By the Book

by Julia Sonneborn

  As they continued to talk, Adam leaned over to me and whispered, “About the gala—I wanted to apologize.”

  “It’s fine,” I said tightly, not looking at him and pretending to pay attention to Bex and Rick’s conversation.

  “No, it was out of bounds. I was wrong to say anything.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Please—Anne, don’t do this. Look at me.”

  I grudgingly turned toward him. “To be honest, I was pretty upset,” I confessed. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

  “I know. It’s all my fault. I was being stupid. Not for the first time.”

  Rick was laughing at something Bex had said. I watched as she fished into her handbag to give him one of her cards.

  “Things are going really well for me right now,” I said. “I need you to let me be happy.”

  “You’re absolutely right. I’m an idiot. Please—will you forgive me? Can we be friends?”

  I softened in spite of myself. Adam seemed genuinely contrite.

  “OK,” I relented, finally looking him in the eye. Adam smiled at me with relief, and I let myself smile back.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you,” Bex was saying. “I’m sorry we have to run now and catch up with our tour.” She looked wistfully at Rick and me. “It must be so lovely to work in the ivory tower,” she said. “All your time spent together, reading books and writing. It seems like heaven.”

  As they walked away, Rick reached over and squeezed my hand.

  “If she only knew,” he said.

  *

  “YOU SURE RICK DOESN’T want to join us?” Larry asked. He’d gotten us tickets to the opening night show of Jane Vampire at our local Cineplex.

  “I’m sure,” I said. “He called it a piece of ‘Hollywood dreck.’ ”

  “Doesn’t he realize he’s missing out on a cultural phenomenon?”

  “Um, I think his tastes run more toward the French New Wave.”

  “Well, la-di-da,” Larry said. “His loss.”

  Now that we were in line for popcorn, I was glad Rick had decided to stay home. The place was packed with women—and not just young girls, but also middle-aged women and grandmothers, all chattering excitedly, some even dressed in period costume. “My God,” Larry said, looking around. “I’m the only guy in this theater.”

  We wedged ourselves into our seats, between a group of women on a “moms’ night out” and a clique of Fairfax sorority girls in matching pink sweatshirts.

  “I’m still so bitter Jack couldn’t get us tickets to the premiere,” Larry complained.

  “Whatever happened with that?” I asked, reaching over for a handful of popcorn.

  “The studio ran out, apparently. Too many VIPs requesting seats. I think he’s lying. He’s the star of the movie! How can he not get a couple extra tickets to the premiere? He just doesn’t want me around. I know it.”

  “He’s still texting you, though,” I pointed out.

  “Not for the last week, he hasn’t. He’s in Asia doing press and said his phone might not work from there.”

  “You don’t think Bex found his phone, do you?”

  “God, I hope not,” Larry said, flinching. “Whatever.” He suddenly turned defiant. “Who cares if she did? She knows their marriage is a sham!”

  The lights dimmed and we sat through several previews, including a remake of Cruel Intentions, a trailer for a movie about male strippers, and a Downton Abbey–esque period drama. The catcalls began with the opening credits, as Jack appeared in the mist, dressed in a waistcoat and cravat, blood trickling from his dagger.

  “Be still my heart,” Larry sighed.

  The movie was a mix of campy violence, overacting, and really bad special effects. Jack’s Yorkshire accent went in and out, sometimes sounding Australian, sometimes Southern. He spent most of the movie in various states of undress, his shirt torn to shreds or his breeches half falling off, glaring broodingly at the camera when he wasn’t trying to slay werewolves. Rachel’s hair was dyed blond for the role, and she was wan and expressionless, with little sexual chemistry with Jack. Still, when she finally sank her teeth into Jack-slash-Rochester, the whole audience squealed in unison. There was a final torrid sex scene, a trembling declaration of love, and then the movie was over. As the lights went up, I looked around. Some girls and even women were wiping their eyes. “That was so good,” I heard them say. “It was so romantic!”

  I turned to Larry, ready to make fun of them, but he was sitting back in his seat, a look of utter bliss on his face. “That was incredible,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve seen an adaptation as good since—well, since Clueless.”

  “You’re joking, right? Didn’t you think it was a little over-the-top?”

  “Moderation is a fatal thing,” Larry said. “Nothing succeeds like excess.”

  “I thought Jack’s performance was awful,” I said. “He sounded like he was still acting in Days of Our Lives.”

  “Oh, Anne,” Larry sighed. “Can’t you stop being so critical for a minute? You’re going to miss your name!”

  The credits were rolling by so fast that I was sure we’d already missed it, but Larry suddenly exclaimed, “There it is!” He pointed to the words “Historical Consultant,” followed by my name, “Ann Corey.” He began clapping wildly.

  “They misspelled my name,” I noted sourly. “It’s probably Jack’s fault. He could never be bothered to spell my name right.”

  Larry ignored me, his eyes still fixed on the screen. We stayed until the bitter end, and as we were filing out of the theater, Larry turned to me and asked, “Want to see it again? I think there’s a midnight showing.”

  From: Stephen Culpepper

  To:

  Subject: Sundry Deadlines

  Date: December 2

  Dear Esteemed Colleagues,

  As the semester comes to a close, nota bene the following deadlines:

  December 3: Course evaluations distributed in your department mailboxes. Please follow the instructions regarding dissemination and collection of said evaluations. You cannot be in the room while evaluations are being completed.

  December 10: Sealed course evaluations due to Pam

  December 17: Final Grades due to Registrar

  The office will be closed for winter break from December 18 to January 3.

  Happy Holidays and Best Wishes for a Prosperous New Year.

  As ever,

  Steve

  *

  From: Ursula Burton, Acquisitions Editor

  To: Anne Corey

  Subject: Manuscript request

  Date: December 10

  Dear Anne Corey,

  I am delighted to report that your manuscript has passed our board review. I will issue you a publication contract shortly. Please sign and return to me at your earliest convenience.

  In the meantime, if you could submit your final revised manuscript (including complete Table of Contents, Bibliography, Notes, and Acknowledgments) by February 1, we should be able to adhere to our planned publication schedule. I will send you a house style guide shortly. Please do not hesitate to contact me with any questions or concerns.

  Welcome aboard!

  Ursula Burton

  * * *

  Acquisitions Editor

  Oxford University Press

  Academic Division

  *

  From: Fairfax Retirement Home

  To:

  Subject: Secret Santa Holiday Party

  Date: December 12

  Please join us for our annual holiday party on Sunday, December 22 from 1-3 p.m. in the rec room. We will exchange Secret Santa gifts and enjoy cookies, punch, caroling, and even a special visit from Santa Claus!

  RSVP to Mimi at Margaret.Payton@fairfaxhome.org by December 18.

  *

  From
: Lauren Corey Winston

  To: Anne Corey

  Subject: Secret Santa

  Date: December 16

  Can you deal with the Secret Santa gift? I’m too busy dealing with the kids’ school stuff. We’ll be in Chicago from 12/20-1/3.

  FYI, the boys want iTunes gift cards for Christmas. You can just mail them to us. I’m buying them a trampoline and saying it’s from Dad.

  chapter thirteen

  “IT’S THE MOST WONDERFUL time of the year!” Larry sang out.

  “What, Christmastime?” I asked.

  “No! Course-evaluation time!”

  Larry was the only person I knew who actually looked forward to reading his student evals. He was one of the most popular professors on campus, with his own Facebook fan club and a string of departmental and college teaching awards. Even his Rate My Professor reviews were over-the-top effusive. “Professor Ettinger is seriously the best prof I’ve had at Fairfax,” a typical review read. “He’s tough, but you’ll learn a lot. I heart him.” One of Larry’s favorite things to do was to go through his reviews and count how many chili peppers he got.

  “Don’t you feel like you’re a restaurant on Yelp?” I once asked him.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “It’s wonderful! Apparently my students find me absolutely flaming.”

  “I loathe course evaluations,” I said, pulling my package of evals from my department mailbox. “I never remember the good ones, only the bad. Like the time someone wrote, ‘If I had an hour to live, I’d spend it in this class because it felt like ETERNITY.’ ”

  “Oh, everyone gets an occasional doozy. You just have to laugh at them. I’ve memorized my favorites.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the time someone called me a ‘flaming douche nugget with a messed-up sense of humer’—h-u-m-e-r.”

  “That’s awesome,” I laughed. “You win. I’ve definitely never been called that before.”

  I walked over to the Xerox machine to run off copies of my upcoming final exam, placing my original on the glass and hitting start. Nothing happened. I pushed the button again. Still nothing.

  “Goddammit,” I said.

  “Another paper jam?” Larry asked.

  “Some idiot played ding-dong-ditch with the copier.”

  “Ooooh, let me take a wild guess who it was . . .”

  I unlocked some levers, opened a flap, and removed several sheets of paper that had accordioned on the rollers. Part of the sheet was still legible:

  Dr. Stephen Culpepper

  ENGL 431: Medieval Morality Plays

  Glossary of Literar—

  “It was Steve,” I said.

  “Of course it was,” Larry laughed. “Did you even have to look?”

  “How is someone capable of reading Anglo-Saxon and not understand how to clear a paper jam? Or at least leave a Post-it note apologizing?”

  “Oh, you know Steve—he thinks his copies just magically disappear in the bowels of the machine. Like medieval sorcery!”

  Steve was in his office setting up a miniature nativity scene when I swung by to deliver the news about my book contract.

  “My, my, my! Congratulations, Anne,” Steve said, adjusting the manger. “Just barely in the nick of time! Truthfully, I was starting to get a bit nervous for you. So when will the book be out?”

  “In about a year, if everything goes smoothly.”

  “I hope you’ll get a chance to celebrate a little over the holidays. Are you going anywhere?”

  “No, I’ll be around,” I said. “Working on book revisions.” Rick had floated the possibility of my joining him at a writer’s colony in Costa Rica, but I’d had to decline. For one thing, the plane ticket would have cost close to a thousand bucks. For another, Lauren was going to be visiting her in-laws for the holidays, which meant I was in charge of celebrating with my father.

  “And when are these revisions due?” Steve asked.

  “Beginning of February.”

  “Well, you better get cracking,” Steve said, putting on a CD of medieval Christmas carols and starting to hum along. “As soon as we get back from break, I’ll get in touch with HR about extending your employment contract. In the meantime, I’ll need a copy of your book contract and, come February, proof that the entire revised manuscript has been submitted.”

  Seeing me start (what else did he want? my firstborn child?) Steve gave a little shrug. “Writers break their contracts all the time. You wouldn’t believe the stories—I know a fellow who managed to be promoted to full professor on the strength of a book that never materialized.” He shook his head. “We want to make sure everything’s airtight before we proceed.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Thanks.” As I turned to leave, I added, “I found some of your handouts stuck in the copy machine. I left them in your box.”

  “Ah, thank you,” Steve said, chuckling. “Some little elves must have left them there.”

  *

  THE CAMPUS EMPTIED OUT completely over the winter break. The dorms closed, the library shut down, and even businesses on Main Street shuttered their doors for the two-week holiday. Rick had left for Costa Rica, and Larry was on his way to Paris, where he’d booked a last-minute getaway to distract himself from his Jack travails.

  I went to the Christmas party at the assisted-living facility, bringing my dad some new socks and two boxes of See’s chocolates—one for him and one for his Secret Santa. The place was decorated with tinsel and a large artificial Christmas tree hung with plastic gold ornaments and candy canes. All the staff members were wearing Santa hats, and some of the residents were wearing Christmas sweaters and reindeer antlers. My father was sitting in a chair, dressed in a robe with his leg propped up on a stool and swaddled by a flesh-colored bandage. An aide dressed in holiday scrubs stood beside him, checking his dressing.

  “What happened?” I asked, rushing to his side.

  “Oh, nothing,” my father said, pooh-poohing my concern. “Some idiot pushed me.”

  “Now Mr. Corey, you know that’s not true,” the aide said, giving him a bemused look. “You tripped and hurt your shin.”

  “OK, fine. But my story sounds better.” My dad winked at her, and she made a show of rolling her eyes.

  “Has your father always been such a troublemaker?” the aide asked me, grinning. “The real story is that he was walking to the rec room and lost his balance. Knocked his leg against one of the side tables. The doctor’s already checked it out. It’s not broken—just bruised.”

  “Is he OK? Does he need a walker or something?” I asked.

  “We’re keeping an eye on him—he may need a cane for added stability.”

  “I don’t need a cane!” my father bellowed. “The only thing that’s bruised is my ego!”

  I shushed my father and handed him a paper cup filled with punch, and he settled back in his chair. Over the next hour, he held court as a steady stream of old ladies approached us to see how he was doing and offer their sympathies. “Are you Jerry’s daughter?” they asked me. “Are you the single one or the one with kids? Jerry’s such a sweetheart. Always cracking jokes, that one.”

  “Wow, Dad, you’re really popular,” I whispered.

  “There are only four men in this entire facility, and one just had a heart attack,” my dad said, deadpan. “The odds are with me.”

  I couldn’t believe it. As far as I knew, my father had never dated anyone after my mother died. I was four when she passed away from ovarian cancer and I had only the dimmest memories of her—a certain rose-scented lotion, a soft set of hands. They were the only constants against a backdrop that seemed perpetually to be changing. Back then, we’d moved frequently, staying at a place just long enough for my father to fix it up and rent it out before we moved to the next place. I never learned to memorize my home address because six months later, it would inevitably change.

  After my mother died, my father made one concession to us. He didn’t make us
move anymore. He bought a modest tract home in a good neighborhood and let us, for once, put pictures on the wall. He was always working, and Lauren and I soon learned to take care of ourselves, keeping the place tidy, doing the grocery shopping, cooking our own meals. Our mother receded into the background, and Lauren assumed her spot in the household.

  Now, freed from responsibility, my father seemed lighter and happier than I’d ever seen him. He even cracked jokes and smiled every once in a while. He introduced me to a silver-haired woman named Georgia, then a redhead named Helene. They were each vying for my father’s attention when Helene suddenly squealed, “Is that a baby?”

  A young woman had just entered the room, carrying an infant in a carrier on her chest. Around me, there was a ripple of excitement. “Did someone say ‘BABY’? I want to see the BABY!”

  The young mother looked startled as she was surrounded by a bunch of frantic old ladies. I’d never seen anything like it. Even the ladies snoozing in their wheelchairs suddenly perked up and started rolling their way over.

  “Is that your BABY?” one of them asked, her frail arms outstretched. “Can I hold your BABY?” The baby started to cry and the mother tried to shush him.

  I watched in morbid fascination from across the room. Turning to my father, I asked, “Are they always like that?”

  My dad shrugged. “Who knows?” he said. “Even I can’t compete with a baby.”

  I chuckled at my dad’s joke. For a second, I considered telling him about my book contract but then thought better of it. A contract would mean nothing to him. He’d want to see an actual book, something he could hold and touch. As far as he was concerned, nothing I’d ever done had worked out. I thought back to how he’d dismissed Adam and scoffed at my career aspirations, and I was sure he would see this book contract as another foolish scheme of mine that was bound to fail.

  Best to wait until the book was out to share the news, I decided. Anything could happen between now and the book’s publication, and I didn’t want to rile him up unnecessarily. With his leg hoisted onto the stool, he looked frailer than normal, swallowed up by his huge armchair.

  I stood up. “Want more punch, Dad?” I asked.