THE SUBJECT OF MALICE

by Cynthia Kuhn

  “That helps, actually.” He winked at me. “But when I’m not working on that, I’m grading papers—for a pittance, I might add—plus, as my mother constantly reminds me, I’m still depressingly single.”

  “What about Amanda?”

  “We broke up.”

  “Oh no. What happened?”

  Nate leaned back and crossed his arms. “She dumped me.”

  “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

  He shrugged. “Getting there.”

  “If you need anything—”

  “I know. Thanks, Lila.”

  An awkward pause happened—as it always did when we came close to discussing any romantic matters, given that we’d shared a pretty powerful kiss once. It shouldn’t have hung over our relationship the way it did, but we hadn’t talked about it right away. Then the more time went by, the harder it seemed to be to talk about it. So we just pretended it hadn’t happened and that there wasn’t anything lingering between us. Though I think we both suspected that there was.

  Nate cleared his throat. “But back to Flynn...”

  Thank goodness.

  “...he was also cool, you know? Enough of a rebel that people admired him for speaking out, but not so rebellious that he got kicked out. The women went wild for him.” He rolled his eyes. “Though he didn’t have that man bun in grad school. That’s new.”

  “Are you not a fan of the man bun?”

  He squinted at the stage. “Jury’s still out. But I’ll say this: it appears to be working for him.”

  “Not exactly answering the question.”

  “Style is a personal thing.”

  “Amen to that.” I gestured down to my own clothes, which were all black—as usual. It wasn’t that I didn’t like other colors. It was just that I liked them better on other people.

  “It suits you,” he said simply. “And then there’s...” he waved over his own rumpled blue button-down shirt and cargo pants that he favored.

  “Suits you too.”

  We smiled at each other. While there indeed were plenty of plaid shirts and Stetsons surrounding us, properly following the conference guidelines, at least we were breaking the rules together. Or so I thought.

  “In honor of the theme, I did do this—” he pulled his legs out from under the table to reveal a handsome pair of brown cowboy boots.

  “I was just thinking about boots before dinner.”

  “What a strange thing to ponder.”

  I laughed. “I mean, I was wondering if it was time to acquire some. This dress code has revealed some potential shortcomings of my closet. Are those new?”

  “Nope.” He wiggled one foot back and forth. “Very old.”

  “I’ve never seen them before.”

  “You don’t know everything about me, Lila Maclean.”

  I studied them for a minute. “Are those from when you lived in Kansas?”

  His shoulders slumped. “Maybe you do know everything about me.”

  “They’re very nice, in any case.”

  “You know, I forgot how they make me feel. When I walk it probably looks like I’m spoilin’ for a fight.” He held his arms slightly away from his body but curved in, like a weightlifter. “Mighty.”

  I laughed. “Be careful with your mighty shoes, then.”

  “They’re boots,” he said, shaking his head. “Not shoes. Mighty boots. Don’t mess with my swagger.”

  Calista appeared, juggling drinks. She handed Nate a beer, then sat down on the other side of me and passed me a glass of cabernet with lots of ice. Or as I referred to it, “a wine slushie.”

  I pointed at Nate’s bottle of Peak House Ale, the brand that the chancellor had decided to make available outside of the brewpub, which had turned out to be quite profitable in our little college town. “How did you know he wanted a beer?”

  “When don’t I want a beer, is the real question,” he said, regarding the bottle fondly.

  “Aside from that, I acquired knowledge through the magic of texting.” Calista laughed. “I took his order.”

  “You’re so thoughtful.” Nate said to her.

  She dipped her head, accepting his praise. “I try.”

  “Anyone else coming?” I hoped her boyfriend Francisco and my next-door neighbor Tad, more of our merry band of department thirty-somethings, might make it, though I didn’t anticipate their attendance since the conference topic didn’t address either of their specialties.

  “No,” Calista said, taking a small sip of her white wine before setting it down on the snowy tablecloth. “Fran’s at a conference in California, and Tad is up in Aspen with Luke for a getaway weekend. It’s just the three of us. And these fine folks,” she indicated the rest of our table. Every seat had been taken. I’d been so focused on the conversation that I didn’t even notice other attendees had arrived.

  We all leaned back as the servers set down small plates with our salad course: spiky leaves festooned with colorful shreds of unidentifiable vegetables. A swirl of something purple had been squirted along the rim—presumably the dressing. I poked gently with my fork at the concoction, hoping to locate some regular old iceberg lurking underneath. Fancy salads tend to throw me off—I wasn’t fond of any lettuce that had a tail.

  “I’m so excited to hear the keynote,” said the woman seated next to Nate. Her silver bolo tie clasp was shaped like a turtle. “I can’t believe Flynn McMaster is here.”

  The table broke out into praise for his books, then slid into fervent debate about which of the films was the best and why. Evidence was offered for all options, but the table remained in a draw, largely because of a difference of opinion about casting. The actor chosen to play Dr. Powell Block—a brilliant professor well-versed in gothic literature whose quest was always to prove that the monsters depicted in such tales were real and that humans needed saving from them—was Tristan Oldsmith, a British dreamboat prone to ripping off his shirt to show his washboard stomach at the slightest provocation.

  Some felt that Tristan was not serious enough to pull off the character they’d been imagining through their series reading.

  Others saw Tristan as the perfect blend of brain and brawn.

  I agreed with the latter group. I wouldn’t object to spending two-plus hours watching Tristan Oldsmith do anything. He had charisma to spare.

  After we’d been served a slice of apple pie with a toothpick flag featuring tiny boots with spurs, Acadia Branson took the stage. Gone was the tailored suit of yesterday—instead, she had a plaid shirt beneath a fringed vest with a sheriff’s star attached, and a pair of jeans with boots. She made some announcements, including a reminder about the square dance and horse show following dinner, then switched smoothly into an introduction that listed all of Flynn’s achievements. She went through his scholarly accomplishments, for which the crowd clapped politely, but as she began a glowing description of the Powell Block series, the anticipation rose. The audience applauded and whistled at the mention of each title of the books and films: The Cave of the Sibyl, The Spell of the Sorcerer, The Key of the Ghostworld, The Lair of the Vampire, The Realm of the Undead, and The Crypt of the Creeper. Conference audiences are usually gracious, but this kind of adulation was like nothing I’d ever experienced before at any academic event. When she reached the end of her remarks and asked us to welcome Flynn McMaster, the lights went out. Gasps were audible, and, for one excruciating moment, no one moved.

  The theme music for the films began—its jaunty, operatic sound filling the room—and spotlights swirled over the crowd as though we were at a movie premiere. The screen switched from the flow of covers to a clip from the first movie. As Powell Block exchanged his famously witty banter with the Sybil, the audience said the words along with him. The clip ended abruptly, and the room went dark again. When the spotlight came back up, Flynn McMaster was at the podium, wearing anoth
er flowing white shirt over dark pants. His hair was pulled back, emphasizing his high cheekbones, and an array of necklaces and bracelets were visible.

  “Quite the entrance,” Nate said to me, under the cover of applause. “That’s so Mac.”

  Flynn held up his hands, acknowledging the adoration, then pressed his palms downward against the air, silently requesting a reduction in volume. Once things had subsided, he leaned into the microphone. “Thank you for your warm welcome. And thank you,” he turned to Acadia, standing on the opposite side of the stage, “for that introduction. Surely much better than I deserved, but I’ll take it.”

  Laughs rippled through the room. Probably anything he said was going to hit the bullseye.

  “I’ve been asked to talk about my work, which I will, but I hope you’ll indulge me first upfront. I’ve got something important to say. After all, it’s not often that before he gives a keynote, an author is presented with a critical guide, purporting to explain his work.” Flynn paused, looking up at the ceiling. “Reading through that was a remarkable experience. Especially since...” He levelled his gaze at the crowd. “They got it so wrong.”

  Nate chuckled, obviously expecting Flynn to deliver a punchline that would negate the bitterness of what he’d just said. But Calista gripped my forearm as shock waves rippled through the room. Then the audience began to buzz. I could hear snippets of what was being said all around me.

  “Did he just say—”

  “You’ve got to be kidding—”

  “This is going to be good—”

  “Talk about egotistical—”

  Authors didn’t usually address material written by scholars; most of them didn’t even respond to reviews—or at least they were expected not to do so. This was something altogether different: a direct confrontation of essays that could actually help his career if they were well-received. It didn’t make sense that he would speak out against them.

  Flynn wiggled the microphone, causing a shriek that immediately silenced the conversations. “I wish I were joking. I do know it’s an honor to be the subject of the first book in this series, and I am extremely grateful to Fairlake University Press for choosing my novels and films to focus on. And what I have to say is all the more delicate since it is my own institution that published it. I don’t want there to be any tension with colleagues, but I must speak out.”

  Acadia took two steps forward, then shielded her eyes with a hand over her brow as she scanned the audience. She was clearly looking for someone, though I didn’t know whom one might call for help in the case of Keynote Speaker Gone Rogue.

  Flynn continued. “Let’s be brutally honest, shall we? That’s something you don’t always find in academia.” He paused, as if to allow laughter, which didn’t come.

  I guess he could miss the bullseye after all.

  He stepped out from behind the podium, holding the microphone with both hands and peering earnestly at the crowd. “Look, I’m an English professor. I know how important it is to publish your scholarship. Your very career depends on it. But my vantage point has changed. And I do want people to write about my books—don’t get me wrong. It’s just that I want them to talk about my work properly.”

  The audience responded audibly—a mixture of gasps and comments. The room filled with palpable indignation.

  “Are you saying your work is too complicated for us to understand?” A disgruntled voice—presumably professorial—piped up behind us.

  Flynn paused. “No. I’m speaking more precisely about drawing a line.”

  “Annnnnnd...” The voice pushed back, drenched in sarcasm.

  “I’m comparing you to anyone who comes into my fictional world.”

  “Now I’m in your scenario?” The voice screeched a little in its outrage.

  “If you so choose.”

  There was a snort behind us.

  The author blinked. “Do you understand?”

  “No,” said the voice angrily. “Enlighten us.”

  A man on the other side of the room began waving his arms madly.

  Flynn caught sight of him. “Oh, I know. Once the book is published, it doesn’t belong to me anymore. I’ll allow that. But”—he produced a winning smile—“I do feel compelled to insist that I was trying to say something and I’d just like to be heard. Correctly.”

  The audience murmured amongst themselves again.

  “Is this really such a stretch? Think of it this way: If someone built a car that was green and everyone claimed it was red, wouldn’t that be incorrect?” Flynn began to pace. “Who am I if I don’t stand up for my own work? Don’t you stand up for what you’ve created?”

  People began nodding their heads.

  He stopped walking and faced the crowd. “Haven’t you ever been misunderstood?”

  A smattering of applause broke out.

  “So when does the time come to take a stand? Say no?”

  He let the words sink in.

  The clapping grew louder.

  “Let us all resist. Let us say no. No, no, no!”

  The applause was thunderous.

  He switched the microphone to the other hand. “I will say that the essays in this book were technically strong—even fascinating. I enjoyed reading them all, and if it were not focused on my own work, I would probably have closed the cover and went on about my day feeling satisfied. But they absolutely missed—every single one—what I was trying to do as an artist. I had a point. And I wouldn’t continue to work as hard as I do, every day, to create stories for you, if there wasn’t one. This is about you too.”

  Someone yelled out, “We love you, Flynn!”

  He bowed his head. “Thank you. My readers are the most important thing to me. I don’t want to let a single one of you down.” Flynn whipped the microphone out into the air and swirled it around like a lasso. The crowd gasped. He pulled the mic in closely again under his chin and tilted his head sideways. “I invite you to join me. C’mon. Right now. Say no!” He held the microphone out toward the crowd, who yelled “NO!”

  “And again.”

  “NO!”

  Flynn nodded approvingly. “Good. Now you know you can do it. Give yourselves a round of applause.”

  Nate, Calista, and I exchanged glances. This was the strangest keynote ever.

  Robust applause continued until he raised his hands over his head. After the crowd had quieted, he smiled again. “Thank you. You have just inspired me to announce that I’m going to take another stand.”

  The audience fell silent.

  “I will leave academia at the end of the semester in order to pursue my writing full-time.”

  He didn’t actually do a mic drop, but it was as if he had.

  There was a deafening roar this time.

  He’d managed to turn things around.

  I revised that thought as the sound of chairs scraping the floor in the back of the room drew my attention. I spun to see all of the scholars Lex and I had interviewed earlier leaving together. They went through the double doors at the front of the barn, which slammed shut.

  I didn’t blame them one bit.

  As I twisted back, I caught sight of Richmond, two tables over, sitting rigidly, his hand over his mouth. Candace, next to him, was rubbing her forehead wearily. Meredith and Hanover were both staring at Flynn like they’d never seen him before, obviously shocked at what he’d said.

  Flynn walked back behind the podium. “This may be the only chance I have to correct the record. I hope that by being honest, I’ve inspired you to look at the things in your life or career that aren’t working and to take your own kind of stand.” He looked into the wings and nodded. “Before I go on, I’ve got a little gift for you.”

  A woman with wispy brown hair emerged, a stack of paper in her arms. She made her way down the stairs on the side and began distributing p
ages to the closest table.

  “I’m so grateful for your enthusiasm for my books and the films. Thank you for your support. My publisher has given me special coupons for you conference attendees—40 percent off of your next purchase of a Powell Block book. Also, there’s a code you can enter online to receive two free tickets to the forthcoming film.”

  He got the most applause for that.

  Chapter 9

  Flynn went on to show us the trailer for the fourth film in the series—also known as the “first in the second trilogy”—due out next year. We were, he told us, the first to lay eyes on it anywhere. That earned him even more points back from the crowd.

  Then he told us some behind-the-scenes anecdotes that had people laughing so hard they were wiping tears away. All seemed to be forgiven by most.

  His charm was undeniable.

  His storytelling ability was admirable.

  His attack on my publisher, however, had been terrible.

  When the lights came up, I went over to where Richmond and Candace remained. Meredith and Hanover were nowhere to be seen.

  Richmond was staring at his empty water glass.

  “I’m so sorry—” I began.

  “Nothing to be said about it. Nothing at all,” Richmond said, shifting his eyes to me. “He took us down. He did. We’ll just have to fight our way back up.”

  Candace had turned sideways in her seat and was watching him intently. “We’ll figure something out,” she said consolingly to Richmond. “Don’t worry.”

  “Oh!” He turned to her in surprise. “But we’re already on it, Candace. That’s where Meredith and Hanover have gone. Back to their rooms to make necessary calls. Sound the alarm. Rally the troops. In fact, we should go join them.”

  “Do you need any help? If there’s anything I can—”

  “Thank you, Lila. We’ll let you know.” Clearly, he wasn’t in the mood for consolation. He lifted his chin, straightened his tie, and pushed back his chair. When Candace followed suit, he offered her his arm and she took it. They moved away and were quickly swallowed up by the crowd.