by Jae
Considering the weightlessness of their banter—something Cathy normally had little taste for—dinner had been unexpectedly pleasant. Lou was a chatty woman who readily exposed everything from her experiences in Catholic school to her opinion of Yorkshire terriers. She hailed from Port Dickens, an unremarkable town in upstate New York whose claim to fame, long gone, relied exclusively on its proximity to the Erie Canal. After raising three kids and paying off the mortgage on a four-bedroom cape—all products of a twenty-eight-year marriage—her husband, Walter, had died eight years ago and left her reasonably comfortable. Lou’s concise discussion of Walter reflected an indifference that surprised Cathy, but then, men were generally legitimate objects of indifference, in her opinion.
However pleasant dinner had been, Cathy was talked out for the night, and especially with her cabinmate’s cheery chatter. She looked forward to her pajamas, some quiet, and some bourbon. When they reached the cabin door just after sunset, Cathy had her keycard at the ready. With a flourish, she bowed demurely at the waist, pushed open the door, and waited. “After you, please,” she said with a bit of drama, cocking her arm and ushering Lou inside. “Join me for a drink?”
“It’s been years—”
Cathy retrieved the small bottle she’d set on the mini-fridge upon arrival. “Where’s the porter when you need him?” she mumbled, skimming every flat surface in the space. “I don’t see any glasses.”
Slowly, Lou let her scarf—bedecked with tiny birds that floated among tiny twigs and succulent purple berries on a cream-colored background—drift to the floor. Bright and fluid silver bracelets, one on each wrist, tinkled lightly as she tousled her short, reddish hair with both hands for the umpteenth time. Perhaps a nervous tic, thought Cathy.
“In there, I suppose.” Lou gestured toward the bathroom. An oval, pewter medallion on a silver chain lay motionless—or trapped—in Lou’s upper cleavage as she bent to retrieve the scarf. Shrill voice or not, there was something becoming about her, something enticing.
About to grab the glasses from the bathroom vanity, Cathy caught sight of Lou’s profile in the mirror. Perched on the edge of her bed, Lou unbuttoned her shirt and lazily fell onto her back. “I’m absolutely stuffed!” she called. “More than I normally eat in a week.” She slid her arms upward over the gray-blue comforter and arched contentedly, hands behind her head. The edges of Lou’s blouse draped downward, highlighting the elegant, deep curve created by the slope of her bottom rib to her waist.
A flash of Deidre demanded that Cathy avert her gaze, but she wasn’t eager to obey.
Lou’s waist tapered out to sumptuous hips and then sharply inward for the long, unbroken line of her thigh. Her skin was smooth for a woman who must be in her fifties. Cathy pulled her eyes away from the mirror abruptly. Deidre was right. She shouldn’t watch.
Cathy scooped up the small glasses with one hand. “Got ’em,” she announced cheerfully.
She poured an inch for Lou, who gingerly sniffed at the lip of the bar glass.
Cathy laughed. “Not your poison? I picked it up last week in Kentucky.” She tipped her glass toward the statue on the dresser. “Or would your boy there disapprove?”
Louise’s frown made it clear that the Infant of Prague was off-limits for any sort of levity. “I thought you were from Vermont.”
“Visiting a friend,” Cathy said. She upended her glass and stared into its emptiness for a minute. “So, tell me more about the life of a beta reader. How did you get into it?”
Lou didn’t seem anxious to respond. “My friend Maureen—she was a beta reader before I was—brought me some books. One of them was Heartwell’s first novel, and I’ve been hooked ever since.”
“On the Heartwell’s? Or do you and Maureen read other titles?”
“I read anything the press sends me,” Lou said crisply. “But Maureen?” Her voice assumed a wistful tone. “Well, she died recently. She was my best friend…”
Clearly, the pain was still fresh, evident in the sad anguish that subtly etched itself into the corners of Louise’s eyes, even though she continued to hold her good-natured smile in place.
“I’m sorry,” Cathy muttered. She placed her glass on the floor and unlaced her boots, ambivalent about the silence after all. She cleared her throat. “Looks like you’ve got quite a handful of pages there.”
“Yes, about 275.” Louise smiled, and listlessly riffled the stack beside her with her finger. “I’m nearly finished with it. The next one will probably keep me busy until we get back to New York.”
“You’ll forgive me for saying so,” began Cathy, “but isn’t that sort of romance narrative a bit on the lightweight side? I mean, it’s not very intellectually challenging…”
“No, I suppose it isn’t,” Lou agreed. “But Maureen liked the work, and so do I. We were on the same bowling team.” She distractedly caressed the medallion around her neck. “She was a smart woman—a brilliant, wonderful woman.”
The loving stroke made Cathy wonder whether the medal had been a gift from Maureen. Maybe a birthday gift or a token pressed into Lou’s hand at Walter’s funeral. Cathy chided herself for her curiosity; she was not usually one to trespass. “They’re all the same, though, no? Pampered rich girl falls for bad boy even though she’s committed to another man? In the end, the woman inevitably ditches her intended, reforms the scalawag, and falls into his arms.” Cathy screwed the top onto the bourbon bottle. “Or some variation of that. I mean, seven books in three years? C’mon. That’s not literature; that’s pulp.”
“There is a formula,” Lou conceded. “And it’s not like reading Proulx or Sontag. But some of the authors capture something powerful about romance. You know what they say—it’s an escape.”
Although Lou indulged the discussion, Cathy sensed that her thoughts were still with Maureen. “Right.” She rubbed her knees and stood. “Maybe you’d like some privacy. I could go out to the Promenade Deck,” she offered. “They’ve got some sort of telescope set up for the meteor shower…”
“She got sick quite suddenly and passed within a few months.” A meager sparkle of tear increased Cathy’s uneasiness. A meteor shower sounded like a lot more fun than Heartbreak Alley.
When Cathy returned to the cabin two hours later, Lou was in her pillow nest. As if she had anticipated drifting off, she was cozily buttoned into a white flannel nightshirt. Her mouth was agape, head fallen to the side. A manila envelope lay on her lap, undisturbed.
Cathy brushed her teeth and climbed into her own PJs, a light gown. The clear night and the telescope had combined to produce a spectacular show in the dark sky. It was a magnificent thing to see and feel and comprehend the depth of the world.
The tiny, razor-focused travel light she had clipped to her headboard was just what she needed. She reached for the volume of Woolf criticism and ran her fingertips over the cover. The first time she taught Woolf—twenty years earlier—her classroom of college seniors had insisted that gender issues were passé. For most of them, A Room of One’s Own was a dreary, forced march, but for her, it had always read like fire.
Until last June, she had been used to reading two or three books a week; now, two or three pages a day sufficed, wearing her out with rereading each time she returned to her text. Still, she carried the books. How could she not? They had reflected her sensibilities, provided her a platform, and filled each crevice of her mind’s life. She wouldn’t abandon them now, and they wouldn’t abandon her. It had been a long and affectionate marriage.
Her relationship with Falconer College, by contrast, was much more complicated. After twenty-five years and every possible award of distinction, her dismissal the previous summer had been discreet but resolute after she berated—and then failed—an entire senior seminar. She’d been given a chance to reverse her decision, naturally, since in all but one case, students required th
e course for graduation. But the students could not read. It wasn’t that they couldn’t read something especially challenging or something that she liked—she had a sterling reputation for being generous with her students and for not desiring admirers or clones. No, it was that they couldn’t read at all. They had nonetheless managed to get through four years of college and now expected to be barcoded as “educated.”
One by one, students were interviewed and asked to read from the assigned book; one by one, they confirmed the professor’s claim. Highly embarrassed administrators, cajoled by angry parents, begged Cathy to reconsider, but when seven of Falconer’s best did not graduate that May, there were headlines. So much for academic freedom.
And then in June came her diagnosis, the timing of which could not have been more fortuitous for administrators, who immediately exploited her illness. Letters of apology were mailed to the parents of the failed students. The professor was ill, the letter explained, and the mistake had been rectified. And then, in a repulsive act of hypocrisy, the administration flipped for a lavish party and retired her, emeritus.
Fuck them.
Whether she knew it or not, Lou snored. Not obnoxiously, but with a persistence that demanded respect—and, perhaps, ear plugs. But then, it was the first time Cathy had shared a bedroom with a woman in nearly five years. Deirdre had her flaws, to be sure, but snoring wasn’t one of them. Cathy regarded Lou’s low, semi-raspy voice as somewhat charming and actually kind of sexy. And her smile was, well, kind. But Harlequins—and the boy statue—annoyed her. Who was Maureen, anyway? Surely not a lover; at least, Louise didn’t look the “type.”
Cathy wondered if she should turn off the cabin light, which still glowed on the table between them. Oh, what the heck, the old girl was clearly out for the night. She got to her feet and deftly removed the manila envelope from Lou’s lap and casually laid it on the edge of her own bed. As if she had done it a thousand times, Cathy pulled the comforter up from the foot of the bed and covered her roommate. Still asleep, Lou reacted to the blanket’s sudden warmth; she shifted into a crouch, drew up her knees and turned toward the blank wall, away from Cathy.
She stared at Lou’s folder, pretty sure that it didn’t contain the manuscript of a Pulitzer winner. Yet, Cathy was curious. Whoever this Maureen was, she had a big enough impact, even after she was dead, to keep a seemingly intelligent woman fascinated by this schlock. When Lou’s light snore confirmed her slumber, Cathy opened the folder and read.
The rare, half-hearted rainstorm that hung over the Atlantic on the fourth morning thwarted Cathy’s plan to wrench Lou out of the cabin. The balcony door was open a crack, and a cool, damp breeze ruffled through the room.
Except for dinner that first evening, Lou spent the lion’s share of three days so focused on her work that Cathy began to wonder why she had bothered to leave Port Dickens in the first place. But then it occurred to her that the reading might be all tied up with Maureen’s recent demise, as though Lou needed to be in new space to accomplish an old task.
Lou emerged from the shower, wrapped in a bulky towel.
“I’m thinking of watching a movie,” Cathy said. “I don’t want to disturb your work. I can keep the volume low.”
Louise scrabbled among the cosmetics on the dresser-top for her half-glasses. “What?”
“A movie.” Cathy waved at the flickering TV screen. “Will the noise bother you?”
With a quick catch of herself, as if she might lose her balance, Louise leaned to her left as she brought her glasses to the bridge of her nose. “What are you watching?”
Cathy wiggled the remote in a sort of tick tock in her left hand. “I’m not exactly sure. It’s in French.” The flutter of black and white images over Cathy’s shoulder barely made any noise at all. “I haven’t quite mastered this contraption…”
“Toss it here,” said Lou. “They charge for the in-room movies, too, you know. They’re $11.95!”
“I guess I didn’t read that in the brochure…” Or did I? Cathy couldn’t remember just exactly what her payment covered on the trip. Before she’d left Vermont, her friend Violet (the only one who really understood, who had gone to the doctors’ appointments with her, and who—even now—was watching over her rescue mutt, Petunia) had encouraged Cathy to deposit money in an onboard account. “That way,” Violet had said, “You won’t have to worry about the bar tab or the theater tickets. It’ll be a breeze! Just say, ‘Put it on my tab.’ Easy-peasy.”
Cathy was grateful for—and simultaneous annoyed with—her friend’s helpfulness; she wasn’t an invalid yet and didn’t need Violet to treat her like one. The doctors had consistently reassured her that, with medication, Alzheimer’s could be slowed to a snail’s pace. She had plenty of time.
Cathy bent her arms and pressed them backward, uncoiling a mild tension. The TV’s menu materialized.
“Except this classics channel,” Lou continued. “These movies are free.” She began to scroll. “Do you like old movies? Look, they’ve even got It Happened One Night! Have you ever seen it? Maureen and I must have watched it a hundred times!” Lou seemed fixated on the sleek black remote, her thumb purposeful and focused as she cued up the movie. The opening credits began to bleed across the plasma. “Is this all right?”
Cathy planted herself in the easy chair. “Sure. Why wouldn’t it be all right?”
“Well, you don’t seem to care much for romantic fiction, so I’m guessing you might also not care much for romantic comedies, that’s all.” Lou pitched the remote onto the table. “Let me get dressed.”
She had already laid out her clothing—a pinstriped camp shirt, pink panties, pink bra, and dark capris. In a fairly immodest—and thoroughly unanticipated—act, Lou allowed her towel to fall to the floor, turned her backside to Cathy, and wiggled into her drawers and brassiere. Cathy could hardly help but notice how large her breasts were, pendulous and supple, tipped with small, delicate, rosy nipples. Lou seemed to study her blouse before pulling it on.
“Close the door?” Cathy asked, gesturing to the sliding glass.
As Lou tugged the stubborn door, the vertical blinds rattled, and she wrapped the blinds’ draw-cord loosely across her palm and gave it a yank. “It’s better in the dark, don’t you think?”
Cathy chuckled at the double entendre. “I usually think so, yes,” she said as Lou settled into the patterned love seat and propped her feet up on the coffee table before them.
“Okay,” Lou announced. “Ready when you are.”
Cathy delicately nudged the remote away from its spot next to Lou’s ankle and hit the play button.
They watched the first half hour of the movie until the television cut out. Patiently, they waited for their connection to be restored.
“Why did you come alone?” Lou had cocked her elbow on the arm of her chair and rested her cheek in her hand.
The question seemed to come out of nowhere. “Why wouldn’t I? I’m not afraid to travel by myself.”
Lou wiggled her toes back and forth in thought. “I just mean, I don’t know many details about you other than that you taught history at Falconer College.” She yawned. “Are you on break?”
“Retired,” Cathy said flatly. “But you didn’t ask why I’m here now. You asked why I’m here alone.”
Lou grinned. “Caught me,” she said. “I’m just curious. Is there a partner somewhere back in Vermont?”
Partner. Peculiar word choice for a straight woman. “Nope. I answer to no one.”
“But you did.”
“I did.”
“What was her name?”
Cathy fiddled with the remote in an attempt to bring back the movie. So, the Harlequin beta reader is perceptive. “Deidre,” she finally said.
Cathy’s response didn’t seem to disconcert Lou. “How long?”
&
nbsp; Cathy shrugged, as though she didn’t quite know the answer. “Five years, give or take.” The ensuing silence was large and cumbersome. “And Maureen?” she asked. “Were you and Maureen…”
“Involved?” Lou finished, as though she considered the question mechanical, part of an interminably boring scene. She inhaled and cast her eyes upward. “Well, yes and no.”
Cathy cocked her head and looked at Lou. “More ‘yes’ or more ‘no’?”
Lou let out a light, genial laugh. “Caught me again. Pretty dumb thing to say, huh? I know that’s supposed to be a simple question.”
Lou’s comment, however blithe, poked at Cathy. She was well aware that the social question was not always the same as the sexual one; it was not, for everyone, a “yes/no” proposition. But still, she generally identified women who couldn’t answer that question (neatly) as equivocal and expedient. At the very least, she deemed them confused. Inexplicably, though, she resisted that handy conclusion about Lou.
“It’s not always simple,” Cathy grudgingly acknowledged. It was worth some teeth-gritting to get Lou to expound. This elegant, bereaved, trashy fiction reader—who was she? And what, for Lou, clouded the answer to a question that deserved absolute clarity?
“No.” Lou looked sad. “Not at all.”
Cathy considered jumping in to fill in the silence but thought better of it.