by Bart Hopkins
Lange couldn’t control the blush that raced up his neck to his cheeks. The graduate assistants had covered most of his undergraduate load. He was especially discerning when choosing the assistants, and Linda was possibly the best he’d ever had.
“Thank you, Linda … the feeling is mutual,” he told her and it was her turn to blush.
“Ah, Professor…”
“It’s the truth. You’ve been amazing, and I probably wouldn’t be able to stumble back in here with my professional world intact if you weren’t here to hold the fort.”
“Dr. Lange…”
“It’s true. So, I’ll say thanks again, and you just say you’re welcome.”
“You’re welcome,” she complied, smiling.
“Well done! And it’s time to return to molding and shaping young minds!” he exclaimed, shifting subjects. He asked questions and Linda filled him in on all of the latest news.
“Oh, goodness, I almost forgot,” she said half an hour later, making him raise his eyebrows inquisitively. “The civil rights symposium is next week!”
The University of Texas was hosting a three-day civil rights symposium on the 50th anniversary of the Civil Rights Act, and Linda said that the faculty was fired up, crazy over preparations.
“Presidents Obama, Bush, Carter, and Clinton are all going to be here as speakers,” she said with no small measure of awe. “Secret Service has been here already, crawling into corners, looking in offices, talking to people. Security and all that.”
“Certainly! Four presidents,” he told her with a nod of his head. “They need to make sure everything is ready. It’s history in the making.”
“Yes,” she agreed, smiling. She nodded her head back at him and he smiled in return. “All right, one more time: glad you’re back. Okay, ha, I won’t say it again.”
Martin taught his two morning classes, but it was difficult to keep the students engaged … every ten or fifteen minutes they were interrupted by small groups of students and faculty who stopped in to say hello and welcome him “home.” He harrumphed and blushed because he was shy about the attention, but inside, he couldn’t deny how nice it felt. He received greetings, shook a multitude of hands, and even received a couple of man-hugs.
By 11:00 a.m. he was in his office, alone for the first time that day. He was fatigued, a fact he would not share with Zoe. She would only worry about him, or tell him to take it easy. She might even try to persuade him to retire! And, who knows, maybe she would be right. Maybe he should retire. Who knew? He loved teaching—wouldn’t have devoted so many years to it if he hadn’t.
But nothing lasts forever; the only predictable thing in life is change, he considered, tilting back in his chair.
The phone rang and he picked up the receiver: “Professor Lange.”
“Hi, Martin.”
“Zoe, sweetheart … I was just thinking about you.”
“Good things, I’m sure.”
“Only the best,” he confirmed.
“Doing okay?” she asked. His chair creaked loudly as he lost his balance and his weight shifted forward; he simultaneously tried to stifle a yawn. Multitasking.
“Oh, sure, just finding my rhythm,” he replied after pausing, recovering from the yawning. “Would you like to meet for lunch?”
“Yes. Do you want me to pick up sandwiches? From Fricano’s?”
“Mmm. Perfect. Reading my mind.”
“Do you want your usual? The one with the pastrami, and roast beef…”
“Yes! It’s called the Brandi, and it just might be heaven on rye bread. Meet at our tree at noon?”
“Okay. Bye love.”
He leaned back again in his chair, and that delectable sandwich was momentarily forgotten. Thoughts of his illness played in his mind, from the time when he found out about it, to the present, and he felt this weird itch inside of his brain that he just couldn’t seem to scratch. An idea was lurking below the surface, like the Loch Ness monster … only a shadowy outline, almost indistinguishable from the rest of the murky water.
What was it? Something was there—a connection.
Was there a philosophical significance that was going to reveal itself? People often made profound discoveries about life, or about themselves, when confronted with something like life-threatening sickness. Growth occurred when you journeyed outside your comfort zone.
Not that he went beyond the boundaries of comfort very often. Practically never. He’d tucked himself away from those things as a lover of words, and in some ways, as a teacher. Sure, his wife and he did some travelling, but they strove to make it … comfortable.
What is it?! he asked himself again, more urgently, drumming his fingers relentlessly on the polished brown wood of his desk. The idea of something niggled its way along the border of his awareness, a soldier, low-crawling along the edge of the danger zone, looking for a way out. It was almost there.
And then he had it, just like that, and he was surprised it took the low-crawling soldier that long to get to cover.
“Why, hello pretty lady … is this seat taken?” Martin asked.
“I’m sorry, it is.”
“Really?” he said.
“Yes.”
“How unfortunate. It’s such a beautiful day. And that fountain is so peaceful. Dedicated to President Johnson and such.” He paused and watched her. “Is it for a … male companion?”
“Indeed. My husband,” she nodded. “He’s very large, too. Lifts weights continuously. Could probably lift you, or squat you maybe.”
“Ah, good, I’ve always enjoyed a challenge.” Martin sat down on the blanket that Zoe had spread in the grass, patted her leg, and laughed. “Love you.”
“I love you, too,” Zoe said, laughing with him.
“Squat me … that’s funny.” He shook his head.
“Yep,” she said, smiled at him, and slipped her arm through his. “And lift you.” There was a playful twinkle in her eye, a longtime neighbor of the lush green irises he so frequently admired. Zoe’s near-shoulder-length black hair hugged her face and accentuated the vertical almond shape of it. He found it hard to look anywhere else.
“Do you have the goods?”
“Yes. But I figured we could split the sandwich and some Italian pasta salad and some cucumber tomato salad.”
“You’re the smartest woman in the world … my mouth is watering just thinking about it.” He relaxed while she reached into a colorful knit bag and pulled out their sandwich, cartons of salad, and plastic silverware. They’d eaten lunch just about everywhere on the campus, but this was their favorite spot, underneath a large, shady tree a short distance away from the fountain.
“I wish the fountain were on,” she commented. “I love the way it looks, the way it sounds.” The university had followed the city’s lead with water conservation and reduced usage around the campus by turning off the fountains that sprayed water.
“Looks like they’re going to turn it on for the Civil Rights Summit … let it run throughout.”
“Oh, that’s great.”
“Only the best when you have four presidents coming to town,” he commented.
“Is it four? Wow, I guess I missed that. This is going to be relatively huge then, but it’s the perfect place to celebrate civil rights.”
“I think so, too.”
They settled in to their food, with no shortage of passion for the delicious sandwich and salads. She’d also brought a flavored carbonated water, which meshed perfectly with the meal. For some minutes, there wasn’t much to be heard beyond the occasional sounds of eating and chewing or a low, satisfied grunt of pleasure.
In front of them, the Lyndon Baines Johnson Fountain shimmered aqua in the afternoon sun. The surface was nearly calm without any wind to disturb it. When the sprayer was on, the water fired continuously into the air from the center of the pool, cycling around again through whatever magical mechanisms were buried inside. But, with the sprayer off—nothing—it was quiet.
&nb
sp; Zoe looked sideways at Martin. He was looking a little more—what—buoyant? On the phone she’d thought he sounded tired, but he’d been nothing but chipper during lunch, and if his appetite was any indication, well, he was doing just fine.
“You appear to be feeling good.”
“Indeed,” he said, mischief in his eyes. “It’s been a nice day. Busy. First full day in some time.”
“You look like someone with a secret. Something only you know. Or so you think. Don’t be coy with me, Martin Lange. Tell me what you’re hiding!”
“Hmm. Okay, I won’t beat around the tumbleweeds. Something has been floating around the edge of my consciousness during my cancer ordeal. Not the whole time, you see, but after people started coming to our aid.”
“You’ve never been comfortable accepting help…” she began.
“No,” he chimed in, “I mean yes, that’s, mmm, probably true, but not exactly the angle I’m thinking about. It’s true that I’m not good at receiving help. Except from you, maybe, but not other people. But we did get help—a lot of it—and we needed it. I cannot hide from that fact. We needed help, and good people were there to provide it.
“But these things don’t just happen. There has to be structure, some organization, and a leader to steer the ship. Without a paradigm to build upon, and a Caesar to lead, these things wouldn’t have the power or direction to succeed. It would be a chariot without horses—a horse without a rider.
“At first, I honestly didn’t think it would work out. Taking money from people, monetary hand-me-downs, was nearly as troublesome to me as the cancer. It sounds crazy saying that, but it felt true. How many millions of years has it taken to shape the Grand Canyon? I thought it might take longer for me to give in willingly. Except, of course, that I didn’t have that long.”
“Yes.” Zoe remembered. She’d done her best to silently guide that boat to dock, nudging Martin as needed.
“Once I recovered from my obstinacy, and things started moving, it was like a tidal wave of emotion from the very depth of my soul. I was swept away.”
“I remember,” she said. She could see he was a little choked up, but interestingly, the corners of his mouth were upturned. He’s smiling…
“Now I feel like it finally all makes sense. My recovery. I feel as if I have been given additional purpose in my life. I’d like to learn how to save people the way I was saved … the social media, the organization, all of it! And I want to help other people.”
Chapter 13
Paul and Jennifer
Jennifer stepped outside of Castle Hill Fitness and walked down 12th Street in the direction of North Lamar. A high-energy Pilates workout, followed by an hour of Yoga, had propelled her day from crap to awesome. Intense sunlight ricocheted off the concrete, hurting her eyes, so she brought her sunglasses down from their perch in her wet hair, and shouldered her shower bag.
At the corner she crossed Lamar, aimed at Word of Mouth Catering. She parked there instead of at the gym for two reasons. One, her friend Janice worked there. Two, Janice gave her free gourmet treats.
Sure, she could understand the irony of eating rich, delicious, somewhat unhealthy foods immediately after a workout. That didn’t stop her from loving it with every ounce of her being.
“Hey Janice,” she called out, walking inside.
“Hey, girl!” Janice replied. She was clad in an immaculate, wrinkle-free blouse, which gave Jennifer pause. Every time she saw Janice, she was dressed perfectly. Her entire life seemed wrinkle-free.
“I don’t know how you do it.” Jennifer looked at her with something like envy.
“Do what?”
“You always manage to look so fresh, and you’re in and out of kitchens all day.”
Janice laughed. It sounded like a bird singing in the forest, or a Disney movie. Light and beautiful. “You wanna know the truth?” she chirped, and leaned in to Jennifer, who’d taken a seat on one of the barstools at the counter.
“Well, yeah…”
“Huge. Dry cleaning. Bills. I spend a ton of money on dry cleaning. And I keep extra shirts here.”
“Are you serious?” Jennifer started laughing.
“Yeah! How the hell else could I make sure I was presentable? People don’t want a sweaty cook, even though that’s who really does everything. They want pressed. Aesthetics. All that.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah. But, hey, you don’t look so bad yourself for dealing with all those little monkeys every day.”
“They’re in high school,” Jennie said with a laugh. “Not third grade!”
“Okay, so they’re big monkeys then. Hormones flying. Acne and insecurity. Groping each other in the school parking lot. Still putting gum under the desks, I bet … right?”
Jennifer laughed again. “I keep sanitizer in the room. A lot of sanitizer, actually.”
“Hmm. I don’t know. They still seem dirty to me. Maybe not the hands-in-the-pants-scratching-butt kind of dirty you find in third graders, but dirty nonetheless. Ew.”
“Ha ha, well, I mostly teach the honors classes these days, and the smart kids tend to be pretty good about their hygiene and all that.” The bell for the entrance tinkled behind her, but she didn’t turn around. “Every now and then I get a stinker in the class—some brainy boy who only showers irregularly, at best—but it’s not too bad. One each year, maybe.”
Janice turned so that only Jennie could see her, shuddered and made a face to indicate her distaste for teenagers, and then turned to greet her customer. “Hello there. How can I help you?”
Jennifer noticed something different in how Janice spoke, which perked her attention. They’d been friends for years, so she caught the change immediately. It was the voice she used when she met a cute guy in the club or at the coffee shop. Light and flirtatious.
She’d read an article once that claimed women knew immediately, when they met a man, whether or not they would have sex with them. Watching Janice, she figured that was true. Not that Janice was loose—she was selective (sort of)—but Jennifer could always tell when Janice would give it up to some guy, even if Janice didn’t know it yet. She finally looked over her shoulder, curiosity piqued, ready to see who was making her friend purr.
Yep. So predictable—he’s hot, she thought. Manicured. Coiffed. She looked him over, briefly noting the expensive-looking linen suit, tailored to fit, and the silver wristwatch. His leather shoes would catch the attention of any girl. He could be Time magazine’s Best Dressed of 2014.
He was engaged in conversation with Janice, but glanced at Jennifer. More conversation, then another look and a smile. White teeth danced into view, but she stopped short, brow furrowed. Did she know him? He looked familiar. She turned to her brie and chutney, ate a bite, and wondered if she’d run across him before.
“Ms. Newman?”
She turned her head in surprise.
“You don’t remember me, do you.” He looked amused.
“Of course I do,” she started, furrowing her brows a little, trying to think fast so she didn’t look as if she didn’t remember. Which she didn’t, but she didn’t want him to know that.
And then it hit her: “Oh, my God … Harris. Paul Harris.”
“At your service, Ms. Newman.” He smiled broadly and approached her with a hand extended. She inadvertently thought about how hot he was, again, and then pushed that thought away. She felt heat spread across her face like melting butter. She didn’t think it was obvious when she blushed, not most of the time, but today she wasn’t so sure.
“Please, um, call me Jennifer?” It came out like a question and she immediately felt silly and self-conscious. She lifted her hand to meet his.
“Uh-huh. Jennifer it is, then.” He took her right hand in his right hand, and laid his left hand gently atop them both. It was innocent-looking; however, beneath the surface it was something else. Something more. The way his skin touched hers left butterflies fluttering in her stomach.
“Paul Harr
is…”
“That’s me,” he was still smiling, but there was a hint of devilishness in it now. “And you’re Jennifer Newman.”
She laughed. Flushed again.
“How long has…” she started.
“So are you…” he began at the same time. They laughed; he pushed a hand through his hair. “You first,” he told her.
“How long has it been? Ten years?”
“Actually, yeah, ten years is exactly what it’s been. We have our ten-year reunion soon.”
“Oh, weird, that makes me feel old.”
“I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
“Heh-Hmmm!”
“Oh, I’m sorry, this is my beautiful friend Janice,” she added.
“Pleased to meet you,” Janice chimed in with a head tilt, no doubt intended to highlight her cuteness. Jennifer had seen it before.
“Janice, the pleasure is all mine.”
“You two were in school together?”
“You could say that,” Paul said with a mouth-stretching grin. “Jennifer was my teacher.”
“Whoa, hold the phones—your teacher?” Janice said.
“Hey!” Jennifer cried.
“Well, you know, that’s sort of crazy. I mean, how old are you, Paul?” Janice asked.
“Twenty-eight. Okay, almost twenty-eight.”
“So, then you’re really twenty-seven.”
“Bingo, you’re right. I just get so used to thinking about what age I’m going to be next that I start thinking I’m already that age or something,” he said. “But Miss New … err, I mean, Jennifer can’t be more than, what, thirty-two?”
“Thirty-six.” She looked pleased with his low estimate.
“Yeah, we just thought you were so hot, I mean…”
“Hot?” Janice interjected. “You thought your English teacher, Jennifer Newman, was hot?”
It was Paul’s turn to appear flustered. “Okay, let me try again.” He held his hands out like a movie director snapping his little black-and-white board closed: “Take two—action! I only meant that, well, yeah, we thought Ms. Newman was attractive. Like an older college girl.”