Fall Semester

by Stephanie Fournet

  She shook her head and wiped her eyes.

  “No, I’m fine. Really.”

  “You’re anything but fine,” he leveled, raising an eyebrow at her.

  “Dr. Vashal, I feel so much better. I’m warm, dry, and fed, thanks to you.” She gave him a blazing look as she spoke. “I can feel that I’ve turned the corner.”

  Malcolm could only nod at her gratitude, but he felt like it was his cue to leave.

  “Then I have succeeded,” he whispered with the slightest bow. “I should be going.”

  “Oh!…Of course.” Maren said, before looking at her feet, but Malcolm questioned whether or not he had seen a look of disappointment pass over her face for an instant. He found himself hesitating.

  “Do you have everything you need? Will you be alright?” he asked with genuine concern.

  “Yes, thank you. Thank you for everything.” She coughed slightly again, and, again, he frowned.

  “If you do need anything,…” he dug into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a card. “I hope you’ll call. My cell number is right there.”

  He handed her the card and watched an angelic smile, soft and peaceful, smooth her face.

  “If that’s what a friend would do….,” she ventured.

  “Indeed,” he said, his voice hushed, and his eyes still savoring the beatific smile. Again, the urge to touch her tore at him, and he stepped toward the door to thwart it. “I do hope you feel better soon.”

  “I will,” she said, following him.

  He put a hand on the door and opened it without taking his eyes off her. She looked so delicate and lovely in her robe with the shining locks he had dried falling over her breasts. A part of him hated to leave her alone, unprotected.

  “Goodnight, then.” He stepped out onto the stoop. “Don’t forget to lock the door behind me.” He pulled the door closed and watched through the pane as she turned the deadbolt.

  Malcolm sighed as he shut himself into the Accord. His mind roiled. It was impossible to be near her. It was impossible to stay away. He knew he did not deserve her company. Still, he knew that if she asked, he’d be able to deny her nothing.

  He started the car and drove home. Minutes later, when he pulled into his own driveway, his phone chimed with a message. The number on the screen was unfamiliar, but his breath caught as he read:

  Monday, Oct. 23: 7:14 p.m.

  I hope you will keep my number as well and give me the chance to return the favor.

  In friendship,

  Maren Gardner

  Inside, Malcolm rummaged through his kitchen pantry until he found the neglected tin of jasmine pearls. He pried off the lid and was rewarded with the sight of several dozen tightly balled whorls of dried jasmine flowers. Closing his eyes, he sniffed the tin and found himself surrounded by damp hair and sweetness. Standing in his kitchen, he moaned.

  Malcolm filled his tea kettle and set it on a burner. Despite his better judgment, he opened Contacts in his phone and created a new entry for one M.G.

  Chapter 15

  Maren

  Maren still had a cough on Wednesday morning, but she had not run fever since Monday night, and it was time to return to school. Helene volunteered to pick her up before her 9:00 class, saying that Maren was absolutely forbidden from taking her bike.

  As she waited in the kitchen with her book bag and purse, she scrolled through the text messages that had recently accumulated on her phone.

  Tuesday, Oct. 24 9:40 a.m.

  How are you feeling today?

  Tuesday, Oct. 24 9:41 a.m.

  Better. No fever. Thanks.

  You?

  Tuesday, Oct. 24 9:41 a.m.

  Me? I’m not the one nearly succumbing to pneumonia.

  Tuesday, Oct. 24 9:42 a.m.

  Very funny. Neither am I.

  And you didn’t answer the question.

  Tuesday, Oct. 24 9:43 a.m.

  Ah, so not succumbing to pneumonia and not easily distracted.

  I am well. Better, in fact, knowing that you are on the mend.

  Tuesday, Oct. 24 9:45 a.m.

  Glad to hear that the flu vaccine actually works.

  Tuesday, Oct. 24 9:47 a.m.

  Yes, perhaps you should try it next time.

  I’m heading to class. I’ll be done at 11:30.

  Do you need lunch?

  Tuesday, Oct. 24 9:48 a.m.

  No. I’m good. This FRIENDLY guy I know brought me a TON of gumbo.

  Tuesday, Oct. 24 9:50 a.m.

  He sounds creepy. Be careful. And get some rest.

  Tuesday, Oct. 24 5:50 p.m.

  Did I just see you run past my house???

  Tuesday, Oct. 24 6:16 p.m.

  It couldn’t have been me. Maybe it was your creepy friend.

  Tuesday, Oct. 24 6:18 p.m.

  I don’t think he’s creepy.

  I think he’s sweet.

  Tuesday, Oct. 24 6:20 p.m.

  He should keep his distance.

  Tuesday, Oct. 24 6:22 p.m.

  I hope he doesn’t. He makes me laugh.

  Tuesday, Oct. 24 6:23 p.m.

  Will you be at school tomorrow?

  Tuesday, Oct. 24 6:24 p.m.

  Yes, I think so.

  Tuesday, Oct. 24 6:24 p.m.

  Good.

  Maren bit her bottom lip against the smile that was threatening to split her face. When she had texted him with her number on Monday night, and he had not responded, she wondered if the gesture had been unwelcome. But his attention the next day made her bold, and she blushed a little at that boldness.

  But she was also careful. She had assigned the name “Indiana” to his contact information in case he texted her while she was with Helene or another graduate student. And as good as it felt to flirt with him, she was disciplined. She wouldn’t get carried away or appear silly, and she wouldn’t embarrass him—or herself—in front of anyone.

  So when Helene pulled into her driveway and beeped the horn, Maren met her with a relaxed smile.

  “You still look pale,” Helene said in greeting. Maren rolled her eyes.

  “Well, I feel about 100 times better, and I have so much catching up to do,” she defended, buckling her seatbelt. “How have you been? I feel like I’ve been in a submarine for a week.”

  “Not much to report,” Helene said, meaningfully.

  “Oh? Is Jess still on good behavior?”

  “A regular boy scout. I swear, I didn’t think he could keep it up this long. It’s been….what?…a month since the conference?” Helene guessed.

  “Yeah, something like that. Is he still asking you out every day?”

  “He’s not asking me out. He’s asking me to have breakfast with him—”

  “He’s asking you out,” Maren asserted.

  “And he’s not asking me every day anymore,” Helene amended.

  “Why? Did you go? And I missed it?!?”

  “No. Of course not. I haven’t gone. He said he was changing his strategy,” she explained. “He thinks it’s become routine for him to ask each day and for me to decline, so he’s going to ‘randomize’ his invitations, but he assured me that he still wants to ask me every day, so if I change my mind in the meantime, I should let him know.”

  Maren laughed and then coughed.

  “You still sound awful,” Helene said, grimacing, as they pulled into an empty spot on Rex Street.

  “I’m fine.”

  Helene turned off the car and eyed Maren wickedly.

  “Sooo….Rob Terrence came by the bullpen on Monday afternoon, asking about you since you weren’t in the workshop Friday or Monday. I told you he’s had his eye on you since the beginning of the semester.”

  Maren wrinkled her nose.

  “When I told him you were sick, he said to tell you that he hoped you’d feel better.”

  “Well, that was…nice.” Maren managed, gathering up her things and stepping out of the car.

  “What’s wrong with Rob, Mare? He’s not a
n ogre.” Helene followed, and they crossed Rex together.

  If he really liked me, he would have made sure I was okay.

  Maren had to squelch her smile and concentrate on Helene’s question.

  “I don’t know….I can’t tell what Rob’s really thinking….I just get a phony vibe from him.”

  “So if he asked you out…?”

  “No, thanks.” They stepped into Griffin and headed for the center stairs.

  “So, what? Have you taken a vow of chastity this semester?” Helene asked.

  “Have you?” Maren countered, half glaring.

  Helene bit her lip.

  “No, but I probably should.” Her voice dropped to a whisper as they reached the second floor. “My resolve is weakening.”

  Maren couldn’t help but smile.

  “Well, if you spend the night with him, I’m sure he’ll treat you to breakfast.”

  Both girls dissolved into laughter as they reached the department office. Dr. Vashal stepped out in front of them, carrying a stack of mail.

  “Good morning, ladies,” he said as he passed them, but his eyes only found Maren’s.

  Maren’s heart sped up at the sight of him.

  “Good morning.” She managed to sound completely casual, and she followed Helene into the office, checked her box—which had accumulated quite a pile in her absence, thanked Helene for the ride, and dashed off to her ENGL 102 class.

  She felt her phone buzz in the pocket of her jacket, and she checked the message as she stepped into her classroom.

  Wednesday, Oct. 25: 8:56 a.m.

  You still look pale.

  Maren sighed and texted back.

  Wednesday, Oct. 25: 8:57 a.m.

  So I’ve heard, but I’m fine. I feel much better.

  About to teach. Catch you later?

  Wednesday, Oct. 25: 8:57 a.m.

  Yes.

  Maren begrudgingly tucked her phone away, took out her notes, and started class.

  “I trust that since class was cancelled on Monday, everyone had a chance to finish Gulliver’s Travels, and we’re all ready to discuss satire,…right?”

  Her inquiry was met with a general groan.

  After her class, Maren went to the bullpen and sat down at her desk, unsure which task to tackle first in her efforts to catch up. She had left her cubicle in a state of disarray when she had gone home sick on Friday, and while Helene had been kind enough to deliver her purse and book bag over the weekend, half of what she’d needed to work on had been left behind.

  Maren set about tidying up and arranging books and papers into prioritized piles, starting with the mail from her department box. An announcement about Thursday’s Barnes & Noble reading topped the stack, followed by a catalogue for classroom posters—which Maren tossed to the recycling bin—her fall issue of The Modern Language Journal, her October pay stub, and, lastly, a small but beautiful bookmark.

  On the bookmark was a close-up of a petite jasmine bouquet lying on a piece of faded, handwritten parchment—like an old letter. Maren smiled as she admired the token because it was delicate and simple and something she would have chosen for herself or a dear friend. She turned it over and found a note in a tight but tidy hand:

  Medieval lore promised that nosegays protected one from the plague. Keep this handy just in case.

  There was no signature, but Maren knew without a doubt that Malcolm Vashal had put it in her box.

  She giggled with delight, studied the lovely picture again, and wondered when he had left it for her. It was so thoughtful, so sweet. And the humor in his note undercut any trace of sappiness, making her enjoy it all the more.

  Maren allowed herself to admit that her crush had grown wings. Still, if she and Dr. Vashal were only meant to be friends—after all, it was all they could be and more than she had ever imagined—she told herself that she would be able to keep it in check. Having such a friend, one who admittedly had few friends himself; one whom she shared with no one else; one who was brooding and playful in equal measure; one who looked out for her,….Well, that was no small thing. No small thing at all. It was special. It made Maren feel special, and she was grateful.

  She dug her phone out of her pocket and sent him two texts.

  Wednesday, Oct. 25: 10:07 a.m.

  Nosegays? Is that even a real word?

  Kidding. I love the bookmark. Thank you.

  In less than a minute, he replied in kind.

  Wednesday, Oct. 25: 10:07 a.m.

  I have no idea what you are talking about.

  You are welcome.

  In class at the moment (students taking Hawthorne test).

  Are you free for lunch?

  Maren’s heart contracted, and she felt a thrill of fear.

  Wednesday, Oct. 25: 10:08 a.m.

  I have a break at noon after my poetry workshop.

  Um…is it “okay” for us to have lunch?

  She bit her lip, waiting for him to answer. She waited. And waited. Maren began to wonder if she should have kept the question to herself. Did asking it make it seem like she thought something more was going on than there was?

  Wednesday, Oct. 25: 10:22 a.m.

  “Um” is not a word. Lunch is definitely “okay.”

  Meet me in my office: 205E. I hope you like Thai.

  Wednesday, Oct. 25: 10:23 a.m.

  What’s not to like?

  Exercising more self-restraint than she felt, Maren shoved her phone back in her pocket and opened her binder to the four poems that her class would workshop. She had yet to read them and give her feedback, and she had less than an hour to do so.

  Dr. MacIntosh greeted the assembled seminar solo, apologizing for Dr. St. Martin’s absence.

  “It seems the flu is going around,” he told the class, and he smiled gently at Maren. “Welcome back, Maren. I’m glad that you are well.”

  “Thanks, Dr. MacIntosh,” she replied, nervously.

  Rob Terrence had chosen the seat across from Maren, and he smiled at her eagerly.

  “We were supposed to get a poem of yours on Friday, right?” Rob asked.

  “Yes. Here it is.” Maren pulled the copies out of her binder and passed them around the table.

  “Ah, good,” Dr. MacIntosh said as he took his. “We’ll respond to this on Friday.”

  Rob tapped the table to get Maren’s attention before pointing to her poem.

  “I can’t wait,” he said under his breath.

  Maren pressed her lips together in what might have passed for a smile. She thought she heard Helene snort almost inaudibly from the seat on her right. She usually loved the workshop, but today she watched the clock and prayed for 11:50 to arrive—for more than one reason.

  After class, Maren made an excuse about needing to talk to a few professors instead of joining Helene for lunch in the student union. It wasn’t entirely a lie, she told herself. There was one professor she couldn’t wait to talk to. She deposited some of her books onto her desk in the bullpen, grabbed her purse and her iPad, and went in search of Dr. Vashal’s office.

  For several weeks, she had been aware that he must have been housed on the same side of Griffin as the bullpen since it had become routine for her to cross his path. Her stomach fluttered with too many butterflies, and she peered around her to make sure that none of her fellow grad students lurked nearby.

  As she suspected, she found 205E at the far end of a corridor past the bullpen and beyond the stairs. The nameplate on the closed door read “Malcolm C. Vashal, Ph. D., Associate Professor”. Maren knocked lightly, wondering what the “C” stood for.

  “Come in,” she heard from within. Maren felt heat rise to her face as she opened the door, but her nerves were all but forgotten as she saw him crossing the small space to greet her. In his beautiful face, Maren could read the same mixture of nervous eagerness. There was something else in his expression and posture. Was it relief?

  Even if she had wished to, Maren could not stop the smile that overtook her mouth.
He reminded her of…something. She couldn’t quite place what.

  “Hi,” was her inane greeting, her crush crowding out composure for a moment. He smiled, but Maren could still see nervousness or trepidation in his eyes.

  “Hi,” he echoed, catching the door as she came in and closing it behind her. “Please come in and have a seat.” He gestured to the two distressed-wood captain’s chairs in front of his desk that flanked either side of a secretary’s leaf. Dr. Vashal had set plates and forks on the leaf and laid out three takeout containers of food on his desk. Again, his largesse—in the form of an abundance of Thai noodles—caught her by surprise, and she laughed with delight.

  “Wow! That is a lot of food. You don’t do anything halfway,” she said, wide-eyed.

  He frowned at his makeshift buffet as if seeing it for the first time and gave her a sheepish smile.

  “I guess I wanted to make sure you’d have something you liked.” He gestured for her to sit, and she did.

  “That was very thoughtful. Thank you.” Maren studied him for a moment and wished for several things at once. She wished she knew why her comfort mattered so much to him; she wished she could remember the last time a man—besides her father—made her feel like she mattered that way, and she wished that she could show him how much she appreciated his kindnesses.

  Dr. Vashal remained standing and grabbed two plastic forks to use as serving tongs.

  “Let’s see…we have vegetarian pad thai, hoi thod with shrimp, and pad poi zean with beef and chicken. What can I get you?”

  He was still nervous. It was clear in his voice, in the jerkiness of his hands with their plastic forks, in his shoulders. This should have made Maren nervous, too. Instead, it made her want to reassure him, but she didn’t know how.

  “I’ll have a little of everything—if that’s alright.”

  “Of course,” he said, serving her immediately—and too much.

  “That’s…that’s plenty,” she said, as her paper plate disappeared under rice, glass, and pan-fried noodles. He hastily piled as much onto his own plate, handed her one of the two forks, and sat across from her.

  She tried the broad noodles first, which were crispy and chewy with a succulent sauce she did not recognize. Mixed with shrimp and eggs, it was heavenly.