch so no one could get past him. Mikaila whined over that option, and Rebecca agreed it seemed unnecessary as long as the dead bolt and the chain were engaged on the front door. And Rebecca couldn’t very well deprive Mikaila of time snuggled with her boyfriend after she came out and helped save her from Hoffman.
And how exactly did Mikaila know the right thing to do? How did she have the smarts to extract Rebecca from a difficult situation? Mikaila may lack common sense, and may seem totally self-absorbed, but she could be a good friend when she wanted. And when Rebecca came back in and thanked her, Mikaila simply said, “Hey, we ladies need to stick together against the creeps of the world.”
And speaking of creeps—there is Madeline’s book.
It tells the story of a woman in her twenties being murdered in a town that sounds exactly like Gatewood. And the woman who gets murdered has a creepy husband who likes to slime around with the woman’s friends. And the guy even gets violently angry sometimes, which makes Rebecca shiver all over again when she reads that part of the book.
And as she nears the end, she realizes the creepy, domineering husband kills his wife. And then he decides to come after his wife’s friend, forcing her to run for her life. . . .
The shivers won’t stop.
And it all feels so familiar, so real, that it almost seems like Rebecca might have read the book before. But she knows that’s not true.
Madeline wrote the book and passed it off to her.
Rebecca turns what appears to be the last page of the book.
Except . . .
There are more pages. But they’re typed. They look so different from the rest of the book, which is handwritten on yellowed and crinkly paper, like it’s been sitting around for a while in a closet or on a shelf. These other pages, the typed ones, are clean and crisp. New.
Did Madeline write something else and include it?
It says at the top: “My Best Friend’s Murder: A Sequel.”
Rebecca knows My Best Friend’s Murder is the name of Dr. Nye’s book. So did Madeline write a sequel to that? And why?
She starts reading this new story or whatever it is, and it’s about a woman returning to the town where she went to college, and the town is also an exact match for Gatewood. And the campus an exact match for Commonwealth, just like in the novel.
But the character is back in town to confront a professor who has sexually harassed her.
And the description of that professor sounds very, very familiar . . .
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br /> Dr. Nye always said the purpose of art is to make us feel less alone.
By reading Madeline’s story, Rebecca knows she’s not the only one to have had an uncomfortable encounter with Dr. Hoffman.
She knows she’s not alone.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CONNOR
PRESENT
I jog up the steps to the main entrance of Goodlaw Hall. It’s a cold morning, my breath frosting as I climb. But the sky is clearer than it has been, promising the possibility the day will be warmer. When I reach the top of the stone stairs, my phone rings. It’s Diana.
I stop and answer the call.
“Where are you now?” Diana asks. “I’m at your house. Bowman is ready to talk to you, and I said I’d bring you in.”
“I had to come to campus real quick. It’s important. I might have figured something out.”
“Connor, this isn’t the time to flake out. If you want to tell your—”
“I’ll call you when I know for sure. Okay? I might need Bowman and I might not.”
“Connor—”
I hang up and pass through the breezeway, two sets of double glass doors. I know exactly where I’m going. In my right hand, folded into a cylinder shape, is Madeline’s short story, the one I finished reading last night. The one I read over and over again, late into the night, making sure I understood what it was really saying. I turn left past Preston’s office, where the door is wide open, and I see him sitting inside but I don’t bother to stop. Or allow him to stop me. I keep going down the long hallway to the familiar classroom where I always teach.
Where Lance has taken over.
As I approach the room, I hear his voice. Deep. Commanding.
Even wise.
He’s talking about the president, bemoaning budget cuts to higher education. How he’s going to tie that to fiction writing, I have no idea. How he ties anything he talks about to creative writing, I never know.