by Mary Angela
Many English faculty, as well as two professors from Women’s Studies, were already seated in a cluster of chairs facing the podium. Ann Jorgenson waved at me, and I started off in her direction. Ann taught a few cross-listed classes for us, since Women’s Studies didn’t offer enough courses to keep her busy most semesters. We became fast friends last spring when she taught Women Writers of the Twentieth Century, a class I’d taught several times and so could share notes.
“It’s so good to see you!” Ann said as I approached her chair. She was wearing a short navy jacket that accentuated her tall frame and long legs, and her flat-ironed hair was perfectly highlighted blonde from root to tip. I silently reminded myself to make a hair appointment.
“Hi, Ann. How was your summer?”
“We had such a good time, didn’t we?” she said, elbowing her husband, Owen, who taught Earth Science. She and Owen had been married five years but didn’t have any children, despite their many attempts. This confidence Ann shared with a grin one afternoon while picking my brain about Virginia Woolf.
“We went to Hawaii to study rock formations—well, that’s what Owen did,” Ann said with another playful nudge. “I went to learn how to surf but became a pretty good boogie boarder instead. Have you ever tried that? Boogie boarding? It’s a blast.”
“No,” I said, swallowing a white lie. I had tried to boogie board once on a trip to California and aspirated so much salt water that I had to be taken directly to the emergency room. It seemed there was no sport that I could not turn into a cautionary tale.
“She was a natural,” Owen said with pride. He was not quite as good-looking as Ann, but his face was sincere and his smile genuine. His shoulders were straight and his arms muscular. I guessed he was one of those men who would maintain his athleticism well into middle age.
“How was your summer?” Ann asked.
I smiled. “It was rather quiet and peaceful and lost over the pages of several books. I read a fascinating tale of—”
Claudia Swift, one of our creative writing teachers and editor-in-chief of Copper Bluff Review, called out Ann’s name and pointed to her watch.
“Shoot, we’ll catch up another time. I’m kind of running this thing tonight, you know,” said Ann, quickly standing.
“We’ll talk at the committee meeting for certain,” I said.
She nodded briefly. “Yes. Next week.” Then she was off to check the microphone and electrical equipment.
I said goodbye to Owen and moved toward an open chair near Claudia, who was busily scanning her poem, “The Wolf.” I did not see her husband, Gene, and this was some recompense. When he was absent, Claudia told the most captivating stories about their marriage and two children. She was a terrific storyteller, and I could see why the creative writing students admired her, despite her mediocre poems.
“Hi, Claudia,” I said, sitting down on the small wooden chair. “I heard you’re reading tonight.”
Claudia ran her fingers through her straight brown hair, giving it a little shake around her shoulders. This habit of hers usually ended in her fashioning it into a makeshift French twist by the end of the evening.
“Em.”
She said my name with such emphasis that I leaned in closer.
“I’m so glad you’re here. Your support, everyone’s, it’s just phenomenal. Gene and I had an argument—on the way out the door—and my nerves are in tatters. That man has no conscience, none whatsoever. Of course he knows I’m moderating tonight, with Ann’s help. He doesn’t care; it doesn’t stop him.” She took a breath and reached for my hand, clasping it briefly. “But how are you? You look wonderful. Your eyes are positively indigo in that shirt. We have to talk about the fall issue of the Review. The galleys were less than perfect and now I have twenty divas breathing down my neck. Morgan’s new. She’s nineteen. What can I say? Our budget … oh god. I’m up.”
With that she stood, smoothing her black dress and adjusting an aqua-blue scarf that flowed all the way down her back. Ann gave her a thumbs up, and Claudia briskly approached the microphone.
“Poets, students, colleagues, friends,” she began. “We’re here tonight as a community brought together by a common love: poetry.”
Claudia’s voice was barely above a whisper yet rose higher and lower at just the right intervals to give it a beautiful singsong quality. The effect was terrific, so much so that several times I caught my head bobbing to the rise and fall of her voice. I took a break from listening to Claudia and scanned the group nonchalantly. I spotted Lenny, who winked.
“ ‘The Wolf,’ ” Claudia said, her voice a low hiss.
I listened as intently as I could, knowing that she often revised this poem and expected me to notice each time with my “keen ear.” Although I was not a creative writer, she confused me for one because of my work as assistant editor of the Copper Bluff Review. In reality, Giles had promised to lighten my teaching load in return for my editorial skills, and I eagerly agreed. It was a position the other creative writing teacher, Allen Dunsbar, should have filled, but he was known for being lazy and generally unorganized. In fact, since publishing his second novel and receiving tenure, he’d become almost unbearable. Unlike Claudia’s students, his students had nothing good to say about him. He was not even in attendance tonight. Typical Dunsbar.
Claudia finished “The Wolf” (with only one small addition of a red-headed beauty) to the sound of hearty applause, and I seized the opportunity to order a cappuccino. As I stood near the register, waiting for the new cashier to figure out the frothing machine, I examined the pottery on the counter, picking up a rainbow mug with the words “Be Colorful” etched on it.
“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn if you buy another coffee cup. Just don’t buy another one with a cutesy slogan,” said Lenny in his best Clark Gable imitation.
I put down the cup. “Dunsbar didn’t bother to show up. Did you notice?”
“Yeah. What a punk. Half his students are here.”
The cashier handed me a tiny white cup with foam oozing onto its saucer. Then she abruptly took it back and shook something that looked like nutmeg on the top.
“There,” she said, thrusting it back into my hand.
“I’ll just take a … coffee—black,” said Lenny.
A boy wedged in the corner caught my eye.
“What is it, Prather?” Lenny took a sip of his coffee. “Damn, that’s hot.”
“That gentleman over there—he’s my student.” I motioned toward the corner with my chin.
“You mean that kid over there in the black cap? So? So what?”
“His name,” I said quietly, “is Austin Oliver. And he dislikes poetry.”
Lenny shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe he’s here with some girl. That’s how I got into this gig in the first place.”
I shook my head, confused. “Are you telling me you got your PhD in literature because of some girl? Never mind. Tell me later. The point is Austin wanted to drop my class on Monday because one of the requirements is to recite a poem.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself, Em. You’ve probably frightened the poor kid half to death, and he’s scared as shit to get up there in front of the class and read a poem.”
I stirred my cappuccino. “No, that’s not it. He doesn’t strike me as the timid type.”
“You give people too much credit,” said Lenny. “My bet is still on some girl. Girls are powerful at that age.”
“Girls are powerful at any age. Come on,” I said, noticing Giles looking in our direction. “Let’s get back.”
The poems were diverse, dramatic, and some, downright dreadful. Soon I forgot all about Austin Oliver. Claudia captivated me with a tale about the recent argument with her husband, which, from what I could decipher, was about his mother and whether or not she’d called Claudia “reckless” during one of their telephone conversations. Although reckless was an adjective that adequately described Claudia, mainly because of her penchant for drama, I kept t
his opinion to myself. Lenny, however, told her there was no doubt in his mind Gene’s mother had called her reckless, and furthermore being reckless was nothing to be ashamed of. She nearly kissed him when he imparted this nugget of wisdom, and so pleased was he with himself, his company became nearly intolerable afterward. The proverbial straw, however, came when he turned to me keenly and said, “And there, Em, goes your student with his arm around some girl. I hate to say I told you so, but you know that I did.”
Chapter Four
Over the weekend, I realized Lenny was probably right; he usually was when it came to the many things I found mysterious. He once said I treated every encounter like a scene from a novel, placing it neatly on an invisible plot line that ran through my head. Plotline or not, I had to mention the poetry slam to Austin before class today. I needed to know why he attended.
Staring at my coffee pot made it brew no more quickly, so I checked my front stoop for the Monday newspaper. Not surprisingly, the porch was bare. I leaned over the railing and found the paper thrown between the hostas and the front steps.
“Hey, Professor Prather!” a voice hollered.
I straightened up, and an unexpected dizziness filled my ears. I cursed Lenny for persuading me to go to O’Malley’s for Sunday night twofers. I couldn’t resist its tap beer and cheap jukebox, and he knew it.
I squinted, readjusting my glasses, and realized a group of students was hailing me from across the street.
“Good morning,” I said with an enthusiastic wave. My robe dropped open to reveal unmatched pajama tops and bottoms with cats and miniature Eiffel Towers, respectively. Several snorts followed in my direction, and I ducked back inside the safety of my home.
Built in 1917, my house had rich walnut woodwork and sturdy oak floors. The main room consisted of a living room and dining room with a pair of walnut-pillar bookshelves dividing the large room in half. Off the main room were two small bedrooms with large windows and sills where my cat, Dickinson, lounged on warm afternoons. One of the bedrooms was to be used as my study, but I often did my work in the dining room, which had a large rectangular table, good for holding stacks of folders and books. It also had a lovely bow window and a bench—the perfect vantage point for admiring my rose bushes and Arc de Triomphe replica bird feeder.
The coffee machine beeped, and I returned to the kitchen. The rich aroma filled the room, only big enough for a small round table, where I placed the morning’s newspaper, and two hard-backed chairs. I poured the coffee into a white mug and drank it standing up, thinking about nothing in particular except the warmness of the day and the persistence of the wind. Then I poured a second mug and set it on the table while I looked for my apricot jam. There was a wonderful bakery eleven miles away that made delectable croissants, buttery and flaky. They went perfectly with apricot jam.
I sat down at the table with a croissant, enjoying the sun stretching into the kitchen window. Dickinson sat in the chair opposite me, glowering at my croissant until eventually she became irritated and bounded off the chair and through the doorway in one fluid motion. This was fine with me, since I didn’t particularly enjoy seeing and hearing her tongue while I ate breakfast, especially with a mild hangover. I stretched my feet onto the empty chair, sipping my second cup of coffee in silence.
After breakfast and a hurried shower, I made my way to campus. It was Week Two, but my morning composition class remained diligent. This section had been especially punctual, which would probably change as the weeks waned into months. Today I was the punctual one, fifteen minutes early, stacking my handouts into neat little piles, according to their distribution, and writing the day’s agenda on the chalkboard in the best cursive handwriting I could muster.
I heard someone enter the room as I finished writing on the board. Then, laying down the chalk and dusting off my hands, I looked up to see Austin Oliver. He wore a T-shirt and jeans, and he took his English folder and notebook from his backpack. He slouched into his desk in the back row and stared at his closed notebook. His indifference was an act; he was trying very hard to fit in with university life.
“Hello, Austin,” I said.
He looked up as if he hadn’t noticed I was in the room. “Oh, hi.”
“Did you have a nice weekend?”
He nodded. “It was all right, I guess.”
“What did you think of the poetry slam?” I said, writing the date in my grade book. It took him a moment to answer, and I knew the question had surprised him.
“It was okay,” he said.
I looked up. “Some of those students were quite good, wouldn’t you agree? That redhead, Sam … I taught him last year. He wrote very comical essays.”
He shrugged. “I don’t remember.”
“Really?” I said. “The gangly redhead with the poems chock full of explicit language?” Now I suspected him of being difficult.
“I’m sorry. I don’t remember any specific poems.”
“Well. Poetry readings are excellent places for meeting girls.” For some reason, this sounded borderline inappropriate. His blank face confirmed my suspicions, and I desperately tried to come up with a way to rephrase the statement but couldn’t.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he managed.
Jared Johnson, the well-dressed wisecracker who sat next to Austin, burst into the room with another of the boys from the back row, and I reluctantly moved to the podium.
Jared beat on the desk with his large fists as he passed. “Hey, brother. Are you ready to show your true devotion to the house?”
Austin leaned back in his chair. “I was born ready.”
“Oh yeah, farmer?” he said, kicking Austin’s boot, which protruded into the aisle. “That’s what moron here said last year, and he puked five times.”
“Once! I puked once,” said Adam Norris, the other boy in the back row.
“You puked once in front of me and four times in front of the others,” said Jared. “That makes five, last time I checked.”
“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” said Adam, taking his book out of his backpack and carefully opening to a color-tabbed page. “And lucky for you that I am.”
“Yeah, yeah. You make us look good,” said Jared.
At this, they all laughed, a sound that didn’t express appreciation, and I quit listening. What they were discussing I had heard discussed several times over and with the same sick feeling in my stomach: rush week, a time for students to rush campus fraternities and sororities for possible membership. Our fraternity and sorority inductions were mild compared to such rituals happening on other campuses. Still, last year a boy had to be taken to the hospital after drinking ten tequila shots, and another left town altogether after walking into a retirement home, completely naked, during bingo hour. Such hazing was thoughtless and irresponsible, and any time I could tell one of the members what I thought, which was frequently, I did. Now, however, was not the right time, especially with the last students filing into their seats. I opened my book, and the class fell silent.
After class, I stopped at Austin’s desk.
“You know, Austin,” I said, “I was thinking that if you found a poem you enjoyed during the poetry slam, you could recite it for class. I wouldn’t be averse to allowing an unpublished poem to be recited for credit.”
“That’s a good idea, but I can’t think of one that stood out,” he said, hoisting his backpack over his shoulders.
“Not one?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“Or if there is a friend’s poem you like? I will accept that for the assignment.”
His tanned face turned just pink enough to tell me he was embarrassed.
So Lenny was right. It was about the girl.
“Forgive me for intruding. I just don’t want you to worry about Friday’s assignment. That’s why I’m asking about the poetry reading,” I said.
He brushed off my apology with a shake of his head. “I have to admit that I’m not looking forward to it, but I’ll ge
t through it. You get used to doing stuff you don’t like to do on a farm,” he said.
“So you did move from a farm.” Most times, my first impressions were spot on. I congratulated myself for yet another. “How do you like the big city?” I asked.
He smiled. “Even people around here act like a farm is another planet.”
I nodded. “Still, I don’t meet many kids from local farms. I suppose it has something to do with corporate farms buying up the small family farms? I don’t know exactly.”
“My dad—well, he’s not my real dad—is selling our farm. My parents are getting a divorce.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. About a third of my students wrote about their parents’ divorce, and I was always saddened by the many ways it affected them.
“It’s fine. Or it will be when I find something else to do with my life,” he said. “I just wish I’d have studied a little harder in high school, if you know what I mean.”
I knew the last thing he wanted was my pity, but I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. Even at this young age, he could have his dreams squelched by his parents’ decision to divorce and sell the farm. But he would do well in school, and I told him so as I walked back to the podium. “You’re a smart individual, Austin. You’re doing just fine in this class—poetry or not—and you’re going to do well in your other classes. I have every confidence in you.”
“We’ll see if you still think that after you read my paper,” he said, heading toward the door.
We both laughed, and I felt a new trust that hadn’t been there before.
“See you Wednesday,” he said.
“I look forward to it,” I replied.
After packing up my books and erasing the board, I hurried to avoid being too late to my meeting. Although much of my time was spent teaching, I also belonged to a multidiscipline committee charged with the welfare of the arts on campus. We met twice a month, and that morning was to be our first session of the year. I assumed the production of Les Misérables would be the focal point of our discussion, as it was the major artistic endeavor being undertaken this semester. I was thrilled with the selection, for it was one of my favorite works of French literature. I had read the eight-hundred page tome as a senior in college, and it had greatly influenced my application to graduate school. I couldn’t wait to hear what the Theater Department had planned.