Fall Semester

by Stephanie Fournet

  His beauty was completely unfair. Maren felt a bit like a stalker, spying on him from the hallway, but being able to drink him in—unobserved, unhurried—was too rare a thing. She watched him part his lips and moisten them with his tongue, and Maren thought she’d faint. She needed to announce her presence.

  “Knock, knock,” she said, softly, and she had the privilege of watching him start, take her in, and recover his mask. It happened so fast, but Maren caught the look of joy that shone in his eyes for an instant before he tamped down on it. It made her heart ache.

  “Done?” he asked, giving her a half smile.

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “And Terrence?” He frowned with the question, and Maren felt the cloak of his protection.

  “He just left.”

  They watched each other for a moment. Maren was keenly aware that they were alone—if not in the building, then at least on the second floor. She longed to touch him, but she leaned against the doorjamb instead.

  “How are you getting home?” Malcolm asked.

  “I rode my bike.” She nodded in the direction of the parking lot beyond the south stairs.

  “If you give me a moment, I’ll walk you down.”

  Maren would have given him days.

  “I think I can spare a moment,” she said, trying to contain her smile. She watched him shut down his laptop and begin to pack up.

  “What were you working on?” she asked.

  Malcolm put the laptop in his case and did not meet Maren’s eyes when he answered.

  “It’s a translation.”

  “Oh?” she inquired, wanting to hear more, but hesitant about pressing him.

  Malcolm joined her at the door and waited for her to lead the way.

  “It’s a book of poems,” he said, with a hint of a smile. “By a Guatemalan nun.”

  Maren felt her eyes bug in surprise.

  “Wow. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t that.” She started walking down the hall toward the stairs, and he fell in step beside her. She found herself slowing to make their time together last longer.

  “It’s a brilliant collection,” Malcolm said, reverently. Maren could see immediately that the project meant a great deal to him.

  “I’m certain it is,” she said, sincerely. “You wouldn’t choose anything less.” It took everything in her power not to reach for his hand. It would have been the most natural thing in the world, and yet she couldn’t.

  “I may not be able to do it,” he said, his face clouding.

  “What do you mean?” They had reached the stairs, and she stopped to listen to him.

  Malcolm’s brows knit, and frustration bowed his mouth.

  “I may not be able to secure the rights. The church has to give its permission, and her bishop wants to see if they can find a Guatemalan or someone from the church to do it.”

  “Oh, Malcolm,” she murmured. She knew without another word how disappointing this would be for him. It also seemed grossly unfair.

  Malcolm stared at her a moment, and his eyes seemed to heat as he did.

  “You’re the first person I’ve told…about the roadblock, I mean.”

  Maren reached for his hand then because she had to touch him. She squeezed his fingers, and he squeezed back, sending a thousand sparkles up her arm to her heart.

  “I’m glad you told me,” she whispered. Maren wanted to wrap her arms around him and plant kisses from his ear to his collar bone, but she held herself still and tried to press as much love as she could into the fingers she held in her hand.

  “Thank you, again, for being here today.”

  Those green eyes still held heat, but he narrowed them as if he ached to tell her something.

  “Of course.”

  He squeezed her hand again before dropping it and continuing their descent on the stairs. Although the day was sunny, the wind was cool, and Maren buttoned her jacket as she approached her bike.

  “You don’t have a helmet,” Malcolm said, disapproval clear in his voice.

  Maren rolled her eyes with a smirk.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “That’s not safe.”

  “I don’t go very fast,” she reasoned.

  “Yes, but cars do,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “They’re ugly.”

  Malcolm raised an eyebrow at her.

  “And head trauma is fetching?”

  Maren sighed.

  “I can’t possibly win this argument. I’m not even going to try,” she conceded as she unlocked her bike. “I hope you have a lovely weekend, Malcolm.”

  “It’s all downhill from here,” he said under his breath.

  Maren straightened and looked him square in the eye.

  “It doesn’t have to be,” she said, softly.

  Malcolm frowned.

  “Yes, it does.”

  This was an argument she could not win either. For now. She sighed again, placed her bag in the bike’s basket, and mounted.

  “When you figure out that you’re wrong about this, let me know.”

  And she rode away from him.

  She admitted to herself that she was frustrated and even a little angry with him again, but Maren recognized that perhaps progress had been made. Maybe he would not hide from her now. Maybe they could talk again, at least. She loved him, but she would not chase him.

  Maren was glad for the bike ride home so that she could try to clear her head. The chapbook project was now behind her, and Malcolm was at least speaking to her again. She had a ridiculous amount of work to do over the weekend, including on the introduction to her thesis, and she wanted to get as much done as she could during the afternoon so that her time at her parents’ house on Sunday would not be rushed. Her father was being very brave, but everyone could see that he had grown much weaker—so much thinner—and that pain management was a constant struggle. Laurel was picking her up in the morning, and Maren wanted to spend the better part of the day helping and comforting where she could.

  At home, she locked up her bike and entered the kitchen to find Tuva—sporting an apron—standing at the stove before a sizzling pan. The house smelled like salted caramel and roasted potatoes.

  “Hallo!” Tuva sang, beaming—as usual—at Maren.

  “Mmm! That smells divine! What is it?”

  If possible, Tuva’s smile grew.

  “It is our lunch! Sugar-browned potatoes and inkokt lax. And it is almost ready.”

  Maren moved closer to the inviting pan and studied the caramelized red potato wedges with eagerness.

  “Where’s the ink-oak locks? Is it in there?” she asked, pointing to the potatoes. Tuva chimed with laugher.

  “No! Inkokt lax is cold salmon with a vinegar and sugar dressing. It is in the refrigerator.”

  Maren gazed at her roommate with undisguised adoration.

  “Tuva, you are an angel! No, a goddess! I worship you!” she gushed, hugging her laughing friend in gratitude.

  “Well, you said you would be home around noon, and I was homeseeck for some Swedish flavors, so there you are!”

  “I can’t wait to try some Swedish flavors. What can I do to help?” she asked.

  “Oh, just get us some plates and forks.”

  After Tuva loaded up their plates, Maren carried them to the table, and Tuva produced what she described as Swedish tartar sauce, mayonnaise, onions, dill, and seasonings.

  Maren wasn’t sure what she would think about sweet and sour cold fish, but her first bite was surprisingly good, tender, full-flavored, and enticing.

  “Mmm. Very good. How did you cook the salmon?”

  “In Sweden, you traditionally boil it with vegetables, but at Pete’s I see the cook grill or broil salmon, so I tried it his way,” she said, proudly, forking a bite. “It is just as good, and faster, too!”

  Maren dipped a piece of fish into the mayo.

  “Do you work tonight?” Tuva waited tables at Pete’s Bar and Grill a few nights a we
ek and usually closed on Saturday nights.

  “As usual,” Tuva said, nodding. “Try a potato, Mahreen. They are from heaven.”

  Without hesitation, Maren speared a golden-brown wedge with her fork and brought it to her mouth.

  “Oh my God…” It was like sunlight and sugar all in one. The warm, savory potatoes mixed with the near caramelized sugar to compose a complete text of taste. “Where have these been all my life? I would eat this for breakfast! Every day!”

  After lunch, Maren insisted on doing the dishes. Tuva relented and settled herself in the living room to study. Washing dishes always made Maren feel at peace; the warm water, the suds, and the ultimate reward of a clean kitchen gave her to a Zen-like calm. But lately, washing dishes made her think of Malcolm and the night he brought her gumbo and did the dishes in her kitchen. As she stopped the sink, turned on the hot water, and squirted in the dish liquid, she thought of the morning at the lab and the surprise of his arrival. It made her smile, his protectiveness, his obvious care for her. No matter what he said or thought, he made her feel so safe, so cherished.

  And she had been able to touch him today. She had held this hand. Twice. Every cell in her body had registered that he had held on just as tightly. There was no mistaking that. Details that her mind had recorded came back to her, like the base of Malcolm’s throat at the bottom of his open collar. She would love to kiss it, peel the collar back and run her tongue along his collarbone, nibble his neck.

  Too soon for Maren’s fantasies, the last dish was clean. Time to work. She joined Tuva on the couch with her iPad and wireless keyboard and opened the Google Doc that contained her growing thesis introduction. Perry trotted in from the kitchen and observed the two women on the couch. Seeming to ascertain that they’d be settled for some time, he hopped on the cushion between them, twirled a few times for good measure, and nestled down for a nap.

  When Tuva left for work just before 7 p.m., Maren decided that she had to go for a run before she sprouted roots from her behind and became permanently attached to the couch. The sun had already set, so she put on her reflective windbreaker over her running attire and strapped on a blinky armband for good measure. The tucked her phone into one of the zippered pouches and popped in one ear bud, stuffing the other in her sports bra so that she could keep one ear out for traffic.

  Outside, she located satellites on her Garmin, stretched, and tapped her running playlist. She hit the road to Grouplove’s “Tongue Tied,” and her mood immediately lifted. It was dark, so she couldn’t fly and risk wiping out in a pothole, but she quickly found a fun, speedy pace. Her poems and the struggle to explain them in a critical context lifted out of her head like helium balloons. She ran up St. Thomas to St. Landry and tucked into Calder Street with some of her favorite houses, 1940s beauties that had been bought up and refreshed by hip, young couples who weren’t afraid to live between the university and downtown.

  Metric’s “Help I’m Alive” kept her company as she ran up to Amelia and doubled back on Brashear. It was a cool night, but there was plenty of bike and foot traffic—people heading downtown for Art Walk, dinner, or drinks and music. It had been a while since she’d gone out. It seemed as though in the last few weeks her life had narrowed down to school and family, especially now that Helene and Jess were so officially involved.

  Maren smiled at the memory of her friend’s texts. Tonight is THE night. At least one of them was getting some action. Maren counted back in her mind, back to Ben, back to Denver and before her dad had been diagnosed. June? Six months with no sex.

  Well, no sex without batteries.

  She re-crossed St. Landry and cut through the parking lot of Martin & Castille funeral home to the little bridge that spanned the coulee before Parkside. Unbidden, she found herself wondering when she would have to be back there, dressed in black. She pushed the thought from her mind and focused on Of Monsters and Men’s “Mountain Sound.”

  She ran down Myrtle Street, past the pretentious gated community, Myrtle Square, past Governor Blanco’s house and the architectural hodgepodge of Acadian, Victorian, and the odd Frank-Lloyd-Wright-inspired homes from the 60s. Maren made a U-turn at Congress and ran her way back across St. Mary and onto St. Louis.

  “Heartbeats” by Royal Teeth, a local band Maren had followed for a while, caught her with its lyrics. One night to push and scream…and then release. Maren sighed, even as she ran, unable to keep Malcolm from her thoughts. She took a left on Howard, crossed St. Joseph and slowed her pace a little as she crossed St. Patrick. She wouldn’t let herself run down his block, but she could see his lights on down the street, his car in the driveway. He was there, and although it only made her ache for him more, she felt relieved to know he was home.

  Maren zigzagged through the Saint Streets for another 20 minutes before heading home. She fed Perry, started a load of laundry, and made herself a sandwich. Rather than sit in her sweaty clothes on the couch, Maren ate at the table and read her English Romantics assignment for another hour.

  At 9:30 she gave herself permission to stop. She switched her clothes to the dryer headed to the bathroom for a shower. The hot water was not the strong pair of hands that had gripped hers that morning, but she luxuriated in it anyway. As she rinsed out her conditioner, she sent up a prayer that Malcolm would see himself with clear eyes before she started going gray.

  He stayed on her mind—of course—while she dried her hair. She found his red soccer sweatshirt and her black yoga pants. If she couldn’t be with him, she would at least curl up in something that had surely held his body.

  Maren decided that she would allow herself the rare diversion of turning on the TV. Until she got sleepy. She grabbed her phone off the kitchen table on her way to the living room and stopped in her tracks.

  “Oh shit!”

  Six missed calls. Four text messages.

  Dad!

  Before Maren could even check her call history, the phone rang in her hand. Laurel.

  “Laurel! What’s wrong?” she answered.

  “Maren! Thank God!” Laurel sounded hysterical, speaking through sobs. Maren’s heart was thundering in her chest, and she felt her hands start shaking. “We’re at the hospital. Dad started having seizures and wouldn’t stop. Come now. Can you come now?”

  “Laurel, where’s mom? Is Lane there?” She was frantic. Lane could come get her if he wasn’t already there.

  “Mom’s at the admitting desk. We just got here, and they took Dad,” Laurel sobbed again, her voice almost unintelligible. “Lane’s in Houston. He’s trying to get back. Maren, please come now. Please hurry. I’m so scared!”

  Oh, Fuck.

  “Laurel, I’m coming. I’ll be right there,” she said, trying to sound calm. “I’ll be there soon.”

  “Maren, you should have seen hi—” Her little sister’s voice broke into a wail.

  “Laurel, listen. I’m coming. I just have to get a ride, but I’ll be there soon. I have to go. I’ll call you as soon as I’m on my way. Okay?”

  “Oh, God, Maren. Please hurry.”

  “I will. I will. I have to go.” Maren hung up and swore. Being without a car suddenly seemed like the stupidest thing in the world.

  With shaking fingers, she opened Google on the third try and searched for taxis, tapping the call button on the first Lafayette number that came up.

  It rang.

  And rang.

  And rang.

  “Fucking Christ!” she yelled into the phone.

  Tuva was at work and would not be home until after 2:00 a.m. Maren thought about calling Helene, but Helene was at Jess’s. And even if she answered her phone—and God only knew if she could even hear the phone—how long would it take?

  Malcolm.

  The name came to her like a flare in the darkness. She bit her lip, prayed he would answer, and pressed “Call”.

  Chapter 22

  Malcolm

  At 10:37 on Saturday night, Malcolm squinted with bewilderment at the ring
ing phone in his hand. He had turned out his light a half hour before and had managed to will sleep to come after a day of such frustration. Clarity pierced his confused brain when he read “M.G.” on the screen, and he bolted up in bed. Something was wrong.

  Terrence, you fucker!

  “Are you alright?” he answered, snapping the light on and reaching for his glasses.

  “Malcolm?” Her voice was wounded, broken. A murderous impulse gripped him. His hand formed a fist as he pictured Rob Terrence touching her.

  “What’s wrong? Where are you?”

  “Malcolm,…I’m at home….It’s my dad.” He heard her draw a jagged breath. “Could you please give me a ride to the hospital? I’m so sorry to ask y—”

  “I’m on my way.”

  He was out of bed and pulling on jeans over his boxer briefs with the phone cradled between his ear and shoulder.

  “Oh, God, thank you, Malcolm,” she said, breaking down completely. “I’m so sorry to call so late.”

  “Nonsense,” Malcolm said, shoving his feet into the sneakers by his bed. He grabbed his keys and wallet off the valet and flew through the house. “I’ll be there in one minute, Maren.”

  He ended the call and plucked his leather jacket off the coat rack before dashing out the door, not even bothering to lock the house on his way out.

  Malcolm gunned the Accord down St. Patrick and left tread marks on the corners of St. Thomas and Louisa. Maren stood in the drive, bag over her shoulder, clutching herself in distress.

  “What hospital?” he asked as she got in.

  “General,” Maren said, trying to compose herself and drying her eyes on her sleeve.

  My sleeve, he realized with wonder.

  “Put your seatbelt on,” he said. Once she did, he threw the car into reverse and took off. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Maren fumble with her phone before putting it to her ear. She took one slow deep breath while the call connected.

  “Laurel, I’m on my way. I’ll be there in 10 minutes…” Maren managed to sound much more composed as she spoke to her sister. “In the E.R.?…I’ll find you. Okay…I’m coming.”