Fall Semester

by Stephanie Fournet

  She felt a heady excitement about this. She had really only done one other public reading in Denver last year, and the only people here who had read her work—besides the admissions committee—were Dr. St. Martin, Dr. MacIntosh, and the seven other students in their poetry workshop. So far, their feedback about the few poems she had workshopped had been encouraging, but she was still nervous about laying herself out there for such a big audience. Which is why she knew she had to try it.

  But she still had a paper to write for Dr. Sheridan, which would mean a late night at the library if she wanted to finish it before Thursday. Maren walked back up to the bullpen with Helene to make sure that the coast was clear. Luckily, there was no Jess Dalton sighting, so Helene settled in at her desk to grade papers, and Maren grabbed her book bag and headed for the library.

  Thursday evening, Barnes & Noble was packed. Maren felt an icy rush when she walked beyond the diet and cookbook shelves to the open space where readings were held. Except it wasn’t an open space at all. Folding chairs covered the carpet, and nearly each one was full. And dozens of people stood in the periphery, clustered in conversations.

  Holy crap.

  There must have been 50 or 60 people there—and none waiting to hear her read.

  Avery Cohen rushed towards her, frantic.

  “You’re still reading tonight, right, Maren?” Avery had a near pleading look in her brown eyes as she ran her fingers through her tight brown curls, grabbing handfuls.

  “Yes….? Is that okay, Avery?” Maren’s nerves tripled as Avery’s shoulders sagged with relief.

  “Oh, Thank God! There needs to be at least three Open Mike readers to follow Mr. Solomon, and I had you, Dennis Guidry, and Amy Bell, but Amy got called into work at the last minute. I can find one last minute reader, but that’s my limit.”

  “Who’s going to do it?” Maren asked, growing more apprehensive about following a well-known—and damned funny—novelist as only one of a pair of grad student readers. She would have felt much safer if half a dozen of her peers were stepping up to the mike tonight.

  “Well, I might have do it if I can’t find someone else,” Avery grimaced. “I wasn’t planning on it, but I could read a few poems that no one’s heard yet. They’re on my iPad.”

  Just then, Helene broke through the crowd, chin high, mouth set, eyes blazing, and blond ponytail bouncing. Jess, wearing a shit-eating grin, was on her heels.

  “I’ll see if I can find someone else who’ll read,” Maren offered. Avery looked genuinely relieved.

  “Thanks, Maren, that would be great.” She looked around the room. “Now I’ve got to find Dr. Wilson. He’s introducing David Solomon in five minutes.” Avery stepped away just as Helene, fuming, stood next to Maren, deliberately turning away from Jess.

  “Maren. Hello. How are you?” Helene’s tone was wooden, but an I’ll-tell-you-later look filled her eyes. Maren touched her friend’s elbow in sympathy. What was Jess up to? He stood behind Helene and tucked a stray lock of his dark brown hair behind his ear, smiling in mischief. He was too gorgeous. And just plain evil.

  “To be honest, I’m terrified,” Maren confessed to them both. “Not only am I reading after The David Solomon, but it looks like I’m one of the only ones doing it.”

  Helene’s eyes widened, and she seemed to forget the ire she was busy directing at Jess.

  “Oh dear!” This time, she grabbed Maren’s elbow in sympathy. “But you’ll be great! Don’t worry. Everything you’ve written for the workshop has been amazing!”

  “Well,…thanks, but… this is just such a big crowd. I’d just feel better….would you…would either of you…consider reading tonight?” she pleaded.

  “Shit, I can’t. I don’t have anything with me,” Helene shrugged.

  Jess took the opportunity to step into the circle Helene had tried to form against him.

  “I’ve got something,” Jess offered, but roguery still twinkled in his pretty blue eyes.

  “Would you read, Jess?” Maren asked, cautious.

  His smile grew. Maren could actually see the gears in his head turning.

  “Well, that depends, Gardner.”

  “On what?” she asked, growing irritated.

  He paused, looking at Helene and then back to Maren, savoring the moment.

  “Can you really see Coulter with me?”

  “Fucking asshole!” Helene turned and disappeared into the crowd. Jess burst out laughing, calling after her.

  “Wait! Coulter, come back!” He started to follow when Maren grabbed his sleeve.

  “Jess, leave her alone.”

  “Aw, come on, Mar—”

  “No. Just drop it!”

  “She knows I’m joking,” he defended, still aiming to follow Helene.

  “Leave her alone, you self-loving cockhead!”

  This epithet came out a little louder than Maren intended, and just as Dr. Sheridan and Dr. Vashal were walking past them. Dr. Sheridan gave Maren a scandalized scowl, and Dr. Vashal raised an eyebrow, pressing his lips together. Jess dissolved in laughter.

  “Little Maren Gardner, I didn’t know you had it in you!” he relished, as Maren slowly died of embarrassment. Was it Jess Dalton’s mission to mortify every female grad student in the program?

  “I’m sorry Dr. Sheridan, Dr. Vashal,” she uttered, almost voiceless.

  “I should hope so, Ms. Gardner,” Dr. Sheridan leveled, grabbing Jess by the elbow. “Come, Mr. Dalton, I think there are some seats still available in the front row.” Jess’s mirth was replaced with horror at the prospect of sitting by the department head the entire evening.

  Maren found herself standing, awkwardly, next to Dr. Vashal, wishing that she could simply evaporate on the spot. Dr. Vashal held a Starbucks cup in his hand and sipped from it, casually scanning the crowd.

  “I am sorry,” she repeated, unable to take her eyes off the floor.

  He was silent, staring straight ahead. He raised the Starbucks cup to his mouth.

  “Well,…He is a self-loving cockhead,” Dr. Vashal murmured behind the cup.

  Maren gasped, glancing at him and stopping her own laughter just as Dr. Wilson approached the microphone and greeted the crowd. Dozens of people still stood in clusters—there were no more seats, even in the front row, but the conversation died at once. Maren searched the crowd, but she could not find Helene, and she hoped that her friend had not actually left on account of Jess Dalton. She was aware that Dr. Vashal could see her scanning the audience, so she brought her attention back to Dr. Wilson’s introduction.

  He talked about the successful young writer whose first novel, Deadlines, a scathing but hilarious satire of the White House press corp and contemporary American journalism in general, had garnered tremendous critical acclaim and popular appeal. (Maren had a copy of the novel in her bag, but she didn’t know if she could be so pedestrian as to ask Solomon to sign it for her.)

  “It is my great pleasure to welcome David Solomon,” Dr. Wilson concluded to a rousing round of applause.

  Solomon, a slight man in his 30s with a receding hairline and a gentle smile, approached the mike.

  “Good evening, and thank you for having me. The further I get from D.C., the warmer the welcomes seem to be,” he began. “Tonight, I’d like to read an excerpt from the first chapter of my upcoming novel, Hill of Beans.”

  For the next 20 minutes, Maren laughed. She forgot her humiliation at the hands of Jess Dalton. She forgot her nerves at the impending reading. She even forgot that her parents were on their very last romantic getaway. But she did not forget that the person standing next to her was Malcolm Vashal.

  He had a great laugh. At first she had not noticed it as a sound separate from the general response of the audience. But once she did, she waited for it, leaned into, and rode it with her own. It was deep, not loud. Economical, but genuine. Breathy. Sexy.

  She wrapped her arms around herself and tried to keep her eyes on the novelist.

  Her nerves
did not return until David Solomon stepped away from the mike to exuberant applause and a few cheers and whistles. As the applause died down, Avery Cohen approached the podium and announced a five-minute break before Open Mike would begin. Maren forced herself to breathe slowly and dug into her bag for her sheets. She had brought both her iPad and hard copies just in case, but she decided to read from the pages rather than risk dropping the device in her shaky state.

  And, indeed, her hands were shaking as she unfolded the pages and silently read through them, practicing, again, her timing and breath.

  “Are you reading tonight?” Dr. Vashal asked, breaking through her absorption and surprising her that he was still there.

  “Yes, I am,” Maren replied, trying to sound confident, but hearing the waiver in her own voice.

  “Pretend they’re all here for you,” he said quietly.

  She sighed. Clearly, she looked as nervous as she felt.

  “Thanks,” she managed.

  Maren glanced at the mike to see Dennis Guidry and Avery waving her over. She made her way to them.

  “Who’s up?” Avery asked.

  Dennis eyed her.

  “Ladies first?” he ventured.

  Shit.

  “Fine,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I might as well get it over with.”

  “Yes!” Dennis pumped his fist and took a seat in the front row.

  Avery switched on the mike and cleared her throat.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, Welcome to a special Open Mike session of the UL English Department Creative Writing Program. Please take a moment to find a seat before we get started.”

  Maren inhaled as slowly and deeply as she could, straightening up and trying to arrange a calm smile on her face. Helene darted in front of her and took a seat next to Dennis, giving Maren a big smile and a thumbs-up. Maren smiled genuinely in return.

  Jess came around from the opposite side and took the chair on the other side of Dennis, making sure that Helene saw him, even though she pretended not to. Watching the two of them calmed Maren considerably.

  I got this.

  “Tonight we’d like to begin with a few poems by Maren Gardner, a second year graduate student who is specializing in creative writing. Let’s give Maren a warm Open Mike welcome,” Avery prompted.

  Dennis Guidry, probably out of gratitude, clapped ecstatically, but Helene refused to be outdone, so she clapped harder—almost as hard as Jess who carried on until Maren glared at him as she stepped up to the mike and placed her poems on the podium.

  “Good evening,” she opened and gave herself a moment to focus. The audience grew silent as Maren slowly breathed in again and began.

  A Song of Hands

  They say eyes are the windows

  to the soul.

  But hands hold more

  of holy proof.

  Not the lifelines, love lines

  But the life and the love.

  The gain, the loss, the richer stuff.

  Take mine.

  Knuckled into themselves,

  They guard against every broken nail,

  every paper cut.

  Take yours.

  Calloused with what rubbed you

  then robbed you.

  Take mine in yours

  and you’ll find

  they hold no weight,

  afraid to grasp and come back empty.

  Take yours in mine

  and I can feel

  what you still carry,

  afraid to let go.

  Take yours.

  Take mine.

  Maren had looked into Helene’s safe smile as she read, but when she finished, she ventured a glance at Dr. Vashal who watched her, unblinking. She began the next, feeling more confident, more at ease.

  In Estes

  Once winter warmed

  Once April stormed

  Once WE had formed

  I forgot the cold.

  Before the waterfalls froze

  Before the roads closed

  Before you chose what you chose

  There was a fall.

  When orange painted tree

  When sky carried geese

  When all you saw was me

  Like I had come home.

  Now drought creeps in

  Now summer’s worn thin

  Now we’re “just friends”

  And winter’s not far.

  Maren finished to the sound of applause, generous applause, she thought, but she had done well enough. Her voice had never failed her, and her pacing had been good. She stepped away from the podium to take the remaining seat on Helene’s left, but not before her eyes found Dr. Vashal again. He was clapping, too, and he gave a her the slightest nod. She sat down to listen to Dennis Guidry, but she didn’t hear a word.

  Chapter 8

  Malcolm

  Malcolm lay in bed, too warm to actually sleep, and counted over the events of his day. After nearly three weeks, Madeleine had called back. She had emailed him earlier to say that Sister Alejandro could not be reached at present, as she and some of her order had gone on a mission trip in the more remote villages of Guatemala and wouldn’t be back until later in the month. Malcolm did not exactly resent the limbo where this left him. It was a temporary reprieve where he could work casually on the translations without weighing how much they might matter.

  With today’s call, Madeleine reported that the initial news was promising. Sister Alejandro had been flattered that Malcolm wanted to translate her book, and no one else had sought to do so. She would, however, have to put Madeleine in touch with her Monseigneur, who may or may not have to consult his bishop, but Sister Alejandro did not anticipate any obstacles, as both had been in favor of her publishing La Fuente de Piedra in the first place.

  “Time seems to be the only matter,” Madeleine had reassured.

  “Time is no great problem,” Malcolm had replied.

  He had felt encouraged, so much so that he thought it safe to mention his progress to Dorothy earlier that evening before the Solomon reading.

  “That is very good news, Dr. Vashal,” Dorothy had said, meaningfully.

  Her tone had unnerved him, with its suggestion of his desperation, and his own shaken response had angered him. He might have retreated from her then in case a wave of panic should rise, but this whole chain reaction was broken when they encountered Maren Gardner and her verbal assault on Jess Dalton.

  Self-loving cockhead.

  Malcolm smiled in the darkness as he recalled it. It was perfect. Malcolm had struggled to contain his amusement at the bookstore, and Dorothy’s dig was forgotten. What he now evoked to examine in his mind’s eye was the look that Maren had worn as she faced-off with Dalton. It was a blazing look, ferocious even, and it was as beautiful as it was menacing. Why had she been so angry? What had Dalton done? What was it she had said just before?

  Leave her alone.

  Leave her alone, you self-loving cockhead!

  Who was “her”? Coulter, more than likely, Malcolm reasoned. But why? He remembered an encounter earlier in the week when he had seen the two girls on the stairs. Maren had been embracing Helene. He had watched them without meaning to, but the sight had absorbed him. Were they together?

  The notion rattled him, although he knew it should not. Despite himself, Malcolm discovered that he could picture them touching, lovingly, on several occasions. A hand on an elbow. Laughing arm in arm. A tugging of a pony tail. Or braid. He sat up in bed and flipped his pillow over so that he could lay back on the cool underside.

  But where did Dalton fit in? Clearly, Maren was not one of his devotees. Was Helene Coulter the hinge in some fiery love triangle?

  Bah! The thought was laughable.

  He relaxed, finally beginning to feel drowsy, and his mind drifted to Maren’s poems. They were confessional and green, yes; she was a beginner, after all, but they had a certain music and balance, and Malcolm was grateful that he had not felt embarrassment on her behalf. She had read qui
te well. Her voice was sonorous and strong, and the feelings the words meant to evoke came through it.

  And her face. When she had read the poem about the seasons, her eyes had danced, her face transfigured with joy at the line, when all you saw was me. Somehow, she had slowed time with that look, those words, and held the audience’s rapt attention. Her countenance had collapsed with the next stanza, and it was evident that someone had hurt her.

  Bastard.

  The invective was the last lucid thought Malcolm had before sleep claimed him for dreams of coffee, white mountains, watchful eyes, and empty hands.

  As much as Malcolm enjoyed his private game of poking fun at his university, The Deep South Writer’s Conference was something any school would be proud to call its own. Each year, it welcomed notable writers, not just from the South, but from all over the world. The Friday and Saturday of the conference boasted a number of readings, workshops, and seminars, and Malcolm attended as many as he could.

  By Friday afternoon, he had taken one of his American Lit sections to hear Antoine Raez, a Haitian-American short story writer, read one of his pieces. It was a story of how to lie to one’s mother to be able to mix in with a street gang, but the story was written entirely in second person. Malcolm could not wait to read the response essays that would come from the experience.

  Although he regretted that he would not be able to sit in the assembly room to hear the winners announced for the DSWC competition, Malcolm did not mind that he would miss most of the conference social to work the registration table in the main lobby of Griffin Hall. His shift was from 4 to 7 p.m., and he arrived a few minutes early to find—much to his surprise—Maren Gardner and Jess Dalton as his assigned student aids.

  It appeared that Maren refused to acknowledge Jess’s presence, and Jess, for once, seemed to have the good sense to look contrite and—if it was possible for someone over six feet—diminutive in her presence.

  Malcolm fought back a smile.