Stowe Away

by Blythe Rippon

  Sam coughed.

  “You okay there, Adorkable?” Natalie patted Sam on the back.

  “For a nice little Protestant girl, you sure throw God’s name around a lot,” she said. The oversensitive patches of skin Natalie had just touched—her cheek and her back—trembled with tension, and the weakness in her legs morphed into jelly.

  Natalie noticed her staring, and as their eyes locked, a flash of something hot flitted across her face. As quickly as it appeared, it vanished, and Sam was left wondering if the lust she thought she saw had been only wishful thinking.

  She swiftly turned away and exited the theater.

  “Merry Christmas, everyone!” Claire said as she poured them all mugs of apple cider and then sat down on the floor in front of her little Christmas tree. Natalie and Sam joined her in a little circle, and it all felt very much like camp. “I’m sorry I don’t have much time tonight, but maybe if someone wasn’t leaving for winter break tomorrow, we could have had a more leisurely exchange.” Claire poked Natalie in the ribs, almost spilling Natalie’s cider.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t consult you when I made my holiday plans. How was I to know you had a date tonight?” Natalie practically sang her question.

  Sam was never one for gossip, but Claire always went out of her way to ask about her life, so she tried to return the favor. “Who are you dating, Claire?”

  The silly grin on her face was priceless, and Sam wondered if she ever looked that way when someone asked her about Natalie. “Um, it’s Dustin. You know, our RA? He’s so sweet, and he comes to listen every time our a cappella group sings. Last night, he asked me to dinner, and I said it was about time.”

  “That’s great! You seem really happy,” Sam said, hoping she’d said the right thing.

  If possible, Claire’s smile grew even wider. “Thanks, Sam. Here, open it!” she said, handing Sam a beautifully wrapped gift. Inside were a handful of brightly colored, plush, stuffed microbes, as well as a heart and a brain. Surprisingly, the brain looked the cuddliest. “You can snuggle with them, put them on your desk in the lab, throw them at annoying lab partners, whatever!” Claire said.

  “This is absolutely adorable,” Sam said, and she pulled Claire into a hug. “Thank you.”

  Claire whispered in her ear, “I wish I could give you what you really want for Christmas.” When they pulled apart, she tilted her head slightly at Natalie.

  Sam felt her cheeks grow red, so she quickly pulled a square box in snowman wrapping paper from under the tree and handed it to Claire. “Merry Christmas.”

  Claire was cute when she opened presents, carefully tucking her long black hair behind her ears and gently placing the package in her lap before meticulously sliding her nails underneath the tape. She nearly made it through every corner without tearing the paper. When she opened the box and found a mug with the elements Cobalt, Fluorine, and Iron spelling CoFFe, she chuckled. “It’s perfect, thanks Sam.” They hugged again. “I’m glad we’re in chem together. It can be so intimidating, surrounded by all those stress cases. With you there, at least one other person in the class feels normal.”

  It was, perhaps, the first time someone had ever called Sam normal.

  “You too,” Sam said, and hoped Claire understood the rest.

  “Okay, okay,” Claire said, “back to the task at hand. Natalie, you and I should exchange, and then I’ve got to run. You two can do your presents without me.”

  Natalie gave Claire tickets to a jazz concert in New Haven that they could attend in the spring. In return, Claire gave Natalie tickets to an art show in Boston and a pair of simple, dangly earrings. Evidently, they had agreed to give each other experiences. There were more hugs as Claire gathered her things to leave.

  “See you in organic chemistry next semester, Sam!” she said as she practically skipped out the door.

  “Have fun on your date!” Natalie and Sam called out.

  Once they were alone, they relocated to the couch, bringing their presents and cider with them.

  “Merry Christmas, Sam.” Natalie said, holding out a shallow, rectangular box.

  Sam placed the box on her lap and snatched up a larger box from the floor. “Merry Christmas yourself. By the way, is this your ski instructor look?”

  Natalie looked down at her gray and black turtleneck and the white North Face puffy coat on the couch next to her and grinned. “No, silly, I’m actually going skiing. Tom’s parents have a cabin. That’s where I’m going tomorrow.”

  “Oh. Well, please don’t break any lungs or collapse any bones.” Sam tried to remember which unlucky fellow Natalie had abandoned when she turned her attention to Tom.

  “Weirdo. C’mon, open yours.” Bouncing up and down on the couch, Natalie had all the enthusiasm of a Labrador puppy. That she was more excited to give gifts than receive them was absolutely adorable, Sam decided.

  Sam carefully removed the wrapping paper and lifted the lid. Nestled in white tissue paper were a pair of green and blue plaid pajama pants and a T-shirt with the outlines of Vermont and New Hampshire that read Vermont: Spooning New Hampshire since 1781. “Since you’ve taken up residence on our couch…” Natalie trailed off.

  Sam was equal parts touched and amused, and she leaned over and hugged Natalie briefly, careful to pull back from something she knew she’d enjoy too much. “One good turn…” she said, indicating the box in Natalie’s lap.

  Natalie tore into the wrapping paper and whipped off the lid in a flourish. The box contained a random assortment of presents, including drumsticks, an architectural scale, a snorkel and mask, a book on pointillism, and a canister of racquetballs. Natalie grinned sheepishly.

  “Contained herein, my friend, are accouterments for all the activities you have expressed an interest in learning since we’ve known each other. You’d never said anything about skiing, or I would have put a pair of those hideous goggles in there too.”

  “Samantha Latham, you are too much!” Natalie threw her arms around Sam and held on, even as Sam tried to pull away. “Oh, no you don’t. You’re getting a proper hug, and you’ll suffer through it.” Her voice was warm and musical in Sam’s ear, and she succumbed, basking in the comfort of Natalie’s arms and the tickle of her hair. This time, when Natalie tried to pull away, Sam held on. Natalie chuckled softly, and with one hand she put their presents on the floor. Leaning backwards and pulling Sam with her, she resituated them so they were snuggling. As soft strains of “Let it Snow” came from the speakers on Natalie’s desk, Sam lost herself in the way their bodies melded together, the way their breath synchronized, and how their chests rose and fell together. Closing her eyes, she was surprised to find herself remarkably comfortable and not nervous or overexcited.

  More than a dozen Christmas songs played while they remained in each other’s arms. Sam was fighting sleep when Natalie inhaled and asked softly, “You gonna be all right at home these next two weeks? You can always call me—day or night, okay? You know that, right?”

  Her voice muffled by Natalie’s turtleneck, Sam said, “I know.” As they held each other, she gave silent thanks for the love they shared and tried to let go of any expectations she still held.

  FRESHMAN YEAR:

  WINTER 2004

  There was a cemetery between Trumbull College and Science Hill, and Sam walked past it every day. The huge archway to the cemetery read The Dead Shall Be Raised and while Sam had her doubts about an afterlife and zombies, the words did succeed in raising the hair on her arms. Today as she passed it, she was struck by how short life is; if she wanted to make her mark, well, working in Dr. West’s lab seemed like a great place to start.

  The J.W. Gibbs Building, which housed an assortment of laboratories, provided a sharp architectural contrast with the collegiate gothic of Trumbull College. In many ways, Sam felt as if she were walking into a new world; on some level, she hoped she was coming home.


  She knocked on the door with the Dr. Jeremiah West placard and waited. His gruff “come in” wasn’t especially inviting.

  “Have a seat, Samantha,” he said from a high-backed leather chair behind a desk so covered with clutter it was impossible to tell what it looked like. “Glad you said yes to this.”

  “Me too,” Sam said, sitting across from him.

  “The lab is pretty full right now, but an administrative assistant set up some space in the corner by the window with something approximating a desk. You’re welcome to work there, if you’d like. I assume, since you got into Yale, that you know how to write?”

  Not exactly the first question she was expecting. She sat up straighter in her chair. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good, good. I have two articles I’m preparing for publication; we’ll start there.” That was about as opaque as it got. Despite the way he looked at her, she told herself not to panic. Did he expect her to write them? Sam had heard that some college professors were less than ethical when it came to the demands they placed on their research assistants. “Sir?”

  “I’ll send both drafts to you for proofreading. Additionally, I’d like to you to research the journals’ style guides and format the articles appropriately.”

  Sam nodded, hoping her face didn’t register how clueless she was.

  “How quickly can you turn this around for me?”

  Considering she still had no clue what he was asking of her, she figured, well, a week? Maybe two to be on the safe side. Or maybe she should ask him how quickly he needed them—that made her look like less of a wet blanket, right?

  “How quickly do you need them, sir?”

  As soon as she said it, she worried it made her look like more of a wet blanket—what if he said “tomorrow”?

  “Mid-February would be good. I suppose we’ll all survive if it’s late February.”

  Taking a pen and paper out of her backpack, Sam wrote down mid-February, style guide? Formatting? Proofread. “Okay, I’ll be sure to have it to you by then.”

  He nodded. “I’ll e-mail you the drafts tonight, along with the names of the journals each will be published in.” He didn’t say anything about going to him if she had any questions. Maybe she could ask Jack, if she received Dr. West’s e-mail and still had no clue what she was doing? Ask Dad if clueless, she wrote down. She looked up to find Dr. West gazing at her expectantly.

  “Um, is there anything else you wanted, sir?”

  “That’s all for now. Let’s meet again when this is done, and we’ll go from there.”

  Standing, grabbing her backpack, and trying to stuff her pen and notebook back inside all at the same time must have made Sam look like a total klutz. When she got to the office door, she turned around.

  “Thank you, Dr. West. I look forward to working with you,” she said.

  He smiled at her and waved her away before returning to the piles on his desk. After closing the door behind her, she headed over to the corner by the window and saw a plain wooden table with a roller chair. It looked lonely and uninhabited; Sam reached into her backpack and pulled out one of plush microbes Claire had given her for Christmas. She placed it in the middle of the desk, along with a spare notebook and pen. There. Now the space looked like it belonged to someone.

  When she got to her dorm, the first thing Sam did was Google “style guide academic journal.” Evidently journals had different requirements for citations, and some even explicitly addressed whether they accepted the Oxford comma or not. So, Dr. West had given her busy work, but at least she knew how to do it. Maybe he was testing her, and if she did well, he’d give her more responsibility later.

  Sam fidgeted in her chair in the auditorium, trying not to watch Natalie watch their English professor.

  “Before section next week, be sure to finish Raymond Chandler’s Farewell, My Lovely and the 1995 essay by Joyce Carol Oates on Chandler. As you read, consider the parallels between the romance genre and hard-boiled detective fiction, and the ways in which both are gendered. That’s all. Have a good weekend, everyone!”

  Students around them gathered their things, many rushing to Elizabeth Bell’s podium to ask follow-up questions about her lecture, offer their enthusiasm about next week’s assignment, or inquire whether she would meet them for coffee “just to talk.” Natalie was not alone in being utterly fascinated by their young professor.

  While their fellow students were racing to exit the auditorium, or racing to get in line to talk to the professor, Natalie was closing her notebook in slow motion, a dazed look on her face. “God, her breakdown of Marlowe’s relationships to women—and other men—was just brilliant. I’d never thought about the fact that detectives in these books are always single and never have kids.”

  “Yeah, I hadn’t either,” Sam said, tossing her books in her bag. It was a shame, really, that everyone in the class was so taken by their professor; Sam would have harbored a Titanic-sized crush on her, but it seemed a totally unoriginal response at this point. “Then again, it’s not like I’ve spent much time thinking about detective fiction in general; it’s not really my thing.”

  Natalie slung her messenger bag over her shoulder and started sauntering up the aisle of the auditorium and toward the door. “Come on, I know you have a copy of The Big Sleep in your dorm.”

  Sam squeezed past a guy just standing in the aisle with his mouth a little open. He was staring at Bell while their professor graciously answered question after question. Ridiculous. She caught up to Natalie and fell into step by her side. “Are you enjoying her section?”

  Natalie flushed. “Elizabeth is beyond brilliant. I’m sorry you have lab then. Is your TF good?”

  “He’s always late.” It’s possible Sam would have liked him more if having him for a teaching fellow instead of their professor didn’t make her feel at a disadvantage; who knew what kinds of exchanges Natalie was having with Bell when Sam was across campus titrating?

  “You’re surly today. What gives?” Natalie bumped her shoulder.

  “You call her Elizabeth?” How close was Natalie getting to this cute young professor?

  “We all do. You could too! You should stop by her office hours. She’s very generous with her time.”

  Natalie’s enthusiasm was making Sam itch. “Have you asked her to coffee, like everyone else in this class?”

  Natalie held the door open, and Sam stepped through it into the overcast afternoon. “I don’t ask my professors out on dates.”

  Despite the chill that hit them when they opened the doors, the sun was shining, and Sam felt lighter.

  “You’re coming to see Stop Kiss this weekend, right?” Natalie asked, her pace quicker now that she’d gotten over the haze Elizabeth Bell inspired in her students.

  “I’ve reserved a ticket for all three performances,” Sam said, hoping she didn’t sound overeager.

  Natalie laughed. “Sam, that’s ridiculous. Just come for the opening tomorrow. We’re having a reception in the basement of the theater after; you can be my guest.”

  Looking over at her in surprise, Sam almost tripped on the uneven sidewalk. “You’re not bringing someone else?”

  “Being a director has its perks: I get unlimited guest passes to my own party.”

  “Oh.” They reached the end of the path, and Sam’s lab and Natalie’s theater were in opposite directions. “Is there a dress code?”

  Natalie looked at her T-shirt, which bore a sketch of Henry VIII and read It’s all in the execution, and shook her head. “I think you’ll be just fine.”

  Moving her bag to the other shoulder, Sam shuffled her feet. “Break a leg at your final dress.”

  “Break a beaker or something.”

  Watching her walk away, Sam mulled over her response to whether she had asked Elizabeth out for coffee. She hadn’t said she didn’t ask women out on dates.
And she nearly salivated whenever their professor was near. Sometimes Sam thought she could feel the heat coming off Natalie during lecture. That hardly seemed normal behavior for someone who claimed to be straight.

  The next night, seated in the darkened theater watching Natalie’s directorial debut, Sam’s confusion deepened as the story of Stop Kiss unfolded. With every scene, the two female leads grew closer to each other, and their sexual tension was palpable. When Sara and Callie shared their first kiss in Central Park, only to be assaulted immediately after, Sam’s mind spun. Why would Natalie direct an explicitly lesbian play? How was she so adept at creating sexual tension between women? Was she drawn to this particular story because the women’s romance was foiled, and she saw it as their inevitable punishment? Or was Sam overthinking everything, and Natalie just liked the dramatic structure of the script?

  As many of the guests made their way out of the theater and toward the basement for the after party, she caught a glimpse of Natalie with a new boy on her arm. Sighing, Sam went home, opened a root beer, and did her reading for her Elizabeth’s class, because if Natalie was going to use her first name, Sam was too.

  FRESHMAN YEAR:

  SPRING 2004

  The first year of college had been a rollercoaster for Sam. Academically, she had performed so impressively that Dr. West invited her to stay on as his research assistant for the summer, a paid position almost unheard of for a rising sophomore. They would be examining the differentiation potential of pluripotent adult stem cells, although Sam didn’t expect she’d be let anywhere near the lab just yet. Still, simply having the opportunity to contribute to the write-ups documenting his progress made Sam feel like singing. Given the rigorous course-load she had completed during her freshman year, Dr. West had encouraged her to apply for the B.S./M.S. degree program in Molecular Biophysics and Biochemistry, assuring her that she would learn something that summer that she could use as the basis for her own research, and ultimately her Master’s thesis, and she could still graduate in four years. She would spend a week at the beginning of summer and two at the end of it in Stowe, but would be at Yale the rest of break. To alleviate her guilt, she vowed to call her mother every Sunday.