by Chris Fabry
I tapped my pen against my leg, the pen my father had made me during my family’s years as missionaries. Late in the evening when his translation work was put aside and he’d finished helping village men fix leaking roofs or butcher wild pigs, he would steal away to his workbench made from two fallen trees and chip at wood, fashioning trinkets to send to supporters. I would sit with him by the dim light and watch him work until my eyes grew heavy, my chin on the edge of the tree trunk.
“Words are the secret things of God,” he said one night as he carried me to bed. Deep in the night, if I listen closely enough, I can still hear his voice, whispers of prayers and stories lost in the jungle.
My pen long ago ran out of ink and I have not been able to find the refill cartridge that will fit. Still, I hold it as part talisman, part connection with my past.
Dr. Waldron glanced at the tapping pen, then gestured to a stack of pages on the edge of the desk. There were several stacks. His office looked like the eternal resting place for trees. “That stack is from professors with PhDs who want to teach here. Qualified and motivated instructors who have rigorously pursued their academic careers and who see this school as a good fit.”
“And I don’t fit any longer.”
“I didn’t say that. You fit well.”
“But my inability to finish my doctorate has hampered my long-term employment prospects.”
He folded aged hands. “It’s not just one thing, Paige. And it’s not your inability to finish your thesis. It’s your inability to begin. You spent all of last year on a sabbatical that yielded very little, from what you’re saying.”
“Writing is not simply page count, Dr. Waldron.”
“No, it’s research and thought along with sitting in the chair.” He punched a finger at an air keyboard. “But you’re hedging again.”
I tried not to flinch. “I’m stuck. You’re right. I’ve followed the trail of my original idea to a dead end.”
“Then just start. Move toward a thought that interests you. Do something. It’s been seven years. Other schools would probably allow you to string things along a few more, but I don’t think that’s fair to you or those in this stack. Or your students, for that matter.”
“What else is hampering me? You said this isn’t the only thing.”
He waved a hand. “You seem divided.”
I closed my eyes to keep from rolling them in front of him. “Is this about the class I’m teaching at Bethesda? It’s one night a week. It’s material I already teach here. And contact with those students will invigorate me.”
“You need to be invigorated by your thesis.”
“So you’re telling me I should cancel?”
“No.”
“Are you giving me a deadline?”
“Maybe that’s what you need, Paige. Maybe instead of a longer leash and an open-ended process, you need someone to put their foot down. Or just give you a swift kick in the behind.”
“Publish or perish,” I said, completing his thought.
“No. Not publish or perish. Move. Rise from the stagnant water. You have a gift. I’ve seen it. But we’re enabling you by allowing this to continue.”
Hoping my face still showed composure, I nodded. “What’s the deadline?”
“End of semester. Get me the first draft by then. What’s the title again?”
I hesitated, then blurted out the title, cringing a little at the “mother’s love” part.
“Good. Don’t think about it any longer. Put it down. Put your notes away. Write.”
The walls felt like they were moving inward as we spoke. I debated my next question, not sure if I wanted the answer. “And what happens if I don’t? What happens if I remain stuck?”
He stood and walked in front of the desk to lean against it, arms folded. He was wearing house shoes, I kid you not. Dearfoams slippers with a hole in the toe. I had the same ones, though not as worn.
“Stuck is a choice. Stuck is saying you’re afraid to be wrong. Stuck is no longer an option. If you have to cancel the Bethesda class to use that time, do it.”
“I can’t back out of that commitment.”
“Then show me you take this seriously. Do the work.”
He punctuated the last three words with an outstretched index finger. And then he said it again, wagging the finger in my face. “Write it.”
“What do you think is holding you back, Paige?”
Ron Gleason delivered the question as if the words could harmonize with the clanging silverware and barely audible string music that was the subtext of our meal.
“I mean with your dissertation,” he said when I didn’t respond.
Men hate conversational dead space. Women thrive on the rests. They wait. They listen. They lean in. For women, questions are launching pads to the heart. For men, they’re shots toward a target you hit and move on to the next, like a conversational biathlon.
I took a sip of decaf that I wished were wine. I needed something with bite.
“You’ve been working on it for years,” he continued as if I didn’t know this. “Did you get anything done during the sabbatical?”
“Not much,” I admitted.
He smiled, a mix of sympathy and confusion. Invitation to explain further, which I didn’t want to do. I don’t know what had made me tell him about the meeting with Dr. Waldron. I suppose I needed to share it with someone, but I was questioning that decision now.
I studied Ron’s hands, folded on the table. An academic’s hands, small-boned and smooth. They fit his stature—he was diminutive, to put it kindly, but well-built and muscular. He worked out, ran the trail near Bethesda, where he taught math and physics, and even competed in long-distance runs. A few years younger than me—he’d been a freshman when I graduated from Bethesda, so I hadn’t known him—he was mature and godly. That had quickly become clear when he’d joined the small-group Bible study I attended. Someone arranged for us to sit near each other on that first night, then invited us to parties or Thanksgiving or Christmas celebrations as if we were a project, as if mere proximity might lead to a relationship.
The matchmaking efforts annoyed me, but I couldn’t deny I liked Ron’s company, much as I might’ve wanted to. What he lacked in size, he made up for in heart. But it wasn’t his heart I questioned.
I picked at my blackened chicken and asparagus and didn’t look Ron in the eye. The choice of this restaurant was much too expensive for my level of commitment.
“I’d like to ask you something,” he said, again breaking the silence. I put down my fork and wiped at phantom crumbs, dreading the words I assumed he would say.
“We’ve known each other for quite a while, Paige. Since the moment we met, I’ve known there was something special about you. And as I’ve gotten to know you better, that feeling has increased. You’re amazing. A brilliant mind. A beautiful smile. There’s nothing about you that doesn’t fascinate me. You’ve probably heard that before.”
“Oh, a million times,” I said with a wave of a hand, and he laughed.
“I wanted to bring you here tonight and ask the next logical question. About us moving forward. Your sabbatical is over. The new semester’s begun. It’s a perfect time to make a decision.”
In his mathematical mind, everything was a theorem or postulate. A + B = C. C – B = A. And so forth.
“Decision?” I said.
“About the future. For us. I believe there is one. Can you see us being more than friends?”
(2A) × (B – ME) = Marriage.
I placed my napkin in my lap and took a sip of water and tried to focus. “Ron, don’t you think we’re too old for this?”
“Old for what?”
“Maybe you’re not, but I feel like I am.”
“Too old for love?”
“For dating or getting our hearts broken. For change. I’m cement that was poured decades ago. I’m set. I have a life I’ve carved out in teaching and with my home.”
“That sounds like giving
up. You’re barely forty, Paige.”
“It’s realism. I’ve embraced my singleness, like you. Isn’t that what you’ve encouraged people to do? I’ve heard of your talks to the students in chapel.”
“I’ve always prayed, ‘Not my will but yours,’ when it comes to being single. But, Paige, as I’ve prayed, I feel like the Lord has brought you back time and again.”
“And how am I supposed to argue with God?”
“I’m not asking you to argue with him. I’m asking you to open your heart to the possibility that he wants to work on both of us. I think we could be good for each other.”
I sighed. “Ron, you think you know me, but you don’t.”
He nodded. “Which is why I’m asking to go to the next level. I want to know you better.”
“Even if we were perfectly matched, a relationship takes a lot of work.”
He pushed his plate away and went full bore, gesturing with his hands. “You’re right. It will be a lot of work. And it’s scary for me. You’re not the only concrete that’s set. But over the past few months I haven’t been able to get away from the possibility that there might be something good for us. I think it’s worth taking another step.” His passion was sort of cute, the way he sat up in his chair like he had graduated from the children’s table in the kitchen to the adult table in the dining room.
I smiled and a warmth I didn’t desire filled me, making me fumble the next words. “I . . . I’m fond of you, Ron. I really am. For most women, you’re a dream. They would kill to have someone like you interested in them.”
“But not you.”
“Don’t give me that look.”
He straightened. “Don’t try to control my feelings.”
“See? We’re fighting already and we haven’t even started a deeper relationship.”
He stifled a smile.
“Full disclosure,” I said. “There are things about my life that would cause you to doubt how amazing I am.”
“That’s full disclosure?”
“It’s a start. And it’s true.”
He reached a hand across the table and took one of mine. “I want to get to know you. But you have to let me in.”
My cheeks flushed, but I pulled my hand back and looked at my lap, my napkin, the design on the tablecloth, the carpet. There was a piece of bread on the floor, presumably from the last diners who sat at this table. Funny what you miss when you’re not in crisis.
“Can we talk about something else?” I said.
“Paige,” Ron said softly. “What could be so bad? Were you abused? Did you plagiarize an essay? Have a relationship with a student? Knock off a convenience store? What do you think I can’t handle?”
I looked into his warm brown eyes and imagined the words spilling out. I have a child I’ve never met. I gave her up and never made contact, even once I knew she wanted to know me. I could’ve easily found her months ago, but I haven’t moved toward her and probably never will. Do you want this kind of heart beside you the rest of your life?
Instead of saying this and a thousand other things to push him away, I went the safe route.
“Let me pray about it,” I said.
“Fair enough.” He said it sadly and we ate in silence, except for the tinkling of fine silverware that sounded like regret.
CHAPTER 3
Treha
Treha sat alone in a corner of the dining hall, listening to the conversations around her and feeling the clothes she was wearing scratch at her back and neck. She would rather wear scrubs, but those weren’t on the approved apparel list.
So far she’d resisted the urge to call Miriam about her roommate or the way she felt during orientation or the fact that not one person had spoken directly to her except for those who were paid to do so. Even those people seemed mystified by her. Almost afraid, as if they would catch something if they got too close. She held out hope that once classes started tomorrow, things would be different. She would get into a rhythm of reading and studying that would ground her. Maybe her adviser would help. Maybe she would find a friend. Maybe the world would end and she wouldn’t have to worry about any of this.
A girl wearing black glasses with lenses in the shape of cats’ eyes walked through the dining hall, stopping at a table to say something. The whole table broke into laughter and the girl moved forward without a smile. Barely five feet tall, she looked top-heavy, as if her large bosom would topple her. But her wide hips prevented this. Her dark hair was pulled back and held in place by a colorful headband. To Treha’s surprise the girl walked straight toward her and didn’t stop until she pressed a thigh against the table and stared at Treha’s food.
“That gravy looks like it’s been fracked,” she said. “You’re actually eating that?”
Treha looked down, then back up, staring at the girl until she put down her tray and extended a hand.
“I’m Anna Waddel, and don’t ever pronounce it ‘waddle.’ When I was in high school, the guys would quack when they called my name over the intercom. Cretins. Annaliese is my full name, but I go by Anna. What’s your name?”
“Treha.”
“So that’s how you say it. I heard somebody say it was Tree-ha and thought nobody would be that cruel. How do you spell it again?”
Treha told her, thinking she could count on one hand the number of times someone had been interested enough to inquire about the correct spelling of her name.
“I’ve never heard that name. It’s beautiful. At least the way you pronounce it. Is it French? Or Jewish, maybe? But it sounds French.”
Treha shook her head and Anna sat without asking permission, all in one fell swoop as she continued talking. She arranged her salad plate and picked up a fork. “I have the metabolism of . . . whatever animal doesn’t have a good metabolism. Does a hippo have bad metabolism, say, compared to a squirrel? Or an elephant?” She took a bite and sunflower seeds fell on the tray. When she could speak again, she said, “See that girl over there? The skinny one with the long legs? I’ve seen her drinking nacho cheese sauce with a straw. Seriously, I know, I roomed with her last year. I eat a head of lettuce spread out over a week and gain five pounds. It makes no sense to be vegan when you pork up with celery, but I guess if I ate steak and potatoes, you’d have to roll me to chapel.”
Treha stared.
“Did you used to be fat? You look like someone who used to be heavy.”
Treha didn’t respond because she didn’t know what to say.
“I don’t mean anything bad by it. You look great. And if I say something that makes you mad, tell me and I’ll stop. I’m told I’m way too honest. But you just look like someone who used to carry around a lot more weight.”
“How can you tell?”
“I don’t know, maybe the eyes give it away. Heavy people have the saddest eyes, don’t you think? Like there’s somebody inside waiting to unzip and step out. But they can’t grab the top of the zipper. Or maybe it broke. That’s how I feel. And when you do lose weight, which I’ve done by the way, the eyes stay the same because you can take away pockets of fat but the eyes are the window to the cellulite.”
“How did you gain it back?”
“Too much lettuce, I guess. And potato salad and cheeseburgers.”
“I’ve lost weight in the last year. About thirty pounds.”
“Lucky you. How’d you do it? A pill? Exercise? I’d rather take a pill to lose weight than run five miles a day. But nobody thinks about that when they’re eating an extra bag of chips. It’s just a handful of this and a handful of that and pretty soon you’re driving by LA Fitness with ten pounds of guilt.”
Treha pushed her food with her fork. “It was a combination of things.”
“Where are you from?”
“Arizona.”
“That explains it. All that sunshine and being outdoors. I’d love to live in Arizona. My mother says that’s my problem. I would love to live anyplace other than where I am at the moment.”
“It’s hot
in the summer. You can’t really go outside.”
“But it’s a dry heat, right?”
“A blast furnace is a dry heat.” She’d heard Charlie say that a million times.
Anna laughed. “So how did you get your name? Is it something passed down in your family?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I have a lot of salad left.”
“It’s not a family name. It’s something my mother made up.”
“Sounds like you have a creative mother.”
Treha didn’t answer. She took a bite of cold mashed potatoes instead and hoped Anna didn’t ask more questions.
Anna wiped salad dressing from her mouth. “I’ve seen you around. Your RA told me to talk to you but I didn’t want to because I don’t do well with authority. I suppose I picked the wrong school because they have a lot of rules here. Have you read the handbook?”
Treha nodded. “Why do you go here if you don’t like the rules?”
Anna sighed. “My parents went here. This was their dream and it’s their money, so I’m making the most of it.”
“You don’t believe in God?”
“No, I do. I just feel like a fish out of water at times. The only thing that keeps me going is my dream.”
“Your dream?”
“Well, I have several. Like a progressive dinner. You get to one and then go on to the next course. Number one, getting out and starting my life. Dream number two, becoming a journalist. That’s what I want more than anything. I’ve asked God to help me change the world one article at a time. Stop sex trafficking. Stop world hunger. Global warming. Justice for the downtrodden. Eradicating trans fats and GMOs.”
“Is that all?”
“One more. I meet a tall, dark, hot, handsome guy who sweeps me off my feet and makes me not care about trans fats. And with hips like these, he’ll have to have some upper body strength to do any sweeping.” She took another bite of salad and crunched the lettuce and broccoli. “Look, I’m not usually this cynical. Well, I am, but I usually stifle it this early in a friendship.”
Treha nodded.
“You’re not real talkative, are you?”
Treha shook her head.