Getting the Important Things Right

by Padgett Gerler

  I went to the book store for the few texts I’d need before I stopped at the student store to buy a sweatshirt. I got myself a new one each semester, and I’d amassed quite a wardrobe. I chose a pink one since I already had red, yellow, white, green, and black. I was running out of options, and pink was actually one of my best colors. There were lots of shirts with clever sayings on the backs for specific majors, but since I hadn’t had a major, I always got one with the University logo. The shirt I liked the best was for philosophy majors. It said YOU CAN ALWAYS RETAKE A CLASS, BUT YOU CAN NEVER RETAKE A PARTY. I guess I could have bought it, even though I wasn’t a philosophy major. But I wasn’t much of a partier, either. I started to get one for a creative writing major, but since it had been my major for just thirteen minutes, I decided that was a bit premature. So I stuck with the University logo, again.

  The new semester arrived, and I got ready for my first creative writing class. I thought it would feel different, given its significance. But it felt like I was just getting ready for every other class I’d taken. I no longer arrived on campus an hour early but got there with just enough time to claim a desk before the professor walked through the door.

  When I reached Creative Writing 101, I found the room full of students—all girls. Each was a giggly little sorority sister with blonde, winged Farrah Fawcett hair, lots of black eyeliner, glossy lips, and a very short skirt.

  I took a seat near the front—I no longer sat in the middle so that I’d be overlooked—and listened to the girls giggle and whine and whisper until class began. I was leafing through our textbook when the giggling-whining-whispering came to an abrupt halt.

  I looked up just in time to see the most beautiful man I’d ever seen walk through the door. He had a deep tan that suggested he had spent Christmas break in Aspen or the Caribbean or the South of France. He wore his steel gray hair cropped closely, and his piercing blue eyes looked right through me. Were they looking through me alone or everyone in the class? The eerie silence said the latter.

  “Good morning, class. I’m Ted. Your syllabus says I’m Dr. Theodore Chambers, but it’s just Ted. If you called me Dr., I’d have to take your pulse or remove your spleen.”

  I was sure it was an old joke that he recycled class after class, but everyone laughed, just the same. Several girls mumbled that they’d gladly give him their spleens. I was beginning to understand why Ted’s class was full of perfectly-coiffed and –appointed sorority sisters.

  And even though I wasn’t a nineteen-year-old coed, I wasn’t immune to his charm and good looks. As I sighed with the rest, Ted smiled for the first time, revealing big, white, straight teeth—as big and white and straight as mine.

  My first thought upon seeing them was, “Our children certainly wouldn’t need braces.”

  The thought startled me so that I was afraid I’d said it aloud. I was so embarrassed by my silliness that I felt the blood rush to my face and the perspiration bead on my upper lip. To hide my blushing, I folded my arms on my desk and rested my forehead on them.

  “Miss, Miss…are you all right?”

  It took a tap on my shoulder for me to realize Ted was talking to me. I lifted my head but couldn’t look him in the eye.

  As I averted my gaze, I mumbled, “Yes, fine, fine…just warm in here.”

  He said, “Well, if you need to step outside for a breath of air, go right ahead.”

  All the sisters tittered. I was mortified for having drawn attention to myself. I felt like a hot-flashing menopausal woman who was being humored for her unfortunate malady.

  “Oh, god, how am I ever going to make it through this class? And, god, if I could get my hands on Dr. Samuels right now, I’d kill him!”

  What in the hell was happening to me? It felt like lust. It felt like longing. I was tingling in places I’m ashamed to mention. It felt like I was wildly, physically attracted to this man I had seen for the first time just five minutes before.

  I had not had these feelings for so long. How long had it been? Eight, ten years? What had killed my longing? Oh, yes, I remembered: it was that first beating. I had awakened from it dead inside. I had not longed for Garth from that moment. I had not longed…period.

  What an inopportune time my feelings had chosen to reawaken! I just had to get a grip and deal with the subject at hand: creative writing.

  When I came to, I heard Ted saying, “We’re going to have fun with this class. We’ll ease into creative writing gently. All of your assignments this semester will be autobiographical. What could be simpler? You’ll be writing about subjects you already know, drawing on past experiences. First assignment: how did your parents meet?”

  There were moans and groans coming from the girls as Ted said, “You pick the length, the tenor, the approach you wish to take with this one. I just want to see how you write. You have till Wednesday to dazzle me. See you then.”

  As I gathered my books, I was already thinking about Lieutenant Tom and Lydia Rose and their meeting at the Officers’ Club at Fort Bragg. I had to squeeze past the group of students who had gathered around Ted. As I left the classroom, I could hear them cooing, “But, Ted… Well, what about this, Ted… Oh, Ted, that’s so funny…” Indeed! Those girls sounded like blithering idiots.

  But, at least, they weren’t having hot flashes!

  Fifty-three

  Ted was leaning against his desk, arms crossed over his chest, one ankle over the other. And he looked perturbed.

  “Depressing, absolutely depressing,” he said. “I’m sorry for all of your losses, but is death the only challenge your families have had to face? When I gave you this assignment, I expected some creativity. Remember, this course is called Creative Writing.”

  We were halfway through the semester, and Ted seemed frustrated that some of his students weren’t making much progress with their writing.

  He waved a paper in the air and said, “Lydia, will you please show the class what a real challenge looks like.”

  Ted had been praising my writing since I first wrote about Ma’am and The Colonel, and the rest of the students hated the attention he gave me. None of them would speak to me, and I could hear them whispering, “Teacher’s pet.” I had never read aloud in class, though, and I could feel the blood race to my face as I approached the front of the room. I took my paper from Ted and turned to my classmates. They were all glaring at me with contempt in their eyes.

  THE SWIMMING LESSON

  Colonel Tom insisted that all his kids learn to swim.

  He said, “No yammerin’ youngun of mine is going to go and drown and embarrass the hell out of Colonel Tom!”

  So for our third birthdays we all got baptized in the river. Fortunately for my brother, Percy, and me, our birthdays were in July and September, respectively. The river water was pretty warm that time of year. Our little sister, Oops, on the other hand, was born in April, and she got a frigid baptism.

  Our first swimming lesson consisted of Colonel Tom’s tossing us in the water over our heads and bellowing, “Swim, damnit!”

  Percy and I are excellent swimmers, but Oops was the fastest learner I’ve ever seen. Colonel Tom tossed her into the brink, and she was paddling toward shore before she hit that icy April water. She flailed her arms like a windmill, and as soon as she could touch bottom, she ran out of that river, straight into the open towel Ma’am had waiting for her. We all cheered her success, but she was not at all pleased with her accomplishment. Her lips were blue, her teeth were chattering, and her eyes were angry slits.

  But she knew how to swim.

  As I began reading about The Colonel throwing Oops into the icy river and bellowing for her to “Swim, damnit!”, I noticed the students’ faces soften and their glares turn to smiles. By the time Oops hit the water, all of my classmates were laughing. As she raced out of the river and into Ma’am waiting towel, they all began applauding her victory.

  When I finished reading, Ted said, “Now, class, in about three paragraphs Lydia tells how h
er little sister overcame a challenge. And in those three short paragraphs we see the challenge, fear, humor, anger, determination, and success. And no one died.”

  The more I wrote, the more my classmates wanted to read my work. They thought it was so funny that Percy and I had eaten an entire chocolate cake in one night, and they all wanted to learn how to play Cuss Scrabble. They were anxious to meet the smart little girl who read the Wall Street Journal and wanted majorette boots for Christmas. It broke my heart to tell them they couldn’t. Percy, though, was the one who intrigued them most. One by one they found their way to his garage, and they all returned giggling and swooning over his beautiful eyes, his cunning smile, his dimples. They didn’t care that he was almost old enough to be their father. He charmed them just as he had charmed every other woman he’d ever met.

  As Ted’s praise and encouragement increased and my classmates begged to read my work, I wrote with a frenzy. I have to give my family a lot of the credit, though. I did not have the run-of-the-mill upbringing that most of my fellow students had experienced, and none of them had been involved in an abusive marriage.

  My papers nearly wrote themselves.

  Fifty-four

  Ted was just wrapping up our last class before the Christmas holidays. I should have been happy, knowing that I had just one semester until I would be a college graduate. But I was sad to see this class end. Not only had Ted been the first person to call me a writer, he had also made me fall in love with him. I had enrolled in every class he had offered just to be near him. This was to be my last. As we headed for the door, he told us that he’d drop our final grades in the mail, rather than make us wait until they were posted.

  On my way out I stopped by his desk to thank him for all of his guidance. He picked up his briefcase and fell into step beside me as I walked to the elevator. On our ride down, he praised my writing and predicted a bright literary future for me. As the elevator doors opened and we stepped out, I expected him to walk out of my life. Instead, he turned my way, followed me out of the building, and headed toward the student parking lot with me.

  “When will you start your internship, Lydia?”

  “In two weeks, right before the spring semester begins. The editor said I could come in and get acclimated before I start back to classes.”

  “Now, don’t expect to be writing editorials your first day. You’re going to have to fetch a lot of coffee before you get to do any actual writing.”

  I had just begun laughing at the man I had been secretly pining over for two years when I heard the screechy voice of Constance Quarry: “Ted, oh, Ted. Wait up!”

  I looked up to see Ted squint his eyes and clench his jaw. He turned to face my annoying classmate and said, “Constance, I’m talking with Lydia; if you can wait a moment, I’ll be with you.”

  Instead of backing off, she stood her ground and tapped her foot impatiently.

  Finally, Ted just shook his head, took my hand, and said, “Sorry, Lydia. Good luck. Let me know how things work out at the newspaper.”

  Then he turned to attend to screechy Constance. Staring at his back, I felt that my lifeline had just been severed; and, all of a sudden, I was frightened and sad.

  I loved him so, but there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. Being in his classes had been enough to sustain me, though I had longed for so much more. But I knew that we could never be more to each other than student and professor. Now I had nothing of him. It was breaking my heart. I ran to my car as the tears began coursing my cheeks. I jumped into the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and leaned forward, clutching my stomach. A tap-tap on the car window startled me into banging my head on the steering wheel.

  “You all right, lady?”

  I looked toward the window to find two boys crouched and squinting through the window at me.

  “Whatsa matter? You need help?”

  “Hell, no! Haven’t you ever seen an old lady cry?”

  And with that, I crammed the key in the ignition, cranked the engine, and sped from the parking lot, showering the boys with gravel. I bellowed all the way home and sat in my car in the driveway and cried until I was limp and draped over the steering wheel. I was glad I didn’t have to start my internship for two weeks. I’d need that much time to compose myself.

  Three days after my crying fit, I found an envelope addressed in Ted’s handwriting in my mailbox. Inside was my grade: A+ Thank you for being the brightest light in a very bright class. I expect great things from you!

  This was a keeper, even a framer. I closed my eyes and held Ted’s note to my nose, hoping to catch his scent. The note just smelled like paper. I ran my fingers over the writing, touching where his pen had been. My heart quickened, and I pressed the note to my chest. I felt the tears starting behind my eyes. I shook my head and breathed deeply to ward off a spell. I couldn’t allow myself to dissolve each time I thought of Ted.

  I started my internship at the newspaper, and, sure enough, I fetched a lot of coffee. But I did get to do some writing. I was assigned to the Arts and Living section, and it was my job to write descriptive captions under pictures. It was a start. I loved the excitement that went into publishing a paper, and I thrived on the pressure of a deadline. I worked with clever, creative people, and they taught me things I could never have learned in a college class. I threw myself into the job.

  But I missed Ted.

  I began my final semester carrying nine hours, a senior thesis, and the internship. I felt overwhelmed but could see the light at the end of the tunnel. In just a few short months I’d be a college graduate. There was a time I wanted to be a student for the rest of my life; but once Dr. Samuels had pointed me in the direction of my major, I was eager to start my career as a writer. But as long as I was on campus, I ached to be around Ted. I was always alert, looking for him, hoping we’d pass on the quad or in the hall. I’d find excuses to walk past his classroom while he was teaching. I’d glance through the open door to see him laughing and gesturing to a new crop of adoring students, all of them staring longingly at the man I loved. Occasionally, I’d see him walking with students, talking animatedly. I’d stop and stare, but he never looked my way.

  About a month into my very grueling schedule, another envelope addressed in Ted’s handwriting appeared in my mailbox. Its message read: Lydia, please join me Saturday evening for tea and conversation. Yours, Ted

  Thinking that he had invited our writing class to get together for the evening, I called his office to get the particulars.

  He said, “Lydia, I am not inviting the class on a date; I’m inviting you.”

  A date? With Ted? Was that legal? He was my professor. Well, he was my professor, but he wasn’t my professor anymore. But he was a professor. Could a professor date a student even if that student wasn’t his student? Could a professor date a student who had been in love with him for two years? Did the professor realize his student had been in love with him for two years? During the entire time that my mind was churning, I didn’t utter a sound.

  Finally, Ted said, “Lydia, are you still there?”

  Then I started sputtering: “Well, uh, I, uh, you know, I’m studying, uh, carrying nine hours, got that senior thesis, interning at the paper, been working on this degree, uh, fifteen years, uh, can’t possibly think about dating…”

  I paused, took a deep breath, and said, “Ted, thank you for the invitation, but I really can’t. I have to concentrate on my work, but if you’re still interested in tea and conversation after my graduation, I’d love to accept your invitation.”

  “Well, all right. I understand…I suppose. I’ll check back later. I hope you have a good semester. Bye, Lydia.”

  As soon as I hung up, I screamed, “Have you lost your mind? This is what you’ve been longing for, and now you’ve blown it!”

  But Ted had caught me off guard. And I’d lost my courage. And my chance. I was sure I’d never see him again. I flung myself on the sofa and sobbed. I’d done an awful lot of crying over th
is man.

  About a week after our conversation, I found another note in my mailbox. It read:

  The daffodils out beyond my wood pile

  Are showing early signs of spring,

  But no matter when the daffodils bloom,

  They are always worth the wait.

  I squealed so loud I was afraid the neighbors would hear me and come running to find out what was wrong. I skipped around the house like a schoolgirl, waving Ted’s note in the air, laughing hysterically. If ever I needed Percy, it was at that moment. I so wanted to share my hysteria with him. In a weak moment I had confided in Percy that I thought I was in love with Ted. All he had said was, “Be careful, Sis.” I didn’t care if Ted was a professor and I was a student. I wasn’t passing up this opportunity. I was damned if I’d be careful. Let ‘em arrest me!

  I called Ted’s office, and when he answered the phone, I asked, “Okay, what are you doing Saturday night?”

  And he just laughed that wonderful laugh of his.

  He said, “Do you like Italian?”

  “Ted, if it’s food, I’ll like it. If it’s on a plate and someone else cooked it, I’ll eat it. Is this Italian on a plate.”

  “Well, yes it is.”

  “Then I’ll love it.”

  “You’re easy to please, aren’t you?”

  “If you’d ever eaten my mother’s cooking—or mine, for that matter—you’d understand.”

  “Have you been to Amedeo’s.”

  “Isn’t that the restaurant near campus? I’ve seen it, but I’ve never eaten there.”

  “Well, you’re in for a treat. They serve a baked lasagna that is so delicious it’ll bring tears to your eyes.”

  “Can’t wait. I’ll meet you there. How does seven o’clock sound?”