The Gulf

by Belle Boggs

  Marianne exhaled, long and slow. Of course Eric was on her side. Of course Eric was coming back to her. A few weeks with an attractive and flattering marketing person could not have changed the man he was, deep down.

  13

  All afternoon, Marianne waited for the protesters to leave and for Eric to arrive. Dressed in T-shirts, shorts, and sandals the color and shape of baked potatoes, the handful of women looked like a group of eager tourists or museumgoers waiting on an air-conditioned charter bus or a trolley with padded seats. When Marianne first spotted them she assumed they were lost, perhaps looking for the shady marsh walk that was a quarter mile down the road, or maybe for the public beach. It was hot, even for Florida, the past week a consistent punishment of still, humid, hundred-degree days. There was no breeze to rustle the stiff live oak leaves or sway the brittle clumps of Spanish moss.

  For twenty minutes they just stood on the sidewalk in front of the Kangaroo gas station across from the Ranch, passing around water bottles and energy bars from a small cooler and squinting into the sun. But then the women must have had some kind of signal, or perhaps they finally verified that the slightly dilapidated motel with no sidewalk in front of it—only a crumbling gravel path—was, in fact, the same Genesis Inspirational Writing Ranch they had read about in the Herald-Tribune. A tall woman with sandy-gray hair nodded at the others, and they hoisted handmade signs that read:

  GENE$I$ RANCH, COME CLEAN: WHO ARE YOUR FUNDER$?

  INSPIRATIONAL WRITING = ANTICHOICE, ANTIWOMAN AGENDA

  LIE DOWN WITH DOGS, WAKE UP WITH FLEAS

  GENESIS RANCH JOINS WAR ON WOMEN?

  and

  SARASOTA SAYS SHAME TO SHADY, SHODDY SCHOOL!

  Many of the signs featured photographs of Tad Tucker’s smiling face, circled and slashed through in red marker.

  The street was empty, but the women chanted and bobbed their signs up and down as if for a crowd. “Hey hey! Ho ho! These shady schools have got to go!”

  Marianne called Eric right away, but he didn’t answer, so she went across the street herself to talk to the protesters. They were actually quite cordial and friendly, and respectfully stopped chanting and set down their signs. Marianne explained that Genesis Inspirational Writing Ranch was not affiliated with Tad Tucker, lamely repeating Regina’s line that none of their revenues had directly funded GWGW’s donations to Preborn America, the supposedly unaffiliated group behind the pro-Tad ad blitz, whose CEO just happened to be Tad’s former chief of staff.

  What had Marianne expected in return? That they would say, “Oh, I did not realize that, you’re right, sorry for bothering you”? That they would tear up their signs then and there? Apologize for jumping to conclusions, perhaps ask for a business card or an application form? (At Regina’s suggestion, she had started carrying both at all times.)

  “But your funding,” said a short, fiftyish woman wearing a visor festooned with buttons and ribbons for NOW, Planned Parenthood, the ACLU, causes that Marianne herself supported. “Your funding is connected to God’s World God’s Word, is it not?”

  Marianne frowned. Should she tell her that in a few days that would all be over? It was tempting, but Eric had cautioned her to keep quiet. When he got here, she decided, she could send him over to speak with them. “We’re just a writing school,” she said. “We don’t make enough money to fund anyone. Trust me.”

  “We don’t trust you,” said another woman with a deep suntan and an aggressive, nearsighted squint. “We don’t trust any of the GWGW schools, which is why we’re having protests at each of the five Florida campuses today. My daughter went to one of the GWGW schools, and now she’s twenty thousand dollars in debt, unemployed, and living above my garage.”

  “What school?” Marianne asked. “Not ours?”

  “No, not yours,” the woman allowed. “A prelaw school. But do your students have jobs and skills? Do they have debt?”

  Marianne didn’t answer, and the woman continued, with more anger. “Maybe one day she’ll go to a real law school and sue all of you. Or maybe I will.”

  “We do appreciate that you came and talked to us,” said the first woman, accepting the brochures, application, and business card Marianne offered in a conciliatory way. Then she picked up her sign and led her fellow protesters in a fresh, lusty round of chanting.

  Marianne went back across the street and, while she considered what to do next, busied herself with watering the hanging ferns and geraniums she’d bought to conceal the main building’s cracked stucco walls. It was easy to hear the chanting from where she stood, and she felt conspicuous, so she went inside. She closed the door to her stuffy office, but could hear it still. She checked email on her phone and found a message from Patty Connor, who’d written in Tom’s class about her eight miscarriages. Did you know that the personhood amendment would limit the treatment of my infertility? Patty wrote. I’m a pastor’s wife and as pro-life as they come, but I oppose this amendment and hate the way it is being used to suggest that I am not a good person, not a good Christian. As an infertile woman, I already struggle with misinformation and societal preconceptions about my disease and its treatment. Tad Tucker’s bill just makes things worse for me.

  As you know, it was very difficult for me to share my work and my life story at Genesis Ranch. It took me a while, in Tom’s class, to understand that there is a distance between the “I” of my narrator and myself, the writer, and to be able to accept critiques and suggestions. I still have a hard time with that, but I am working on it. How am I supposed to return to class knowing that my actions are being judged this way by my institution? Does this mean that my work will not be read the same way, that I won’t be taken seriously? Is this another distancing I will have to work on?

  I was very disturbed, furthermore, to see that you “liked” Tad Tucker on Facebook. When I was having such a difficult time at the beginning of the first session, I was ready to pack up and leave. I missed my husband and my home, and frankly Genesis Ranch was not exactly what I expected. But you were kind to me, you sat with me in your office and told me that if I didn’t tell my story, who would? You encouraged me to stay, and I was glad that I did.

  What am I supposed to think now?

  The phone rang, startling Marianne. It was Regina, who had heard somehow about the protesters.

  “How many?” she wanted to know.

  Marianne turned on the window unit and peeked through the blinds. “Five at first. Now eight?”

  “Call me back if it gets out of hand,” said Regina, who sounded almost pleased that they had attracted this attention, like a needy girl who’d just been called a name by a boy. “We can always send counterprotesters.”

  “No,” said Marianne. “I am trying to get work done. The students arrive in two weeks, and they will not like—”

  “This is part of the growth process at many of our campuses,” Regina said. “It’s a sign of health and vitality, of engagement with the community. What you should do is make a nice gesture. Perhaps you could take them some lemonade?”

  Marianne did not respond.

  “Marianne,” Regina said, in her maddeningly soothing way, “you have to get used to thinking of every obstacle, every stone in your path, as an opportunity. Having protesters on our campus means that we are connecting with the public, it means people are paying attention to our goals and our mission, even if they do not agree with them yet. Listen, did you get my notes about the online learning modules?”

  Regina had sent Marianne a “profitability matrix” that suggested that their best next step was offering a degree entirely online, even though they were not even accredited—not yet, she always said (not yet was Regina’s favorite phrase). She wanted to move half of their coursework online as an experiment, and Marianne was not sure how to explain that the “coursework” or “curriculum” her teachers offered depended heavily on in-person participation.

  “I looked at it,” Marianne said. “Have you spoken with Eric?”

&n
bsp; “With Eric?” Regina was puzzled. “Of course! Why?”

  “I thought he was coming back today.”

  “Hmm,” said Regina. “I’ll tell him to call you.”

  The next time Marianne went to see the protesters, they had been out there for two hours and were somewhat less congenial. They looked a little wilted, sweat darkening their T-shirts and beading the tops of their lips, but they did not stop their chanting this time.

  She wondered when they would leave. The protests she’d been to, mostly against the Iraq War, had definite start and end times. They had not interfered with meals or showering but had been more like exercise: a slow walk through the city with a large group of other people, some shouting, then back on the L train for home. It had been a good feeling, like after going to the gym—not that Marianne went to the gym—the feeling of having accomplished something that you may not have looked forward to but that now was over. Having said no, this is not right, I do not agree.

  Even before this latest development, it had been some time since Marianne had agreed with the way things were going at the Ranch. She did not agree with the current status of Mark’s business arrangement with GWGW, which had somehow resulted in their paychecks being issued by GWGW itself, which Mark swore did not mean they were GWGW employees. Purely for tax purposes, he said. Tom had hit the roof when he saw the globe-cross logo on his first paycheck, but was mollified by the bonus that arrived a week later; Lorraine appreciated the upgrades to business class on her plane tickets. Marianne did not agree with Regina’s suggestions to move their curriculum online, did not agree with the “publishing seminars” she had arranged for this second session or the keynote speaker she had invited, at Regina’s request: a writer of “Christian erotica” (a genre about which Marianne would have preferred to remain ignorant). And she especially did not agree with Eric’s decision to accompany Regina Somers on a so-called business trip and not return when he said he would. No, she did not agree, it was not right, it was not fair, it was not how she had planned for things to go.

  She wished she could join the protesters.

  “I just want to say,” Marianne began, but no one even looked. She began again, in a voice loud enough to match their chanting: “I JUST WANT TO SAY that I am sorry you are so concerned about our associations, and I would be HAPPY TO TALK WITH YOU about them. Okay? SO WOULD YOU PLEASE TALK TO ME? FOR A SECOND?”

  Most of Gulf Drive was shaded by craggy-limbed live oaks, but the area around the gas station was all blacktop and cement, and the heat felt as if all of the area’s sunlight had been concentrated into that one spot. “Take a water break, y’all,” said one of the women Marianne had spoken to earlier, and they gratefully headed for the cooler, which someone had dragged into a tight corner of shade.

  The woman removed her visor, wiped back a band of sticky, flattened bangs, then replaced it. “Lena,” she said, offering her hand. “What is it you want to talk about?”

  “I’m Marianne,” she said. “I’m one of the founders of the school. I didn’t know anything about GWGW’s support of the personhood amendment until yesterday.”

  “It isn’t hard to dig up other dirt on GWGW,” said Lena, pointing across the street at the Ranch. “We found dozens of Better Business Bureau complaints in three states, and one of their schools”—here she consulted a folder of photocopied materials, paging through until she found a grainy photocopied picture of what appeared to be a strip mall—“yes, the GWGW Medical Technologies Institute in Alpharetta, Georgia, it is currently under investigation.”

  “Why?” Marianne reached for the folder, but Lena held it back.

  “It’s a sonography school, meant to teach people to do sonograms at these medical imaging centers, and all of the classes are online. All of them!” the woman said. She opened the pages to screenshots of the registration forms, which looked like ads for a used car lot: Apply Now! 100% Financing! VISUALIZE a New Future for Yourself! “So when their students actually graduate, with their certificates, they have no hands-on training, no idea what they’re doing. They go in to those clinics and do sonograms of people’s large intestines. Seems sort of odd, in a so-called pro-life organization, don’t you think? They don’t even know anything about the life they’re looking at?”

  “Seems pretty common with that crowd, if you ask me,” called a woman standing near the drink cooler.

  “They told some people they weren’t pregnant at all,” another woman said. “But they were.”

  Marianne considered how to proceed. “Obviously, an online sonogram school is a bad idea,” she began. “I am definitely with you there. But it’s not like an online poetry school is going to kill someone, or give them harmful information! Besides, our classes aren’t all online anyway. They’re just low-residency. In fact, we’re expecting our students back very soon, and it will be bad for their concentration, very bad for their short residency experience, if they know you’re out here protesting. And you’re also giving incorrect information, because we do not support the personhood amendment, or Tad Tucker, or anything political.”

  “Well, when they arrive they can speak to us and decide whom they believe,” the woman said.

  Marianne went back to the Ranch, got a bottle of white wine from the minifridge in her office, and opened it with a flimsy corkscrew. She took her glass, full to the top and speckled with small bits of cork, and sat down beside the freshly chlorinated pool. She could still hear the maddeningly repetitive chants, but the wine, which she drank in long gulps, helped a little. She pulled out the smartphone she hadn’t asked enough questions about. Nothing is free, her dad always said, but she always thought that was pessimistic. She faced away from the street, toward the pool.

  Eric was her “in case of emergency contact,” so his name appeared first in her contact list, in red. She wondered if she would have to change it if he married again, if she would have to find someone else. She could not imagine who that would be. The phone rang once, then she heard Eric’s cheerful recorded voice. “Eric,” she said. “It’s been a difficult day. There are protesters here who have information about this crazy GWGW sonography school, and I talked to Regina and she didn’t seem to have any idea that we didn’t want any more to do with this whole personhood debate, or Tad Tucker. Or GWGW.” She drew a long, ragged breath. “Call me back,” she said.

  Marianne turned her pool chair around. Over the fence, beneath the trees, she could see the tops of the protesters’ heads as they marched up and down the sidewalk. Hardly a car drove by—this time of year was muggy and vulnerable to hurricanes and tropical storms, and most people preferred to spend it elsewhere. The people who were left were the true locals, elderly people and eccentrics, or the people who made their money during tourist season—chiropractors and Lasik surgeons, dentists available on an emergency basis, Pilates instructors and boutique owners and ice cream purveyors and landscapers. Marianne supposed she was one of them now.

  She called Eric’s number, then called it again, not leaving messages, just calling, and had moved on to texting when Davonte appeared and sank into a chaise next to her, facing the opposite way.

  “It’s finished,” he said, leaning back.

  “What’s finished?”

  “The book,” he said. “The first half anyway. Me and my man Eric got it done.”

  Was this the reason he hadn’t been in touch with her? Was he holed up in a hotel room somewhere, finishing Davonte’s manuscript? Was he on the phone with Davonte when she called? And did this mean he’d be back soon?

  “It’s really good. We start at the peak of Damian’s career,” Davonte said, holding one hand above his head, as if at the top of a roller coaster. “The tours, the women, the fast living—and then jump forward to his downfall.” He swooshed his hand down, then shook his head sadly, truly moved by the trajectory of his roman à clef. “I mean, I cried at that part.”

  “Congratulations,” Marianne said. She remembered the feeling—rereading after finishing a good str
etch of writing, allowing yourself to be moved by your own words—though it had been a long time, and she wondered if it was the same if you had someone else writing those words. But then, probably most of Davonte’s music involved a great deal of collaboration. It was still his story. She patted his newly muscular arm. “Really, Davonte. You should be proud.”

  He smiled and shrugged. “You know, more people are recognizing me, too. Since I lost the weight. But you know what? It doesn’t bother me, because I know who I am. I’m secure.” He thumped his chest, above the heart. “Hey,” he said, sitting up and turning back to face the street. “What’s all that noise?”

  “Protesters,” she said.

  “Shit,” Davonte said, swinging his legs over the side of his chaise like he was about to run away. “How—”

  “They’re not here for you,” Marianne said. She was tired. “Not everything is about you.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Good.”

  He didn’t ask any more questions, and Marianne didn’t offer any explanations. A Channel 13 News truck had just pulled in to the Kangaroo parking lot, and the chants were growing louder.

  14

  Janine was in a state. For days she had been unable to concentrate on the revision of a single poem, even though it was almost time to return to the Ranch, and her inability to revise, as Lorraine had assigned, meant that it was impossible to start any new work. This had never been a problem before—poems just materialized, usually at the rate of one or two a day. But it was all dried up in the August heat. She could not remember the last word she’d written or the last cooling drop of rain. Writing in the sunroom was unbearable: even with the air-conditioning at full blast, she baked like a turtle, so she’d moved her notebooks to the kitchen, which had other distractions, like the question of what to make for dinner and the blaring television, tuned to the Weather Channel for days.