by Diane Wald
After the usual small talk, Dr. Bowe assured me she thought the interview had gone very well.
“If you want this job, I’m sure it’s yours,” she said, smiling. “That’s quite unofficial of course, but I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t truly believe you were in.”
“Oh, I’ll accept all right,” I told her, smiling back. “If they can match my present astronomical salary that is. I have an expensive wife and two enormous sons to spoil, you know.”
Sarah laughed and said the salaries at NSU were terrible, but no more terrible than they were anyplace else. She hoped I’d sign up. I was buoyed by her enthusiasm and began to question her about the school.
“This is a state school, Doctor, as you know,” she began. I interrupted to beg her to call me Jack and was asked to call her Sarah. I noticed how delicately she ate, and with what obvious enjoyment. She picked an orange slice off the display of fluffy greens at the side of the plate and bent the rind downward, so the juicy little sections stood up like a row of soldiers. Then, instead of biting them off, she tongued each pointy morsel exquisitely, and noiselessly drew it into her mouth. I loosened my tie. I was not fool enough to imagine an affair with this good woman, but my all-but-nonexistent sex life with Frances had rendered me as bottled up as a Catholic teenager. I tried to concentrate on what Sarah was saying.
“In a state school,” she went on, “one often finds an interesting blend of students, at least that’s been my experience here. There’ll be, of course, a certain number of rejects from more expensive schools, but for the most part NSU students are an able and enthusiastic bunch. They each have a personal reason for choosing this college, but I’ve found that at the bottom of it all lies a serious desire for learning. Many of them work their way through, so they have to want to be here. For the most part, I find them challenging and fun. Some of them are extraordinarily bright, too, which surprised me at first, and those brighter students often have quite fascinating reasons for choosing NSU.”
This interested me, of course. “For example?” I asked her.
“Well, there’s a boy in my intro class who’s really a near-genius. I’m sure he could have gotten a scholarship to almost any school. But he mentioned once that he came to NSU because his brother had cerebral palsy, and he wanted to be within commuting distance of home. I thought at the time—I still do think—that that’s too much of a sacrifice for a parent to allow a student of his caliber to make, but on the other hand I have to respect him for it. And he’ll probably do just as well no matter where he goes.”
“Possibly,” I said. “I hope so. That’s an intriguing case. You know about my interest in gifted children.”
“Yes,” said Sarah, smiling again, “I suppose that’s why I brought it up. I’m curious about your background, Jack, as a child, I mean. We’ve all heard about the research project you were involved in.”
“I’ll tell you about it some rainy afternoon in the faculty lounge,” I told her. “It’s really too much for now.”
“I hope you will,” she said, “I’d love to hear all about it.” She looked at her watch. “I still have half an hour,” she told me. “There must be other things you want to know about this place.”
“How’s the boss?” I asked her.
We’d ordered white wine with our meal, but Sarah had hardly touched hers. She picked up the glass then and all but drained it. Then she gave me a sideways look.
“I like you, Jack,” she said, “So I’ll tell you about Wally Mussel. But I hope you won’t let what I say turn you against the place. Keep in mind that we hardly ever see him.”
“Forge ahead,” I said. “I want to know.”
“He’s a miserable, pig-brained little bastard,” she said, and waited for me to react. Although that statement was certainly more hostile than I’d expected, I didn’t flinch, so she continued.
“I don’t know how he got his position,” she said, “But I wouldn’t put anything past him. He isn’t intelligent; he isn’t popular; he isn’t even crafty. He’s just an old-fashioned bully.” Then she paused and drank some water. “I’m sorry, Jack,” she said, looking almost at the point of tears, “Wally really ticks me off.”
“You needn’t go on if you don’t want to,” I said. “I can see this isn’t your favorite topic. I don’t want to spoil what’s been for me a lovely lunch.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” she laughed a tight little laugh. “Actually, with me and Wally it’s more of a personality conflict than anything else. I had a run-in with him early on, and I’ve never gotten over it. He’s never given me any reason to get over it, I should say. But it is true that we hardly ever have to deal with him; he makes himself blessedly unavailable, and only turns up now and then at a faculty meeting when he has no other choice, or when he has something especially unpleasant to tell us.”
“I did think it was odd he wasn’t at my interview,” I said.
She finished her wine, then the water, and smiled. She was looking more composed, and I was determined to end the subject quickly and make my own investigations regarding Dr. Mussel.
“Not odd for him,” she said. “He rarely participates in such things. He’ll look over your credentials and the recommendations of our search committee, take longer than he ever should to make his decision, and then have his secretary—or slave, as we think of her—offer you the job. I’ll be careful to make my own report extremely staid, so he’ll have no reason to think he could hurt me by rejecting your application.”
“Jeez,” I said. “He sounds awful. Thanks, but I’d rather have your unreserved approval.”
She laughed. “You have it, you know that. And now I’ve got to go, I’m sorry to say.”
She took care of the check, drove me back to my car in the faculty lot, and wished me luck. I was infatuated with her; I felt like kissing her on the cheek. But I merely thanked her warmly and shook her slender hand, which seemed to lie just a second too long in my own. I knew I was dreaming.
7. Sarah, Grace, and My Knighthood
Just as Sarah had predicted, two months after my interview, when I had practically convinced myself to forget about getting the job, Wally Mussel had his secretary call to offer me a contract. I accepted. Then, before I told another soul, I called Sarah.
“This is wonderful,” she said, “I’m so glad you told me. Will you be moving your family here during the summer?”
“I don’t think I’ll wait that long,” I told her. “I’d like to come out soon and look for a house, and then get us all settled in as quickly as possible.”
She told me she knew some real estate people in the area, and I made another luncheon date with her the following week so we could discuss the best way for me to start house-hunting. It wasn’t at all necessary; I’m sure she knew that as well as I did. I could easily have done a lot of the initial fact-finding over the phone. I just wanted to see her. I was lonely, I had to admit to myself, for a kindred spirit, for some approval, for, simply, a warmer reception than the one I usually got at home.
I didn’t even know if Sarah was married. Surely, I thought, she must be, a person like her—though she hadn’t mentioned anyone at lunch. But then again, I hadn’t really given her the chance. I guess I hadn’t wanted to hear it.
After I called her, I told the family my news. The boys were delighted at the prospect of moving so close to New York City. We’d been living in the sticks as long as they could remember, and they needed a change. I preferred the country myself, but I wanted them to have a fair exposure to all kinds of situations while they were young. They needed some friends who were different from themselves. For example, there weren’t any families of color anywhere around us, and I didn’t want my sons growing up thinking the whole world was as homogenized as the milk produced by the nearby farms.
And Frances? Well, Frances was ecstatic. She even began to display (or was it feign?) a renewed physical interest in me that distracted me from thoughts of Sarah for a while. But it soon became obvious
that Frances’s main delight in my forthcoming professorial peregrination lay wholly in her fantasy that she would be able, at Norman, to inhabit the vastly superior social milieu to which, she was certain, she had a God-given right. I knew she’d be disappointed, but as long as she was so cheerful, I didn’t try to disabuse her of the notion. Had I done so, she would have had still one more thing to hold against me. We slept together the night I told her my news and another night that week, and I told myself that we “made love.” I tried to enjoy it without fussing over what to name our contact.
The morning of my lunch date with Sarah Bowe, I readied myself carefully for what I hoped would be a delightful day. I had visions of arriving at Sarah’s apartment (she told me she lived in an apartment—that was a good sign—it made her sound single), whisking her off to that comfortable inn, watching her nibble her salad like a big, beautiful bunny, and then touring the neighborhoods of Norman in search of my dream house. I really didn’t carry the fantasy on any further than that. I just wanted her impeccably female company; I didn’t want to start up a big fat mess. I made the trip in about three hours, a whole hour short of the usual time. When I realized how I’d been speeding I tried to calm myself, calling myself a fool. I sang along with the radio in a deep baritone to prove that I was one. I was having a great time already.
I found Sarah’s street easily; it was quite near the school. Her apartment was on the third floor of a very old, eccentrically styled house, bordered by orchards of what looked like dead pear trees and some rather splendid iris gardens. I rang the buzzer under her name several times before she came to answer.
As soon as I saw her, I realized I should have called the night before to confirm our engagement. She was dressed in a sloppy-looking old cardigan over what may well have been a pajama top, baggy jeans, and old moccasins, and her lovely blonde hair looked to have been stirred up by a Mixmaster. She wore no makeup, and her eyes were as baggy as her trousers.
Yet she did not look surprised to see me. She gave me both her hands and pulled me through the door. “Jack,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m so sorry. I know I look a fright. I didn’t forget our lunch; I’ve just had such a dreadful morning. Forgive me. Have a seat in here. I promise I’ll only take five minutes to get ready.”
She half pushed me into a funny little parlor and rushed off up the stairs before I could say a thing. I looked around me. Everything in the place seemed to belong in a Victorian museum: heavy cut-velvet-covered furniture, potted ferns, Oriental rugs one on top of the other, floor-to-ceiling bookcases crammed with dark leather volumes, a stuffed owl (oh no!), a stuffed squirrel (ugh!), and thick brocade drapes drawn only slightly apart with tasseled ropes, letting in dusty sunbeams and no air whatsoever. I went over to the bookcases, naturally, and was just pulling down what appeared to be a very old copy of The Turn of the Screw when a voice from behind me almost scared me into dropping the volume.
“Young man,” the voice said.
I turned and peered into the dimness. There in one corner, in one of the chubby chairs, sat a plump elderly woman with a huge, orange, longhaired cat on her lap. She wore, of course, a crocheted shawl and slippers, and had little wire spectacles on her nose. A pair of canes rested against her footstool. She did not wear a lace cap, but she might as well have. “Madam,” I said, “Forgive me. I did not see you there.”
Her voice was childlike in pitch, but commanding. “And so you made free to pluck down my books,” she said.
I decided to make a friend of her. “How could I resist such a devastating temptation?” I asked, then said, “My apologies. My name is MacLeod, Jack MacLeod. I’m a friend of Dr. Bowe’s.” I walked over and offered this apparition my hand.
I was not sure she would take it, but she did. Her own little paw was surprisingly smooth and warm, and she grasped my hand firmly. At that, the cat jumped off her lap with a peevish cry. “Foolish thing,” she scolded, with great love in her voice, “Nobody’s going to molest you,” and she brushed some long red hairs off her lap, pulled herself up straight in the chair (which obviously caused her some pain), and gestured for me to take the one opposite hers, which I did.
“Do you like cats, Dr. MacLeod?” she asked me, looking into my eyes piercingly to drive home the importance of the question. I assured her I did, very much, and could tell that I’d pleased her.
“Friend of Sarah’s, are you?” she went on, but did not wait for me to reply. “Good for her to have some friends. Taking her out, I hope. She’s been up there all morning crashing around like a wounded moose. I called up and asked her what was the matter, and she said she was cleaning closets. Well, I don’t believe it. Anyway, a young woman like that needs to get out more. She shouldn’t come down here and sit with me of an evening—not that I mind the company of course. Forgot to tell you: I’m Grace Rinkette, I own this place. Those are my iris gardens outside; did you like them? President of the Iris Society of America, I am. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice my iris?”
Here she paused, but only for air. I was able to assure her I’d thought the iris delightful, and then, just as Grace Rinkette was about to launch another conversational ocean liner, Sarah came in looking like Her Serene Highness and smiled calmly at both of us. She was wearing the blue suit again, but this time with a white scoop-neck sweater underneath the jacket, and toweringly high heels. Her hair, which had been a tangled nest a few minutes ago, looked like one of those ads for Prell shampoo, though it was impossible for her to have washed and dried it in so short a time. She had little pink pearly things in her pearly ears, and just a touch of pink on her cheeks and lips. I was astonished. I momentarily considered the idea that it had been some poor, bedraggled twin sister of Sarah’s who had answered the door a few minutes before. The fairytale atmosphere of the parlor and Grace Rinkette was making me lightheaded.
“I see you’ve met Miss Rinkette, Jack,” she said. “I’m glad. You two will like each other—you’re both such book nuts.” She turned to Miss Rinkette. “Jack and his family are moving here, Grace. He’s going to teach at the university.”
Grace was pleased to hear it and invited me to stop by any time. She asked if my wife were interested in iris. Then Sarah bustled me off, stuffed me into her Ford Falcon station wagon, and took off like a maniac down the hill to the Sherwood Inn. She did not say a single unnecessary word until we were settled in our seats.
Then she smiled at me, took up her napkin, and burst into tears. I held her one hand while she dabbed at her eyes with the other. When she was finished crying, I went to the bar and brought us back two bourbons, neat.
I said, “I thought this would do better than white wine.”
“Bless you,” she said, and took a long sip, then another.
The waiter appeared and we ordered. When he had gone, Sarah looked over at me sheepishly.
“Not everyone at Norman is as crazy as this,” she said, “Please forgive me. First I meet you at the door looking like a bag lady, then I cry at you and drink your bourbon too quickly. I’m sorry, Jack.”
“Don’t mention it. Anything I can do?”
“No. I don’t know. This was supposed to be a meeting to discuss your real estate options. Seems to be going all wonky.” She gave me an abashed smile.
I decided to take an honest tack with her, since clearly we’d been catapulted, by circumstances as yet unknown to me, onto more personal ground.
“Sarah,” I said, “I think we both know that was an unnecessary excuse to get together—at least I did. If I can help you with whatever is making you so unhappy, even just by listening, I’d be delighted to do so.” I took her hand again. “No extra charge,” I kidded. “You can tell me who to call about a house any time.”
I couldn’t believe it, but she blushed. Then she sneezed and took her hand away to wipe her eyes again. “Thanks, Jack,” she said. “You’re right. I just wanted to be with you again. I don’t want to start up anything funny, believe me—I just need a friend.” She smiled up at
me, the blush receding into the low neckline of her sweater. “Is that okay with you?”
It didn’t require an answer. “Are you hungry?” I asked her. By this time the waiter had delivered two huge plates of pasta and a gigantic basket of bread. I couldn’t imagine why we’d ordered it. I mean, it wasn’t even an Italian restaurant.
She looked at the vast pile of comestibles on the table and laughed. “I’d rather have a beer and a hot dog,” she said. “I know a great place for that sort of thing.”
“Good idea.” I threw some money on the table, grabbed her arm, waved to the waiter and called “Ciao,” and we were back at the Falcon, Sarah fumbling in her bag for her keys. I took her hands, held them to my face, and kissed her quickly. She looked astonished, but not unhappy.
“Now we can relax,” I told her. To my delight, she seemed quite pleased.
We drove, not talking. Sarah took me to her apartment. She parked on the street about a block from the house, explaining to me that if we went in the back way, quietly, we would avoid another audience with the amazing Grace. As much as I liked the old dear, I too was eager to slip past her. The rear entrance to the house, almost entirely masked by the thick vines of an ancient wisteria, was a private route to Sarah’s apartment, and as we carefully tiptoed our way to the third floor, past closed doors with lace-curtained windows on each landing, I felt a mixture of impending adventure and threatening doom. I sensed that whatever was upsetting Sarah must be something deep, and while I knew I was soon to learn the secret behind her distress, I was also thrilled and frightened by this chance to be alone with her. Sometime during the short drive from the inn, I had stopped fooling myself about my intentions, and I worried that I would frighten Sarah off. She had asked for my friendship, nothing more, and I had to be careful not to take advantage of her troubled state of mind. On the other hand, she had accepted a slightly-more-than-friendly kiss from me, and she had taken me back to her apartment. What was a boy to think?