Aefle & Giesla

by Libby Malin

  Finally, one early morning when she could think of no other job that needing doing, she headed to the attic to start tidying up that small area-- “before it gets really hot,” she told herself.

  Once up in the dusty space, however, she laid down her rag and pulled a box of keepsakes to the ladder, letting it bump its way down the rungs. In her bedroom, she pawed through it, biting her lips as she fingered old pompoms and scrapbooks, photos of her at graduation with her dad, shells collected on beach outings, ticket stubs from a Broadway musical when she and Kelly had gone to New York for a weekend, and finally, her old Oyster Point High yearbooks.

  She flipped through the photos until she found Tom’s class shots.

  Nothing revelatory there, she thought, trying hard to keep up the anger. Just the usual angled geek picture. Come to think of it, he hadn’t looked all that different at the wedding. She peered at his senior year “aspiration”: “to use knowledge to find truth.”

  Huh?

  She found her photo, too. She’d written: “to be a success in whatever I choose to do.”

  No great poetry there. She slammed the book closed, sending a cloud of dust in the air to tickle her nose. She sneezed.

  What had she chosen to do since graduating? Her father, widowed when she was just a girl, had suggested she go to college, too. When he’d mentioned it, it hadn’t been condescending, the way it was when Tom had brought it up years ago. Heck, her dad hadn’t suggested business courses. He’d told her to try her hand at something new. He’d thought she was capable of anything. But DeeDee had resisted, telling him she wanted to “think on it” while she figured out exactly what she’d study. Problem was, she couldn’t think of a single subject that lit her up as much as the car business, which she’d worked in since she could add.

  To please her Dad, she had thought of getting a business degree at one point -- she’d never share that with Tom, never give him the satisfaction -- but she already had business experience, probably more than most undergraduates taking their first accounting course. She understood marketing and branding and knew a good amount about taxes and financing. She had helped steer her father away from a risky investment in a nearby used car dealership (not unlike Buck’s), while suggesting he diversify by buying some real estate when prices were cheap. She’d sold most of that property to a developer for him just before he passed away, making a tidy profit. She’d navigated the tricky waters of automobile company financial woes, lobbying hard to keep the Oyster Point dealership off the “cut list.”

  She’d also considered getting a degree in mechanical engineering but nixed that idea because she was really only interested in one kind of engineering -- the kind that went into designing and building cars. She already had a grounding in that topic, too. She’d changed oil at the age of eight, fixed her first transmission at the age of fourteen, and touched every aspect of a car’s innards since then.

  She didn’t need book learning.

  But she did need something. As proud as she was of her accomplishments, something was missing from her life. She’d thought for sure it was marriage and family. She and Buck had dated on and off for years, so the next logical step had been to accept his proposal and start pumping out the kids.

  Maybe you’re not born to wed, she thought.

  What was she born to do -- run her father’s car dealership, live the quiet life in Oyster Point?

  A week before the heart attack that had taken her father last year, they’d sat together on the front porch sipping iced tea. She’d just given him a rundown of the latest sales figures, which had seen a slight uptick after a slump, and presenting an analysis of whether they should look into a foreign car dealership in nearby St. Michael’s.

  He’d listened, asked some good questions, then sat and admired the gardens that hugged the front crawl space. Hostas were sending up leaves, tulips were fading, azaleas were beginning to bud.

  “If I didn’t have the dealership, I think I’d want to run a garden nursery,” he’d said. Then he’d looked at her, with those bright eyes that signified he was about to probe, and he’d asked, “What would you be doing if your daddy didn’t own a dealership?”

  She’d sputtered and stammered, saying something about loving what she did. But her father wouldn’t let go of it. “Now, think a minute, DeeDee. What if you had all the money in the world tomorrow? What would you do with your time?”

  The answer hadn’t come that night, nor a hundred nights since. She still didn’t know. It haunted her. She could see her father staring at her, his eyes ablaze, wanting to know. She felt as if she owed him an answer.

  But, as usual, work interfered whenever she started pondering these things, and now was no exception. Just as she was putting away the yearbooks, her phone rang. Her sales manager needed her to come in and sign off on a new financing program they’d just negotiated so he could get the papers over to the bank first thing.

  When she left the house, Mrs. McFarlane down the street gave her a big smile and wave. DeeDee congratulated herself on how well she’d done letting the townspeople know about her aborted wedding. When Buck came back into town, she’d meet him somewhere -- public, of course -- and offer an apology in person for the embarrassment while letting him know, in no uncertain times, that she knew about his cheating. Until then, she’d pay off the bills for the reception and church. Buck wouldn’t be on the hook for anything. She was sure he’d get over it eventually.

  But that was before she hit the road, before she turned onto the highway headed toward the dealership, the one with a prime billboard space, usually filled with an ad about some beach resort or another.

  Her eyes widened as she saw it, and she gasped before uttering a string of curses. There, bolder than life, was a picture of her running from the church!

  CHAPTER SIX

  THOMAS REPLAYED the incident a thousand times that week, and the more he relived each moment, the more it seemed to him that the “wedding caper”-- as he’d begun to label it-- had transformed him. He’d slain the dragon of Timid Tommy forever and helped a vulnerable, frightened girl in the process. It had been cathartic, a dividing line in his life, moving him from the man he’d wanted to be to the man he was deep inside.

  He warmed when he remembered DeeDee on his couch, her wedding dress caressing her waist, her sleepy breaths pressing her bosom against the beaded bodice, all white and pink and lovely. He’d even dug out a book on Gothic art to find the picture she’d reminded him of -- Fouquet’s Madonna, both sacred and erotic, her milky breast revealed, her bodice unlaced….

  He wished she would return his calls, but he imagined she was still rattled after the stormy day. He needed to give her space, he assured himself. And she had sent him that one text saying she’d be in touch with him. Sure, she’d neglected to call the next day as she’d promised, but the promise was the important thing. He wouldn’t crowd her. He’d try calling her this weekend.

  Seeing DeeDee again -- it really did seem like karma that they’d reconnected. He had to admit that it had bothered him to learn from his dad that she was about to get married. It had stung. He realized now that deep down, he’d imagined contacting her again at some point, going out for drinks… rekindling their affair? It had been too brief and had ended with unnecessary fireworks and accusations. He no longer could remember clearly who’d said what. He only remembered how disappointed he’d been to discover that she, like everyone else in that town, had not appreciated the academic achievements he’d scored throughout the years.

  Well, surely that had changed. Surely, she looked up to him now.

  At some point he would have to explain the real reason he’d stopped her wedding, but that seemed inconsequential as he contemplated how grateful she’d been to get away. He’d saved her, and that’s all that counted. They’d have a nice laugh over the other stuff later.

  Did this constitute a relationship? After all, he’d been with her about ten years ago, and reconnecting this past weekend had been something o
f a big deal. Did the past decade constitute nothing more than a “break?”

  He liked to think so. He liked to envision her on his arm at big departmental soirées. She would seem a Greek goddess to all his horn-rimmed colleagues, and he’d coach her sufficiently on what to say -- or, more importantly, what not to say -- so that they’d both enjoy the evening to the fullest. He’d daydreamed about this more than once this past week.

  He shook his head when those thoughts intruded on this glorious morning while he walked across campus to an interdepartmental meeting. He stepped up his pace, letting the passing breeze cool the sweat on his brow. He loved this time of year.

  The end of the academic year was always busy, but Thomas enjoyed the quickening rhythm, the almost frenetic look on students and professors’ faces as they realized there could no longer be any delay in finishing that paper, that project, that grade report or research application. The tempo of the campus matched that of the season, each day bringing a new flowering, a new growth, a new possibility for success or withering failure.

  He’d dealt with a near-failure yesterday afternoon when a talented graduate student confessed to a dog-ate-my-homework problem, a paper not finished because of a computer crashing. He’d anguished over the ultimatum he’d doled out to such a dedicated and creative student, but it was better than letting her project slip through the cracks like some professors would, letting her lapse into academic purgatory. Now, instead of letting the incident gnaw away at his happiness, he actually felt courageous for being able to do the right thing and give her another chance.

  That incident had been the only cloud in his sunny attitude as he’d glided into these final days of the semester, glad to be checking off boxes as he’d neared some much-needed vacation before starting his summer teaching schedule. He hadn’t quite thought of what to do with his time off after the semester -- six weeks altogether -- but had been contemplating asking Gloria Pfennig, associate professor of women’s studies, to take some time at the beach with him. No point in that now! After all, they’d only been seeing each other casually, and now there was this thing with DeeDee to consider.

  Gloria, in fact, was the only one at the university he’d confided the “wedding interrupted” story to, and she’d seemed genuinely impressed.

  Near his destination, he slowed down, letting his breathing and pulse retreat to normal. After wiping his face, he headed inside.

  When he entered the seminar room, the air was oppressive in the mahogany-paneled space, which was teeming with the assorted faculty and teaching fellows of the History department and their interdepartmental guests. They were in the full blast of a classic Baltimore pre-summer heat wave; it wasn't helped by the fact that the university's new green policy prohibited the use of air conditioning until the outside temperature hit eighty-five. He’d forgotten about that -- he’d have cooled off more if he’d remembered.

  Today's meeting was called to discuss next spring’s interdisciplinary offerings. Thomas felt the prickle of excitement that his academic home never failed to ignite. He thrilled at the prospect of intellectually boxing with his peers, formidable opponents on a terrain where he was capable of winning battles.

  He felt powerful here; he would always have the security of being The World's Leading Expert on Aefle the Miniscule, a sure ticket to tenure by the end of the next academic year. Yes, sometimes his colleagues could be tedious and even self-absorbed. But, like him, they were immersed in their respective fields. He forgave them for occasional shortsightedness.

  “How was your social excursion last weekend, Carolus Magnus?” came the mellifluous baritone of Yates Q. T. Beewater. Beewater (or Q. T. as his most intimate associates called him) had a voice tinged with a slight British accent, that Thomas sometimes pegged on the verge of cockney, and a weighty presence that made him a favorite of cable documentaries. This acclaim combined with some public relations maneuvering had placed Beewater's highly educated derrière in the named undergraduate chair at the venerable age of thirty-seven.

  He was Thomas's immediate superior, and they’d never reached a stage of warm camaraderie, although both men tried hard to find common ground. Thomas had been brought onto the faculty by the previous -- and now retired -- chairman, a medievalist like Thomas himself. Beewater was a Renaissance man, as in that was his specialty.

  Thomas disliked being called Carolus Magnus, but he reminded himself that Beewater meant no harm -- it was, after all, the Latin for his surname, an intellectual inside joke.

  “I had fun,” Thomas replied, wishing he could think of something clever to say. But Beewater’s presence always seemed to deprive Thomas of satirical inspiration until five minutes after any confrontation between them had ended.

  “I hope you found wells of contemplative creativity in the sublimity of the Eastern Shore, like Byron did encountering Armenian Venice,” Beewater continued. “We'll need all your creativity today. There is a New World of funding that we can pillage like the Portuguese did South America, if we can provide three new interdisciplinary courses in collaboration with the science branches of our noble institution. Pull your cogitation beret firmly down upon your ears, my good lad. We're about to do business.”

  Beewater always talked like that, which was one of the reasons Thomas had such a hard time dealing with him. Beewater’s cleverness always had a “look at me” quality to it that repulsed Thomas, who believed one’s work should speak for itself. Beewater glided to the front of the room to take his place at the head of the seminar table, calling the meeting to order.

  Faculty members were milling about the room, some straggling in late, despite the fact that they regularly complained about students who were tardy for their own classes. Thomas scanned the crowd looking for Gloria and was pleased to see her in the back corner of the room next to her department chairwoman. He exchanged a smile with her, already contemplating the delicious prospect of having two possibilities in the dating department after a long dry spell -- Gloria and DeeDee. He’d have to let Gloria down gently.

  “Thank you, thank you, gentlemen and -women for attending,” Beewater intoned as if he were accepting an Academy Award. “I've reviewed many of your proposals, and I look forward to hearing more enuntiatio today from those artistic souls among you who eschew departmental documentation procedures,” he said with a pointed look at Thomas, who’d yet to hand anything in.

  Beewater loathed paperwork of any kind originating from the university higher-ups, but he prided himself on concocting his own department's arcane course approval system and resented any professors who worked outside it. Thomas vaguely recalled the eighteen-page questionnaire Beewater had sent to history faculty, along with some follow-ups. He wasn’t sure he’d even downloaded them yet.

  “Nevertheless, to begin our conference of minds, I would like to introduce one of my teaching fellows, Andrew Hallows. He would like to take advantage of our televisionally enslaved population's addiction to crime procedural shows to draw patrons to the, excuse me, Hallowed halls of history. Perhaps his idea will garner enrollment from fanatics of the fiction of, what is his name? Daniel Brown.”

  Andrew Hallows, a chemistry professor who’d had a biography of the Dupont family recently published by the university’s press, stepped forward and began.

  “Q.T. has helped me put together my course syllabus.” He referred to some notes in a small leather-bound book. “My course, to be taught in cooperation with the faculties of History, English and Chemical Engineering, will be titled Forensic Examination and the Philosophy of Cultural Reality. I would like to combine a brief tour of the study of chemical analysis and dating in archeology with the theories of 'validity' and 'truth' in our understanding of history and literary works.”

  Thomas could hear the quotation marks in his voice. He looked at his watch. As much as he loved academe, he loathed this particular aspect of it -- the preening and posturing. He longed for the start of the actual debate.

  “In the process, we will introduce
students to the exciting fields of Comparative Literature, Feminism, and Post-Colonial Research.”

  “Why don't you tell us a bit about the texts you'll be examining, Andrew?” Beewater drawled with a satisfied smile on his face.

  Thomas hated it when professors referred to all printed material as “texts.”

  “Well, we’ll incorporate some of our very own faculty's work,” Hallows continued. “This should inspire students to go on to take a broader range of courses in the History department, exploring a simulacra of fields and subjects.”

  He referred to his notes again.

  “For example, in the unit Historical Verification and the Dispossession of Texts, we'll be exploring our own Thomas Charlemagne's work on Aefle the Miniscule.”

  A faculty member from political science spoke up. “I already have approval for a course on Sado-Masochism, the Freudian Father Figure and the Cheney-Bush Torture Regime. Would that fit in?”

  “Do you have a syllabus?” Beewater asked. “It might.”

  But Thomas wasn’t really listening to that exchange. All he could focus on was Hallows’s comment on Historical Verification and the Dispossession of Texts, the course in which they’d look at his own work on Aefle. Something wasn’t right. An undergraduate course dedicated to scrutinizing the work of a professor? Down that road was peril. Down that road was insult, too. Why focus on Thomas’s work? He looked around at faculty but didn’t see anyone raising an eyebrow.

  “Uh, Andy,” Thomas interjected, turning back toward the podium. “About the ‘Dispossession’ course. I’m flattered, of course, that you’d devote a portion of the course to Aefle. Would I be teaching that section? Should we coordinate times and whatever for the schedule?” God, he hated this group approach to course selection and composition. It was Beewater’s favorite -- endless meetings with endless talking, and then everyone left and did what they wanted anyway. He liked intellectual boxing more when it wasn't one man against twenty, and the bell meant you lost your job. This course --this wasn’t what he wanted, and he better strike fast.